Return-Path: <bni7l@rayadamsautos.com>
Delivered-To: untroubl8492-bruce@untroubled.org
Received: (qmail 709520 invoked from network); 15 Jan 2026 02:59:55 -0000
Received: from mail.rayadamsautos.com (atlas.tippsladder.com [122.129.81.227])
  by vx0.untroubled.org ([45.63.65.23])
  with ESMTP via TCP; 15 Jan 2026 02:59:54 -0000
DKIM-Signature: v=1; a=rsa-sha256; c=relaxed/relaxed; s=mx1; d=rayadamsautos.com;
 h=Date:From:Reply-To:To:Subject:Message-ID:MIME-Version:Content-Type;
 i=bni7l@rayadamsautos.com;
 bh=Jr2BhVnzPbfpE4RpDI+mG0C0trgs/xMt/2ncDegCtHg=;
 b=mtC3UpVBbgd0SkXK4N3A6+0RfUaC5hTFe8UmuFcuSfBM4xECAhfD1QuwGFmS9jopyfnoPZedbv8H
   oJv4392WZtOm6ZGIuh+8GqT9g4V9hEP7yfOMkdhjZfOEovd+Hg3Pkd5yRCOirwOhC5mNLcZZPhw6
   GzslsBstzhDFGaacOjF8NNyKmOUdDZAzZQNlG68HmLOA66Xi9/D7xf2W9V4Id8SbtxDt1zGuGZxd
   Pbuy5GTkBaeUoeEN9r5cHFTW6KWxlbrf2Kf73QU48w6GglMOROYHJAxHiCAB3/11fHUdZRURuzRV
   /3bkt3hHHVBjOxjLEtXkEOF/M/ztbO3cljcnng==
Date: Wed, 14 Jan 2026 21:59:13 -0500
From: BlueCross Notices Ins <bni7l@rayadamsautos.com>
Reply-To: bni7l34@rayadamsautos.com
To:  bruce@untroubled.org
Subject: BlueCross Update: Your Coverage for 2026
Message-ID: <wjbWDWGz_8z2Leoz3GtCPZnVr@s9.rayadamsautos.com>
X-Request-ID: 332514c4-26ac-4513-99ab-905244153bef
Feedback-ID:  yfltw:rayadamsautos.com:mail
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary="bed0x__-LjW3YNq8TBVnRFH4xe9CRfSY-__ki"
Content-Length: 17005

--bed0x__-LjW3YNq8TBVnRFH4xe9CRfSY-__ki
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="UTF-8"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit

The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the old wooden desk. I stretched, listening to the distant hum of the city waking up. A cup of tea steamed gently beside my notebook, its warmth a small comfort against the cool air. Outside, a bird was singing a repetitive, cheerful tune from the branch of the maple tree. It reminded me of summers spent at my grandparents' house, where the days seemed to stretch on forever. We would spend hours in the garden, my grandfather pointing out the different types of tomatoes, explaining which ones were best for sauces. The smell of damp earth and growing things is a memory that never fades. My grandmother would call us in for lunch, her voice carrying across the yard. We'd eat sandwiches on the porch, the wooden boards warm under our feet. Sometimes, we'd just sit in silence, watching the clouds drift by. Those quiet moments felt full, complete in a way that busy days often don't. Later, we might go for a walk down the lane, kicking up dust and looking for interesting stones. The world felt smaller then, and safer. I remember the sound of the screen door slamming shut, a definitive end to an afternoon. Now, in my own home, I try to recreate that peace. I've planted herbs in pots on my windowsill. The basil is thriving, its green leaves fragrant when brushed. It's not the same as a whole garden, but it's a connection, a thread back to those simpler times. The ritual of watering them, checking their growth, grounds me. It's a small practice, a reminder that some things grow slowly and require patience. The bird outside has stopped singing now, perhaps off to find its breakfast. The city's hum has grown into its full daytime chorus of engines and distant conversations. My tea is nearly gone, the cup cool to the touch. It's time to start the day proper, but I'm grateful for these few minutes of quiet recollection. They set a tone, a gentle beginning. I close the notebook, the pages filled with mundane lists and reminders, but the feeling of the morning stays with me. Perhaps I'll call my grandmother later, just to hear her voice. She always asks about the herbs, remembers their names. It's a small thing, but it matters. The day ahead is full of tasks, but that's okay. There will be other quiet moments, other cups of tea, other songs from birds I haven't yet learned to identify. The important part is to notice them.
