My mother could be generous of spirit, funny and kind. Her alter ego, especially as she aged, was a narcissistic curmudgeon, a personality she sometimes unleashed on service staff such as waiters, shopkeepers, or clueless art class students.
Shirley was tiny and she frequently loaded up on cash at the relatively new ATM machine at her bank in Cabin John. It was not unusual for her to be carrying $400 around with her. She was a gifted knitter and could read or watch TV while following a pattern.
There was a knitting shop she frequented which was, like most knitting shops I’ve encountered, mellow in atmosphere. Women gathered there to form knitting circles and to chat as they worked.
I arrived with my mother one day and after puttering around she picked out a couple of inexpensive items, maybe priced at $7.00 total. Shirley whipped out her credit card to pay.
“Mrs. Yarnall, we can’t take a credit card for anything less than $15.00,” said the owner, pointing to a prominently placed sign over the cash register.
Not to be dissuaded, Shirley said sharply, ‘But I want to use my card, it helps me keep track of expenses.” She glared over the register at the long-suffering woman.
I was hiding in the curtains trying not to laugh. I knew Shirley had $400 in her purse.
After a brief standoff, the owner said, “Mrs. Yarnall, we can’t seem to make you happy here. I suggest you take your business to another shop.”
Yes, it’s true. My mother got kicked out of a knitting shop. There were a couple of restaurants where Shirley had routinely terrorized the waiters. If they saw her coming through the front door they would race to the bar and meet her at her table with a glass of Chardonnay, hands trembling. As if getting 86d from a yarn shop isn’t bad enough, my mother and her friend Clara decided to take a sculpting class. They were tossed out before the first session ended for tittering behind their hands and making fun of the other students. In later years when Shirley complained of loneliness and boredom – a frequent occurrence – I’d suggest taking a class. Clara had died by then. Shirley would turn on me and snap: “I’ve tried that! It just didn’t work.’
There was no point in pursuing that line of advice.
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