We had a special mid-week post here a couple days ago. Do scroll down and check it out if you missed it the first time.
We all have to do some things, from time to time, that make our guts shiver and turn our knees to jelly.
It might be telling the boss that a major project has collapsed … or explaining to a son or daughter where babies come from … or watching Ryan Howard try to hit left-handed pitching.
This week’s calendar entry finds my grandfather taking on another such fearsome errand — one that countless other Americans have to tackle around this time of year.
March 18, 1969. You mean the price of a gallon of gas didn’t always end with nine-tenths of a cent?
I exaggerate, of course. I don’t know what my grandpa had to call the I.R.S. about, but the odds are probably pretty good it wasn’t an audit or an official inquiry.
Maybe some circumstance of his life was different from previous years, and he needed an explanation of how to report it on his taxes. (Wiki tells me that changes to federal tax legislation were enacted in both 1968 and 1969.)
Still, dealing with the I.R.S. isn’t most people’s idea of fun, even when — or especially when — all you want is a straight answer.
My grandpa, as we’ve established, was a dutiful sort and an honest citizen. I can imagine him sitting at his desk, hashing out each year’s tax return, and filing with plenty of time to spare.
February 28, 1970.
But, while he did his duty every year, that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it:
April 14 and 15, 1974. He waited until April 6 to file his return that year. I also notice he went out for a haircut on Tax Deadline Day, which might have seemed appropriate after getting fleeced and shorn by Uncle Sam.
In keeping with family tradition, I got my @*!#$^ tax returns filed last month. I’ve done my fiduciary duty to the township, the commonwealth and the feds for another year.
Now, if only I didn’t have to spend the summer watching Ryan Howard try to hit left-handed pitching …
Hope Street 