BlueCrossBlueShield
Your Medicare Kit is Available
A program update for residents in your community.
Blue Cross Blue Shield is providing a Medicare Kit at no charge to households in your area. You will not be billed for the kit. This is part of a program with a total allocation of 800 kits. One kit is available per household. This program concludes tomorrow.
Along with the kit, we are providing information on optional plan coverage for 2026 for your review.
What Your Kit Contains
Digital Thermometer
First Aid Tape
Blood Pressure Cuff
Elastic Bandages
Disposable Face Masks
Antiseptic Wipes
Medical Gloves
Pill Organizer
Quantities for this program are determined by the allocation.
View Kit + 2026 Plan Summary
Thank you for being a part of the BlueCross BlueShield community. We are here to support your health journey.
The library was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon. Rain tapped a steady rhythm against the tall windows, blurring the world outside into a watercolor of grays and greens. I was browsing the fiction section, my fingers trailing along the spines of well-loved books. The smell of old paper and polished wood was deeply comforting. I pulled a volume from the shelf at random, its cover faded but the title still legible. It was a novel about a sea voyage, something I hadn't read before. Finding an empty chair by the window, I settled in to read the first chapter. The sound of the rain became the sound of the sea in the story. I was so absorbed that I didn't notice someone take the seat opposite me until they cleared their throat. I looked up to see an older man with kind eyes and a woolen hat. He smiled apologetically and gestured to the empty chair. "Mind if I join you It's the best spot to watch the rain," he said. I nodded, returning to my book, but the spell was broken. After a few minutes, he spoke again, his voice soft. "That's a good one. The author really captures the loneliness of the ocean." Surprised, I closed the book. "You've read it" He chuckled. "Many years ago. It stayed with me. The idea that you can be surrounded by vastness and still feel isolated." We began to talk, first about the book, then about other books, and then about nothing in particular. He told me he came to the library every Saturday, rain or shine. It was his ritual. He had traveled widely in his youth, and now he traveled through books. I told him about my own small adventures, my preference for stories set in places I'd never been. We talked until the rain slowed to a drizzle and the gray light began to fade. The librarian started turning on the small lamps at each table, casting pools of warm yellow light. "Well," he said, gathering his things. "I've taken up enough of your reading time. It was a pleasure talking with you." "The pleasure was mine," I replied, and I meant it. He tipped his hat and walked away, disappearing between the shelves. I looked down at the book in my hands. The sea voyage suddenly seemed less appealing. I reshelved it and instead found a collection of essays about local history. The rain had stopped completely now, and the world outside looked freshly washed. As I left the library, the air smelled clean and green. I thought about the conversation, about how the most interesting moments often come from unexpected connections. The man with the woolen hat, whose name I never learned, had turned a quiet afternoon of reading into something more memorable. It was a reminder that stories aren't just in books; they're in the people you meet, however briefly. I walked home, taking the longer route through the park, my mind full of thoughts about voyages, both literal and figurative. The puddles on the path reflected the clearing sky. It had been a good afternoon, a perfect blend of solitude and company. I made a mental note to go to the library next Saturday, just to see if he might be there again. Maybe we could talk about another book. Or maybe not. Either way, the memory of the conversation was a gift, a small, bright point in an ordinary day. The simple act of sharing a thought with a stranger had expanded my world, just a little. And sometimes, that's enough.

