Ruth Schillereff

God Speed, Ruth Alden Porter Schillereff; daughter, mother, sister, wife; tennis player, ice skater, bike rider; potter, poet, artist, friend, ice cream eater, nature lover of wee things and spring peepers.

Even at 101, two months, and thirteen days, she was never old. Mom’s May 16th sun rose on the camp her father built when she was three, where every window looks out at the serenity of Lake Wentworth and about which she filled pages.

Ruth is survived by sons Tom (Nancy), David (Terrie), daughters Ruthie S. Hunter (Andy), and Mary (Tisha); grandchildren Johnny, Jacqueline, Corey, Michael, Joseph, Andrew, Amanda, Danielle, Robbie and Nicholas; great grandchildren Jordan, Lenox, Alana and Camp; dozens of cousins, mountains of friends, daughters-in-law Sharon McMillan, and Sheryl Williamson. She was predeceased by her husband T. John, and sons John (Dianna McCaffery) and Peter (Kim).

How do you measure a life? Mom used, Fingers, Toes, and Tails: five hundred five pages of life stories with illustrations. This is in addition to her Somewhere in a Dusty Box collection of poems the title an homage to her grandmother referencing where lost things are found. Mom wrote it all in long hand, up and down margins, backs of envelopes, and scraps of paper. Mom filled voids.

Her dear and loyal friend Debbie Hopkins said it well, “Ruthie was a doer.” Debbie visited many times these last months, and before that called often to catch up. From the earliest days in the late 70s Mom met Debbie at Pottery Class in the Hopkins home on North Main Street. Mom and Debbie fast friends through their respective lives’ personal joy and sorrow. Rituals of birthday chocolate cake, ice cream, Artists in the Park, First Night Wolfeboro; through high heat and humidity and brutal cold; fast and forever friends. Unconditional regard. 

Debbie’s recent summation at the news of Moms’ passing, Mom was a doer, that Mom’s final months and ultimate days narrowed down to not being able to see her lake through drapes drawn to protect her eyesight, the TV on she rarely watched when well now just background noise, and unable to enjoy even a piece of chocolate cake. There was nothing left to be done.

Knowing Mom, she ran the clock out. Not about to submit without playing every point. Game. Set. Match.

Special sharing of the most accomplished and caring Lori Chapdelaine, whose caregiving began long before Covid, house and garden, conversations between soulmates as artists, oath keepers, and a dear friend whose weekly home made soup filled the house with fragrances of sautéed onion and garlic, the roux for soup then blended and staged in the fridge for the week. To say nutritious is an understatement. This was soup for the soul.

Be like Ruth. Be a force of nature. Be determined. Be funny. Be clever. Be busy. Be a good friend. Be a good partner. Be a nutty mom. Take it seriously but burn the bacon, leave the water running in the tub, and forget to pick up a kid or two from school. Be remembered.

Be like Ruth the Tennis Player; know where to stand, follow through, and never take your eye off the ball.

Ever grateful to the best caregivers on the planet Lori, Judy, Maddie, and Nadia. Ever faithful friends and helpers Debbie Hopkins, Judy Stockman, Debbie and Dave Hersey, Peter Lowenthan, Charlie Rogers; Caregivers of Wolfeboro and area drivers Stan, Chris, Ted, Barb; Granite VNA Hospice and everyone who loved a long phone call.

Ruth was among the tennis players who shared the two courts on Kingswood Golf course property, and now a green. From there the Wolfeboro Tennis Club purchased land across from Lords Funeral Home and has since grown from those early days to a most splendid while still mutually maintained facility. Everywhere you look, if you only knew, the hands of others planted, weeded, swept, and pruned, Mom among them, and ubiquitous. She even took out the trash until she could no longer lift it. Oh how annoyed she was when players pitched banana peels and half empty coffee cups in the court containers meant only for tennis cans.

Mom was always at the Club. When she was a teenager she’d walk down to the public courts near where her family lived, with racket in hand, hoping to “pick up a game.” That enthusiasm never left her, and she was always willing to fill in, sub, or simply watch others while waiting because, eventually, someone would need a player to fill in. Easily underestimated in her diminutive stature, she was called “a human backboard” by her early partner Peter. At the net, nothing got past her and her lobs were perfect.

If ever there was a mantra for Ruth, it was “Oh yes I can!”

There was no off time for Mom. If not on the court, she was on her skates, skis, or bike with power breaks for ice cream at Blys or the Bubble, or Butternuts for soup, while she read her mail she’d just gotten at the Post Office.

A full life lived and chronicled filling 500 pages with illustrations in her published work: Fingers, Toes, and Tails, copies available at The Country Bookseller. Published by Blacksmith Printing. No way to capture it all here. If you knew her, you know. If you didn’t know her, you should.

There will be no formal services. All are required to visit Bly’s or The Bubble for ice cream, Butternuts for soup, Bradleys, Winni-Paw, Katie’s Kitchen, and the Post Office. Tell them Ruthie sent you.

Somewhere out there is a police officer telling his side of the story of pulling over a red jeep with bicycle attached, and being driven too slowly. Upon approach, seeing Mom at the wheel he asked, “Ma’am, are you ok?” Mom answered, “Yes, I was just listening to the peepers.”

In her own words;

THE DAY MY ROAD TURNED GREEN

White birch unfurled butterfly wings,

fanned themselves in the gentle breeze,

drying their newness.

Seeding oaks

opened a myriad of green parasols,

shading the forest floor.

Star of Bethlehem, pure white,

like summer snow,

banked my path.

And lady-slippers, slim and sedate,

peeked shyly, from under the ferns,

dressed in pink finery.

Vernal pools, full of sound,

stopped singing as I passed.

What manner of croaking creatures

heard my silence?

Then with a flash,

the evening sun broke through…

knife-like,

slicing birch and poplar.

Alone

I stood transfixed…

that magic day…

The day my road turned green.

To send flowers to the family or plant a tree in memory of Ruth Schillereff, please visit our floral store.