1935–2020
Our beloved mother died peacefully in her Ventura home of sixty years on 26 October.
Dorothy Carolyn Kaster (her first name was never used) was born, likewise at home, in Newhall, California. Her parents, David Kaster of Indiana and Davie, nee Murray, of Georgia, had come to California from Florida in 1926. David, a carpenter/contractor, built cafes on the old Ridge Route, barns on the Newhall Ranch, and barracks for the Civilian Conservation Corps.
During World War II the family of six moved to the Ozarks of Arkansas, then to Aurora, Indiana in a failed effort to reclaim their ancestral farming life. Californians at heart, they returned to the Santa Clarita Valley at war’s end. David now built a miniature farm in the wide-open village of Castaic.
From Castaic School Carolyn went to the area’s first high school, William S. Hart, which opened with four teachers in 1948. Once a week she walked from there to the home of her piano teacher. Mrs. Westman, a graduate of Düsseldorf Conservatory, had chosen marriage to an American doughboy over a concert pianist’s career. Her teacher-pupil lineage went back to Beethoven, linking Carolyn herself to the immortal Ludwig. She resolved to study piano at Biola College.
Toward that end Carolyn waited tables at Cy’s Café in Castaic. Tommy, the worldly wise cook, took her under his wing. ”Just wait ‘til George comes in,” he said on her first night—“he’s just right for you.”
Short-haul trucker George Forsell drove a regular route between Los Angeles and Bakersfield. Raised by his Swedish grandparents in Hollywood (they called him “Yeorge”), he stood out from the other truck drivers: tall, clean-cut, soft-spoken. Tommy’s match-making worked out. Her piano studies at Biola cut short, Carolyn and George were married on 6 December 1953.
So that she could live closer to her family, George went to work for Schlumberger Well Services in Newhall. They had a tiny house built for them on a corner of the Kaster property. It was here that their Hollywood-born son acquired his first memories. Here, too, another son was brought home from San Fernando Hospital. When Schlumberger closed its Newhall shop, George and his now-complete family were transferred to Ventura.
The high point of the Forsells’ year was their summer vacation trip with trailer in tow. often they let serendipity be their guide, delighting in out-of-the-way spots. As George’s vacation time increased with seniority, they went farther and farther afield. After his retirement, when it was just the two of them, they ventured east of the Rocky Mountains and deep into Canada.
On the road, as at home, Carolyn always had some handiwork in progress. She painted as well as sketched in pencil and pastel. She embroidered. Her framed art adorned every wall. She made quilt after quilt, entirely by hand, held together by miles of tiny, neat stitches. At her Singer machine she sewed all of her own dresses and many a shirt for her men. No less accomplished in the kitchen, she turned out banquets of Mexican food and the best-ever lemon cream pies. She was her own Martha Stewart and took great delight in being a homemaker.
Never a stranger to pain, suffering from terrible migraine headaches, her health went downhill after George’s sudden death in 1999. A passionate gardener—the bearded iris was her specialty—she was loath to hang up her trowel. But two bad knees put her in a wheelchair. As arthritis curled back her fingers, she finally stopped trying to play the piano. (This made her cry.) After surviving a near-fatal seizure in 2006, an anti-seizure drug wrought havoc with her mind. She even stopped reading her Bible, proof that something was very wrong. A change in medication finally revealed the source of her mental deterioration. But suddenly she was her old self: clear-minded, hawk-eyed, with memory fully intact. Her sudden return to life was an amazing thing to behold.
Now she resumed reading with a vengeance. Her old creative pleasures, those involving her hands, were gone. She could no longer walk. But her extensive library filled the void. With Dickens and Hardy and Trollope at hand, she was happy, She derived great pleasure, paging through her trove of garden and quilt books. Never a social person, Carolyn wanted nothing more than a quiet life at home. She was a very contented woman who loved the simple pleasures.
Like her sisters Mary Jane and Jenelle before her, Carolyn developed esophageal cancer when she was eighty. Remarkably, she endured radiation and chemotherapy with little to no side effects. Oncology gave her nearly five more years to enjoy home and family. When the disease moved into her lungs, she entered hospice care. Even then she remained largely cheerful, achieving a state of inner peace that few people are granted in their final days. “Does she ever complain?” asked her nurse.
In her worn recliner she breathed her last while sons Steven and Tim held both of her hands. After a long drive Tim rushed to her side, arriving just in time to share her final hour. Her very own George had died just an arm’s length away in his easy chair. Many a night, while watching a movie, he or she would reach across that narrow gap for the other’s hand.
For eighty-five years Carolyn was a loving and dutiful daughter, sister, wife, aunt, and mother. Despite much suffering throughout her life she praised her Savior all the day long. Her worn Bible was practically a part of her. She delighted in beauty, surrounded herself with it, and never lost her love of learning. Her life was good.
Arrangements are under the direction of the JOSEPH P. REARDON FUNERAL HOME & CREMATION SERVICE, Ventura.