How Quicken Saved My Marriage

It's that time of year again. 

Time for Hubby get ready for taxes.

Each year I would contemplate leaving home, but I never knew exactly when the time would strike.  As it was, I would usually seclude myself in the sewing room or just find an urgent need to go to the grocery.  Then it would go on for days, so that was only a temporary solution.  We would all creep around the house, whispering and tip-toeing because daddy was "doing the taxes".

You see, Hubby is a man who literally thinks in numbers.  They just make sense to him.  So naturally he does the taxes.  He also is scrupulously honest and slightly paranoid, so he keeps every scrap of paper that he thinks the IRS might need if they chose to look.  He also is a totally disorganized bookkeeper and file clerk.

 In fact, his file was a shoe box.

His account book was another box with all of his cancelled checks for the year.

His method for preparing his taxes was to get the two boxes and commandeer the dining room table.  He then would proceed to go through every check and every receipt and put them in piles on the table.  Each pile would represent a deduction, such as vet bills, cattle supplies, fencing, repairs, etc.   When all the scraps of paper were assigned to a pile he would total up each one, creating a list for the accountant to use for filing our taxes. 

By the time he finished he was in deep despondency.

By the time he left the boxes at the accountants, the accountant was in deep despondency.  In fact, he may have been the only one to dread the appearances of the boxes more than me.

Then, in a moment of insanity, I hesitantly suggested that I might be able to help out.  Hubby's look of disbelief spoke volumes.  I do NOT think in numbers.  In fact before the advent of calculators I would be hard pressed to do simple mathematics.  However, I do like computers and all their programs.  I proposed that I would enter all the checks into a new program called Quicken.  Then all we would have to do is print out the resulting lists of checks.  He reluctantly agreed to let me try.

What I didn't realize was that the challenge would be deciphering his system into Quicken's categories.    For example:  Truck gas went into one category for farm use.  Car gas went into another.  Unless, the truck was used for personal use, then it was car gas.  Or if the car was used for farm use then it was truck gas. 

Then there is the problem of figuring out what the check is actually for.  For one thing, Hubby's first grade teacher must have been on leave when they taught writing.  He just has terrible penmanship.  Then he adds cryptic instructions on the memo line.  2B-BM.  Once I quit giggling, I figured out that was 2 bulls to B. Mattingly.  Occasionally, even he couldn't read it and we'd have to do some creative investigating to determine were to categorize the expense.

It hasn't been all smooth sailing but eventually we worked out a system that has allowed us to print a report for the accountant to use (with lots of mark outs, notes, and messages written on it!)

The accountant was so excited he almost cried.

The Cows Are Out

There are few calls that come in to a farmer that cause him to jump faster than the one that starts, "Your cows are out!"  The other Sunday we were just settled in for a little quiet time.  Hubby was watching a ballgame and I was talking to my sister on the phone.  Right in the middle of our conversation another call came in.  Checking the number, I realized it was a neighbor, so I poked hubby and told him to call back on his cell.  Within seconds he had jumped up and was grabbing his coat, starting for the door.  "Wait!"  I yelled.  "What's going on!"

"Those fool cows are out and heading for the road!"  he yelled as he pulled on his boots and grabbed his hat.  With that he was gone.

In a bit I heard the ranger roaring down the drive and knew the round-up was on.

Fences are the never-ending chore.  No matter how good the fences are, cows have an instinct for finding the post that is rotting underground and ready to be shoved over, the section that has stretched and can be pushed down and trampled, or the post that has weak staples and can be tugged loose.  This time it was a post along the creek that had been undermined by the flowing water.  Once it was down, the cows clambered down the bank, crossed the creek and entered the now empty tobacco patch.  The tobacco patch has no fence and borders the little road in front of the house.  They were happily heading for the roadside weeds when Hubby and our son arrived.

Using the four-wheeler and the ranger (like cowboys used their ponies) they started rounding up the frisky cows.  In any herd, there is always one that is the ring-leader for mischief.  Get her headed in the right direction and the rest will follow.  It wasn't long until they spotted the ring-leader--she was the one turning on a dime, dodging past the four-wheeler and charging back to the open field.  "Head her off!"  screamed Hubby, and the race was on.  After several sliding turns in the mud and a couple of reverses they finally had her and her herd heading for the creek. 

Upon reaching the creek bank, son slipped off the four-wheeler and slid down the bank to continue the herding process.  Stepping into the frigid water he kept to the line of rock that would allow him to cross in a shallow area, thus keeping water from coming over his boot tops. (Every farmer learns these shallow places pretty quickly.)  Shooing the last cow through the gap in the fence, he turned to return to the bank and get his tools to fix the fence. 

He had just reached the ranger, to get a shovel and a hammer, when a shout from Hubby brought him up short.  "GET BACK YOU BITCH!!"  Wheeling around, he realized the ring-leader was heading for the gap with her whole herd eagerly following.  Knowing that in seconds they would reach the breached fence and escape once again, he leaped for the fence.  In his hurry he forgot to watch for his little ledge and stepped into deeper water.  Freezing water rushed into his boots which immediately became glued to the bottom of the creek by sheer weight.  Already moving forward in his headlong rush to stop the cattle, his momentum carried him face-first into the creek.  His outraged yell carried to the ridge top.

The ring-leader cow stopped just short of the fence, looked at the wet, furious human at her feet and gave a short cow snort that sounded a lot like a laugh.  Turning aside, (as though she had never intended to cross the fence) she wandered off, chuffing a little chuckle as she went.

Probably wise.  I think son was envisioning using cow-hide for fencing material.