Mom's Obituary

 Affectionally known by family and friends as “Vee,” Evangeline Adele Steen DeLong, 89, was reunited with her beloved husband, Earl, with whom she shared 67 years of marriage, on Sunday, January 18, 2026. One of eight siblings raised in LeRoy, Vee leaves behind her firecracker of a sister, Sally (Bob) Bickford of Caledonia. Memories of their mother brought Vee great comfort throughout her life and the anticipation of hearing her voice again and feeling her embrace was something of which Vee eagerly anticipated.

Vee DeLong devoted her life to being a loving and productive partner to her husband Earl, a caring mother of their two children, Earl (Jen) Gregory DeLong of Batavia and Amy (Brad) Mosiman of Gainesville, a tirelessly involved grandmother who made more trips to the orthodontist than an NHL hockey player, and she enjoyed the blessings of having five great-grandchildren. 

Vee came from a different age; an age where the Avon Lady rang the doorbell and was invited in for coffee while sharing her samples. A time where you could send your child down the road on their bike to Douries in the village of Wyoming to pick up a grocery item and just sign your name on a sheet of lined paper. Vee’s family was her career and she flourished at her job…singing her kids awake, packing amazing lunches, and a hot meal was always on her table. Earl and Vee would share the duty of washing dishes after dinner, shoulder-to-shoulder. To afford extra-special Christmas presents, Vee and Earl would work the apple-picking season at Chamberlains, her five foot tall frame refusing to bend beneath the weight of the countless pecks she picked through Fall’s fickle and often frosty weather.

Known for her green thumb, Vee could patiently encourage the most reluctant blooms  to grow. Her family clamored for her mac salad, chocolate chip cookies, and the hot dog soup recipe inherited from Vee’s mother. Many a fight would break out at family gatherings over the cherry dispersal in Vee’s fruit salad. She elevated the giving of greeting cards to an art…each carefully selected message bearing special stickers of love and whimsy. She loved her little house, being productive and helpful, and playing cards. Vee always put the needs of her husband and family ahead of herself. And so great was Earl’s love for Vee that he proudly proclaimed it to the world by painting the house they built together pink.

There will be no calling hours. A celebration of life will be conducted at the Gilmartin Funeral Home, 329-333 West Main Street, Batavia, New York on Saturday January 24, 2026 at 1:00pm. She will be laid to rest in Machpelah Cemetery, in Leroy NY.  In  lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to Crossroads comfort care home in Batavia, NY. 

Evangeline Adele DeLong was a gentle soul with a sweet smile and a kind heart. She will be missed by her loving family and friends including her many grandchildren:  Fallanne (Colby) Jones, Haley (Joey) Snyder, Calob DeLong, Savannah (Lisa) Evangeline Mosiman, Sydney (Douglas) Mosiman-Davies, Alexis DeLong, Alea DeLong, and Talon DeLong. Go with God, Lady.

My mom's eulogy

 
Hello, everyone and thank you for coming. My name is Amy

Mosiman and, like you, I have many identities. I am, foremost

and above all things, a girl who loves Jesus and the daughter of

the one true King. I am Brad Mosiman’s wife. Savannah and

Sydney’s mother. I am a teacher. A writer. I try to be a good

friend. I adore my little dog. And I love my mama, Evangeline

Adele Steen DeLong whom most of you knew as Vee.

Unlike us, my mother did not have a litany of identities to proclaim on her resume. 

She was a wife. Mother. Grandmother & Great-Grandmother. 

Singularly, she devoted her life to the noblest of pursuits: Taking care of her family. 

And it was only later that I realized that my mother had selflessly allowed us to eclipse her. I discovered this over the past few years as I frantically attempted to surround her with comfort items. The blonde Oreos that were a signature in her cookie jar? Dad’s favorite. Daisies? Her mom’s favorite. The food she routinely ate favored my father’s palate, her go-to shirt was a twin to his, her favorite Christmas carol, “Silent Night” was her mother’s. Somehow, my mother had gotten lost in the shadow of her family.

And then Dad, the singular celestial body upon whom my mother orbited, fell and Vee DeLong, our shining star, became brightly visible. 

