Recently a friend told me that she always enjoyed columns about my mother. I laughed with her saying, “I’ve told her stories so many times, it feels like everyone would have heard or read them all.”

But the calendar reminded me of a relevant one. Friends have heard the story, but it has never made it to print. It’s time appropriate as you will see.

Mom died at the grand age of 98. As I write this, on my mother’s birthday, July 15 th, she would be 106… the age she aspired to be. It’s an interesting story.

Mom grew up hard-scrabble. Her mother died when she was only six, the eldest of four little children. After her father proved unable to care for them, she lived miserably in Boston’s foster system. Eventually, and fortunately for her, she was taken in by a religious community, the Shakers of Canterbury, New Hampshire. She lived there from age 11 to 18. After she left to go out in the real world, she still kept her heart tied to the Shaker sister who raised her.

Years later, after the last Shaker sister passed, the historic Village became a museum. Mom remained involved with the community, living so long that she became “the last Shaker girl,” a title that tickled her. In the years 1999 – 2000, they honored my mother’s commitment and legacy by mounting an historical retrospective of her early life

An article I wrote for Yankee Magazine about her Shaker childhood resulted in Mom and I presenting a few speaking programs at the village. The programs for tourists were occasionally covered by the press. I’ve never forgotten one particular exchange during the Q and A.

A reporter from the Manchester Union Leader asked a pointed question. “If your mother died at age 26, to what do you owe your longevity?”

Mom said, “Well not everyone in my family died young. My Aunt Frone lived to be 106. She probably would have lived longer if she hadn’t lived alone.” I’d heard the yarn many times, but I was surprised by the interest of the crowd.

Mom continued: “Aunt Frone (short for Eufronia) lived out in the country, alone except for her cat and a flock of chickens. One bitter February morning, she was out feeding the chickens and she slipped on the ice. She fell, broke her hip, and of course, she died.” Respectfully, she looked down, waited a few seconds, looked up and said with a grin, “I’ve basically decided … not to keep chickens.” It brought the house down. Her timing was perfect. People laughed for a long time. I saw one lady wiping tears away while still chuckling. Mom, of course, loved it.

After that day, she began to focus on age 106. “Well, I made it this far, and you can’t live without goals. That’s my new one. I’ll be just like my old Aunt Frone. Poor dear.”

Functioning really well, Mom lived alone until age 94. I visited her for almost three years in assisted living before her declining months ended in the Hospice House. In all those visits, all those years, I taught myself some patience as I listened to many of her early stories over and over again. One day, good old Aunt Frone was the topic of the day. When she finished, I said, “Mom, who found Aunt Frone and got her to the hospital?” I had assumed the broken hip transpired as most did back then. After surgery, the long-time bed imprisonment usually led to pneumonia which did them in. I was still curious who removed the old girl from her backyard fall.

“What do you mean, hospital? She never got to any hospital. She stayed where she laid. She froze to death!” OMG. I thought all these years, picturing it in my mind, that Aunt Frone had been removed, taken to the hospital, and eventually passed on there.

Mom continued, “Nobody knew how long she lay there. Could’ve been days or even weeks. All I know was somebody came on the property and spotted her covered with snow near the back door. Poor old dear.”

I was blown away. How could I have had this picture in my mind for over 50 years and have it be so wrong? It was sad. But typical of Mom’s stories, it was also a bit funny. Dig a little deeper and there’s always a little more, occasionally embellished. I did believe her about Aunt Frone though. She would probably still be with us if she had owned a cell phone! Poor old dear.

Mom’s goal of 106 fell short by 8 years. But her 98 birthdays were full of growth, and glass-half-full joy. Today, her birthday, she’s probably sharing angel cake with family. Maybe even Aunt Frone. The poor dear.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.