Death and taxes

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Death

Obviously, I've been abnormally quiet lately, not having posted since March 20th and only posting twice during March. Although most of Blogtucky's regulars know the story, let me explain.

After nearly 83 years of life, including 1 marriage of 54 years, 4 children, 3 wars, some 30 years in the Marine Corps, 6 years living with Alzheimer's, and numerous other life achievements and events, my father passed away on Wednesday, March 14th, 2007.

Gratefully, I was home at the time, just having made it to Kansas the previous evening. Not that my being there changed anything or stopped his passing. Maybe it added a little comfort to his final hours. I'd at least like to think so. Still, I'm glad I was there for him, for my family, and for me.

Initially, after he died, a weird sort of adrenaline kicked in. In addition to making an excessive amount of origami flowers, I started thinking through a play-by-play of my emotions and reactions to this (at least for me and my family) cataclysmic event. I thought I would post word of my travels to and from Kansas (surprisingly and gratefully seamless for a change), my family's reactions and emotions, as well as my own. I'd talk about the many friends and neighbors who came to visit with my family and let you know about the food they brought and the kind words and thoughts they shared. I would consider telling about the lovely cards, notes, flowers, gifts, and prayers my coworkers and friends shared with me before and after. And, of course, I would also pay tribute to my Dad.

But, soon after the adrenaline rush subsided, I realized that it just may be too personal and too raw right now for me to tell you all that, especially in an open forum like this blog. Blog's are a funny thing, anyway. How much is too much to reveal? And who cares besides me what my thoughts are on any given topic, especially one as sad as my father's passing?

Nonetheless, talking openly about my Dad's death might do me some good. Despite being more of a feeling person (I skew toward being an INFJ on the Myers-Briggs), reacting to situations more with emotion than logic, I have learned to play things closer to the vest over the years. And, let's face it, our culture encourages this, the valuing of thought and logic over emotion and feeling, even in the most intimate of situations and relationships. In the immortal words of one old boyfriend after a painful break-up (underscored by his taking me to see The Virgin Suicides as a parting gift/shot and not really getting why this might be upsetting), "You know, you really should keep some of those thoughts to yourself."

And I'm nothing if not good at taking life lessons from a walking, talking sphincter.

Still, even writing this post is incredibly difficult. It just makes my father's death all the more real, as if I have to admit it, acknowledge it, as a fact. And, yet, I feel the way I'm expressing my emotions and sadness herein is with as flat an affect as I can muster. I'm saying I'm sad, rather than illustrating that I'm sad. Why is that?

A clue may be gleaned from the words of my friend the Gladman, who said to me the other day, "The thing is you've had this major life event happen to you. You know it's significant. You know nothing's going to be as it was. But, in the meantime, you have to figure out what it means and how to deal with it."

Yes, exactly.

Over the last few weeks, I've felt upset and broken-hearted over my Dad's death, but probably more than anything I have just felt numb and in shock, stunned by his very quick passing and having so soon to return to a "normal life." It seems too soon to go back to business as usual, and so I haven't really. Up until the last couple of days, I've purposefully avoided social events, at least the ones I had the option to avoid. And up until Thursday, to give the appearance of mourning dress, I also have avoided wearing bright-colored clothing, a style (perhaps regrettably) I sometimes favor. I certainly haven't felt like writing or taking pleasure from other pastimes or interests.

The other overriding feelings for me of late are anger and impatience. I don't think I'm so much angry over the fact that my Dad died "too soon"--he lived a good life, even with Alzheimer's, one of the cruelest diseases known to us. But I could be kidding myself. Who doesn't die too soon? You always want more time with someone, more time to say the important things, but also more time just to be with them and appreciate them for who they are. It certainly does feel as though he died too soon for me and my family. So maybe I'm just fooling myself into believing that I don't feel anger toward the world over my Dad's death.

I suspect this anger and impatience may come from another place, though, one best expressed by my friend EcoGal, who sagely said to me upon my return to work, "You think all this was ridiculous and unimportant before you left, just you wait." So true. Because while I haven't felt like returning to my usual interests and activities, I have had to go back to work. Attend meetings, supervise, talk, direct, innovate, present, act, show up, produce, and all the rest. It's hard coming back to an environment I felt somewhat indifferent to and more than a little irritated by before my Dad's death. Now it seems intolerable. I feel like I could jump out of my skin at any minute, quit on the spot, turn on a dime, and walk away, never to return.

Not practical, perhaps, but there you have it, my fantasy way of dealing with the loss and the pain.

While I pride myself on not bringing everyone down with me as I make my way through the murky sewer tunnel of grief, it's hard to return to my ol' jokey, we'll-sing-in-the-sunshine self. Writing and humor certainly are ways for me to deal with my emotional conflict and anxieties. And writing and humor, too, may be a way for me to keep expressing the "Dad" in me. My father was nothing if not funny, not to mention highly opinionated, often at the same time. And, golly, lookit, so am I.

Thanks for that, Dad. And thanks for so much more that you gave me over the years. I wouldn't have it any other way.

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Taxes

The other ridiculous and pointless thing I've come home to is tax-filing season.