We all know the sadly romantic story associated with swans. They mate for life and, when one dies, the other follows of a broken heart. No one actually said it out loud, but there were a lot of

speculation, that, when Dad passed, Mom wouldn’t be far behind. Turns out, my mama is made of stronger stuff. It was a week ago today where she endured 18 hours, awake and without complaint, in a chaotic emergency room, took 4 staples to the back of her head without a beat, all the time, encouraging me to go home, assuring me that she would be fine. Vee DeLong is a rock star.

I shouldn’t have been surprised …this was the woman had who sat bedside,

next to her husband whose body was practically levitating off the bed in pain

and calmly held his hand for over five hours. I watched as her poor arthritic

hands were crushed in his grasp as she soothed him. My mother was his

medicine.

Although my purpose today is to proclaim that my mother was the strongest person in the world, we have to remember that this is also the love story of Earl and Vee DeLong. I watched it play out my whole life but didn’t really appreciate it until failing health separated them. I was there during one of my dad’s evening phone calls. He’d discovered that figure skating was on TV so he called my mother to direct her to the channel so they could watch it together. My parents, miles apart, watched ice skating and I watched my mother, phone to her ear, eyes glued to the screen, as skaters spun, twirled and jumped and I listened as she responded to my father’s observations about costumes and skills.

How grateful I was for my mother’s inability to throw away greetings cards and letters as I was able to compile many of Dad’s beautiful tributes to his beloved Vee.

Unknowingly, I have been training for this next part over the last few years as my poor mama’s memory failed and I desperately tried to fill in some of the blanks for her.

My mother came from a large family led by my hard-working grandmother whom my mother idolized. My mom and Aunt Sally were the last two remaining of the Steens and I will refrain from telling you what they called their n’ere-do-well father…don’t say it, Aunt Sally…but a story with him offers insight into the hidden strength of my mother. As she told it, my grandfather, who delivered milk for a living, had parked the truck, with my young mother, outside a bar and gone in without properly setting the brake. In his absence, the truck began to roll down hill. My mother got out, watched its descent, shrugged and walked home.

I love my Aunt Sally. My brother and I grew up visiting her and

Uncle Bob’s farm, playing endlessly with our cousins, Sandy and

Todd. Our games were punctuated with the raucous laughter of the

adults playing cards. The vernacular of these games delighted us;

using words and phrases that had evolved from their time to mean 

something entirely different in our’s:  Hearing my gentle mother say 

that her hand had been a “boner” would send us into squeals of 

immature giggling. One of the greatest compliments of my life was 

when my mother, in these last few years, would confuse me for 

Sally…so easy to do…we look so similar. I think it was because we could both make her laugh…we were 

her dandies. Thank you, Aunt Sally, for advocating, protecting, and loving my mother like only you could 

do. 

As my mom’s memory would ebb and flow, surprising moments

would pop up. On our many trips to see Dad in LeRoy, we would

drive over a bridge and my mother would inevitably brighten and

tell me that she’d often swam in the Oatka River that flowed

through that small city. My mother’s childhood would come to me

in other ways, as well. Her friend, Marlene, who had introduced a

teen-aged Evangeline to the good-looking attendant at the gas

station (my dad), recently sent me a letter which included a picture

of my mom with the origins of her familiar elegant script, speaking

of a young man who was NOT my father! Gasp! Is it possible that my mother was a real person?

When my mother would eventually marry that

handsome young gas attendant, he would walk home

to her every pay-day Friday and stop at a little store to

buy her a set of three tiny animal figurines: A papa,

mama, and baby. My mother’s curio cabinet was filled

with them.

So…along came Earl and there was a papa, a mama, and a baby.

And then…Amy.

And a pink house in Wyoming.

I was mad when her memory robbed her of her pink house.

And mornings where she got up insanely early to see my dad off to work. The dark kitchen with the soft light over the stove on. Radio gently playing. Making him breakfast. Putting coffee in his tall thermos. Filling his big metal lunch pail.

