Mpls St Paul Obituaries

Let’s be honest: the obituaries page in the Minneapolis Star Tribune or the St. Paul Pioneer Press is the original social media. It’s the place where your Aunt Karen finds out that, yep, Mildred from church finally outlived her third husband.

Sure, we scroll past the news about city council budgets. But when we hit that gray section? Instant pause. It’s like a very polite, slightly sad version of a reality show.

Here’s a surprising fact: Minnesota obituaries are famously long-winded. In other states, they say, “John died. He liked fishing.” In the Twin Cities? You get a three-act play about his 38-year career at 3M, his prize-winning rutabaga, and that time he repaired the church boiler with a paperclip.

I’m convinced there’s a secret contest called “Who Can Fit the Most Hobbies Into 200 Words?” The winner always includes birdwatching, wood carving, and “enjoying a good cup of coffee.” No duh, they lived in Minnesota—coffee is a personality trait here.

Have you noticed the code language? “She passed away peacefully at home.” Translation: she finally told the family to leave her alone. “He fought a courageous battle.” Translation: he really, really hated those hospital jello cups.

My favorite is the “Surprised the family” obituary. You know the one: “Bob, 88, was an avid hunter.” Then, buried in paragraph four, you find out he secretly fathered a hockey team in Duluth. The obituary is Minnesota’s version of a reality twist.

Let’s talk about the photos. If the person died before 2010, the photo is usually a blurry 1987 Sears portrait with beige wallpaper. If they died yesterday, it’s a crisp selfie from a cabin on Lake Minnetonka, holding a walleye. There’s no middle ground.

And can we discuss the euphemisms for “causes of death”? In the Cities, we don’t say “heart attack.” We say, “He passed after a brief illness, surrounded by family.” That’s code for, “The Vikings choked again and his ticker gave out.”

One hilarious trend is the “Life of the Party” obituary. It claims the deceased never met a stranger. But they also mention the deceased’s prized collection of antique thimbles. That’s a person who absolutely met a stranger and bored them for 45 minutes about thimble thread counts.

Here’s the best part: obituaries are now a crime scene for grammar nerds. The phrase “Don’t send flowers” is now followed by 47 different charity links. It’s like, “Please, no roses… but do donate to the Prairie Dog Conservancy of Anoka County.”

But seriously, the Mpls St Paul obituary page is a surprisingly wholesome time capsule. It’s where you learn that Mrs. Johnson, who yelled at kids for walking on her lawn, actually knitted a hundred blankets for the homeless. Or that Mr. Peterson, the quiet mailman, moonlit as a polka accordionist named “Squeeze Box Pete.”

So next time you grab coffee at a café in Uptown or Grand Avenue, pull up the obits. Laugh a little. Cry a little. And remember: the next time you see a sentence like “In lieu of flowers, please consider…,” you now know the dead person was probably a very organized shopper who hated clutter.

Your legacy? It’s whatever your family can cram into six inches of newspaper column—and preferably a mention of your favorite fishing spot.

Go on. Make it weird. Make it funny. Because in the end, the best obituaries are the ones that make you say, “I wish I’d known them… or at least had coffee with them in St. Paul.”