April 15 loomed around the corner. Carl
turned to me and said, “Get our cancelled checks together. We have to square
away with the Internal Revenue. How many deductible kids we got?—”
“Four.”
“Four.”
“We’re missing
one?”
“Gary. He got
married last summer, so he’s not technically ours anymore.”
“Four.” He
calculated. “Wish we had ten.”
“Heaven
forbid.”
He went down
to the next line. “Medical bills?—”
“Covered by
insurance—” I suggested Dr. Austin.
“He doesn’t
count,” Carl replied. “He’s the vet.”
“Why not?—we
spent more on the pets than we did on the kids.”
Next on the
form—donations: “Did we give 10% to the church?” he asked.
“Now you
wish.”
“How much?—”
“Not nearly
enough to pay for all our blessings. Maybe we could add a little zero at the
end?”
“Can’t—the
revenuers will frown on that. Anybody blind?—”
“No, but I think
you could use a hearing aid,” I said.
“Let’s not get
personal. Could we claim your mother? She’s over 65 and widowed.”
“Let’s go for
doubles and claim your dad, too. He’s 80.”
“Amazing
thing,” Carl mused, “neither one is blind, but they're both deaf. Why is there
no tax exemption for deafness? Hmmm…let’s see. What can we come up in the
category of “other”?”
“Work
clothes?” I asked.
“Only if they’re
a requirement of the job—”
“My job
requires it,” I said. “My customers would faint if I appeared naked.”
“It must be a
uniform, like a nurse or police outfit.”
“Scratch clothes—how about your safety
boots?” I pulled straws.
“We tried that
last year. They disallowed it if the boots were also used for hunting.”
“Safety
helmets?—”
“Good thinking.
I lost a dozen last year $50 each.”
“Gold plated?
Were they monogrammed?”
He frowned,
deep in concentration. “Be quiet. Don’t disrupt my thinking.”
“Food?—” I suggested.
“Not
deductible. Hey, I’ve got it! Sales tax!
We bought a car. There’s a lot of tax on a new car. Can you find the bill of
sale?”
“Sure—it’s behind
the refrigerator.”
“How’d it get
there?”
“I filed it
where I could put my hands on it when we needed it and the only major appliance
in this house that no one can move is the refrigerator. Come help me.”
Moving the
fridge wasn’t easy, but we managed. After a few hours of mathematical juggling,
I ventured to ask, “How does it look?”
Moans and
groans from the principal bread winner in the family. “Terrible! I hate to pay
Uncle Sam. Ridiculous the way the government throws away our money. All those
politicians eating at the public trough, living high off the hog…”
“Write the
check.”
The writing on
the check is smeared and squiggly. It’s hard to watch a grown man cry.
***
(Nowadays my bank mails no monthly statement, sends no
cancelled checks.
My tax accountant files my return
electronically. The only thing that hasn’t changed in all these years is that I
still must pay.)
