Warren’s obits are the original Facebook. Before Zuckerberg, people announced births, deaths, and “potluck suppers” in the Tribune. Today, these pages are a digital graveyard where every life gets a standing ovation, even if they only left a lasting impression on the local bowling league.
I once saw an obit for a man whose sole hobby was “collecting wind chimes and complaining about the neighbor’s dog.” That’s not just a fact; that’s a character arc. You can picture him, can’t you? Shaking his fist at a poodle while a tiny brass owl chimes in the background.
Fun fact: The Warren Tribune obituaries have been running since 1894. That’s over 130 years of people being described as “beloved” and “ornery” in equal measure. It’s the longest-running comedy-drama series you’ve never watched.
The Art of the Exaggerated Exit
Here’s where it gets deliciously weird. Some obituaries are so specific they feel like eulogies written by a stand-up comedian. One recent entry proudly declared the deceased “never met a buffet he didn’t conquer.” I mean, the man is gone, and he’s still getting applause for his all-you-can-eat prowess.
Another gem: “She could fix a carburetor with a bobby pin and still make a perfect pie.” That’s not a person; that’s a superhero origin story. I half-expect the next line to say, “She will now join the Avengers.” But no—she just moved on to the great church potluck in the sky.
And don’t get me started on the disclaimers. “In lieu of flowers, please stop honking at her mailbox.” Yes, that was a real request. The family knew. The neighbors knew. The dead woman probably orchestrated it from beyond the grave.
Diamond Darlene "Dee Dee" Stewart, Lowellville, Ohio Obituary
