The tax man cometh

 

Not my picture
but isn't he adorable

For some reason today, the saying that kept repeating in my mind was, “The Lord loveth a happy heart.” Well, I qualify! My heart is happy tonight because I spent much of the day organizing my tax information so that when my accountant sends his annual questionnaire I have it (almost) all ready to go.

I suppose everyone’s tax information seems complicated, but mine always has for years because as a free lance writer I have income—none of it large, mid you—from several sources. And then I must keep track of all the expenses that qualify for deduction, and I end up with ridiculous questions for my accountant, like “Can I deduct the new tree I bought as property improvement?” Maybe I could detect the value of the hundred-year-old tree that had to be replaced. OH, oops! If you count depreciation, I guess a hundred-year-old tree has lost all its value. But losing it was such a traumatic thing for us and made us so sad, I really think we should be compensated for sentimental value. I doubt the IRS would see it that way, and I’m not about to tempt them.

The tree is sort of like my car—a 2004 VW convertible bug—which is now back in the driveway after spending months in a repair shop of Christian’s choosing. Christian kept telling me this was a good guy, but I began to have my doubts after the car was gone so long. Was the guy driving it himself? Selling it? All is well, because one day it just reappeared in the driveway, in much better shape than when it went away. Jordan and Christian want to keep it for an alternative for a while, because both their cars are old, and Jordan’s needs some work. Meantime, Jordan and I ran an errand in it the other day, and I realized it is so much easier for me to get in and out of than climbing into her SUV. I have requested that we take the VW to all future doctor appointments, etc. But the truth is my little pale-yellow bug has much more sentimental value than actual worth. Like the tree.

And I am headed into a series of routine doctor appointments that I rescheduled when omicron was rampant. I hate it, because now I have all these visits breaking into my work schedule. And I’m always a bit hesitant about some doctors—will the cardiologist find something wrong? Will the dentist find a cavity? How about the eye doctor? I’ve had enough eye trauma to last a lifetime. Probably I’m not so worried about the ones I should be worried about.

My heart is also happy tonight because Jordan and I had a good visit with my neighbors who usually come for happy hour on Tuesday, as long as everyone’s schedule permits. We talked of plumbing problems—Mary has major work being done, so much so that she and Joe are staying in a hotel. And we talked of kids, primarily Jacob’s triumph at a golf tournament today—five schools, and he came in at 77, third place, two strokes behind the winner. I am so proud of that boy. And of course we talked of food and recipes.

After the ladies left, I ate a quick bowl of leftover chicken soup and tuned into a Zoom program sponsored by the Chicagoland chapter of Sisters in Crime on social media. I prepared myself to learn a lot, but what I learned is I am probably doing it all right with a visible presence on Facebook, a less active presence on Twitter (I mostly retweet and must learn to post original content), and some presence on BookBub and Goodreads. The one I’ve left slide is Pinterest, and I went exploring tonight, made a little progress, but need a tutor. And I really need a tutor for Instagram—hmmm, I’m wondering if Jacob can help.

Enough. I’ve had a full day, and I’m going to take my happy heart to sleep and pray for the people of Ukraine. That situation scares the bejabbers out of me—which I guess is what Mr. Putin wants.

Little excitements

We had little excitements last night, little that is if you weren’t the visiting possum. I was at my desk, reading, about 8:30 when Sophie tore out the door and began barking frantically. Not a squirrel bark but something much more intense. I finally looked up just in time to see a possum scurry across the patio. I hurried to take my phone to the door for a picture but didn’t make it. The possum had taken shelter under a small table, and Sophie was gleefully dancing around the table, almost sticking her nose under it, barking all the while. If that possum had an ounce of courage, it would have taken a swipe at her nose.

What to do? I didn’t think it wise for me and my walker to charge out there, and I knew Jordan had gone with Jacob to the neighbors’ pool, because he wanted a swim. I called Christian, who sounded a tad reluctant, saying, “I’ll come, but I don’t know what I can do.” He came after several minutes, armed with—wait for it!—his phone.

By that time, Sophie had miraculously come bounding into the cottage, and I slammed the door. Sophie then was jumping around, wanting me to open the door, which I refused. Christian was taking pictures of the possum, and it beat a hasty retreat.

After a few minutes, Jordan came out, armed with—wait for it again!—a broom. I asked what she intended to do with it, and she replied she was just going to encourage the critter away. Fortunately, it was gone. We opened the door and Sophie bolted out to search the yard fruitlessly.

I had to explain to my two nature-loving protectors that possums are neither harmful nor vicious. They eat tons of all those bugs we want to get rid of—mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks. They are our friends, although I doubt if that particular friend will ever venture back into my yard.

