“Did I tell you what your sister Hope sent me for my birthday?” my mother asked during one of our late-night phone calls. "A poncho. Who does she think I am that I might want a poncho? I’ve written her back saying I’m sure it will come in very handy the next time I mount my burro for the three-day journey over the mountains to the neighboring village. Poncho, indeed. I’ve thrown it into the garage-sale box along with the pepper grinder joy sent me. The thing is two feet long, black and shiny what do I need with a thing like that? It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to recognize that pepper grinder for what it truly is. I bet she spent weeks knocking that one around with her therapist. And, oh, it arrived in a fancy box wrapped in tissue paper. You can bet she paid out the ass for it but that’s joy for you, thinking she can impress people with the money she makes 'consulting.' That’s what she calls herself now, a consultant, as if that means anything. Anyone who answers questions can call them-selves a consultant, am I wrong? A telephone operator is a consultant, a palm reader: they’re all consultants. I thought I’d seen it all but then Faith sent me a subscription to that trade paper she’s working for. She calls it a magazine. Have you seen it? Why would anyone subscribe to a magazine devoted to adobe? Is this a big trend? Is there something I’ve missed? I’ve got a house made of bricks but who wants to read about it every month? Adobe? She circled her name on the first page where she’s listed as 'Features Editor.' When people ask what she’s up to I always tell them she’s a secretary — it sounds better. So then, a week after my birthday I got a call from your sister Charity . . .

Faith, Hope, Joy, Charity and me, Adolph.

See, she just couldn’t help herself.

While my mother might threaten a yard sale she was not the type of person to invite people onto her property or make change. Following her death my sisters were horrified to discover, sealed in boxes, every gift they had given her.

“How could she not want a first edition by M. Scott Peck?”

“I made these wind chimes with my own two hands. Didn’t that count for anything?”

“What did she have against pepper grinders?”

Aside from a few stiff wallets fashioned in summer camp, there was nothing of mine in those boxes as, at an early age, I discovered that postage stamps, cartons of cigarettes, light bulbs, and mailorder steaks are the gifts that keep giving.