Every muscle cramped from sitting in the same position too long, I hit “send” and looked up from my computer. It was nearly dark. My whole Sunday afternoon was gone. Dinner would be late. But my taxes were done, filed, on their way to the government. I’d get $81 in refunds, not the thousands I had hoped for. On the good side, I didn’t have to pay, and I was fairly sure I hadn’t made any mistakes.
I don’t go to a tax professional. I was married to one. Long before I met him, Fred trained to be a licensed tax preparer to supplement his income from his full-time job with the city of San Jose. He sent his kids out to spread flyers all over the neighborhood, and his neighbors became his first clients. He had a mobile practice, taking his big black case to his clients’ homes. In those pre-computer days, he filled out the forms in pencil and sent them to a company that processed them into printed tax returns. When the returns came back, he made photocopies and delivered them to his clients with big white envelopes to mail them to the Internal Revenue Service and the State of California.
In the ‘80s, he computerized his business, but electronic filing was still in the future. Remember the post office lines on April 15?
After we moved to Oregon, Fred continued to serve his California clients, traveling south in January in his blue Mazda pickup, the back filled with boxes of client files, all on paper, along with his trusty calculator, computer, and dozens of mechanical pencils. He turned a friend’s spare bedroom into his tax office and drove around the San Jose area doing returns at kitchen and dining room tables with clients he had been serving for decades. Working with Fred was much easier than going to an impersonal tax office. Many of his clients were also friends.
I helped by answering the phone, typing in numbers, making copies, and going to the post office. During tax season, Fred worked every waking hour. It took a special person to keep at it and to deal with nervous clients as he wrote down all the numbers and came up with good, bad or horrible news. It was so easy to make a mistake, so difficult to console a client who unexpectedly had to pay a large amount to the IRS, and so frustrating when their accounting system consisted of random papers in a shoe box.
It’s too stressful for me. I could never be a professional tax preparer, although the money is good. Taxes financed some wonderful vacations for us.
Once I started dating Fred, I never had to do my own taxes. I’m better with words than numbers. Fred trained me to write down every expense, keep every receipt, organize them by categories, keep track of mileage, and be ready with the numbers when he asked for them. I got good enough at filling out Schedule C for my “sole proprietor” writing/publishing business that I shared my knowledge in magazine articles for other writers.
When Fred’s Alzheimer’s became apparent, he had to quit doing taxes. The last time he tried to do our return, he made so many errors I wound up sitting at the computer redoing it while he stood over my shoulder questioning every entry. It was a horrible afternoon. The tax man couldn’t even do his own taxes anymore. Luckily, I had learned a few things.
The year after he died (April 23, 2011, right after tax season), I went to H & R Block, but they didn’t do anything I couldn’t have done myself, and it cost me $550.
No thanks. Fred used Turbotax for some of his clients, and that’s what I use now. It guides me through each entry and checks everything for errors. As organized as I think I am, I still have to scramble for information. What did I pay for the car registration? Where did I put that donation for music scholarships? How much interest did I earn from the credit union? Why is it saying I owe money? Damned government. Eventually it all falls into place. I hit “send” and take the dog for a much-needed walk, breathing in the crisp spring air, admiring the trillium blossoms that have just popped up beside the road, and forgetting about taxes for another year.
It makes sense that the tax deadline falls during Lent. It’s a good season to suffer.
The deadline is three weeks away. Have you done your taxes yet? Do you go to a professional or do it yourself? Do you know there are volunteers at the senior centers who can help you? Are you worried about how the numbers will turn out? Let’s talk taxes in the comments.
It happened Saturday night. I was lolling on the love seat watching a video (
Once upon a time there was a journalist with long curly hair, big glasses, and a penchant for blazers with padded shoulders who traveled around California interviewing Portuguese women. She carried a steno pad, a micro-cassette recorder, and a heavy Minolta Camera with extra lenses and a detachable flash. She used Tri-X black and white film. The women wondered why she might find them interesting, but they welcomed her into their kitchens, living rooms and shops. The result was a book, 
That was my third book but the first one that was my idea, my words, my pictures, me on the page. I had gotten the idea while writing 
The book came out 21 years ago. Heyday did a great job producing and promoting it, but they decided after eight years and three printings to let it go. I republished it under my own Blue Hydrangea imprint. Decades later, it’s still selling better than my other books. To increase distribution, I am republishing it this month with 
Unleashed in Oregon 