De Ane Cooper Jensen, 68, died peacefully at her home in Antioch, CA on February 24, 2007. She is predeaceased by her son, Todd Moroni Jensen, and is survived by three sons, Creyton Bryant Jensen (Dianne Hook), Wanship, UT, Steven Cooper Jensen (Gabrielle Savage), Steamboat Springs, CO, Darin Mikail Jensen (Dan Kane), Oakland, CA, and one daughter, Andrea Phillippe (Kate Fitzgerald), Oakland, CA, and their father Bryant Jensen, Salt lake City, UT. She is lovingly survived by her grandchildren Clairissa Ann Jensen, Layton, UT, Kaci Lyn, Ashlee and Kelsey Erin Jensen, Parker, CO and Nicholas Phillippe, Holland, MI. She is predeceased by her mother, Melva Johnson Cooper and is survived by her father Andrew H Cooper, Orem, UT and three siblings Elaine Farrer (Mark Farrer), Orem UT, Coleen Woodhouse (Ken Woodhouse), Martinez, CA and Jack Cooper, Mapleton, UT, best friends Elvin and Susan Hill, Antioch, CA as well as numerous nieces, nephews, cousins and a very large and loving extended family reaching far beyond her bloodlines.

De Ane was born in Sandy, UT and was raised in Orem, UT. Her family was raised in San Juan County, UT and Davis County, UT. She moved to Contra Costa County, CA in 1983 where she lived out her life as an independant woman. De Ane was beloved for her kindness, loyalty and friendship. She was always available with words of encouragement and sage advice. De Ane’s beauty, intelligence, insights, wit, and charm made her the consummate raconteur. She was an accomplished oil painter, avid gardener, and a passionate beachgoer. De Ane’s greatest love was for her parents, her children and grandchildren, in whom she held much pride.

A funeral service will be held Saturday, March 3 at 1:00 pm at the Sharon 2nd Ward (641 S. 400 E., Orem, UT - arrangements by Walker-Sanderson 676 E. 800 N., Orem, UT) and interment to follow immediately at the Orem Cemetery where she will be laid to rest next to her beloved son Todd. The family requests that those wishing to honor De Ane’s devotion to the memory of Todd make a donation to the Leukemia Society of America

Clair's beautiful poem about her Grandma will be posted here very soon.


March 3, 2007

Eulogy for De Ane Cooper Jensen
By Dan Kane, favorite son

De Ane Cooper Jensen was a person who was truly larger than life. She was larger than life because no matter what life threw at her, her indomitable spirit prevailed and persevered. No matter what life threw at her, her fierce independence, boundless generosity and passionate zeal for life – for all things living – were never held at bay. No matter how sharply the shell snapped closed and nipped her finger or clipped her tongue, the world always, always, always remained her oyster. And she slurped and swallowed with her own unique zest and style – unmatched by anyone I have ever known.

Those of us who were blessed enough to have her in our daily lives will always marvel at her ability to offer a kind word and an encouraging word in spite of her own devastating pain, debilitating depression or whatever other vagary of life might be assaulting her. A visit or a phone call from De Ane always meant a good, hearty chuckle and a thumbs-up for whatever task or challenge lay ahead. Whether it was a quick hello or a vigorous debate, our encounters with De Ane always ended with an affirmation of her profuse love for us and usually also for whomever else we loved too.

To be a part of De Ane’s life, meant to be a member of her family – someone in whom she was genuinely interested, someone in whose welfare and well-being she was invested and to be someone’s who’s best interest was of primary concern to her.

And what was so amazing about her, was that anyone could become of primary interest to her, merely by being in her ambit. For the first few years that I knew her – before I really got to know what made her tick – I used to get embarrassed and flummoxed whenever we’d go out in public. Invariably she would encounter someone, on the sidewalk, behind the cash register or in the next booth over, who would garner her immediate attention. She would stop whatever she was doing – or whatever we were doing – to engage with this other soul. For years I thought, “What is wrong with her?” Or, “What is she doing – doesn’t she know anything about social propriety?”

