Picture this: A woman is dying. And her family knows exactly what will comfort her. Not music. Not prayers. The voice of Cleveland baseball — the crack of the bat, the cadence of Tom Hamilton calling one last game.
Because for Rose, that was home.
You might have walked past Rose Montali a thousand times and never known that behind that quiet smile was someone who understood something the rest of us are still trying to figure out: how to make every single person feel like they matter.
A Life Rooted in Love
Rose Paula Montali was 67 when she passed away this past June. Born in 1958, she lived through the moon landing, the fall of the Berlin Wall, 9/11, and the digital revolution. She spent 60 years in Cleveland, Ohio, before moving to Columbus to be closer to family.
But here’s what you couldn’t see from the grocery store checkout line: this woman collected cookbooks like love letters, turned swim meets into family reunions, and somehow made Grandma’s house feel like the happiest place on earth.
The Extraordinary in the Ordinary
Rose was born Rose Paula Lembach in Cleveland in 1958 — the eldest of six kids. In families like that, you learn early that love isn’t just a feeling, it’s a verb. You learn to show up, to share, to make sure everyone gets fed first.
She grew up in Richmond Heights, one of those Cleveland neighborhoods where everyone knows everyone, and she never really left. Sixty years in the same community. Think about that for a second — how many people do you know who stayed put long enough to watch three generations grow up on the same streets?
Rose became a homemaker, which sounds simple until you realize what that actually meant. She raised four children — Joanna, Jillian, Jenna, and Will. But she wasn’t just home keeping house. She was the mom who showed up. Swim meets. Math nights. Church dinners. PTA meetings. If her kids were there, so was Rose.
Picture the echo of the pool, the smell of chlorine, kids bouncing on starting blocks. And there’s Rose — cooler full of snacks, shouting encouragement, spotting her kid’s stroke from three lanes away.
Most of us struggle to remember our coworkers’ names. Rose knew every swimmer on the team. Probably their siblings too. That’s not normal. That’s extraordinary.
In a world that moves so fast, some people become the steady place where everyone else can land.
A Kitchen That Was Home
But here’s what you couldn’t see from the bleachers at those swim meets: Rose wasn’t just feeding people. She was creating a place where you didn’t just eat — you belonged. Her kitchen was something between a restaurant and a sanctuary — and Rose was its heart. Her pizzelles, those delicate Italian snowflake cookies, were legendary. So was her pound cake, her meatballs, her Christmas cookies. People didn’t just come hungry — they came to feel loved.
She collected cookbooks like some people collect art. Always experimenting. But it wasn’t about the food. It was about what happened around the table. The way ordinary Tuesday dinners became memories. The way holidays felt like homecomings even if you’d never left home.
Cleveland Through and Through
And she loved her Cleveland sports teams with the kind of loyalty that borders on religion. Indians, Browns, Cavaliers. Sixty years in Richmond Heights. Through the Browns’ championship drought, through the Cavaliers’ heartbreak, through the Indians’ near-misses. She stayed. She cheered. She believed. If you could bottle Cleveland spirit, it’d look like Rose.
She was a day-one superfan of LeBron James — back in 2003 when he was just an 18-year-old kid from Akron that everyone hoped might save Cleveland basketball. That’s the thing about people like Rose — they see potential before it becomes obvious. They invest in people when they’re still becoming.
When she got sick with kidney disease, her family moved her to Columbus to be closer to her daughter Jenna. Rose had been battling kidney disease for years, but you’d never know it from how she lived. That’s the thing about people like her — they carry their pain quietly so others don’t have to carry it at all. Even then, even facing years of courageous battle with illness, she found her greatest joy in the simplest title: Grandma.
The Joy of Being Grandma
Seven grandchildren, with two more on the way. From Austin at 21 to little Patrick just a year old — each one with their own nickname, their own favorite treat, their own reason to climb onto Grandma’s lap.
And Rose? She knew exactly who needed an extra hug. Who was having a hard week. Who just needed someone to listen.
Here’s what I love about this: Rose found joy in life’s simple pleasures. A hot cup of coffee with her best friend Pearl — and I’ll bet they solved half the world’s problems over those cups. Toast with butter. A fresh piece of fruit. Any bakery treat. These aren’t grand gestures or expensive luxuries. These are the moments that make up a life when you’re paying attention.
What if every neighborhood had someone like Rose? What if every block had that one house where kids felt safe, where the coffee was always on, where showing up mattered more than having something important to say?
