Carol Ann Sanders

Well, folks, Carol Ann Holm-Shuler Sanders has officially left the building. At 78 years old, she went out on April 2, 2025, in Fort Smith, Arkansas, likely rolling her eyes at all the fuss and muttering something sarcastic under her breath. She was a force to be reckoned with, and if you knew her, you already know—she did not “light up a room” when she walked in. No, when Carol showed up, the collective thought was usually, “Oh crap, here we go.” And that’s exactly how she liked it.

Born to Alma Holm Shuler and George Shuler (and spoiled to the core by her grandmother, Hazel E. Baylis), Carol spent her early years in Pontiac, Michigan, before making her way through Pensacola, Florida, and Pomona, California, finally settling in Van Buren, Arkansas, where she spent her last years making memories, collecting things that probably shouldn’t have been collected, and keeping the local wine market in business.

Carol’s hobbies included: devouring raspberry pie, hoarding knick-knacks (especially the gnome army stationed in the “Gnome Penitentiary” in her front yard), making casinos nervous, and belting out Brandy Clark songs with zero regard for the neighbors. If you dared talk over her favorite song, you were dead to her—at least until the song was over. She had a questionable obsession with owls, Dopey from the Seven Dwarfs, the Pillsbury Doughboy, and—disturbingly—clowns. She also owned a book titled “Don’t You Dare Throw It Out”, which explains why she kept half of what she did.

Carol’s sense of style was simple and iconic: flannel and denim, take it or leave it. She wasn’t changing for anybody. And let’s not forget her rebellious streak—getting her first tattoo at 70 and her second at 77, just because she could. Some called her a “smart-ass.” She took that as a compliment.

Carol was preceded in death by her parents, grandparents, and her beloved fur babies, Shasta and Sami. Left to carry on her legacy (and sort through her very eclectic collection of treasures) are her bonus children: John Sanders, Ron Sanders, Tom Sanders, and Sandra Dorado; her loyal fur baby, Pierre; cousin Claudette Davis Mutter of Columbia, TN; her brother, Michael Kyle; and her lifelong friend Dona Recalde and son D.J. Simmons of both of Redondo Beach, CA. But let’s be real it will be her designated friends that have to sort through all of hoarded treasures that you didn’t dare touch or get rid of.

Carol’s friends weren’t just friends—they were her ride-or-die, laugh-until-you-cry, “we can’t tell that story in public” kind of people. You know who you are, and she knew too—no need to name names. And to those who didn’t quite make the friend cut (you know who you are too)—well, Carol would like to extend a posthumous invitation to go ahead and kiss her collective ass.

A special thank you to Marla Wells for being with Carol in her final hours—though let’s be real, Carol was probably cracking jokes and giving side-eye the whole time.

A celebration of life will be announced soon, and trust us, you do not want to miss it. There will be stories, music, laughter, and yes, probably a few gnomes making an appearance.

In Carol’s words (probably): “Don’t cry for me. Unless the wine’s gone. Then cry a little. But make it quick.”