It's that time again in the U.S., and given recent events, I find I'm behind in getting mine prepped for mid-April's deadline. So, as a result, I spent Good Friday at home, making some progress, finishing my federal and state taxes. Now all I have to do is a recheck, then I can e-file, and wait for the $45 refund from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania (woo hoo!) and the $110 payout to the federal government (boo hoo!) to be deposited/withdrawn from/to my bank account.

I've never been one of those no-government know-nothings that seem to have taken hold of our federal social policy over the last couple of decades. I'm probably one of the few people in America that wouldn't object to slightly higher taxes, if it meant that those funds went for a stronger social safety net for all citizens and a serious investment in mass transit over highways. But given that any national discretionary income seems to be going toward a war effort that practically no one supports (except some politicos in Washington and the blood-in-the-water research-and-development and real estate firms in the D.C. area that feed off of them), maybe it's less a case of mo' money for the feds than better spending and management of the income already received.

Much a similar argument could be made toward the way I handle my personal finances. Some cases in point in the form of a couple of big reveals from this year's resignation to taxation without decent representation:

• I made slightly more charitable contributions this year than last, but it still seems like an awfully pathetic amount. I can do better.
• I made slightly more income this year than last (a whopping $70). Which, again, seems like an awfully pathetic amount. And, again, I can do better.
• I really have to get a better handle on my retirement accounts, not to mention my spending, but you know, laugh today, cry tomorrow, we're all going to die someday (see above), and whose life is it anyway? So I suspect it's going to be bidness as per usual with the Raplicious family accounts ("Party of one? There's ample seating in the debtor's prison, sir") over the next year. Or ten.

Ah, but what is this letter from the West Shore Tax Bureau that has been hanging around my desk for the last month or so?

Apparently, in Pennsylvania, we have an additional tax "opportunity," if you will, and that is the local, school district tax, which is something I have to admit to being fairly unfamiliar with and ignorant of until this year. Oops.

The year 2006 was my first full year of living in the Keystone State, and thus the first year that 1 percent (and please pay attention to this number, as it's about to rock my world) was subtracted from my pay for local school district taxes. When I lived in Maryland a full 5 percent (or more) was subtracted from my Pennsylvania-garnered pay to fund the Free (?) State's coffers. While Pennsylvania state income tax is currently around 3.07 percent--an incredible bargain compared to Maryland's--things get more complicated in the Commonwealth because of the addition of local school district taxes, which run the gamut from under 1 percent to, I dunno, maybe 3 or more percent, depending on your township/school district/municipality/whatever. And there's a whole 'nuther layer of complication if you live or work in Philadelphia and environs, but we just won't go there until we have to, girlfriend.

It's all relative, I guess. I mean, in Texas I didn't pay an income tax at all, but I was often brusquely shook down for various and sundry--for example, state park entrance fees, which were in the $30+ range for a carload of folks. I'd like to be able to confirm this--it may indeed cost more--but when you go to the Texas Parks and Wildlife Division website and try to search for entrance fees, well, interestingly enough, the information appears to be top secret. Homeland Security dontcha know.

In Pennsylvania, my experience so far tells me that state parks and game lands are free. So, all things considered, I can live with the local school district tax.

However, a problem arises with the fact that I don't happen to live in the local school district where I work. And because of this geographical reality, my employer apparently is only required by the Pennsylvania Department of Revenue (or so I'm figuring) to collect taxes of 1 percent for "out of county" (and thus out of local school district) residents.

All well and good, except that the school district in which I reside charges a local tax of 1.7 percent, not 1 percent.

Thus I find myself a week or so before tax-filiing day needing to pay an additional 0.7 percent or $300 to $400 to meet my tax burden.

Cripes. Talk about tax-and-spend socialism smacking you in the face with a dead Soviet-style communist fish of reality. Ugh. And it's not even Lent anymore. (Is it? Easter traditions--something else I can proclaim to be ignorant of, for good or for ill.)

I can both meet the deadline and pay the burden, although plans for that new home stereo system--oh, and groceries--just got set back by a couple of months. Hey-ho.

Still, bitter misanthrope that I am, I can't help but feel that this is a part of a plot by my employer to impel all worker bees to live within five to ten miles of the company hive. (And just one part of the plot, mind you. Oh, I have other examples, believe you me . . . .)

After all, the local tax rate where I work is the same as where I live. Why not charge me the full amount instead of having to cough up bitter cash during tax season? Who knows? Maybe I'd even get a refund! If you can pay 5 percent to Maryland, why can't you manage an additional 0.7 percent for my Cumberland County school district?

Because, my somewhat suspect reasoning goes, my employer hates the fact that I'm not willing to drink the corporate Kool-Aid, to take a ride on the tail of the comet Hale-Bopp, to get Sirius, to run my dedication up the Mount Carmel flagpole and see whether I salute it appropriately. Instead, it holds it against me that I am not the Borg and I am unwilling to assimilate into the institutional ethos.

Or it could just be an accounting nightmare to deal with--hundreds and thousands of potential school districts and so many employees--not to mention a subtle imperative to get me to save more and often throughout the year. But where's the sturm-und-drang in that approach? Personally, I've never seen a tree of logic and rationality that couldn't be felled by a strong ax of drama under any circumstances.

And INFJ that I am, I couldn't have it any other way.