TWARDY'S FARM

         Sell the farm? Buy the farm? Like 'spring back, fall forward', I can never keep it straight. Whichever way I say it, it is an expression that sees a lot of use during busy season. I doubt I could get through the day without thinking of the farm.

         Hey, wait a minute! I’ve got it! I know it now! IT IS 'buy the farm'. It is usually used in the past tense. "Anderson bought the farm today." Maybe he could use my all-terrain mower? Better yet, the post hole digger that is in the garage might fill his needs, though I would recommend he elect cremation. It would be a bit hard to dig a full grave with the “old post hole.”

         How many times did I pick up the phone these past six weeks and wish I had acquired that piece of rural real estate? “Pick up the phone” is a misnomer. I sit at my computer with my phone in my pocket, a headset on my ear with a hard wire holding a mouthpiece in front of my mouth. By the end of the first week of April I am sure I will have to see a surgeon to have the device removed. I try storing it around my neck but when it rings the scramble to put it back on usually results in the mouthpiece being nowhere near my mouth.

“David Lidle, talk to me.”

“Hello, hello, is anybody there.”

“DAVID LIDLE HERE, WHO IS THIS?”

“Are you there, I can’t hear you.”

         Not that I am missing intelligent life. When I finally do figure out that my voice waves are bouncing off the wall and pull the mouthpiece near its target, I realize once again that Woody Hayes had it nailed. I kept a tally; from March 29th through April 6th, 79 of 106 calls did nothing to add to the sum of human knowledge.

“Hey David, this is Audrey Peters. Did you get my stuff in the mail?”

         I suspect I did because I had to sign a Federal Express bill of lading for it two days before, and I then emailed her at her request to inform her that it had arrived. What she is really asking is, “Are you done, do you have an answer yet?”

“Well, Audrey, it’s in the queue.”

         I find use of the fancy word ‘queue’ very disarming. Either the client is amused or thinks it is a tax or computer term. In reality, I don’t dare tell her that having sent her papers long after I recommended, she stands forty-ninth in line, not that this knowledge would stop the Grand Inquisitor.

“I wasn’t sure you would know how to handle the complications from me buying a house. I hope I included everything you need. It is terribly complicated.”

         I want to say, ‘Then why did you hire me?’ Ah, but the customer is always right, but now I only want to get her off the phone so I can get back to the return on the screen.

“Well, Audrey, as long as you gave me the settlement sheet I am sure I will be fine and if I have any questions, I will ring or email you.”

“And you’ll see if my mother has to file, too?”

“Your mother?"

“Yes, her papers were in with mine. I told you I would be sending them last November. ”

         She succeeds! She has me curious. I can’t remember the conversation at all, so I walk to the cabinet and pull out the file. I find the papers. Her mother’s only income is a small bank account and distributions from several IRA accounts that I total in my head to be less than $6,000.

“Your mother did not make enough to file, but she will have to do so to get back the tax money withheld from the IRA accounts; it looks like it adds up to $130.”

         Now stupidity raises its hand and speaks.

“Are you going to charge her that much to do her return? Maybe we should just leave the money with the government?”

         At this point, slamming my car into the thick oak tree that abuts a curve on County Route 21B becomes very attractive to me. Not knowing of this phone call that insulted my intelligence, the cops will rule it an accident.

STRESSED OUT TAX CONSULTANT TOTALS CAR AND SELF

Headline in The Chatham Courier, 3/27/02

         I was saved by the arrival of Pamela late on Easter Thursday evening. She came to stay until Sunday when we would travel to her daughter’s house for dinner. For two days I actually took off my headset and ate lunch and dinner. Pam took over my kitchen, preparing foodstuffs for Sunday’s moveable feast. In doing so she found her way to the market and became familiar with the vagaries of my electric range. She later pointed out her lasagna was ‘runny’; she should have quoted the immortal Casey: “the guy who used that range before me got it so loused up no one can cook on it.”

         She made one mistake. During a lull in the cooking on Friday, she popped her head in my office and said, “David, I’d like to help or at least stay out of your way.” How was she to know I had a spare computer just waiting for her to do data entering? She also admirably filled the bill when as chief nabob I shouted, “KPs on the road!” I can never get over my army days. This cry goes out whenever UPS or the Postal Service appears with a package to be signed for.

         It was the first Easter Sunday I had not worked in years. The dog and I were fawned over by Pam’s grandchildren. I was totally unworthy of the adulation. I was beginning to resemble one of the Spirit of ’76. During the time Pam visited leg cramps assaulted me, and when she suffered similarly I wanted to scream “Get out, get out before you’re caught.” Then on the drive to Northeast Pennsylvania my back stiffened. How a five-year old could admire a man lying flat on the floor was beyond me.

         The family Jack Russell had a different opinion of my canine friend, but the day passed successfully. When our separate cars parted paths that night on US84, it dawned on me that I had not thought of my farm for the entire time Pam was with me. Reality set back in on Monday. There were two weeks to go. The dog decided three hours sleep was enough for any man and that I should get up at 4:45 every morning. Meals became a luxury. The phone jangled, waking me every time I fell asleep in my chair and the village idiots decided to hold their convention on my party line.

         The real estate purchase drew near, but as this point automatic pilot kicked in. The prevailing winds changed; the customer was no longer always right. The motto became ‘Take No Prisoners.’ When Mr. Twardy complained that I had dared use the US Mail to send his return on April 9th and demanded a second copy be sent Federal Express, I did so but with a note: “Life is too short to put up with your aggravation. Please go somewhere else next year.” Poor Mr. Twardy, he had bought the farm.

Valatie NY, April 17, 2002