To do it again later with Earl and I. Occasionally she would buy Carnation Instant breakfast drink mix, letting us dump our favorite flavor into a tall glass of milk and use the hand-crank mixer to make it frothy. Earl and I would walk down the hill of our driveway to wait for the bus and Mom would stand at the picture window, waving and blowing kisses until we left.

She had worked so hard. She kept a large garden. Could grow any flower imaginable. Canned peaches and pears. Stacked wood with my father. Spent every Fall picking apples for extra Christmas money.  She made staying home sick from school a pleasure as we lay, tucked in on the couch with the plastic TV tray  next to us, loaded down with a box of kleenex and a translucent plastic Kool-Aid Guy cup of 7-Up with a flexi-straw and Bob Barker would join us at 11 so we could watch excited people spin the Big Wheel.

Her first grand-daughter arrived, Fallanne Rae, and my mother was enchanted with that little girl. When Fallanne precipitously, at a very young age, cut her hair, my mother simply declared that the style accentuated Fal’s beautiful eyes. When moving my mother’s belongings to her apartment, it was Fallanne’s orchid with which we took the greatest care. Fal…I always knew when you visited…especially with your boys because Mom would always comment on how good they were…how hard it is for boys to be cooped up in that small room and what good parents you and Colby are. Alexis…I always knew when that guitar showed up too. I played Mom’s music angel over twenty times for her on her last day and I was so pleased when Jen sent me this video. God is good.

VIDEO OF SILENT NIGHT

Five foot tall on her best day, my mother was the measuring stick

upon which every grandchild aspired to beat. Standing back-to-

back with my tiny mom, the grandkids would grin proudly when

they inevitably grew taller.  My son-in-law, Douglas stole my

heart when, visiting my Mom and gathering for a family picture,

my mom lamented that she was the littlest one. Without missing a

beat, Douglas dropped to his knees beside her. I was grateful too,

whenever we visited Aunt Sally, my cousin Todd would interrupt

 the eternal toil that comes from being a farmer to pop in and see

Mom, immediately taking a knee next to her. My mother never realized that we all looked up to her.

My mom excelled at being a grandmother. She was down

on that big braided rug in the living room, assembling

block towers, cities, and highways (I hope someone still

has those blocks), dragging out the Fisher Price barn, art

supplies, playing endless board and card games. She had

so much Pepsi and Mountain Dew in her house that you

would have thought she owned stock. Every grandchild

here can quote “The Land Before Time.” What does

Duckie say? She attended soccer games, volleyball and

swim. Listened to concerts. Witnessed more than her share of graduations. Provided physical, emotional, and

financial support whenever needed. Drove kids to appointments and was in Pennsylvania so many times that

the state offered her resident status. Birthdays were never missed accompanied by special greeting cards

emblazoned with dozens of stickers. Seating charts were employed at every holiday and each child’s place

setting had a special decoration with their name. Remember the nutcrackers?

Only Earl and I remain to remember the special way

she commemorated birthdays: By blowing up balloons,

rubbing them on a nearby head, and sticking them to

our kitchen wall. Our families thoughts, when

remembering my mom, will go to the best chocolate

chip cookies in the world, onions diced up minutely for

the tuna fish sandwiches cut in triangles, Christmas

cookie shapes that included a map of the United States

and Abe Lincoln’s head, fruit salad in a heavy yellow nesting bowl.

My mother was creative and meticulously artistic. She and

Aunt Sally would go to ceramics and one year, my mother,

laboriously painted music box dolls for each girl in the family.

Earl and I both had hand-painted lamps in our bedrooms.

Earl’s was a glossy black and white pinto horse sprinting and

I was so jealous because I was horse crazy. Mine was a

gowned girl with blue eyes and brown hair holding a little

dog. I treasure it to this day. I wouldn’t end up getting a

horse, but Mom knew I’d get the dog.

My mother helped in small ways that turned out to be huge. 

I had just given birth to my eldest daughter, Savannah Evangeline. So tired. The nurse was filling out the paperwork and needed the spelling of her name. I managed “Savannah” but stumbled on her middle name. “Get my father,” I told my husband. My dad was the best speller I knew. But then I heard the softest voice in the world as my mom quietly spelled out her own name for the nurse. 