I’d had a moment of excitement earlier, when Christian stood by my desk and said, “I can’t believe Jacob all of a sudden wants to go swimming.” I promise, I had my hearing aids in but what I heard was, “I can’t believe Jacob all of a sudden lost his sense of smell.” Panic! I managed to say it calmly, “I hope he doesn’t have the virus.” Christian looked at me as though he thought I had clearly gone round the bend this time.

I even had little excitements this morning. Either my computer or I have been saving files under the wrong name—this morning, when I opened a short biography I’d written for an essay submission, it turned out to be last night’s blog. Yesterday, I “lost” the entire text of my new novel—what popped up was the header and one sentence from a column in the neighborhood newsletter—both in Dropbox and on the pc. Fortunately I had sent it to the formatter, and she supplied a copy which I saved very carefully.  Lesson learned—I think I get in a rush and don’t notice that the computer is saving things under the title of whatever was last saved. Scared me though.

One other bit of bad excitement—my car wouldn’t start for Jacob last night. He is tasked with starting it occasionally and asked last night if he could back it up just a bit. It was dead, though it had been started last weekend. Jordan was all for selling it immediately, but with Christian’s advice, I ordered a car battery starter. It’s not parked so that we can put another car next to it and jump it.

That’s enough excitement for one day. Peace, y’all, and be safe and well.

The ongoing saga of my car

Thidaughter, s was when I first started to drive again

after two years away from the wheel

As many of you may know, I drive a 2004 VW Beetle convertible that I adore. It’s my “I’m-not-your-typical-grandmother” car, and I adore zipping around in it—or I did. For almost two years, when I had so much trouble with my hip and the surgery, the car sat—first outside my cottage and then outside my son’s house in Tomball, where I thought they would drive it. They didn’t, and when I finally was able to drive again, I had to do a lot of expensive repairs.

I had such a sense of release and freedom. I drove with a joy and confidence I never had before. Lately though that confidence has been replaced by uncertainty and a slight tendency toward panic. Long story short, I’m not enjoying driving much, and it’s a real dilemma for me. For one thing, it’s a pain when I am alone to get the walker and then me into the car and reverse the procedure whenever I get where I am going. And Jordan doesn’t want me to get in or out alone. She’s afraid I’ll fall or get mugged. So lately it’s been easier just not to drive.

But cars don’t do well just sitting. I’ve had to have the battery jumped twice, mostly because I didn’t park it in such a way that Christian could get a car next to it to use jumper cables. Garages have those handy little things they carry around and don’t need cables. Jacob has been good about going out to start it, but it still doesn’t last long. So today, Christian jumped it—we had parked deliberately the last time we started it—and Jordan and I drove to get gas and to get eggs and milk at Braum’s.

My beloved daughter turned into a back-seat driver. “The gas station is on the left”—I know that. I’ve lived in this neighborhood over fifty years. “Slow down. There are people walking in the street”—I see them and am being careful. As I drove in the driveway, “Wait for the gate to open”—I’ve been driving in this driveway with that gate for about twenty years. “Why won’t your windows go all the way up?” Because the door is still open. Sheesh! I can see the handwriting on the wall, the point at which my kids will think I should no longer drive, though after my two-year hiatus, each one had to drive with me to check me out, and each one had different objections. Truth is, I’m a  pretty good side-street driver, not so much on busy streets, and not at all on freeways..

Christian was quite stern with me: I will have to drive it frequently; we can’t keep jumping it. And I can do that, albeit it’s a bit of a pain. Next dilemma: my driver‘s license comes up in July, and at my age I will have to appear in person and take the test, the thought of which gives me the nervous willies. Sometimes they require that you wear your hearing aids and not drive after dark—I’m okay with that. I would like to keep my license, if for no other reason than in another year Jacob will have his learner’s permit, and I can let him drive as long as I am in the car as a licensed driver. I’d probably give him the car, but he doesn’t much like it, and Christian supported him by saying, “It’s not a very masculine car.” What kind of nonsense is that? When I drove it a lot, women came up to me to say, “My husband would kill for that car.”

So here I sit, pondering all these variables. At least, it’s not a decision I have to make tomorrow, and it’s a good distraction from worrying about the corona virus.

Role reversal, or learning to drive again

Me in my car in earlier days

Hooray! My much-loved 2004 VW Bug convertible is back in my driveway, sitting right outside my door. It was a real joy to pick it up this morning at the VW repair shop and drive it home, with Jordan riding shotgun.

