Maurine Adelle Hoiby

January 28th, 1936 was yet another dreary Seattle winter morning. Oscar Lockert and his wife Rebecca had been waiting for their 3rd child, now over a month. Their two daughters Rhoda and MJ had been relegated to another room to sleep for a month now. As sister Rhoda recalls that morning her and her sister heard the sound of a kitten, they were sure of it. But it wasn’t a kitten, it was their new sister Maurine, named for a favorite neighbor Maurice. As the story went, Maurine was late that day and ever after. Her family learned to give her the wrong time for important appointments just to be sure she’d be ready on time.

Little Maurine was not all that little, at about 9 pounds, but she was a sweet baby and little girl. That’s the one thing people always said throughout her life. She was sweet, but oh so stubborn. Stubborn like her Auntie Olga, the one who helped her be born on that January morning.

The little family had a home in Seattle on Euclid Avenue with Auntie’s goats in the basement. You had to have cheese, after all. Daddy Oscar was a fisherman often gone to Alaska, much as he had been in his native Norway. They were poor and ate a lot more fish than they might like, but still it was a good life. Another tow-headed sister followed, little Pearl. The two youngest would be partners in crime throughout their lives.

But the happy little family’s life was shattered when Oscar died of pneumonia at 37. Rebecca had just lost her baby, and then her beloved husband – just before Christmas. The husband she is buried next to today at the Crown Hill Cemetery. The remnants of the little family moved to Eastern Washington to live in a tiny house on her brother in law’s property. But still, as little girls, Maurine and Pearl had their fun, while older sisters Rhonda and MJ and their mother struggled to feed them. And then yet another tragedy struck and their mother was bedridden with polio, and struggled to go on, with heavy braces on her legs.

They weren’t people who gave up. Rebecca married again, the roguish “Dad Taft” who was related to the president and something of a local celebrity – at least to the extent that his fancy car was in the Toppenish annual parade. The Two older sisters went on to school and to their adult lives and Maurine and Pearl continued their adventures with their friend Sharon Messer. A favorite pastime was to follow the local fire brigade on their bicycles. Maurine retained an affection for handsome firemen throughout her life – her many emergency calls, we joked, were just her way of getting to see the men in uniform.

Maurine clung to her mother and her sister, but as she became a teenager she was sent to Auburn Advent Academy. It was her first time really away from home, and many a tear was shed. But her cousin Annette was there, daughter of Olga, and she made many new friends that she kept through the years.

After graduation, Maurine, Sharon, and Pearl, started their grownup lives in Seattle working hard to make enough money to eat, and also to spend a little at Frederick and Nelson’s Department Store, the most glamorous place they’d ever been, with elevator operators and sales ladies who fitted gloves to your hand and repaired the snags in your stockings.

They each met the loves of their lives and settled into life as young mothers and homemakers. Maurine met Glenn Hoiby. Where she was outgoing and social, he was shy, but they turned out to be a very good match for more than 58 years. Their daughter Kristen was born, and then their son Robert. Summers included trips to Iron Springs on the coast and also to Toppenish to see Mother Rebecca and pick cherries for canning. Maurine’s life was her family, her home, and her garden, even taking a turn as garden club president in Lake Forest Park.

Kristen and Robert loved their mother immensely, but they also loved to tease her. They’d catch boxes full of snakes and scare the daylights out of her. Kristen would pretend to speak Spanish and only later confess that she’d made it all up. Maurine was so much fun to tease, but she also took it quite well laughing afterward at her own foibles. Like other families, they’d take off on vacation. Invariably, they’d get about 2 hours from Seattle before Maurine would exclaim that she knew she’d left the iron on. Every single trip. Fortunately, the house never burned down.

Kristen and Robert went off to the University of Washington, with Mom standing by as expert typist. She said she felt like she got a college education through typing all those papers. And then came the event that changed all of their lives forever. Her beloved Robert, just in college, was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Although as you can see he survived the tumor and the treatment, he was left disabled and Maurine was never quite the same again. She developed ulcerated colitis which she suffered with for many years with many serious health scares.

During this time, she and Glenn met Robert in Norway and had the opportunity to see where her father was born and meet many relatives that welcomed them all with open arms. She never stopped talking about that trip and from the many things she brought back, she probably boosted the Norwegian economy.

As she grew older and became more ill, Glenn and Kristen stepped in and took care of her. With roles reversed, Kristen became her protector, taking her out, sitting by her in many hospital stays, and just spending days together looking at books and having tea. These were good days, and they both looked forward to afternoons together.

When she had her final bout with pneumonia, the doctor had called Kristen to say that he didn’t think she’d make it. When Kristen arrived at the hospital, Maurine cracked her eyes open at the sound of her daughter’s voice and grabbed her hand so tightly Kristen thought her fingers would break. They spent those last days together, as they had been for so many years.

To say that Maurine was much–loved is an understatement. To anyone who met her, even just in passing, she brought a smile. She loved her life, her family, and her friends. And, especially in her last years, a cookie or two. Or three.