Anybody buy firewood by the logging truck?
- Thread starter Spitz
- Start date
Wyoming Sage
New member
You might try the City-Data on Idaho or Craigslist in Idaho on the internet for a few leads.
roadhunter
Banned
- Joined
- Jul 28, 2013
- Messages
- 719
I go to the sawmill and buy the scrap and leftover pieces they can't use for lumber. I dont' know if it would be cheaper than buying a truckload though.
My Dad offered to pay his back taxes to the IRS by giving them the two loads of pole-length birch firewood he had in his yard. Funny story.
When he passed, I found all the tax returns I had ever prepared for him, in a drawer, unsigned, and never mailed to the IRS. That, along with big stack of "Love letters" from said agency. I called the auditor assigned to my Dad's case and told him that my Dad had passed away and there were no assets to pay the back taxes.
The auditor was kind, gave his condolences, and then questioned the notion that my Dad, who had not filed tax returns for over a dozen year, had a son who operated a CPA firm. Once I assured him of such and that I had no idea my Dad was not filing these returns, the auditor asked if I wanted to hear a story about my Dad.
The auditor told how his boss instructed that he travel the 72 miles north of Bemidji to Big Falls, and interview my Dad. He explained what the file notes stated and how it was expected the tax payer did not have resources to pay. In fact, the taxpayer did not even have a telephone, so it was unlikely that the taxpayer would have resources to pay back taxes.
Unphased, the supervisor instructed an "on-site" evaluation. So, the auditor made arrangement with my Dad via letters. I am sure the auditor was unprepared for what he saw. I will paint a small picture of my Dad's philosophy on life.
According to my Dad the guy who dies with the most junked out logging equipment in his front yard, was the winner. My Dad may not have been in first place, given the number of like-minded loggers in the area, but he was surely a playoff contender in the top 90 percentile.
Being a logger, my Dad burned nothing but firewood for heat. If he thought it were possible, he would have used firewood for air conditioning. When you are a gypo logger of that era, you have a succession of vintage chainsaws and mismatched parts consisting of chains, bars, spark plugs, engines, chain files, and assorted other items normally classified as junk. Somehow through the magic of amazing mechanical aptitude, these old loggers can get one of them in operating condition in the time it takes to drink three PBRs.
When your son questions the insanity of keeping all this junk and implying it might represent a health hazard, you inform your oldest son that he might be a CPA, but he doesn't know chicken soup from chicken poop when it comes to what represents true value in this world. Further lecture includes that this stuff is going to be worth a fortune some day and if the CPA-son had a clue, he would be making claim to it right now, rather than having to haggle with his siblings at some future date.
Other than collecting logging-related junk, my Dad lived for baiting bears, whitetail hunting, sucker fishing, and telling stories at the local pub. Attire, hygiene, and discretion were low on my Dad's list of worries, and his concern for what anyone else thought of his lifestyle, even his children’s' thoughts about that lifestyle, occupied the bottom of his list.
With that picture, imagine the trepidation of an IRS auditor who shows up, greeted by the most menacing, ignorant, worthless dog in Koochiching County, and scans the local vicinity for the least dangerous path through the debris field, into the old trailer house when some guy is yelling at his dog, "Shut up Toby Dog, or I'll kick you so f&^@ing hard, you brother's teeth will fall out."
The auditor is telling this story with more emotion and conviction than I have experienced in a 25 year career of dealing with IRS auditors. I listen further, trying not to laugh at the scenarios I had come to expect and grown numb to, yet to an outsider, probably made the folks on the movie "Deliverance" seem rather Kardashian in relative terms.
The auditor finds what he thinks is the safest dangerous place among the assorted piles of beer cans, dog food bags, and mounds of other "valuables" that litter my Dad's little shack. As he is explaining the situation to my Dad, Toby Dog continued to growl as loud as he dare without a being rewarded with a swing of my Dad's cane.
After all the years are explained and taxes listed, the auditor asks my Dad if he has any justified explanation for not filing and if maybe he had some deductions to offset the very small amounts of income reported on Forms 1099.
My Dad broke out his pocket version of the United States Constitution and started with his defense. My Dad did have rabbit ears for an old black and white Emerson TV that occupied the visitor's place setting at his eating table and was always tuned to “The People’s Court,” and in later days, “Judge Judy.” Dad imagined himself as the next F. Lee Bailey, so when the auditor told of my Dad making all kinds of obscure legal claims as to why he was not required to file, I could only laugh, expecting such from a guy as confident in his own worldly knowledge as was my Dad.
