My mother-in-law was a force of nature. So vivid and bright, even in the black and white world of a Northern Ireland childhood, the sun dimmed in her presence because he knew when he was beat. She didn’t wear pink; she wore fuchsia. She didn’t wear peach or salmon; she wore orange. Her red was the color of a rose or a fire engine. She had to go out and buy a black skirt to wear to my wedding. She wore it again to her daughter’s. Waste not, want not.