That car is now almost a solid-gold car in terms of what it’s cost to restore it after it sat, undriven, for almost two years. When I was having so much difficulty with my hip, I despaired of ever driving again and entertained the notion of selling the car. One branch of my family said no, don’t sell it—give it to us. And so I did, figuring they would drive it. Didn’t happen.

So this spring my son had all the working parts repaired and took the car to an upholsterer who restored the side panels on the inside of both doors—they had come loose from their moorings and just hung in the air. Then he and his daughter drove it up here, top down. Only when they went to put the top up, it wouldn’t go. Took it to the VW dealership where the diagnosis was it needed a new motor. Nothing about repairing VWs is cheap, and this wasn’t, but I got it back today.

With one little problem. The back window has come loose from the convertible top. The dealership said they don’t repair that, but a glass company would fix it in my driveway. A little exploration today convinced me that was not so. When I finally located the company that does that, I was told it would need a whole new top. And believe me, that’s not cheap.

I have now invested enough money in the car that it would be foolish not to follow through and complete the job. Besides, I realize that I don’t have a lot of driving years left, so I might as well do it in a car I enjoy driving. And astronomical as the restoration costs have been, I could not have gotten another car for that sum. So bite my tongue and write the check.

But there’s another problem. Remember when you worried about your fifteen-year-olds learning to drive? We are now experiencing role reversal in my family. My children are worried about me driving, especially on a walker. Jordan did not let me drive home from the dealership alone today, and she critiqued my driving. What worries her most is my getting in and out of the cottage and the car alone, and I am practicing getting me and the walker down the steps, stashing the walker in the back of the car, and getting it out again.. I think as I master those skills, I will improve my balance, my strength, and my self-confidence. But she says she’s not ready to sign off on letting me go hither and yon by myself. I drive a bit above the speed limit, and she thought I drove too far on the right-hand side of the street.

Colin had similar small complaints but thought I did amazingly well for not having driven for two years. But now the deal is that I must drive with each of my children, and they all have to agree. Two down, two to go. Jamie says he’ll be here this week, and Megan is due to visit in three weeks or so. Until then, I must drive with a chaperone.

Tonight, since Jordan doesn’t want me driving, Mary Dulle drove me to dinner in my car, but I did all the getting in an out by myself. Mary’s vote was that I’m ready to drive.

I think this is called baby steps toward independence.

Coming to grips with life and its realities

This is the blog I was preparing to post Sunday night when the computer went kerflooey.

What can I say? Colin worked so hard the whole 24 hours he was here—and I find I maligned him in last night’s blog when I complained about him running errands—the errands were all about things he needed to fix stuff at the cottage.

He scrubbed the bathroom grout and mopped the floor, replaced the outdoor light, helped me with some nasty chores, worked like a dog today to start my car. The battery was too far gone—jumping it didn’t get enough power to start it. Tonight my car is in my driveway, with a brand new battery. And Colin even took time to go on a bike ride with Jacob and Morgan. One of the good guys and a terrific father/uncle. Plus he brought his files up to date on my banking and other business, so now we are in sync.

When Colin went to jump-start my car, he visited with longtime family friends. He was gone so long I feared trouble and called—no, they were just talking. (My ears were burning). He came back to report the useless battery and said, “I’m going to go get a new one real quick.” I did it again—laughed and said, “You haven’t done anything real quick since you got here.” Of course he hadn’t, but he’d done a mighty work slowly and thoroughly.

I sometimes say Colin is my rock. I’m sure my other kids understand, but Jordan is my caretaker who devotes hours to my needs, hours she could easily devote to her family. And she makes me feel secure. But Colin is my rock who reassures me that my world is in order.

Decisions from the weekend: I am going to work on my strength and walking with the walker more. I am going to ask the PT to work with me on the exercises he wants me to do—I apparently don’t have the will power at this point to do them alone, and that’s okay. My goal is strength, not walking unassisted. I am beginning to realize that I may never walk unassisted—the danger of falling is too great, and another fall could be catastrophic.

I will smile sweetly at friends who urge me to walk more, work out more, go out to eat more. The workout plan is above/ as for going out more, not until I get a clean bill of health from the gastroenterologist. I am still too subject to unexplained sudden accidents. If others don’t understand, they aren’t wearing my shoes—quote my darling son.

He and Morgan left much later than usual—three-thirty at least. So I hope they got home at a decent hour so Morgan could get ready for school tomorrow.

The view from the cottage tonight is grim—graves. Christian got the Halloween spirit this afternoon, and built a graveyard in the back, just outside my window. Oh, happy day!