Anne D. Hastaba

Today, we say goodbye to a woman who was truly one of a kind—my aunt, my anchor, and in many ways, one of the strongest influences in my life.

She was born in 1929, during the Great Depression, one of nine children in a family that knew hardship. Life wasn’t easy for her. There was pain, there was struggle, and there were challenges that could have broken many people. But they didn’t break her. She rose above all of it—with strength, resilience, and a determination to live life on her own terms.

She never married and never had children of her own, but she gave more love, support, and care than most people could in a lifetime. She had a generous heart—sometimes to a fault. She gave to others even when it meant going without herself. She felt a deep responsibility to take care of people, to make things right, especially within her family.

And she did.

She was a recovering alcoholic for over 60 years, which says more about her strength than anything else ever could. That kind of commitment, that kind of discipline—it defines who she was.

She was brilliant. She had a sharp mind, a love for language, and a standard for education that she never lowered. She believed words mattered, and she wasn’t shy about pointing it out when they weren’t used well.

She lived a full and curious life. She traveled the world—Egypt, Israel, Italy, France—and across the United States. She wanted to see, to learn, to understand people and places beyond her own world. That spirit of curiosity and courage is something she passed on to me, and I will carry it with me always.

But beyond all of that, she was deeply present in our lives.

Since 1987, she was a constant in my home—holidays, long visits, helping with my children, stepping in whenever I needed her. My kids remember her not just with love, but with laughter—real laughter, the kind that fills a room and doesn’t stop. We had moments where we laughed so hard for so long that it became a memory none of us will ever forget.

She never missed a birthday. Not one. And she didn’t just say “happy birthday”—she sang the entire song, every single time.

She loved dogs—maybe as much as she loved people. If a dog needed a home, she took it in. If a neighbor had a dog, she fed it treats whether they asked her to or not. That was just who she was—loving, giving, and a little stubborn about it.

And yes—she was stubborn.

She had a fierce independence. She didn’t want help. In fact, she often refused it. We had our moments—real moments—where we clashed over that. She wanted to take care of everyone else, but not always let anyone take care of her.

But even in those moments, there was love.

In the last few years, things became harder. Watching her decline was not easy. There were times when she wasn’t herself, when things were said that were painful—but that wasn’t who she truly was. And when we were able to help her, when she felt better, her sweetness came right back.

That’s the woman I choose to remember.

She loved my husband dearly—he made her laugh, and she understood his humor like no one else. Seeing her happy, laughing, and at peace in those moments was a gift.

Taking care of her, especially when she finally allowed it, was one of the greatest honors of my life.

She was the last of her generation in our family—the last of what I call “the Mohicans.” And with her, an entire chapter of our family’s history comes to a close.

But what she gave doesn’t end here.

She gave me strength.She gave me independence.She gave me curiosity about the world.And she showed me what it means to care for others—deeply, generously, and without hesitation.

She wasn’t perfect—but she was real, she was strong, and she loved with everything she had.