01/25/2026
In Loving Memory
Some people come into your life quietly… and then become so incredibly special and important.
She was my "resident", yes.
But she was also my friend.
My “grandma.”
A grandma to my son.
A mother figure when I needed one.
A banter buddy, a joking partner, a partner in mischief.
An animal-loving, laugh-it-off, late-night-talk person.
The one whose sense of humor was absolutely unmatched.
She was a safe place for real conversations, the deep ones, the ridiculous ones, the honest ones.
..And this house was full of life because of her. So many games played around the table. Countless rounds of cribbage, Rummikub, and dominoes played with other residents, especially her dear friend Claire, along with her daughter and family who came to visit. Wins celebrated, losses debated, rules clarified, laughter always close behind.
She had a special love for animals. Every day, the cats and dogs were given treats because of Ruby and her daughter, who visited so faithfully and rarely missed a day. Her daughter loved the animals just as much as she did, and it showed. The animals felt that love, and they are missing Ruby now too.
For almost five years — five years this coming April — she lived with me.
Those years of ordinary days turned out to be anything but ordinary. Meals, routines, and endless shenanigans that somehow never got old. Quiet moments. Loud ones. Watching her love my son the only way a “grandma” can, fully and fiercely, without condition.
My phone holds hundreds of photos of this incredibly wonderful lady, almost always with a critter or "her boy" as she would call Arlo.
Caring for her until her very last breath was one of the greatest honors of my life, and one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
There is something sacred about being trusted with someone’s final chapter. About holding space as the world grows smaller. About showing up again and again, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
She taught me so much about strength, humor in the hardest moments, stubbornness in the best way, and love that doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful.
This house feels different without her.
Too quiet in the places where her laugh used to live.
Too empty where her presence once filled the room without trying.
I will never make liver and onions without thinking of her.
I will never catch a nice, big crappie and fry it up without thinking of how much she loved to eat fish.
I will never see radishes without thinking of how much she loved a radish sandwich.
And every time the peonies bloom, I know I’ll smile, look to the sky, and think of her.
I will never see a deck of cards, a cribbage board, a set of Rummikub tiles, or dominoes laid out on a table without thinking of her and the joy she brought to everyone around her.
I gave Arlo her call button, the one she used when she needed help.
Now he runs through the house with it, making sure we don’t forget her.
As if we ever could.
She was deeply loved.
She was cherished in this home.
And she mattered, in ways words will never fully capture.
As we remember her, please keep her family in your thoughts and prayers.
Keep the caregivers in your thoughts and prayers.
Keep the residents in your thoughts and prayers.
Thank you, Ruby, for trusting me.
Thank you for loving my son.
Thank you for the laughter, the honesty, and the bond that time will never erase.
You weren’t just someone I cared for.
You were family.
And you always will be.
