She was on this earth 98 years, one month and 30 days and except for this past summer, she lived them all to the fullest. I’ve been lucky enough to be around for the longest part of her century-pushing span.

This past weekend we held my mother’s memorial service and gave her the sendoff party she wanted afterward. The day actually painted an accurate picture of the lady. Our family wore red, her favorite color, and many attendees had also heard the suggestion. The nave at First Methodist looked like a Sunday in Pentecost. At first the idea seemed a little foreign because I’ve worn somber colors to calling hours and funerals all my life. But as soon as I put on my jacket with red trim and watched the rest of the family don their red jackets, sweaters and ties, my concern fell away, knowing how happy it would have made my mom.

This 100% Scotswoman would also have loved the piper playing everyone into the church. Together we have always enjoyed the bagpipes, especially when the repertoire is all Highlands’ music. The exit music was a bit different, though.

The service was dignified and appropriate; the family memories loving and although I was afraid we might have talked too long about our beloved matriarch, we couldn’t help ourselves.

Then immediately following the benediction, the Dixieland trio

struck up “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” leading us back up the nave at a slow tempo. By the time we all gathered on the street corner, the hymn had swung into pure New Orleans razzamatazz before sliding into “When the Saints go Marching in.” She’d have been really happy, but then again, she was expecting it . . . it was all her plan.

During the family memories, my children spoke of their personal relationships with her while I spoke of her difficult childhood during the Great Depression and how that formed her lifestyle, her work ethic and her appreciation of the world around her. If one survives Dickensian early years, one never takes one’s life for granted.

Mom never assumed there would be food or money or clothes or anything else unless she worked for it. When the deprived child grew into an adult, she was determined never to be without the food, the money, the clothes and she wasn’t. That philosophy, however, had one drawback . . . she became the president of Packrats International. She never paid retail or purchased without a coupon. And if one or two of something was good, fifteen or sixteen was even better, assuring a unending supply of life’s necessities like Charmin or Hellman’s.

At her party later I told a story about her saving ways . . . I had warned her I was going to do it. We’d had a good laugh about that.

Here goes:

Years ago, my mother ran the surplus food program for her town in Massachusetts. Due to the cholesterol scare for senior citizens, many of them didn’t take their butter allotment. My mother didn’t report the overage because she was determined that the butter allocation not be cut. She stashed the surplus in church freezers all over town getting to know every minister and priest in the process. If they would store 20 pounds for her she would give them five pounds for the trouble! She knew there would always be challenged families who would need it or bake sales that could use it.

At Christmas she flew here toting a cooler. When I asked her what was in it she said ten pounds of butter. “But Mom, I’m not qualified for that butter, and besides, I’ve bought butter for Christmas.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you bake for fundraisers, put it in the freezer and be quiet.” I gave in.

A few days after Christmas, on a Tuesday, she asked to borrow my car. “Where ya’ going?” I asked.

“Well it’s Senior Citizen Day at Quality.” When I asked her what she was getting because I had a house full of food she told me she was buying butter. She had brought all her Land O’ Lakes coupons, the brand was on a special sale, the store would double all the coupons and she had her 5% discount card. Quality Market was practically giving away butter!

“But Mom, you just gave me ten pounds of butter. The last thing I need is more butter.”

“This is NOT for you,” she harrumpfed. “You didn’t think I was going to take that cooler back empty, did you?”

And she didn’t. We’ve laughed about this for years, but it was so typically her, combining savings with giving . . . expanding her lifelong generosity.

It doesn’t seem to matter at what age you lose your mother, it’s still difficult.

The loving anchor that’s been there my whole long life is gone.

Yes, it has been a difficult few weeks. As much as I would love to have her back, I wouldn’t want her compromised the way she was she was too vital, a larger than life personality. She renewed her driver’s license in July and was still clipping coupons and recipes from the bed she was confined to at the Hospice House. The finality of her leaving us is only beginning to sink in. I still catch myself ready to call her with some news or some fun.

She built a life for herself with the independence, determination and joy of few people I’ve ever known. And it all worked for her all except for the packrat tendencies. Well, to be truthful, that worked for her also . . . it’s my problem now. I should have everything sorted through and disposed of by . . . 2021.

Know anybody who wants 750 Pairpoint Cup Plates? Me neither.