My mother. Over-looked. Under-estimated. 

My mother. Who lived at home until she was 17 and then married the love of her life…living happily with him for 67 years. My mother, moving into an apartment, alone…like a kid going off to college and chugging stubbornly along for over three years. A survivor.

When I was a teenager, my mom, dad and I stopped for ice cream at Davis’s in Pavilion. My dad got a large twist cone but my mom and I indulged in fresh peach sundaes slathered in peach juice…we let the vanilla ice cream melt a bit and stirred the juice right into it. So good. So many years later, I would try, again and again, to find food that my mom liked…stumbling on a peach cake with fresh peaches at Wegmans. I grabbed plates and utensils for a little picnic and we sat in the shade of a little porch off to the side of her apartment building. She took the first bite, her eyes widening, and said, “Ohhhh. So good.” I felt like I had won the lottery. A week ago, after that long day in the ER, someone handed me a little plastic container of peaches. As she reclined on the stretcher, I fed her the first one and smiled as her eyes widened and she said, “Ohhhh…good.” God is good.

Mom wondered to me once, what would come next and I laughed as I described how she would open her eyes one day to see a good-looking red haired man with one lock falling down over his forehead, leaning against the large rounded hood of an old car, sliding off quickly at the sight of her, his long legs racing to her side. She would hear the sweet sound of her mother’s voice and feel her mama’s arms wrap around her again. “But how do you know?” she fretted and I laughed again. Because I know Jesus. And Jesus loves my mother.

I was given the incredible gift of holding my mama’s hand as she slid from this world and returned home. My parents, when they were dating and in the sweet early years of their marriage, frequented a dance hall and their song was “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White.” I was playing it for her on my phone and one moment, she was with me in a quiet, peaceful room and before I could catch my breath, she was in the arms of my father, dancing to their song. Her poor hands, cruelly bent by arthritis, slid, slender into my Dad’s as he swept her into his embrace. Her vision cleared. Her pain disappeared. The veil of dementia was lifted. My mom went home.

An open apology to the ER

I am a little country mouse and my experience with hospital emergency rooms had, until this point, been limited to broken bones, a scraped eye, and allergic reactions at our small rural facility and several dedicated seasons of ER and Grey's Anatomy viewing. I was woefully unprepared and, at the same time, both physically and emotionally exposed, during our recent stay at a bustling city hospital's ER and, apologetically, did not conduct myself with the good grace, dignity, and manners of which I had been raised.

I arrived with Mom at 2 am, armed only with my phone, the charger cord hanging out of my pocket like a prehensile tail, and a bra hastily tucked away in another compartment. My white t-shirt proudly proclaimed that "God is my plus one" in red glitter letters. My days of even hoping to be in contention for a wet t-shirt contest were long behind me so I kept my business tucked, not-as-firmly-as-I-would-like, behind the protective layer of my polar coat, good for 20 below. Dog-fur lined sweatpants tucked into calf-covering rain boots finished the look. 

Mom was parallel parked, professionally, in a hallway, tucked between a man in such pain that he could only emit animal sounds, and a Spanish-speaking family with two kids sitting, cross-legged on the gurney, tucked alongside their crying mother. There was no discernible protocol that I could grasp...no big board with names and procedures, a doctor's name comfortingly attached to each one. I orbited my mother's side, drifting to her head or foot to allow for the passage of constantly moving stretchers filled with more manner of horror than I could have ever imagined. My vast familiarity with MASH equipped me with a working understanding of triage so I kind of understood that, in this hellscape we'd found ourselves, Mom's injury wasn't as critical as the tiny newborn, body stiff from an endless seizure, or the violent psychotic episode that went swearing by or the police-escorted man, feet shackled, bleeding from a bullet wound. Brad, my lifeline in the visitor's area, had his own challenges with drunken fights, loud law enforcement intervention, and a verbal threat of being slapped accompanied by racial slurs from an unhappy and uncooperative hospital visitor who eventually got dragged out of the building. Our text messages to one another as we were positioned rooms away but miles apart time-lined my frantic journey with my mother.

