ADA

Her name was Ada – short on letters, long on eccentricities:

A is for acting like no others

D is for doing things no one else can believe

A is for her assumption that what she did was normal. The

rest of us were crazy!

The first time I dated her daughter (wife one of two) we were greeted at the front door at three in the morning by a woman dressed as a charwoman in the Tale of Two Cities! I should have turned tail and run, but, being young and a glutton for punishment, I remained for twenty years of a tumultuous marriage.

Ada was a hoarder or “saver of important items” as she put it.

Her kitchen pantry held no food, but did hold a five-foot pile of yellowing ‘New York Posts’ which she said she would read at a more convenient time. She washed dishes by hand at five AM as the dishwasher was used to store “important papers”. She then slept until three or four in the afternoon.

My kids once opened one of her dresser drawers, finding every piece of paper her daughters ever came in contact with from primitive drawings to every report card they ever received.

If we went out to eat, no matter how fancy the restaurant, her ritual was always the same. She’d open her purse and casually empty the sugar and sweeteners into it. Evidently, she liked her coffee very, very sweet, but not in a restaurant.

While riding in a car with her, she suddenly screamed “stop”! She jumped out of the car, ran to a pile of garbage and commandeered a ratty arm chair, despite vociferous protests rained down upon her.

She dressed in an odd-ball combination of various used clothes, bought in some second-hand shop in the middle of nowhere. But she always accessorized with a selection of wigs (she never combed her hair).

When visiting, she always opened the trunk of her car to ply my kids with goodies she accumulated since her last visit. Some stand-out “gifts”: packs of stale bubble gum that could not be chewed by Hercules and chocolate candy turned white with age. Needless to say, the “gifts” were dumped as soon as she left.

She always referred to me as “Sil” (son-in-law)’ Ada and Sil had a tenuous relationship at best. She was, you see, a never-ending source of amusing anecdotes – amusing to me, not so much to her.

Her defining story: my future son-in-law (“Sil number two) and my daughter were driving her to a party. She was chronically late as always and had not yet dressed for the affair, bringing all her clothes (and wig) to put on later. Wrong! Now! She undressed in the back seat and casually put on her new outfit. My son-in-law has yet to recover from this traumatic experience. She even made the poor guy adjust the rear-view mirror so she could properly adjust her wig.