A Legacy That Multiplies
And when the end came, her family knew what to do. They turned on the game — Cleveland baseball, Tom Hamilton’s voice in the room — so she could go out listening to the team she never stopped believing in. “And here’s the pitch…” One last connection to the city she loved, the team she’d cheered for through decades of hope and heartbreak.
People like Rose… they keep things going. They’re the ones who remember birthdays, who make sure the traditions don’t die out, who create the gravity that holds families together. Every generation has people like this — the ones who make everyone else feel like they matter.
Her husband Gregory passed away before her. So did her parents, Joseph and Lucille. Her brother Erich. Her dearest friend Pearl — the woman who shared all those morning coffees and probably knew Rose’s secrets better than anyone.
But here’s what I keep thinking about: Rose had this rare gift for making people feel seen and valued. She saw the best in everyone and made everyone around her feel like a million bucks. That’s not common. That’s not ordinary. That’s someone who understood that the most powerful thing you can do is pay attention to another human being — and then do something about it.
And now there are seven grandchildren who will never question whether they’re loved. Four children who learned that showing up matters more than showing off. Countless friends and neighbors who experienced what it feels like to be truly seen.
That doesn’t die with someone. It multiplies. It spreads. Right now, somewhere, a kid is being loved the way Rose taught her children to love. A neighbor is being remembered, because Rose showed that birthdays matter. And a grandchild is growing up thinking unconditional love is just… how it works.
Because in Rose’s world, it was.
The Extraordinary Lives Around Us
I sure wish I had the chance to sit down at Rose’s kitchen table, share a cup of coffee and a bakery treat, just to sit still long enough to feel what it was like to be loved like that. How about you?
Every person you’ll see tomorrow is carrying stories like this. Every single one. The woman at the checkout counter. The guy who fixes your car. The teacher dropping off her own kids at school. What if we looked at every person like they had a kitchen table waiting for us? Because maybe they do.
Not everyone makes the front page. But everyone — and I mean everyone — leaves a story worth telling.
Real people. Real lives. Never ordinary.
Thanks for pulling up a chair to Rose’s table with me. Can you pass the cookies?
Transcript
[0:00] Picture this. A woman is dying, and her family knows exactly what will comfort her. Not music, not prayers. But the voice of Cleveland baseball, the crack of a bat, the cadence of Tom Hamilton calling one last game. Because for Rose, that was home. He might have walked past Rose Montale a thousand times and never known that behind that quiet smile was someone who understood something the rest of us are still trying to figure out, how to make every single person feel like they matter.
[0:40] I am Steve Rode, and this is True Stories from the Obit Files. A few times a week, I share one real story from a real obituary about someone whose life you never knew about. These aren’t celebrities or headlines Just everyday people who lived remarkable lives Right under our noses People we might see at the grocery store, the bank Or walking down the street Never knowing their stories, Rose Montale was 67 when she passed away this past June Born in 1958, she lived through the moon landing The fall of the Berlin Wall, 9-11 and the digital revolution. She spent 60 years in Cleveland, Ohio, before moving to Columbus to be closer to family. But here’s what you couldn’t see from the grocery store checkout line. This woman collected cookbooks like love letters, turned swim meets into family reunions, and somehow made Grandma’s house feel like the happiest place on earth.
[1:47] Rose was born Rose Paula Lembeck in Cleveland, 1958, the oldest of six kids. In families like that, you learn that love isn’t just a feeling, it’s a verb. You learn to show up, to share, and to make sure everyone gets fed first. She grew up in Richmond Heights, one of those Cleveland neighborhoods where everyone knows everyone. And she never really left. 60 years in the same community. I mean, think about that for a second. How many people do you know who stayed put long enough to watch three generations grow up on the same streets?
[2:26] Rose became a homemaker, which sounds simple until you realize what that actually meant. She raised four children, Joanna, Jillian, Jenna, and Will. But she wasn’t just a homekeeper. She was a mom who showed up. Swim meets, math nights, church dinners, PTA meetings. If her kids were there, so was Rose. Picture the echo of the pool, the smell of chlorine. Kids bouncing on starting blocks, and there’s Rose.
[2:59] Cooler full of snacks, shouting encouragement, spotting her kids’ stroke from three lanes away.