When all was wrapping up, my Dad could produce no receipts, which being a “cash in hand” operator, comes as no surprise to anyone who knew him. My Dad’s plea as to why filing tax returns was not required when one only owed pay self-employment taxes, taxes Dad claimed has been stolen by Congress, were of no use to a trained auditor.
Being very pragmatic, my Dad asked the auditor, “How we gonna resolve this?”
The auditor asked my Dad if he had any funds for which he could submit to the IRS an “Offer In Compromise,” whereby the taxpayer shows their financial status and the IRS will often take a smaller payment in settlement of all that is owed.
As expected, my Dad pleaded complete insolvency, not willing to part with the $2,000 cash he secretly kept in this refrigerator-freezer; money he told us kids was earmarked to “put him in the ground.” He kept anything of slight liquidity value in a freezer, based on his experience of having two houses burn down and realizing that trailer houses, when consumed in flames, smolder at a temperature low enough such that freezers don’t burn very well.
My Dad stood from his torn and dirty recliner and with the aid of his walker, stumbled over the mounds of trash to the front of his homemade porch, then called for the auditor to come over and discuss his idea for payment.
In the front yard were two big piles of pole-length birch that has recently been delivered, thanks to some bear hunters from Rochester who wanted to help my Dad for the favors he had provided. The auditor snuck past the fangs of Toby Dog and hustled to the entry of the dilapidated wannigan where my Dad was standing.
My Dad turned to the auditor and explained that in late November, with the brutal winter of Northern Minnesota soon approaching, the current market value of birch firewood was at a peak. My Dad also explained how the IRS could probably convert that to a fine amount of cash and there were many local buyers in the market for such at this time of year.
In all seriousness, my Dad explained to the auditor that he would be willing to do an “Offer In Compromise,” using these two truckloads of pole-length birch firewood as his form of payment for this settlement offer, but he would need the auditor’s help in completing the paperwork.
Completely adazed by the event of the last hour, the auditor told my Dad he would go back to the office and explain the situation to his supervisor and ask if such could be accepted, knowing full well the answer. The auditor departed, heading south toward Bemidji and wondering if he had just really experienced this, or if he was in some sort of dream.
When he got to his office, the auditor explained the day’s events to his supervisor. Soon, the entire office was gathered around as he re-told the story.
It was concluded that no more time needed to be invested pursuing a settlement with Delbert Newberg. An offer to settle for his most valuable liquid asset, two truckloads of birch firewood, however admirable and sacrificial, was proof enough that further pursuit of this case was not a good use of IRS resources.
Old Finlander logger – 1
IRS - 0
When he passed, I found all the tax returns I had ever prepared for him, in a drawer, unsigned, and never mailed to the IRS. That, along with big stack of "Love letters" from said agency. I called the auditor assigned to my Dad's case and told him that my Dad had passed away and there were no assets to pay the back taxes.
The auditor was kind, gave his condolences, and then questioned the notion that my Dad, who had not filed tax returns for over a dozen year, had a son who operated a CPA firm. Once I assured him of such and that I had no idea my Dad was not filing these returns, the auditor asked if I wanted to hear a story about my Dad.
The auditor told how his boss instructed that he travel the 72 miles north of Bemidji to Big Falls, and interview my Dad. He explained what the file notes stated and how it was expected the tax payer did not have resources to pay. In fact, the taxpayer did not even have a telephone, so it was unlikely that the taxpayer would have resources to pay back taxes.
Unphased, the supervisor instructed an "on-site" evaluation. So, the auditor made arrangement with my Dad via letters. I am sure the auditor was unprepared for what he saw. I will paint a small picture of my Dad's philosophy on life.
According to my Dad the guy who dies with the most junked out logging equipment in his front yard, was the winner. My Dad may not have been in first place, given the number of like-minded loggers in the area, but he was surely a playoff contender in the top 90 percentile.
Being a logger, my Dad burned nothing but firewood for heat. If he thought it were possible, he would have used firewood for air conditioning. When you are a gypo logger of that era, you have a succession of vintage chainsaws and mismatched parts consisting of chains, bars, spark plugs, engines, chain files, and assorted other items normally classified as junk. Somehow through the magic of amazing mechanical aptitude, these old loggers can get one of them in operating condition in the time it takes to drink three PBRs.
When your son questions the insanity of keeping all this junk and implying it might represent a health hazard, you inform your oldest son that he might be a CPA, but he doesn't know chicken soup from chicken poop when it comes to what represents true value in this world. Further lecture includes that this stuff is going to be worth a fortune some day and if the CPA-son had a clue, he would be making claim to it right now, rather than having to haggle with his siblings at some future date.