I discovered that she knew everything there was to know about social propriety – namely that it is secondary to a troubled soul and that the only one who had something wrong with them was me – because what De Ane was doing in these anonymous encounters was God’s work – she could recognize from a mile away anyone who was troubled, in despair or in need of a kind pick-me-up. Regardless of who it was, or where they were, when De Ane came upon them all else was put aside until they had a smile on their face, or a lightened step – until they were fully reminded that they were a child of God and an object of God’s unending and unalterable love.

And that she could and did do this when she was wracked with pain or barely able to walk only underscored the power of her message and her outreach. Her mission, to be a messenger of God’s love, would not be derailed by even the hardest cases as she would spare no expense or even resort to self-deprecation to reach them.

And wracked with pain and barely able to walk was how she spent many of her final years, following the ravaging injuries she suffered in the 1988 hotel fire. In spite of – or perhaps because of – those devastating injuries, she could and always did have a supernatural ability to recognize the pain and despair of others, even strangers. Her pain was an entrée to their pain and she felt called to ameliorate their pain, even if just momentarily.

The other great pain in De Ane’s life was the loss of her beloved son Todd, at age 15, to leukemia. De Ane took this staggering pain and loss and relived it, time and time again, in order to reach out to those who suffered similar losses. Anytime the Bay Area news programs lifted-up a family who lost an adolescent – to any cause – De Ane would be on the phone to them, or at their door, with platefuls of food or arms full of roses from her garden, and always with her open arms extended far in the fellowship of loving embrace. No matter how difficult those memories were, she withstood them in order to stand arm-in-arm with those moms who were grieving their own child.

This is my most searing memory of De Ane, her constant willingness to step-up and relive the greatest horror of her own life in order to ease – and share – that awful burden of others, even total strangers to her. I used to tell her to step-back and spare herself the anguish that her outreach would inevitably bring, but she would not, or could not. I came to believe that she had a secret pact with God – her gratitude for the sustenance that sustained her was manifested in her mission to those who suffered the greatest loss that a parent ever can. This tensile strength of hers remained even through her own final days.

And De Ane’s mission was not limited to just parents who grieved; my own mother died just two years ago and my father, just this week, told us of the numerous letters De Ane had written to him, extolling my mom’s beauty and her profound love and devotion to my father. These letters were a balm to him and key to his surviving the greatest loss of his life. She had never even breathed a word of them to Darin or I. How many other lives has she touched? How much pain of others has she relieved? Who will now do this work of God’s to ease insufferable pain and share unbearable burdens?

It would be remiss of me to not reflect on the many lighter sides of De Ane. Who here today has not experienced De Ane’s whispered “tell me your secret dream or desire in for your life?” She would ask and never forget our replies, always revisiting them every time she saw us. She cultivated our dreams and desires as if they were her own – and they were just as important to her. Just as she lived her life in the service of easing others’ pain, she likewise lived her life as the great encourager. This was most powerfully manifested in her role as worldwide college recruiter. No young person could escape her inquiry and encouragement when it came to what they would do after high school. From her own grandchildren, to the kid who cut her grass, to the baggers at Safeway, De Ane let everyone of them know that she believed in them and their bright and shining futures.

This passion and zeal was not limited to young folks either. As her friend Martha so deftly put it, “Da Ane never met a stranger.” If friendliness were water, De Ane would leave everyone she met drenched. She could not bear to countenance loneliness or isolation in anyone. And her affability stood her well. Andrea tells the story of how they were riding through the country one day and came upon a horse farm. The kids expressed an interest in riding the horses; so De Ane immediately pulled over and went to the front door, unabashed, with hers kids’ request to ride their horses. In short order, everyone was saddled up and spent the afternoon on horseback.

