Families have a way of branching out in all directions, and sometimes those branches lead to people who leave quiet but lasting impressions. For me, two such people were Grandma Wollberg’s cousins, Melba and Lorraine. They were related to her on her mother’s side. My great-grandmother, Caroline Mueller (née Pieper), and their father, Uncle Henry, were sister and brother. That made Melba and Lorraine my grandma’s first cousins, though they were nearly twenty years younger than she was.
Neither Melba nor Lorraine ever married, and and they always took care of one another. They weren’t always present at every holiday or big gathering, but they were steady visitors, the kind who seemed to drift in and out with a kind word, a story, or a laugh that lingered after they left. I was always glad to see them. They felt like an extension of Grandma herself—two pieces of a family line that stretched back through the Piepers and out into the past.
Melba was the quieter of the two. She had struggled with her health for most of her life and carried herself with a gentleness that came from endurance. There was something soft-spoken and gracious about her. She never demanded attention but always seemed grateful for the company and conversation around her. Sadly, she passed away in 1984 at only sixty-four—far too soon, but not before leaving behind the memory of someone who met life’s challenges with quiet dignity.
Lorraine, on the other hand, was full of energy. She had a spark that made her fun to be around—the kind of person you might call “the cool older cousin.” She had a liveliness that could brighten a room and a way of keeping in touch that made you feel remembered. Where Melba’s presence was calm and steady, Lorraine’s was quick and animated, always ready with a story or a laugh. She lived long enough to see my sons born and was there for the family celebration for my oldest son, Andrew (the picture is of she and me at the ‘Meet Andrew Party’ as his Aunt Carole named it). I’ll always be grateful for that overlap of generations. Lorraine passed away in 2004 at the age of eighty-one, still very much the vibrant spirit I’d always known.
One of my most vivid memories of Lorraine came at Grandma Wollberg’s funeral. I was standing by the casket when she came up beside me. She looked at Grandma for a long moment, then quietly said, “We both lost a good friend.” It was such a simple statement, but it said everything about the closeness between them—not just as cousins, but as lifelong companions who had shared family history, laughter, and love across decades.
Melba and Lorraine were the only members of my great-grandmother’s family that I really knew. Through them, I caught a glimpse of that side of our lineage—the Piepers—and how those roots carried through to my grandma and, in a way, to me. They may have lived quieter lives, but their kindness, loyalty, and presence stitched another thread into the fabric of who we are. I’m grateful to have known them both.
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