Other than collecting logging-related junk, my Dad lived for baiting bears, whitetail hunting, sucker fishing, and telling stories at the local pub. Attire, hygiene, and discretion were low on my Dad's list of worries, and his concern for what anyone else thought of his lifestyle, even his children’s' thoughts about that lifestyle, occupied the bottom of his list.
With that picture, imagine the trepidation of an IRS auditor who shows up, greeted by the most menacing, ignorant, worthless dog in Koochiching County, and scans the local vicinity for the least dangerous path through the debris field, into the old trailer house when some guy is yelling at his dog, "Shut up Toby Dog, or I'll kick you so f&^@ing hard, you brother's teeth will fall out."
The auditor is telling this story with more emotion and conviction than I have experienced in a 25 year career of dealing with IRS auditors. I listen further, trying not to laugh at the scenarios I had come to expect and grown numb to, yet to an outsider, probably made the folks on the movie "Deliverance" seem rather Kardashian in relative terms.
The auditor finds what he thinks is the safest dangerous place among the assorted piles of beer cans, dog food bags, and mounds of other "valuables" that litter my Dad's little shack. As he is explaining the situation to my Dad, Toby Dog continued to growl as loud as he dare without a being rewarded with a swing of my Dad's cane.
After all the years are explained and taxes listed, the auditor asks my Dad if he has any justified explanation for not filing and if maybe he had some deductions to offset the very small amounts of income reported on Forms 1099.
My Dad broke out his pocket version of the United States Constitution and started with his defense. My Dad did have rabbit ears for an old black and white Emerson TV that occupied the visitor's place setting at his eating table and was always tuned to “The People’s Court,” and in later days, “Judge Judy.” Dad imagined himself as the next F. Lee Bailey, so when the auditor told of my Dad making all kinds of obscure legal claims as to why he was not required to file, I could only laugh, expecting such from a guy as confident in his own worldly knowledge as was my Dad.
When all was wrapping up, my Dad could produce no receipts, which being a “cash in hand” operator, comes as no surprise to anyone who knew him. My Dad’s plea as to why filing tax returns was not required when one only owed pay self-employment taxes, taxes Dad claimed has been stolen by Congress, were of no use to a trained auditor.
Being very pragmatic, my Dad asked the auditor, “How we gonna resolve this?”
The auditor asked my Dad if he had any funds for which he could submit to the IRS an “Offer In Compromise,” whereby the taxpayer shows their financial status and the IRS will often take a smaller payment in settlement of all that is owed.
As expected, my Dad pleaded complete insolvency, not willing to part with the $2,000 cash he secretly kept in this refrigerator-freezer; money he told us kids was earmarked to “put him in the ground.” He kept anything of slight liquidity value in a freezer, based on his experience of having two houses burn down and realizing that trailer houses, when consumed in flames, smolder at a temperature low enough such that freezers don’t burn very well.
My Dad stood from his torn and dirty recliner and with the aid of his walker, stumbled over the mounds of trash to the front of his homemade porch, then called for the auditor to come over and discuss his idea for payment.
In the front yard were two big piles of pole-length birch that has recently been delivered, thanks to some bear hunters from Rochester who wanted to help my Dad for the favors he had provided. The auditor snuck past the fangs of Toby Dog and hustled to the entry of the dilapidated wannigan where my Dad was standing.
My Dad turned to the auditor and explained that in late November, with the brutal winter of Northern Minnesota soon approaching, the current market value of birch firewood was at a peak. My Dad also explained how the IRS could probably convert that to a fine amount of cash and there were many local buyers in the market for such at this time of year.
In all seriousness, my Dad explained to the auditor that he would be willing to do an “Offer In Compromise,” using these two truckloads of pole-length birch firewood as his form of payment for this settlement offer, but he would need the auditor’s help in completing the paperwork.
Completely adazed by the event of the last hour, the auditor told my Dad he would go back to the office and explain the situation to his supervisor and ask if such could be accepted, knowing full well the answer. The auditor departed, heading south toward Bemidji and wondering if he had just really experienced this, or if he was in some sort of dream.
When he got to his office, the auditor explained the day’s events to his supervisor. Soon, the entire office was gathered around as he re-told the story.
It was concluded that no more time needed to be invested pursuing a settlement with Delbert Newberg. An offer to settle for his most valuable liquid asset, two truckloads of birch firewood, however admirable and sacrificial, was proof enough that further pursuit of this case was not a good use of IRS resources.
Old Finlander logger – 1
IRS - 0
Caseknife
Well-known member
Randy, your family stories are the absolute best.
Straight Arrow
Well-known member
As usual, great story! 'Very entertaining. The irony of your CPA career is duly noted.
