Chickens Bonding

It’s not that I miss the chickens.  They were, of course, fun to watch and  wonder about and probably taught me a lot about group behavior, both foul and human.  But in truth… I can’t say I want to renew my chicken vows.  Not the feeding and watering parts.  Not the tending the sick part.  Not in being the arbitrator in their cluck-fights.  No.  I’m happy without the girls.

However, I do miss them just a skosh when the day is galloping by and there’s not a bit of news or gossip to write about for my blog.  Like today.  I’ve been working on the dreaded income tax — sorting piles of papers and trying to make intelligent decisions.  Not blog material by any stretch.

The Louisa Morrison, Oyster Schooner

I wonder what my forebears thought when they confronted the first income tax.  It was a one-time tax, levied by Congress in 1861 to help pay for the Civil War.  At first,  a flat 3-percent tax was placed on all incomes over $800 and was later modified to include a graduated tax. Congress repealed the income tax in 1872, but the concept did not disappear.

In 1861, my great-grandfather Robert already had both feet planted firmly in the oyster business of Shoalwater Bay.  He and Isaac Clark had established Oysterville seven years previously and since 1855, the boomtown had been the Pacific County Seat.  I assume they were up-and-coming enough to be visited by the tax collector.  And, at the rate that the oyster schooners were taking their cargoes to San Francisco, I’m thinking that this was lucrative territory for the tax boys.

Which to toss? Which to keep?

Even though that first income tax was for a short time, the idea never went away.  Finally, on July 2, 1909, Congress passed the 16th amendment establishing its right to impose a Federal income tax.  The amendment was  ratified February 3, 1913, and the rest, I say, has been one big headache.  Not that I object to the concept.  I do think we need to pony up our fair share.  But does it have to be this hard to figure out?  And will the “haves” continue to get a free ride for as long as the rest of us live?

I have to admit… chicken blogs were more interesting. But then… almost anything would be.

Timing Is Everything

So, now it’s the dishwasher.  Relatively new (more’s the pity) and probably its innards are a mass of computer chips.  The “control panel” is a spiffy looking array of words in LED lights which are also what you are to press in lieu of buttons.  Buttons, of course are old school.  Forget buttons.   There are many choices; many non-buttons to press.

All went well for a year of so but, as is always the way with such “time and energy savers,”  last night it balked.  Lights on.  Nobody home.  And, of course, I’d had company for dinner and the dishwasher was full-to-overflowing with dirty dishes pluse the glasses from our Friday Night Gathering.

Find the manual — actually sort of a non-manual that might be helpful if I had my glasses back.  But the three weeks won’t be up until Tuesday so I tried the computer instead with a long string of letters and numbers that I tried to see with a magnifying glass on the inside of the door — sideways of course.

Go the the computer; type in make and (I hope) model number.  In a situation like mine, I need to reboot and after following the directions meticulously, I wanted to tell SOMEone what to do with that boot.  (And besides… Fred and Kevin had already tried the reboot trick by turning off the breaker switch.  It didn’t work then, either.)

I called the appliance repair people who are always very kind and always very booked.  They’ll be here between 8 and 10 on January 30th.  Okay.  It’s only time and money.  And what was wrong with dishpan, drainboard, and dishtowel, anyway?  I can’t remember ever having to make an appointment with a repairman in those days…  And, last weekend’s leaky pipe has been taken care of so there’s hot and cold running water again!   So… life is good, eh?

So far, for me anyway, it’s been the worst winter ever.  Cold.  Wet.  Power outages. Broken pipes.  So, I made up my mind to take advantage of the inhospitable outside realms and close myself up in my office and  write.  There are books in my head and no time like the present.

Today, though, things ran a bit amok.  I was making great progress — following 1880 saloon keeper Dan Rodway up and  down the streets of Oysterville when I suddenly realized, “Oh shit!  It’s Wednesday!”

Out I dashed, bathrobe on but no slippers, past the clock that said 8:05 and on to the kitchen where all clocks said 7:58.  Hoping for the latter, I dashed out to the garage, opened the door, shoved out the dumpster while avoiding most of the puddles in my bare feet,  and looked up and  down the street.  Not another dumpster in sight.  None.  “Which,” I told myself, “doesn’t really mean much.  If they aren’t in residence, they don’t have garbage.  Or they are as forgetful as am I.”

When next I surfaced, it was time to go to the post office to collect the mail and, most importantly, the Observer.  I remembered in time to drag in the dumpster before running it over and… YAY!  Empty!  I’d made it!

The day continued (as far as I know) while I was buried in census reports and old documents.  About three I surfaced once again — coffee calling.  And… wow!  Blue sky!  Sunshine!  Almost Spring weather!

I can’t decide if what I accomplished writing-wise was worth missing the glorious weather.  Damn!