Doris McClintock

NEWBURY CENTER—Time has not eased the inevitability of these painful words, it is with the greatest of sorrow that Doris McClintock’s children
announce the death of their fierce, self-deprecating, and resolutely stubborn mother.
She has left a huge hole in our hearts, a vacuum that not even a
house crammed full of four generations’ worth of National Geographic’s can fill.
She quietly passed away on May 25, 2025 after a long bout of the flu, she was truly sick to death of being sick and tired.
After the loss of her beloved Miss Kitty to the “Scotch
Hollow Race Track,” her constant companion, arthritis, and too many surgeries which left her in constant pain, she still stoically tended her
beloved gardens. She insisted on going about the many chores in and around an almost 200- year-old farmhouse. “These ‘golden years’ are bull….but
I’m not dead yet.”
Her son and granddaughter lovingly built her pine box and she was carried from home in the back of her son’s pickup truck to the cemetery at Newbury Center Townhouse next door on May 26. She asked that there be no service, but many members of the community paid their respects with their presence and with stories. Her family is deeply grateful for everyone’s
outpouring of love.
She was born Nov. 29, 1939 at home in Newbury Center in the home that she loved so much, as did her father and other relatives before her,
resolutely keeping to the frugal traditions of living in the old ways. She attended the one- room schoolhouse just below Hebb’s Corner on Scotch
Hollow, and graduated high school at what is now Newbury Elementary. Except for seven exceptionally forgettable married years living near Stone
Cliff Farm in Bradford, she lived in the Newbury Center family home.
As a child of the Great Depression, nothing went to waste. There was literally
bupkis that was too old or too short that could be thrown away. Her children understood that nothing “created character” more than using the outhouse in
winter. Her granddaughter fondly regards Grammy’s terse reminder to clean off her plate as a favorite saying. “You can take the time to lick off that maple syrup, you know how long that takes to make.” She was extremely proud to
be part of the first crew to work for Cottage Hospital’s volunteer ambulance as a registered EMT in the 1980s The scanner in her kitchen was always on; she never knew when a neighbor might need help. She had numerous local clients that she maintained their homes for through the years. As much as nature, hard work, and common sense was her religion, waste and cruelty
were her four-letter words.
Nothing made her more irate than bear dog hunting, the mistreatment or desecration of all things flora, fauna or human, and (especially) anyone
disparaging her Uncle Orville’s name. She was not pleased by the unresolved silences and lack of closure that followed her to the grave of the Gibson murder. Or the never-ending Twisted Tea cans she collected that
continued to litter her little stretch of dirt road. If she wasn’t weeding her
flower beds or garden, she could be found riding her ancient one-speed bike along Scotch Hollow; splitting wood (because she could); sitting on
the shed steps or out back watching her birds, squirrels, chipmunks and various other critters she faithfully fed, and praying for a visit from “her”
beloved black bears. On her last night, a large bear stood patiently outside her window, waiting for her to get out of bed.
She regularly visited with her neighbors, dispensing her vast horticultural wisdom, voraciously taking in local and world news, while commiserating on its state. The combination of her dry humor and having no filter made her, salty. A loved one refers to her as an “emotional guidepost.” She may not have been free with her hugs, but she shared her flowers and vegetables from the garden with much love and generosity. She was an avid collector of rocks
and bottles evidenced by her windowsills and any flat surface in her home. She cared deeply for the history of Newbury and curiously enough, didn’t find it funny if we couldn’t remember which relative was from the McClintock or Gibson clan.
Doris was predeceased by her parents, Melvin J. McClintock and Eva M. Gibson; and her brother, William McClintock.
She is survived by her daughter, Heather Allen McClintock; her son, Gregory
Allen; her granddaughter, Abigail Allen; her sister, Elinor McClintock Allen; many cousins, nieces and nephews; and Victor Ochen of Lira, Uganda.
There will be a celebration of her life later this summer at her beloved Newbury Center Townhouse at the convenience of her family.
The Townhouse is a respected space that she dearly cared for. Inside those walls are the immeasurable echoes of ancestors and neighbors who for generations broke bread together, celebrated birthdays, marriages, anniversaries, and mourned loved ones. The cemetery business is conducted
there, and until not that long ago, it was where people voted. Few things would make her more happy than for it to be a vibrant community sanctuary
again.
In lieu of flowers (which grow up the wazoo at her home), her family kindly
suggests that you consider donating to the Kilham Bear Center in Lyme, NH. She would have loved that. As a give-back to the community, Mom’s eight
large flower beds are bursting with gorgeous irises that desperately need separating. So drop by and you too can delight in your own rhizomes, helping
spread the love with the weeding nightmare that gave her so much joy.
In chronological order, and of importance, her last words were: “Thank you. I love you. How are the kitties?” Nothing encapsulated her essence more eloquently than the deeply soulful words of Merle Haggard; “the roots of
my raising run deep.“ They don’t make them like her anymore