Column by Gwen Albers

Aug. 1—One year ago today, I cried like a baby while holding my mother after she died alone in a Denver assisted living center.

I missed her by a few minutes after my flight was delayed. Still breaks my heart.

We knew her time was limited, but me, being the eternal optimist, believed there were more bridge games to be played, Jeopardy to watch and operas to take in.

I thought I had prepared myself for her death. Turns out I wasn't nearly ready. Is anyone?

My mother, Ursel Albers, was 92 and ready to go after a most remarkable life, including the 18 years spent raising her three children while living in Lawrence County. Once a vibrant woman known for her colorful yet tasteful wardrobe and speaking her piece, she taught accounting and business for 15 years at Slippery Rock University.

She and my late father, Bernd, always loved the Southwest. In 1985, they sold our yellow brick ranch in Princeton and moved to Las Vegas, New Mexico, where my mother taught accounting at New Mexico Highlands University for another 15 years.

She remained in New Mexico for 34 years and moved to Denver to live with my sister, Hally, during her final year. I spent the last seven years of her life within 30 minutes of her New Mexico home. Best decision ever.

We grew up in Laurel School District, living there from 1967 to 1985. During that time, my mother rarely missed a concert, school board meeting, halftime show, opportunity to meet our teachers and gave me more independence than she probably should have for a teen growing up during the rebellious 1970s.

At Laurel, we had two fears about going to seventh grade. Taking showers with girls after gym class and English with Miss Grimm. One reason being that Miss Grimm required everyone to memorize and recite the Gettysburg Address.

During a packed open house, my mother asked Miss Grimm why she made students memorize the speech that President Lincoln delivered during the Civil War.

You could've heard a pin drop. Can't remember her response, but Miss Grimm was a teacher no one dared to challenge. Incidentally, I grew to respect her.

My mother was born in Germany in 1930 to Jewish parents. She was only 3 when her family fled to France. After the Nazis defeated the French, my grandfather to no avail tried to legally leave the country with his family.

One day, a family from Belgium drove through their town. They needed gas and asked my then 11-year-old mother if she knew where they could get some. A gadabout, she hopped on her bike and led the family to a farm.

The farmer gave the family gasoline and in turn, the family gave my mother and the farmer each a gold bar. That gold bar paid for her family's ticket to freedom. Her father gave it to a guide who took them over the Pyrenees Mountains and into Spain, where they caught on of the last freighters sailing to the United States during World War II.

She arrived in New York City in June 1941.

My parents were national Sports Car Club of America road rally champions in 1967. They collected some 500 trophies over five decades competing on public roadways in vehicles that included a VW Karman Ghia, Porsche 914 and 944, and Datsun 510.

After my mom retired from teaching at age 70, two years after my father passed, she spent 15 years traveling the seven continents.

She instilled in me her love for traveling and adventurous spirit. When my mom was eight months pregnant with me, she competed in a car race on a frozen Findley Lake in southeastern New York. At age 42, she took fourth place in a hot pants contest — a popular competition in the 1970s.

In the summers, she took the three of us kids to Moraine State Park to swim every afternoon. She always included healthy snacks and once a week, we went to the concession stand. My mother would split one ice cream sandwich four ways.

Once a picture of perfect health, she never bought a five-pound bag of sugar, soda, chips or sweets. Our snacks consisted of raisins, peanuts in a shell and fruit.

She hand-squeezed orange juice and required that we eat a date for every breakfast along with hot cereal. After school, we lined up for a teaspoon of cod liver oil.

Dinner included four courses, starting with a half a grapefruit followed by green salad, meat and vegetables, and dessert. The dessert was normally applesauce, which she made with the apples from the two trees in our yard. God forbid if she ever let an apple rot; she was a product of the Great Depression.

Anytime someone would ask if I was Ursel's daughter, I was very proud to say "yes," and would asked how they knew her. Many were former students; many said she mentored them to successful accounting careers.

I think about my mother numerous times a day and miss her so very much. Although the pain of losing my mother remains deep, I've learned to share our memories with a smile.

Miss you Mama.