Notes from Maine - 2023/03/12
March is marching. Last week, winter was here. We’ve leapt back to spring again. It’s exhausting. The pasture is halfway back to mud. I face a fun dilemma each day—cart the shavings out to the pit when the mud is up to the cart’s axle, or wait until morning when the ground is frozen? Right now, the ruts are a challenge when the ground is frozen. I think I’ll shift back to afternoon carting. Albert (German Shepherd) has carved ruts through the snow, exposing mud on his favorite frisbee paths. Finn (Mastiff) is getting plenty of exercise for his rebuilt knee on the frozen snowbanks. I’m just weary. I went to bed exhausted and woke up with a headache. Coffee and water took care of my head and I’m sure that moving around and getting things done will fix my disposition. It’s a time for getting things done.
I met with Dad’s tax person last week. There are still a few wrinkles to work out for Dad’s final accounting with the government. In a letter from 1789, Benjamin Franklin wrote, “Our new Constitution is now established, everything seems to promise it will be durable; but, in this world, nothing is certain except death and taxes.” But the earliest recorded version of the quote is from 73 years earlier, in a play by Christopher Bullock, “You lye, you are not sure; for I say, Woman, ’tis impossible to be sure of any thing but Death and Taxes.”
Dad died more than ten months ago, and I feel like I’ve integrated that loss into my picture of the world pretty thoroughly. But I’m still actively dealing with the tax ramifications. Among the two concepts (death and taxes), one has real teeth. He had the bulk of his retirement nest egg in a bank that seemed to work very hard to make our lives difficult last year. I hate to single them out by name, but this bank famously, “agreed to a $3.7 billion deal with regulators to settle charges that it took advantage of customers…” After I informed them of Dad’s passing last year, they refused to respond to me even after I provided all the proper documentation to show that I was appointed the executor by his will and the probate court. It took seven phone calls, working my way up the org chart, until I was finally able to yell at the right person. This was September of last year. All we needed to do was move a certain amount of money before December 31 so the IRS’s rules would be satisfied. The money was moved the first week of January. Now, I have to write a letter of contrition, begging for amnesty all because this bank appears to be operated by an endless string of voicemail boxes connected to imaginary phones. Like I said, I hate to single out the bank by name, but the initials of the organization begin with W.F. (as in Wells Fargo).
Dad had a real soft spot for battling corporate bureaucracy. He loved nothing more than diving into a good scrap over the phone. His tone always started reasonably and gently. He was like a cat, dozing in the sunlight, belly turned up and inviting you to pet his downy fur. Then, the claws would come out, surprising nobody.
Last December, I sent an email that ended with, "My father put his trust in your organization for decades, assuming that Wells Fargo would act in the best interest of him and his beneficiaries. Every part of this process has been slow and infuriating.” The response (of course) was from autoresponders, telling us that the employees were on vacation.
When the situation was finally resolved, three nearly four months after I made the first requests, it was only through the “heroics” of one frazzled-sounding employee who began and ended each communication with an apology. I suppose I should have thanked them? It didn’t matter. The deadline was missed. It’s all meaningless. Even if the letter to the IRS isn’t accepted, the penalty will be on money that I didn’t expect to receive anyway. In a few weeks, that issue will be settled one way or the other. One by one the loose ends are being resolved. In a closet upstairs, I have boxes of framed family photos and artwork. Once the best of those find homes with family, disposing of the remainders will be difficult. I’m only thinking about it because of the taxes.
It’s time to lose myself back into the chores associated with impending spring. Earl (Shire horse) has been eating the bark from the big maple trees. I need to fence those off before he kills them. I’m afraid the lilac bushes out front might already be doomed. Who wants hay when you can chew on bark?
