"Old bumper sticker told her tale of woe" from the April 12, 1973 Door County Advocate
KETA STEEBS
KETA STEEBS
Old bumper sticker told her tale of woe
I know death is inevitable; I know taxes are inevitable but up until January I thought audits were only for rich people.
The Internal Revenue Service, democratic institution that it is, does not discriminate. I learned, with a sense of pride, that even I, humble wage earner that I am, had been singled out for an eye-opening little session with an ace IRS investigator.
"Nobody," he told me, "could be as broke as you claim to be."
Fortunately for my side, I keep records. I don't keep neat records but I do have a 50-pound grocery bag stuffed with curled-up receipts, tax bills, interest payments, medical expenses, bad debts, etc.
Some were so wrinkled I had to steam iron them back into legibility before neatly filing them in a Cheerio carton. Carton, bank book and cancelled checks in hand, I resolutely drove to the nearest IRS office, wasted 15 cents in a 12-minute parking meter, and huffed and puffed my way across the street.
"Being audited, eh?" asked an elderly gentleman, carrying an official looking genuine leather briefcase under each arm. It pays to keep good records you know." He glanced at my Cheerio box and sympathetically wished me luck.
My own private investigator, while not as sympathetic, did treat me nicely. He waited patiently while I dug pertinent date from my Cheerio box, hummed softly as I thumbed through a batch of smudged cancelled checks, swiftly compared my tapes with his tapes (he can add a lot faster) and then settled down for a little question and answer session.
"What kind of car do you drive? I noticed you've deducted $62.20 for gasoline taxes."
I told him it was the one with the overtime parking ticket sitting under his front window.
"You mean the Ford with the "Re-Elect FDR" bumper sticker?" he asked. "That explains some of the gas tax but I understand you have two automobiles. Is the other a late model?"
"A couple years later than this one," I admitted. "The one says "Dewey Can't Win." (I never did have any luck removing bumper stickers.)
"O.K., we'll forget the cars. Do you have any large sums of money stashed away in your banks?"
I said, "Fifty per cent of my current finances just went down the drain in your dumb parking meter."
"How about your personal bank account?" he countered. "May I see your balance as of Jan. 1, 1971?"
I had anticipated this. My 1971 stubs had been filed in my winter of '71 purse but I had the foresight to transfer them to my Cheerio box at the last minute. He waited while I dug to the bottom, triumphantly produced them and proudly pointed out my not insubstantial balance of $42.70."
"How much was left at the end of the year?"
By then I was down to $6.17...but, as I explained, this was the day before payday and I'm usually a little low at this point.
"Did you receive any large gifts this particular year. Anything of great value?"
I told him my mother had given me a lace tablecloth for Christmas and every time she sees me she reminds me it set her back $15.98 and I shouldn't plunk my typewriter on it but that was about all I got.
"Any inheritances?"
"Inheritances," I said. "If you think I'm in tough shape you should know my family. The only ones with any money stayed in Sweden and changed their names."
By now it was close to noon and I had a feeling he was tiring of our conversation. I could go, he told me, but he would require an affidavit from our friendly banker guaranteeing no large deposits had been made in a secret savings account.
I'll get that this noon. It shouldn't take long to have an affidavit made out — after my banker gets through laughing.
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
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