http://www.rayadamsautos.com/otinadub

--bed0x__-LjW3YNq8TBVnRFH4xe9CRfSY-__ki
Content-Type: text/html; charset="UTF-8"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit

<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
</head>
<body style="margin:0;padding:20px 0;background-color:#E6F3F7;font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;color:#1A1A1A;line-height:1.5;">
<div style="display:none;font-size:1px;color:#ffffff;line-height:1px;font-family:Helvetica;max-height:0px;max-width:0px;opacity:0;overflow:hidden;mso-hide:all;">
The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the old wooden desk. I stretched, listening to the distant hum of the city waking up. A cup of tea steamed gently beside my notebook, its warmth a small comfort against the cool air. Outside, a bird was singing a repetitive, cheerful tune from the branch of the maple tree. It reminded me of summers spent at my grandparents' house, where the days seemed to stretch on forever. We would spend hours in the garden, my grandfather pointing out the different types of tomatoes, explaining which ones were best for sauces. The smell of damp earth and growing things is a memory that never fades. My grandmother would call us in for lunch, her voice carrying across the yard. We'd eat sandwiches on the porch, the wooden boards warm under our feet. Sometimes, we'd just sit in silence, watching the clouds drift by. Those quiet moments felt full, complete in a way that busy days often don't. Later, we might go for a walk down the lane, kicking up dust and looking for interesting stones. The world felt smaller then, and safer. I remember the sound of the screen door slamming shut, a definitive end to an afternoon. Now, in my own home, I try to recreate that peace. I've planted herbs in pots on my windowsill. The basil is thriving, its green leaves fragrant when brushed. It's not the same as a whole garden, but it's a connection, a thread back to those simpler times. The ritual of watering them, checking their growth, grounds me. It's a small practice, a reminder that some things grow slowly and require patience. The bird outside has stopped singing now, perhaps off to find its breakfast. The city's hum has grown into its full daytime chorus of engines and distant conversations. My tea is nearly gone, the cup cool to the touch. It's time to start the day proper, but I'm grateful for these few minutes of quiet recollection. They set a tone, a gentle beginning. I close the notebook, the pages filled with mundane lists and reminders, but the feeling of the morning stays with me. Perhaps I'll call my grandmother later, just to hear her voice. She always asks about the herbs, remembers their names. It's a small thing, but it matters. The day ahead is full of tasks, but that's okay. There will be other quiet moments, other cups of tea, other songs from birds I haven't yet learned to identify. The important part is to notice them.
</div>
<center>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%" style="max-width:600px;margin:0 auto;background-color:#ffffff;border-radius:12px;overflow:hidden;box-shadow:0 4px 12px rgba(0,122,174,0.08);">
<tr>
<td style="padding:32px 32px 24px;text-align:center;background-color:#ffffff;border-bottom:1px solid #C7E3EA;">
<div style="font-size:36px;font-weight:bold;color:#007AAE;letter-spacing:-0.5px;line-height:1.1;">BlueCross<br><span style="color:#00A9DF;">BlueShield</span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:8px 32px 32px;text-align:center;">
<h1 style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:28px;color:#1A1A1A;margin-top:0;margin-bottom:12px;line-height:1.3;">Your Medicare Kit is Available</h1>
<p style="font-size:18px;color:#00A9DF;margin-bottom:24px;font-weight:normal;">A program update for residents in your community.</p>
<div style="background-color:#E6F3F7;padding:20px;border-radius:8px;margin-bottom:28px;text-align:left;">
<p style="margin-top:0;margin-bottom:12px;color:#3A3A3A;font-size:16px;">Blue Cross Blue Shield is providing a Medicare Kit at no charge to households in your area. You will not be billed for the kit. This is part of a program with a total allocation of 800 kits. One kit is available per household. This program concludes tomorrow.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom:0;color:#3A3A3A;font-size:16px;">Along with the kit, we are providing information on optional plan coverage for 2026 for your review.</p>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:0 32px 32px;">
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom:16px;">
<h2 style="font-family:Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;font-size:22px;color:#1A1A1A;margin:0;padding-bottom:8px;border-bottom:2px solid #A3D8EB;">What Your Kit Contains</h2>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>
<table role="presentation" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" border="0" width="100%">
<tr>
<td width="48%" valign="top" style="padding:12px;background-color:#F8FBFD;border:1px solid #C7E3EA;border-radius:6px;margin-bottom:12px;">
<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#5a5a5a;font-size:15px;">
<li>Digital Thermometer</li>
