take offense.
It is well known that Dorothy Himmelreich counts everything. The telephone poles she passes while walking, the steps from the house to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, the spots on a lady-bugâs back, the number of rings before someone picks up the telephone, the stars in the night sky, her husbandâs sneezes. When the day is done and she is lying in bed, her eyes closed but not yet asleep, my mother-in-law, Dorothy Himmelreich, counts her breaths. The very experience of life for her is a running tally. Perhaps when it comes time for figuring the total, she wants to make sure she is not being overcharged. She is pathologically cheap, even to the point where I once heard her express joy at the purchase of a garden hose because it was probably the last one she would ever have to buy before she died. Her favorite story to tell is one in which a salesgirl had mistakenly undercharged her for an item.
For one so concerned about money, it would seem logical that she would not be very interested in spending it on unnecessary items, but this is not the case. She will buy anything if it is cheap enough, and she will buy a lot of it, whether it is something she needs or not. Every weekend during spring and summer, she leaves her house early and travels to the local garage sales and flea markets. âI only spent ten dollars for all of this,â she will say to her husband while pointing to a box jammed full of rusting gadgets, single dinner plates from discontinued sets, old tools, ash trays (she doesnât smoke), party decorations, shirts from the seventies with gravy stains. In response her husband simply stares in disbelief, his mouth open, thinking of the third stall of the garage, so heaped with possessions that it resembles the proverbial âDark Side of the Moon.â Give the woman some credit, though; at the end of each summer, she has her own garage sale and tries to unload it all for more than she paid for it. Parting with these things causes her little anguish because she knows that the following spring other detritus will be hers again.
Her belief system is a gumbo of stoicism and superstition. If you try to rest while the sun is up, she bangs the pots and pans in the kitchen, slams the door, calls out in a loud voice. Naps are tantamount to public masturbation. If you try to tell her about a supernova recently discovered at the edge of the universe, she will shake her head, squint her eyes, and ask you to show her in writing where you saw such a story. Since you donât have the magazine with you, she simply smiles, self-satisfied. She has told me that she would never want to win the lottery, because that would make her famous and great catastrophes only happen to famous people. Her children have, to a degree, accepted her superstitious system. They recount a story about a young boy in the neighborhood whom she didnât like because he was impolite. When he reached the age of twelve, he climbed a water tower in town and leaped to his death. She told her family back then that she had put a hex on the boy. Now when the story is told in her presence she does not admit to the hex, but in her eyes there are small fires burning and she canât help but laugh.
Her attempts at showing affection are similar to a well-trained soldier breaking down his rifle for inspection. The usual counsel of wise elders, namely, âDonât worry, itâll work out,â becomes metamorphosed on her lips to, âYou have acted in a ridiculous manner once again.â For all of Dorothyâs inability to display emotion, my wife did tell me about having seen her cry once. On the hutch in the living room, Dorothy displayed her zoo of crystal animals. They were expensive little knickknacks and, in lieu of having to actually think of a gift, her husband would give her money at each holiday to purchase another. There were dozens of them, arranged in concentric circles around her favorite,
It is well known that Dorothy Himmelreich counts everything. The telephone poles she passes while walking, the steps from the house to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, the spots on a lady-bugâs back, the number of rings before someone picks up the telephone, the stars in the night sky, her husbandâs sneezes. When the day is done and she is lying in bed, her eyes closed but not yet asleep, my mother-in-law, Dorothy Himmelreich, counts her breaths. The very experience of life for her is a running tally. Perhaps when it comes time for figuring the total, she wants to make sure she is not being overcharged. She is pathologically cheap, even to the point where I once heard her express joy at the purchase of a garden hose because it was probably the last one she would ever have to buy before she died. Her favorite story to tell is one in which a salesgirl had mistakenly undercharged her for an item.
For one so concerned about money, it would seem logical that she would not be very interested in spending it on unnecessary items, but this is not the case. She will buy anything if it is cheap enough, and she will buy a lot of it, whether it is something she needs or not. Every weekend during spring and summer, she leaves her house early and travels to the local garage sales and flea markets. âI only spent ten dollars for all of this,â she will say to her husband while pointing to a box jammed full of rusting gadgets, single dinner plates from discontinued sets, old tools, ash trays (she doesnât smoke), party decorations, shirts from the seventies with gravy stains. In response her husband simply stares in disbelief, his mouth open, thinking of the third stall of the garage, so heaped with possessions that it resembles the proverbial âDark Side of the Moon.â Give the woman some credit, though; at the end of each summer, she has her own garage sale and tries to unload it all for more than she paid for it. Parting with these things causes her little anguish because she knows that the following spring other detritus will be hers again.
Her belief system is a gumbo of stoicism and superstition. If you try to rest while the sun is up, she bangs the pots and pans in the kitchen, slams the door, calls out in a loud voice. Naps are tantamount to public masturbation. If you try to tell her about a supernova recently discovered at the edge of the universe, she will shake her head, squint her eyes, and ask you to show her in writing where you saw such a story. Since you donât have the magazine with you, she simply smiles, self-satisfied. She has told me that she would never want to win the lottery, because that would make her famous and great catastrophes only happen to famous people. Her children have, to a degree, accepted her superstitious system. They recount a story about a young boy in the neighborhood whom she didnât like because he was impolite. When he reached the age of twelve, he climbed a water tower in town and leaped to his death. She told her family back then that she had put a hex on the boy. Now when the story is told in her presence she does not admit to the hex, but in her eyes there are small fires burning and she canât help but laugh.
Her attempts at showing affection are similar to a well-trained soldier breaking down his rifle for inspection. The usual counsel of wise elders, namely, âDonât worry, itâll work out,â becomes metamorphosed on her lips to, âYou have acted in a ridiculous manner once again.â For all of Dorothyâs inability to display emotion, my wife did tell me about having seen her cry once. On the hutch in the living room, Dorothy displayed her zoo of crystal animals. They were expensive little knickknacks and, in lieu of having to actually think of a gift, her husband would give her money at each holiday to purchase another. There were dozens of them, arranged in concentric circles around her favorite,
Similar Books