[3:07] Most of us struggle to remember our co-workers’ names. Rose knew every swimmer on the team, probably their siblings too. And that’s not normal, that’s extraordinary In a world that moves so fast Some people become the steady place Where everyone else can land But here’s what you couldn’t see From bleachers at those swim meets Rose wasn’t just feeding people She was creating a place Where you didn’t just eat You belonged, Her kitchen was something between A restaurant and a sanctuary and Rose was its heart. Her pizzellis, those delicate Italian snowflake cookies, they were legendary. So was her pound cake, her meatballs, her Christmas cookies. People didn’t just come hungry. They came to feel loved. She collected cookbooks like some people collect art. Always experimenting.
[4:08] But it wasn’t about the food. It was about what happened around the table. The way an ordinary Tuesday dinner became a memory. The way holidays felt like homecomings, even if you never left home. And she loved her Cleveland sports teams with the kind of loyalty that borders on religion. Indians, Browns, Cavaliers, 60 years in Richmond Heights. through the Browns’ championship drought, through the Cavaliers’ heartbreak, through the Indians’ near misses. She stayed. She cheered. And she believed. If you could bottle Cleveland’s spirit, it would look like Rose. She was a day one superfan of LeBron James. Back in 2003, when he was just an 18-year-old kid from Akron that everyone hoped might save Cleveland basketball, that’s the thing about people like Rose. They see potential before it becomes obvious. They invest in people when they’re still becoming.
[5:10] When she got sick with kidney disease, her family moved her to Columbus to be closer to her daughter Jenna. Rose had been battling kidney disease for years, but you’d never know it from how she lived. That’s the thing about people like her. They carry their pain quietly so others don’t have to carry it at all. Even then, even facing years of courageous battle with illness She found her greatest joy in the simplest title Grandma.
[5:42] Seven grandchildren with two more on the way From Austin at 21 to little Patrick just a year old Each one had their own nickname, their own favorite treat Their own reason to climb onto Grandma’s lap And Rose?
[5:57] She knew exactly who needed an extra hug Who was having a hard week And who just needed someone to listen.
[6:07] Here’s what I love about this. Rose found joy in life’s simple pleasures. A hot cup of coffee with her best friend Pearl. And I’ll bet they solved half the world’s problems over those cups. Coast with butter, a fresh piece of fruit, and any bakery treat. These aren’t grand gestures or expensive luxuries. These are the moments that make up a life when you’re paying attention.
[6:35] What if every neighborhood had someone like Rose? What if every block had that one house where kids felt safe? Where the coffee was always on and where showing up mattered more than having something important to say?
[6:49] And when the end came, her family knew what to do. They turned on the game. Cleveland baseball. Tom Hamilton’s voice in the room so she could go out listening to the team she never stopped believing in. And here’s the pitch. One last connection to the city she loved, the team she cheered for through those decades of hope and heartbreak. People like Rose, they keep things going. They’re the ones who remember birthdays, who make sure the traditions don’t die out. Who create the gravity that holds families together. Every generation has people like this, the ones who make everyone else feel like they matter.
[7:39] Her husband Gregory passed away before her. So did her parents, Joseph and Lucille. Her brother Aaron. Her dearest friend Pearl. The woman who shared all those coffees and probably knew Rose’s secrets better than anyone. But here’s what I keep thinking about Rose had this rare gift for making people feel seen and valued She saw the best in everyone and made everyone around her feel like a million bucks That’s not common That’s not ordinary That’s someone who understood that the most powerful thing you can do Is pay attention to another human being And then do something about it, And now there are seven grandchildren who will never question whether they’re loved Four children who learned that showing up matters more than showing off, Countless friends and neighbors who experienced what it feels like to be truly seen That doesn’t die with someone It multiplies It spreads Right now, somewhere, a kid is being loved the way Rose taught her children to love A neighbor is being remembered because Rose showed that birthdays matter, and a grandchild is growing up thinking unconditional love is just how it works. Because in Rose’s world, that’s the way it was.
[9:08] I sure wish I had a chance to sit down at Rose’s kitchen table, share a cup of coffee and a bakery treat, just to sit still long enough to feel what it was like to be loved like that. And how about you? Every person you’ll see tomorrow is carrying stories like this. Every single one. The woman at the checkout counter, the guy who fixes your car, the teacher dropping off her own kids at school. What if we looked at every person like they had a kitchen table waiting for us? Because maybe they do. Not everyone makes the front page, but everyone, and I mean everyone, leaves a story worth telling. Real people, real lives, never ordinary. Thanks for pulling up the chair to Rosa’s table with me. Hey, can you pass the cookies?