The heartwarming response to my revival of Shawn Vestal’s periodic obituary columns revealed that I’m not alone in my appreciation of the portraits obits paint of our community.
After the column ran, I came across a comment on my Facebook page from a former S-R photographer.
“Obituaries are the history of our community and stories that the newspaper has missed,” he wrote. “Possibly the best and most relevant content in the paper.”
Here are a few more of those stories.
Susan Emry died at 71. She captured her future husband’s attention at a party by saying supercalifragilisticexpalidocious backwards. He charmed her by tuning his harmonica in orange soda.
Together they raised three children, teaching them to be charitable, truthful, grateful and forgiving.
She loved numbers and good food, and her parting words were often “Go be great today!”
Mike Lewis died on Aug. 18, but his stories live on. He often held court at the dinner table, regaling his family with tales of his childhood. He told of the time he worked an entire summer on a farm for an ice cream cone. He dug a basement by hand, had a pitchfork run through his thigh while hiding from his cousin in the hay, and once had to paint the bottom of his feet black, so it looked like his shoes had soles.
In addition to his stories, his reliability became his legacy. Mike showed up for his kids and grandkids. Games, recitals, birthdays – if it was important to them, it was important to him. Through gestures big and small, he was available, involved and supportive. His steady presence left a lasting impact.
Leaving a legacy of a well-lived life is a worthy goal, and that’s what was said of Chad Manley.
The lifelong music lover died at 53, but his memory echoes with wit, kindness, hard work and sacrifice.
His obituary says, “Cancer may have caused Chad’s death, but it never defined his life.”
He spent his final year making lasting memories with his wife, reconnecting with old friends, and listening to birds sing. Even while enduring daily radiation treatments, he said, “I’m not dying – I’m finally living.”
Lena Windishar was not only beloved by her seven children but also by their friends.
Her kids learned to dance because she and her husband, Frank, danced in their living room and taught them.
They learned how to be fully present for others, watching Lena care for her parents, and experiencing her focused attention over a cup of tea at the kitchen table.
She was so full of life that it took a while for her to say goodbye.
Her last four years were spent in and out of hospice care. She’d appear to fail, only to come raring back. Her obit put it this way: “Seriously, does anyone get kicked out of hospice? Lena did, three times.”
While usually focused on others, she did indulge in a bit of self-care by purchasing salty/crunchy snacks for herself and stashing them away.
At the reception following her funeral, salty snacks were served.
Sometimes an obituary hits close to home.
On Sept. 14, we lost our neighbor, Brian Chaffee, at 69.
We’ve lived next door to the Chaffees for 32 years and raised our families side by side. Brian kept a finger on the pulse of the neighborhood and was always ready to lend a hand. He and Derek enjoyed long over-the-fence chats.
This summer, I ran into Brian on my afternoon walk. We caught up on our kids and grandkids, his face beaming with pride as he spoke of his family. He said he was walking to get in shape for “motorcycle season.”
Brian loved riding motorcycles with his sons, and that’s what he spent the last day of his life doing. His death following a race was an unexpected shock.
His obituary offered a snapshot of the life he lived and the people he loved, but I would add just one more thing.
He was a good neighbor.
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Cindy Hval 