Aunt Myrtle wasn’t really my aunt at all—she was my Uncle Dale’s mother. But since my Aunt Elaine and Uncle Dale never had children, and since she fit so easily into the fabric of our family, she became like a third grandmother to my sister and me. Titles never mattered much anyway—what mattered was the love she gave us and the way she showed up in our lives.
Her husband had passed away only a few months after retiring, leaving her to live the last twenty years of her life on her own. Uncle Dale was her only child, and since he and my aunt lived out of town, she often spent long stretches of time by herself. Still, she carried herself with quiet strength and an unassuming kindness that made her a steady presence at family gatherings.
When I was young, Aunt Myrtle had a way of joining me in my world. I can still see her, lowering herself to the floor without hesitation to help me explore whatever new toy I’d unwrapped. She wasn’t just an observer—she played right alongside me, laughing and marveling as if she were a kid again herself. As a kid, It makes you feel seen. It’s the kind of memory that stays stitched into your heart.
As I grew older and started driving, I would visit her on my own. She and my Grandma Wollberg were close friends. They talked on the phone regularly and (because Aunt Myrtle drove) they sometimes went out together for lunch—two strong women from another generation, keeping each other company and sharing in life’s small joys.
Aunt Myrtle lived well into her eighties, outlasting all of her peers. In the end, she was the last of that generation who was still alive for me to know, a living link to the family stories and traditions that shaped who we are.
Though she wasn’t related by blood, Aunt Myrtle was family in every way that mattered. When she passed, her absence left a quiet emptiness at our gatherings. I still miss her warmth, her laughter, and the way (through the years) that she became an integral part of our family.
Welcome! 