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.

Boys and rodeo, solitary Saturdays, and my income tax—whooppee!

 

Jacob and two buddies headed for a local, small-town rodeo last night. Christian captured this picture of them, and I couldn’t help but think they didn’t look like rodeo kids. I guess I expected jeans, a western shirt, and a cowboy hat. Jacob has almost never shown any interest in the western side of our local culture, although I am a big fan (and student) of it. And he wasn’t all that enthusiastic today when I asked how it was. His answer was that too many people were crowded into a small arena, and he couldn’t see what was going on.

I was reminded, though, of a book TCU Press published several years ago—Before Texas Changed, by David Murph who is, incidentally, an ordained minister. The book was an account of David’s growing up years in the shadow of TCU, years that encompassed unbelievable high jinks, including attempts to ride the bulls at small rodeos like the one Jacob just attended. Christian tells me not to worry—that is not on Jacob’s horizon.

David Murph, on the other hand, had so many outrageous adventures that when I was editing the book all I could say was that I was glad I was not his mother. He drove a car through the back wall of the family garage, rode freight trains to far east Fort Worth, started at least two accidental fires, got shot in the foot (or was it his buddy)—anyway with one injured boy, two or three of them ran away, after harassing a teacher and causing serious property damage. They made it as far as Oklahoma before they were apprehended. Want to read about life in Texas for a young boy in the Fifties? I cannot recommend this book too highly. You’ll laugh, and you’ll weep, because there is a strong element of the importance of family. And a father who frequently looked at him with a puzzled expression and asked, “Why?”

Yikes, how did a picture of three wonderful boys get me so far off track?

Today was a solitary Saturday, something I’m noticing more and more since the world opened up again. When the Burtons lived across town, I thought nothing of going without seeing them for several days. Now that I live in their back yard, literally, I am a bit disappointed if I don’t see at least Jordan two or three times a day, preferably around happy hour. I sometimes go several days without seeing Christian or Jacob. Today I saw Jordan briefly around mid-day, and that was it.

All was not lost though. Last night Jean took home a pair of pants to hem for me, and this evening she brought them back, cleverly timing her visit for happy hour with the statement, “I’ll drink just a small glass of wine.” And she did, and we got to reminiscing about childhood in the Midwest when houses were heated with coal and mothers did their own canning. Such fun to find someone whose background is so much like mine.

I fixed my favorite solitary dinner—a salmon croquette and a blue cheese/tomato/avocado salad dressed with lemon juice. So good. My mom taught me to make croquettes in log shapes and roll them in crushed crackers. I’ve found all that a nuisance, so I make them in patties and mix the crumbs in. And a recent discovery—Ritz crackers work better than saltines. I love making them from a small can of salmon because I have one for supper and two left over for lunches. Salmon patties make the best sandwiches.

My accountant called this morning. He’d tried twice to submit my return electronically, and the IRs wouldn’t accept it. Nor were they answering their phone. So he decided we’d submit the old-fashioned way. He was on his way to the post office and could he drop by, have me sign, and take it to mail. I said of course and by the by will you take a package I have to mail? He was willing; Jordan was horrified. “You don’t ask your accountant to mail a package for you,” she said. But he repeated that he was perfectly happy to do it, and I reminded her it saved her a trip to the post office. So my taxes are now off my worry list—and so are the books I was sending to a former editor.

Our sunny days continue—a bit hot, more than a bit humid, but not summertime miserable yet. Enjoy while the good weather lasts.

Food and trivia

I seem to go on food kicks from time to time. There are times when nothing appeals, and I really don’t want to eat. Unfortunately, there are also times when everything appeals, and I have to watch what I choose. Lately I’ve been eating high on the hog. Tonight I sautéed three sea scallops—good big fat ones—for myself and did it better than I ever have. I got a mix of butter and olive oil really hot in the skillet, put the scallops in, and didn’t disturb them for perhaps three or four minutes. Then flipped them and turned the heat down just a bit. Result was scallops with a wonderful brown crust on either side and still soft and tender inside. Perfection. My side dish was a salad of chopped tomato, avocado, and blue cheese, dressed with just a bit of lemon juice.

Yesterday I had lunch at Nonna Tata, a tiny restaurant (six tables plus outdoor seating) specializing in country Italian. It’s one of the places where I always order the same thing—brasaola, the beef version of prosciutto. It served with greens and grated grana cheese, all dressed in a light lemony sauce. So good.

The night before I split a crab cake sandwich with dining pal Betty—wonderful though a bit hard to eat so we both resorted to knife and fork. Jacob was with us and ordered his usual noodles and cheese at the Tavern. He had complained that much as he liked it, the serving wasn’t large enough, so I ordered a side of black beans, which he usually loves. No surprise—the mac and cheese filled him up, and I have the beans in the fridge. I told my brother he must be on my mind because when I mean to say, “Let’s go to the Tavern,” I often say, “Let’s go to the ranch.”

And the day before that, Subie and I had a fancy lunch at Ellerbe’s—a gorganzola and wild mushroom quiche with a salad of I don’t know what kind of greens, but they had a great dressing.

Enough of my gastronomical tour. Today I made real progress on my taxes, which made me feel good enough to be lazy tonight. What I had anticipated as a day alone at home didn’t turn out that way—Socorro Escobar was here cleaning the house and chattering about how dirty it was after our weekend cleaning: Jordan came by and we went to Central Market.

The grandmother of one of Jordan’s longtime friends died Wednesday. Jordan and the granddaughter have been friends at least since middle school, and that family considers Jordan a part of them. So tonight she was involved in taking her friend’s sons to the visitation, then bringing them back here, then taking all the boys to the family dinner. Every time she popped in (three times I believe) we had a glass of wine. I shall have to go to bed early. She will be involved with the funeral, graveside ceremony, and family gatherings all day tomorrow, but I won’t be surprised to see her pop in. That’s how my life goes, and I couldn’t enjoy it more.

Tomorrow more income tax work, but at least I see the light at the end of the tunnel.