Testing would begin an hour after we arrived. 

And me without my Ticonderoga.

Blood drawn. "You just can't siphon it off the gash on the back of her head?" I wondered silently, anxious as they missed the vein in one arm before moving over to the other.

We joined the rush hour traffic and headed to get a cat scan...my Mom's second in a week. Three more on her stamp card and she'll get a free large coffee.

At 5 am, an IV was put in. Mom, recovering from the first fall and a fun bout of the flu, had, prior to this, been sleeping 55 minutes to the hour for days. She hadn't slept since she fell at 1 am. We had been expertly re-parked in our original spot and the man behind us was now screaming for meds. A remedy for ALL situations, I put Elvis on my phone to try to drown out the nightmare around us. A kind nurse gifted us a glass of cold water EACH with a flexi-straw. My Mom and I sighed with pleasure. Delicious.

A very tall doctor began the process of investigating the back of Mom's poor head shortly after that. I
appreciated his care of her hair, sifting through the matted stands as carefully as he could but they were so matted that I begged him to just cut it. "Give me the scissors," I snapped at one point as my mother sat, bent at the waist so they could inspect the back of her head, "I'll cut it." Still in my good-to-twenty-below polar suit, I held my mother in place, shaking and sweating as the medical staff meticulously sought out the source of her injury. Hydrogen peroxide was employed, a plastic rectangular bin was pressed into the back of Mom's neck to try and catch as much of the liquid as possible as the bubbling solution revealed the location as Mom winced and shook and I sweated and shook, holding her in place. There were four of us working at this point when another doctor took over, manning a staple gun. Each time he counted down from three, Mom and I, bearing down together, would blow out, lamaze-style. Four times. She never shed a tear. I cried like a baby in between singing the only song that would come to my mind, Barney the Dinosaur's "I Love You" song. 

I begged for pain medication.

Tylenol.

Brad had to leave a little after 6. I risked leaving Mom for a few minutes to see him, use the restroom, and wrestle a bra on so I could lose the polar suit. Returned to find out that she'd been agitated and fearful in my absence. I wouldn't leave her side again.

It was a gruesome Ground Hog's day...we were on repeat for hours. New people would appear and I would delight each time they'd ask Mom her name. "Evangeline," she'd say softly. They'd ask her why she was here and she'd have no clue. Lie that she wasn't in pain. Laugh when I loudly called her a liar. There was no clipboard of information to review before speaking to us. We began again each time.

Tests came back. 

We'd failed in epic fashion.

Heart and kidneys. 

Dangerously dehydrated.

Malnutrition. 

They wanted to admit her but could guarantee no bed.

 A Russian man, found in a run-off ditch, was brought in and parked ahead of Mom. Hospital staff fought to get him undressed but he was very uncooperative, shouting in Russian and tossing one nurse to the floor and another against the wall. The curtain separating him from Mom shook violently as I moved between the two stretchers. I believe they "offered" him medication. I don't think it was Tylenol.

I was now ready to sell my soul to get Mom to my small rural hospital.

A kind nurse named Emily who had the voice of a kindergarten teacher watched me unravel. "I want out," I told her, "I want to talk to a hospital administrator," I said, trying to summon some sort of dignity and adopt a semblance of professional decorum despite my weird white t-shirt, sweat pants, rain boots and crazed expression. Two doctors appeared relatively quickly. They were incredibly sympathetic. None of the options were ideal. I signed the dispatch papers. 

I wanted Mom transported to my little country hospital. 

They couldn't do that.

I was going to have to drive her there myself.

She couldn't stand. She was in pain.

I called my little hospital to tell them my plan but, because Mom had already had tests done, they couldn't guarantee admittance. 

My brain wouldn't work by this time. This could not be real.

I sobbed.

Snot-sobbed.

My poor mom was comforting me at this point.

Emily came and I cried, apologizing, begging for a chance to retain the rights to our parking spot. 

I was failing my mother.

The dispatch papers disappeared and my Mom resumed her peeking through the curtain I kept closing to try and give her some rest and privacy. But Vee DeLong was not having it...this was the most action she'd ever seen and she wasn't missing it. We saw a dismembered foot and had to ask each other if we'd actually seen what we just saw. 

