One day, Betty was uncharacteristically late for work. The reason was simple: she had stopped to help two golden retrievers who were lost and running along Sunset Boulevard. For Betty, even a production schedule could wait when two animals needed someone.

I knew Betty from afar, as so many of us did. I watched The Golden Girls with my mom and sister, and even now, my mom and I still watch the reruns together. Betty's Rose Nylund continues to make us laugh — not just because Betty could deliver a line perfectly, but because she made every expression, pause, and wonderfully unexpected turn feel completely natural. Those evenings on the couch became part of our family story, and Betty is forever woven into them.

Her story began in Oak Park, Illinois, on January 17, 1922. She grew up in a loving home and said she was "spoiled rotten — but taught to appreciate it." Animals were already central to her world. As a child, Betty dreamed of becoming a forest ranger or a zookeeper, careers that weren't open to women at the time. She later called out that rule ruefully in her memoirs.

I was fifteen the first time I saw my mother cry.

I had come home hurt because a classmate had mocked my accent. In my anger, I told her — in English — that I wished she had never taught me Spanish, because it was the reason I did not fit in.

Juanita did not raise her voice. She sat down, became very quiet, and cried softly. She told me that every Spanish word she had taught me carried a piece of her mother and grandmother — a piece of what she had brought with her across the border. Then she took out a half-finished handkerchief she had been secretly embroidering with my initials. She placed it in my hands and said, "Termínalo tú." Finish it yourself.

My stitches were uneven, but Juanita kept that handkerchief in her drawer for the rest of her life. I did not fully understand what she had given me that day. Now I do. My mother was teaching me that I did not have to choose between two worlds. I could hold both.

Good afternoon, everyone. I'm Susan, and I had the great honor of calling Edward — Snickers, as most of us knew him — my friend for over 55 years. We met when we were just thirteen, at baseball camp. Edward was tall and rangy, with a swing that could send a ball flying out of the park. Meanwhile, I was lucky to make it to first base. But Edward never once made you feel small or less talented. Instead, he'd quietly cheer you on, celebrate every little success, and somehow make everyone around him feel like a winner. That was Edward — always the natural leader, not through loud words, but through kindness, quiet strength, and a heart bigger than anyone's.

Edward was a man who gave without asking. From a young age, he was the kind of neighbour who would quietly cut the lawn for someone who was ill, or fix a widowed neighbour's car just because it needed doing. He arranged the neighbourhood block party, organized the garage sale, fixed bikes for local kids, and cleared the community hockey rink. He didn't do these things for recognition. He did them because he cared deeply.