Doris Pauline Schrubbe

December 14, 1929 – July 8, 2026

Some people simply love living.

Doris Pauline Schrubbe was one of them.

Born Doris Pauline Fincher on December 14, 1929, Doris embraced nearly ninety-seven years with curiosity, determination, grace, and quiet strength. Even in her final days, she never seemed ready to stop looking toward tomorrow. She held tightly to life—not because she feared leaving it, but because she genuinely loved living it.

That spirit showed itself early. In 1950, she fell in love with a handsome young Air Force serviceman named Herman John Schrubbe. Family stories remembered him as carrying himself with a little swagger, and she must have had a little herself, because the two eloped on September 9, 1950. In those early years—especially while living in Italy—Doris carried herself with a polished, unmistakable style. With her elegant dresses, dark sunglasses, beautifully styled hair, and quiet confidence, family often remarked that she had a little Jackie Kennedy about her. Together they built a life that carried them throughout Europe during Herman’s military service, raising their daughters while embracing adventures far from home.

Herman remained one of the great loves of her life, a love she quietly carried with her for the rest of her days.

Whether strolling the streets of Italy, exploring places few Americans would ever see, or simply taking in the beauty around her, Doris appreciated living well. She found joy in beautiful places, meaningful experiences, and the simple privilege of seeing more of the world than she had ever imagined.

Professionally, Doris spent many years working in accounting, earning a reputation for being dependable, organized, and fiercely independent. She valued stability, treasured family traditions, and found comfort in the familiar. Home was never simply a place to live—it was something she carefully built and faithfully kept for the people she loved.

She was an insatiable reader. Novels, biographies, history, mysteries—it hardly mattered. If it had pages, there was a good chance Doris would read it. Her curiosity never faded, and learning remained one of life’s greatest pleasures.

Her Christian faith was one of the central anchors of her life. After moving to Mesa in the early 1980s, she became a longtime member of the Mesa Church of Christ. Her faith shaped the way she understood family, hardship, hope, and the life beyond this one. She trusted in God and carried a quiet confidence that death was not the end of the story.

Doris was full of wonderful contradictions. She feared the water, yet loved being on it. She appreciated routine, yet embraced the adventures that came her way. She was not an adrenaline seeker by nature, but she rarely let fear make the final decision. Thanks to her son-in-law, Dominic Pistillo, she found herself four-wheeling through the desert, fishing, soaring in helicopters, and even descending beneath the ocean in a submarine. She loved living well, and she kept choosing one more adventure.

She could be wonderfully stubborn, yet endlessly devoted to the people she loved. She possessed a quiet resilience that carried her through nearly a century of change without ever losing sight of what mattered most.

Her family was her greatest joy.

She is survived by her daughters, Paula Eileen Ginn and her husband Wayne Ginn, Ann Doray Pistillo and her husband Dominic Pistillo, and Marla Jan Gerome. She was preceded in death by her beloved son-in-law, Richard Gerome, whose memory remained part of the family she cherished.

She also leaves behind her grandchildren, Jason Pistillo, Matthew Gerome, David Ginn, and Lisa Butler, and her great-grandchildren, Zooey Gerome, Mackenzie Ginn, Taylor Ginn, Madison Butler, and Jackson Butler, each of whom carries forward a part of her strength, her love, and her example.

Those who knew Doris will remember her intelligence, her resilience, her unmistakable independence, and the warmth that could always be found behind her smile. They will remember birthdays gathered around the table, books stacked nearby, spaghetti simmering on the stove, conversations that lasted longer than expected, and a glass of red wine never too far away.

We like to imagine she has already found a comfortable chair, a wonderful book within reach, and a glass of red wine to enjoy in the presence of the God she trusted for so many years.

Most of all, we will remember that she never lost her curiosity, her love of a good story, or her appetite for tomorrow. Even in her final hours, she fought to stay with the people she loved, holding on until love had made its way into the room one last time.

Some people measure a life by its years.

Those who knew Doris will remember it by the way she lived every one of them.