As soon as her first grandchild was born, my mother picked out a name for herself. Instead of waiting to see if her grandchildren would call her "Grammy" or "Nana" or "Bzzbzz," she selected Gamma - a letter from the Greek alphabet, just to remind everyone forevermore that she had studied Greek at Vassar College. I never heard her refer to Greek in any other context or capacity, so I guess her entire Vassar education culminated in these two syllables.
Gamma once worked briefly for the CIA (called the OSS back then). I think her job was probably to look decorative around the office, since she had no skills, and once spent an entire train ride next to the Secretary of State during WWII and had no idea who he was. "And what do YOU do?" she asked politely, after talking about her own high-stakes position.
The OSS, however, did something brilliant. They gave my mother a job in the Anti-Morale Department (whatever it was really called). The task there was to think of devious and deceptive ways to undermine the morale of the enemy. For example, they would rain down pamphlets on the Japanese soldiers telling them that their wives were being unfaithful back at home while they were fighting. Makes you feel a little depressed, doesn't it?
The OSS, knowingly or unknowingly, had tapped into my mother's Super Power. With just a few words, she could suck all the happiness out of ANYTHING, even the most sweet, or kind, or good-hearted gesture. She could uncover a dark underbelly of maggots and crawling vermin beneath ANYTHING. Some people, bless them, see silver linings to every cloud. She, on the other hand, always saw the dark side of the moon. The most precious child - probably a mistake. An upcoming wedding - undoubtedly covering a shameful secret. A cheerful greeting - a sure sign of a defective intellect on the part of a village idiot. There was virtually nothing in her world that was bright or pure or good.
In movies and video games there is often a character who can instantly turn everything into solid ice. That was my mother. This can be tough on a little kid who wants to share some good news. Time after time I would come to her with a little candle of Joy, and she would blow it out. Making other people miserable, even a little child, made her happy. No, your picture does NOT look like a kangaroo. No, that child does NOT want to be your friend. No, getting straight A's is NOT a great accomplishment. No, you are NOT smart, or pretty, or even very nice for that matter. You're stupid and fat and dull - unlike ME.
When Mother's Day or Thanksgiving or Christmas rolled around, I was always so tied up in knots about what to do about her that it never dawned on me for nearly six decades that these holidays applied to me, too. Since she was virtually unpleasable, I knew I was beating my head against the wall attempting to make her happy, but I was commanded to perform, and, like a trained monkey, I kept trying.
My mother's birthday was a source of panic for 92 years. Virtually no gift brought her pleasure, no matter how much thought or effort or expense went into it.
One year I bought her a hummingbird feeder for their home. She ripped the wrapping paper off a corner of the box and said, "It's plastic." She handed it back without even looking to see what it was.
Once I bought her an expensive television that accepted VHS tapes so she could watch her favorite old movies. I never saw it again, and she later derisively dismissed it as "electronic."
One birthday I tried the hand-made route. I bought fabric to match their living room, hand-stitched and filled two pillows, and had my children decorate the reverse sides with birthday greetings. "Those?" she said with disdain. "You just bought some old pillows."
One Christmas I searched high and low for her favorite buttercream candy, then bought her a whole box. She tore off the paper and asked, "Is this a joke?"
When her eyesight started to fail, I ran stationery through my sewing machine by hand, sheet by sheet, so she could feel the lines to follow. She refused to use it.
When my children formed a band last year, I gave her a CD of their excellent folk/bluegrass music. All their songs are original and they are really good. My mother handed back the CD of her own grandchildren and said she would rather hear tunes she knew already.
Food was too fattening. Perfume was the wrong smell. Necklaces and earrings and bracelets and hats and slippers all disappeared. Did she return the gifts and keep the cash? Or did she give everything to the Cleaning Lady? I have no idea, but the presents always vanished.
Sweaters and pashmina wraps were deemed "too nice to wear" and were never seen again. A beautiful silk scarf made her "look old." Instead of nice things, she would rather wear my husband's cheap cast-off polyester-filled permanently-stained red winter parka that made her look - well, look like a drunk.
The truth is, all my mother really wanted was booze, and that was the one thing I refused to give her. Liquor came before everything, certainly before her marriage and before her children. She once dropped a gallon bottle of Seagrams gin in the garage and I thought she was going to get down and drink it off the floor, glass shards and all.
From my mother I learned the importance of Being Polite. When someone gives you a glass pickle dish, you say, "Oh, how lovely, thank you so much," If you happen to know the pickle dish was just on sale at Target, you keep this to yourself. If someone brings you cookies you dislike, you still set them on a pretty plate and thank them for their kindness. And when you get cancer and someone perfectly healthy says, "I know just how you feel," the correct response is not, "You're an idiot," but, "Thank you for your concern."
I hope you will share your gift-giving experiences in the comments below. Has anyone ever rejected - or re-gifted - a present of yours? Has your mother ever had a yard sale with all the presents you gave her?
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