<li>First Aid Tape</li>
<li>Blood Pressure Cuff</li>
<li>Elastic Bandages</li>
</ul>
</td>
<td width="4%"></td>
<td width="48%" valign="top" style="padding:12px;background-color:#F8FBFD;border:1px solid #C7E3EA;border-radius:6px;margin-bottom:12px;">
<ul style="margin:0;padding-left:20px;color:#5a5a5a;font-size:15px;">
<li>Disposable Face Masks</li>
<li>Antiseptic Wipes</li>
<li>Medical Gloves</li>
<li>Pill Organizer</li>
</ul>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p style="font-size:14px;color:#787878;font-style:italic;margin-top:16px;margin-bottom:32px;">Quantities for this program are determined by the allocation.</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:0 32px 40px;text-align:center;">
<a href="http://www.rayadamsautos.com/otinadub" style="background-color:#00A9DF;color:#ffffff;text-decoration:none;padding:16px 40px;font-size:18px;font-weight:bold;border-radius:50px;display:inline-block;line-height:1;box-shadow:0 3px 8px rgba(0,169,223,0.25);">View Kit + 2026 Plan Summary</a>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="padding:32px;text-align:center;background-color:#F8FBFD;border-top:1px solid #C7E3EA;">
<p style="margin:0;color:#5a5a5a;font-size:14px;">Thank you for being a part of the BlueCross BlueShield community. We are here to support your health journey.</p>
<div style="height:4px;width:120px;background-color:#007AAE;margin:24px auto 0;border-radius:2px;"></div>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
</center>
<div style="font-size:8px;line-height:10px;color:#E6F3F7;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;max-width:600px;margin:20px auto 0;">
The library was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon. Rain tapped a steady rhythm against the tall windows, blurring the world outside into a watercolor of grays and greens. I was browsing the fiction section, my fingers trailing along the spines of well-loved books. The smell of old paper and polished wood was deeply comforting. I pulled a volume from the shelf at random, its cover faded but the title still legible. It was a novel about a sea voyage, something I hadn't read before. Finding an empty chair by the window, I settled in to read the first chapter. The sound of the rain became the sound of the sea in the story. I was so absorbed that I didn't notice someone take the seat opposite me until they cleared their throat. I looked up to see an older man with kind eyes and a woolen hat. He smiled apologetically and gestured to the empty chair. "Mind if I join you It's the best spot to watch the rain," he said. I nodded, returning to my book, but the spell was broken. After a few minutes, he spoke again, his voice soft. "That's a good one. The author really captures the loneliness of the ocean." Surprised, I closed the book. "You've read it" He chuckled. "Many years ago. It stayed with me. The idea that you can be surrounded by vastness and still feel isolated." We began to talk, first about the book, then about other books, and then about nothing in particular. He told me he came to the library every Saturday, rain or shine. It was his ritual. He had traveled widely in his youth, and now he traveled through books. I told him about my own small adventures, my preference for stories set in places I'd never been. We talked until the rain slowed to a drizzle and the gray light began to fade. The librarian started turning on the small lamps at each table, casting pools of warm yellow light. "Well," he said, gathering his things. "I've taken up enough of your reading time. It was a pleasure talking with you." "The pleasure was mine," I replied, and I meant it. He tipped his hat and walked away, disappearing between the shelves. I looked down at the book in my hands. The sea voyage suddenly seemed less appealing. I reshelved it and instead found a collection of essays about local history. The rain had stopped completely now, and the world outside looked freshly washed. As I left the library, the air smelled clean and green. I thought about the conversation, about how the most interesting moments often come from unexpected connections. The man with the woolen hat, whose name I never learned, had turned a quiet afternoon of reading into something more memorable. It was a reminder that stories aren't just in books; they're in the people you meet, however briefly. I walked home, taking the longer route through the park, my mind full of thoughts about voyages, both literal and figurative. The puddles on the path reflected the clearing sky. It had been a good afternoon, a perfect blend of solitude and company. I made a mental note to go to the library next Saturday, just to see if he might be there again. Maybe we could talk about another book. Or maybe not. Either way, the memory of the conversation was a gift, a small, bright point in an ordinary day. The simple act of sharing a thought with a stranger had expanded my world, just a little. And sometimes, that's enough.
</div>
<img src="http://www.rayadamsautos.com/open/YnJ1Y2VAdW50cm91YmxlZC5vcmc.png" width="1" height="1" style="display:none" alt="">
</body>
</html>

--bed0x__-LjW3YNq8TBVnRFH4xe9CRfSY-__ki--