I checked into buying a truck load of logs last spring. I live in the mountains where the wood is cut. The logging trucks drive past my house on its long journey to a mill. The price I was offered was $150/cord - $1,200 for a truck load. I would have to cut, split and stack.
The price didn't make sense due to where I live. I was able to cut 10 cords in 3 days, split and stack in one day. My total costs with permit fees and gas was around $300.
The price didn't make sense due to where I live. I was able to cut 10 cords in 3 days, split and stack in one day. My total costs with permit fees and gas was around $300.
02bfishn
Member
Great story Fin - love it!
SFC B
Well-known member
Great story 
....
Here is the Springs jokers want $150 + for softwood that may or may not be seasoned :/ Thankfully, I can get a cutting permit for 3 cords/$30 here on post. I was lucky last time to stumble on a stand of oaks but am about to run out of that. Man do I miss IN when it comes to firewood. When I lived in INDPLS the city had a yard where they dumped all the trees they had to cut for untility and easement work. All you had to do was show up in a truck with a chainsaw and cut to your hearts desire......ah the good old days
....Here is the Springs jokers want $150 + for softwood that may or may not be seasoned :/ Thankfully, I can get a cutting permit for 3 cords/$30 here on post. I was lucky last time to stumble on a stand of oaks but am about to run out of that. Man do I miss IN when it comes to firewood. When I lived in INDPLS the city had a yard where they dumped all the trees they had to cut for untility and easement work. All you had to do was show up in a truck with a chainsaw and cut to your hearts desire......ah the good old days
elk_hunter
Active member
Ha! That is outstanding!
BigHornRam
Well-known member
Good thing the apple tree was on a bit of a hill, aye Fin?
noharleyyet
Well-known member
Garrison Keillor couldn't have written it any better.
Buck Fever
Member
Love it, great story!! LOL...
Thanks for the laughs Randy!
Brymoore, the issue down here is finding an Idaho log truck company that will make the drive. Any cutting here is about 1.5 hours away. If I can get a load delivered at a reasonable cost it would be worth it. If you know which company you contacted shoot the info my way if you don't mind.
Brymoore, the issue down here is finding an Idaho log truck company that will make the drive. Any cutting here is about 1.5 hours away. If I can get a load delivered at a reasonable cost it would be worth it. If you know which company you contacted shoot the info my way if you don't mind.
mn taxidermist
Active member
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 176
Thanks for the story Randy, it brought back a lot of memories of Delbert.You are a great storyteller but I can assure everyone this story is not embellished.I was there when Randy and his siblings took care of their fathers possesions and the only treasures I saw were the memories they had of him.
MKotur325
New member
Great Story Randy!!
nbell
New member
Love the story. Was Toby Dog a Black Lab. I can't get over hearing about Toby dog, as my 13 year old Black Lab is known as Toby to me, but "Toby-Dog(one Word)" do both of my kids. Story is hysterical!!!!
You would know better than anyone. I am sure you chuckled as you read some of that, knowing exactly how true it was.
Toby Dog, not Toby the dog, was a black mutt of mixed dog piles, sporting a white spot on his chest. How Dad ended up with the menace to society is somewhat related to the story.
My Dad's source of IRS problems stemmed from taking on a part-time task of being the guy at the dump who told people what to sort, what was allowed, what went there, etc. A town of 200 people doesn't need the dump open every day, so he did this a couple mornings each week and was paid as a sub-contractor, with no taxes withheld. His theory being that if no taxes were withheld, not his problem.
It was during this time that someone dropped off their trash and I suspect the demeanor of Toby Dog was enough for the owners to conveniently forget the dog at the dump. My Dad never passed by a stray hound or a hitchhiker without offering to help, so it was no surprise Toby Dog ended up being my Dad's companion in their final years.
The mongrel hated me, and the feeling was mutual. The dog is lucky I never found him alone and away from my Dad.
One time I drove 1,000 miles straight through to Big Falls for a visit. Stopped by Dad's as my first place of visit and by the time I rounded the first set of old skidder tires, Toby Dog had me backed up against some assorted "lawn furnishings," was flashing his fangs, and showing all the signs of hydraphobie, like in Ol' Yeller. I grabbed an axle spindle that was handy, and swung a little too slow, or Toby Dog would have seen his last day. In classic fashion, my Dad heard the commotion and walked out of his lean-to porch and commenced to giving me a loud earful for picking on his dog.
Yeah, nice to see you too, Dad.
idnative1948
Well-known member
Randy, what a story. Mine not so far off other than was with cousins who would give you their last shirt or last crumb off the table. Luckily always coffee rolling on their wood stove.