Likewise, I remember the numerous road trips that Darin and De Ane and I would take and how Darin and I would wager on just how long it would be before this no room service establishment was happily and proudly bringing her the meals that she wanted, served in high style, in her room. She never used a raised voice or a cross word to get what she wanted or needed, just the power of her ability to create a genuine and palpable connection with every human being she encountered. And always, those who obliged her requests came away feeling better even than she did about meeting her requests and desires. She made life worth living and jobs worth doing well for all she encountered along her way.

As we honor and remember her today, may the joy, comfort and love that she so generously shared be as a balm to those of us with heavy hearts. I close with a poem that I believe she would speak to us if she could …..

AFTERGLOW

I’d like the memory of me to be a happy one.
I’d like to leave an afterglow of smiles when day is done.

I’d like to leave an echo….whispering softly down the ways of happy times
And laughing times and bright and sunny days.

I’d like the tears of those who grieve to dry before the sun of happy memories
That I leave behind when day is done.

Steven's words of remembrance about his Mom will be posted here very soon.


The day after Grandma's funeral we all gathered at Dad and Joan's house in Salt Lake City where a wonderful spread of food had been prepared by Joan - hey what about that stew recipe Joan?
Kaci shared with us these beautiful and insightful words she had written immediately after learing of her Grandma's passing

My grandmother died last night. Not the one that I lived with two summers ago and was best friends with, the crazy one that lived in California that would prove her existence with randomly weird cards that made no sense.

Once upon a time, in a land of The Joneses, my Grandmother died. In this world, she was the kind that smelled like cookies and taught me about the good old days and loved good ol' Granpa with all her heart. She had a house with a comfortable kitchen and familiar surroundings, no matter how long it'd been since we'd visited. In this world, my Grandmother sent cards every birthday and Christmas presents every year. She gave me secret recipes and told me how she used to go out on the town with her friends when she was young blooded.

I didn't know this Grandma.

Today my Grandmother died. She smelled like nail polish, hairspray, and cigarettes - and I never knew what color her hair was going to be the next time I saw her. She had been married nine times (this editor believes that number to be seven), twice to the same man, once to the man that she created a family with. She took hours getting ready to go anywhere, and we would find millions of cans of Coke around her house, open and stuffed with a little toilet paper to keep the carbonation in, in case she ever found that can again and wanted to drink it. She lived in a house with a cat named FIN, her fellow friend in need. She sent randomly weird letters and cards in the scrawling, outdated cursive handwriting, with little numbers and notes all over, as if she couldn't keep her brain still and focused on one thing as she wrote. She never made sense, always was kooky, and later I found that was because she was an addict/alcoholic just trying to get by. She isolated and holed-up into oblivion, refusing to talk to even her family, the only dose of reality in her life.

But she loved us grandchildren, so very much. I was always Kaci, the first-born granddaughter, the beginning of what she hoped was a brood of little rugrats. She always thought I would grow up to be President, and made sure I knew it. She was always so proud of me. She would sing You Are My Sunshine to me in the car and on camping trips when we were little, every visit to California. She took us to midnight Christmas Eve services one Christmas, and we all came back to her house and go so drunk that we opened all the presents before the morning light. I have no idea what I even got that year, but I could tell you that she took us to dinner at The Velvet Turtle and we had so much chocolate mousse that I threw up. She loved the movie Bambi so much that when I was little and left all my Bambi McDonald's toys at her house and later asked for them back she told me they were hers and she wouldn't let me have them back. The only movie she owned was Clueless on VHS, which we watched ove and over at her house.

I never knew the once upon a time Grandmother. I knew the crazy Grandma De Ane, the one that lived in Antioch, California, that smelled like hairspray and cigarettes. I loved her though, I loved her very much. Which makes her death all the more sad - the way she died, the circumstances of th elone woman holed-up in her house for years, all alone. The way my Dad cried like I had never heard before. The lost confusion, the foreign feelings that he couldn't control...it was a sad phone call to wake up to. I've never heard my Father emotional before, I've never heard him lose it before so openly and blatently. I wish I could be there to hug him and love him. Perhaps the isolated death of my Grandmother can bring our family closer together.

My Grandmother died today. You will be missed, my Little Sunshine.