Emily upgraded our parking spot to closer to the nursing station (and the guard on duty) because (a) she realized she was dealing with an emotionally-unhinged lunatic and (b) Mom was getting feisty about staying in bed, rattling the bars of her bed like a little zoo animal.

The nursing shift changed and the evening shift brought large male nurses. 

I completely understood.

We'd now witnessed two drug overdoses and a boisterous exchange as hospital staff tried to discharge a homeless person who'd been there for 24 hours. 

Our exasperating routine began again. "What is your name?" Tylenol. Oh great...that'll do a lot. I considered having my own psychotic episode in hopes of scoring Mom something more substantial. They didn't know Mom couldn't suck from a straw without verbal cues. I flagged the nurse down to explain that we'd been there for sixteen hours and haven't had a meal. "You haven't been admitted to the hospital yet," he told me briskly but by now, I cried on a dime. "Let me check." "Let me be more clear," I gasped, "She can't eat a meal. We just want applesauce." Applesauce appeared in minutes and my heart soared as Mom reveled in it, savoring it in her mouth as I spooned it in, and letting the coolness stroke her throat as she swallowed. 

This poor guy had to deal with my idiocy an hour later as a beautiful dinner tray was delivered and, again, understanding dawned. There were no bedside tables to accompany hallway accommodations. ER patients don't get fed (except for the doctor who slipped me an Uncrustable...I fed Mom like a baby bird and her eyes widened at the taste of peanut butter and she sighed, "Ohhh...."). The tray sat, balanced on my knees. A chicken breast. Mashed potatoes. A salad. Peaches. Slice of cake. The entire night/day/night, I kept imagining if Mom were here alone. I looked at this beautiful tray of food, imagining it being delivered to my mom. She can't feed herself. I cried. The male nurse was confused. I had, obviously, gotten what I wanted. "My mom can't eat this," I tried to explain and he tried to help by encouraging me to eat it myself which, in retrospect, I should have. I hadn't eaten in days. I haven't used the restroom since 6 am. I had forgotten the airplane rule of putting my mask on first. How could I eat when my mother can't?

"She can eat the peaches," he said, removing the source of my tears. He caught me trying to rip the slices into tiny pieces with my fingers as he passed by and returned with a plastic knife. A naked woman weighing well over 500 pounds came in and distracted us with her salty language. Another man came in in restraints. The Bills were tied. I placed the first bite of peach into my mother's mouth and she sighed with pure pleasure. The automatic doors to the emergency room got stuck open so I stood at the end of my mother's bed, shielding her with my body. She eagerly ate six bites of peach, watched the hideous show going on around us, and kept telling me it was time to go. That she'd be fine.

Vee Delong hadn't slept except in odd five minute increments, here and there.

Hadn't shed a tear.

Hadn't complained.

Heartbreakingly, the Bills lost.

And finally, my mother slept.

My sister-in-law was nearing the building so I conceded defeat and gathered myself to leave her.

The nurse, seeing my intention, led me, dazed, through the confusing passages to the corridor that would take me outside, to where Brad Mosiman was waiting for me before returning to his job...his awful, thankless, miraculous job. 

My sincere apologies to the staff of the ER.

I didn't know.

You each deserve a million dollar salary and the gratitude of a nation.

Please forgive my rage, fear, tears, confusion, and tired stupidity.

Mom would get a satellite room in the ER a half hour later.

She would be transferred to a beautiful and peaceful room in Palliative Care in the morning. 

The ER would be the last time I would get to talk to my mother. Over sweet peaches.
 

My mother: Pure poetry

We held her hands,

Death and I,

lingering over the painfully angled ridges 

of each slender finger,

while behind his dusty frame,

my father glared,

telling me to let her go,

eager to have her in his arms again.

I read Emerson

as Death read the final rites.

He smiled gently at my futile metaphor

as I kept winding the pale angel

to softly fill the room: Silent Night.

My hands stubbornly kept her's warm

as I played their song: "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White,"

and finally, she was dancing with Dad again

so I thanked Death and left.