September 21, 1931 - December 19, 2025
Nancy Lucille Brofford
Age 94, of Bloomington. Survived by children, Elaine Brofford, Chip Brofford, Karl Wilder, Eric (Amy) Brofford and Tom (Theresa del Rosario) Ett; grandchildren, Jordan Ett, Linnea Ett, Quincy Lewis, Drew (Jessica) Bolstad, Elyse Brofford and Owen Brofford; other loving relatives and friends. Preceded in death by parents, G. Harold and Mable Ett; siblings, Claire Magerlein, Jean Gilmore, Phyllis Thorne and Allen Ett.
Funeral Service
Tuesday, December 23, 2025
4:00PM
Visitation 1 hour prior
Mt. Calvary Lutheran Church
6544 16th Avenue South
Richfield, MN 55423
Interment
Private
Bloomington City Cemetery
10340 Lyndale Avenue South
Bloomington, MN 55420
I’m so terribly sorry to hear about the loss of my beloved aunt and godmother. My deepest condolences to my cousins and your families. You will be in my thoughts and prayers. ❤️
So saddened to hear of your mom’s passing, Tom. May you find peace in the memories you shared. She will always live in your heart and mind. —Sue G
Love and hugs to you all. Such a lovely woman your mom was. She was always so kind to me.
So sorry for your loss. Blessings to all during this time of reflection and celebration. We have such fond memories of Nancy and all her years working for Dave at AAL.
I have not seen my Aunt Nancy for years, but spoke to her a few years ago after a long hiatus. She was Mom’s youngest sister and my favorite aunt. My earliest memory of her was my Mom and I going to meet her for lunch one day in Columbus when I was maybe 7-8 years old. I remember her kindness and warm smile. I always liked seeing her at the Ett family reunions my grandparents hosted and I will always have the fondest of memories of her.
Hal Thorne
I am so sorry to hear of Nancy’s passing. She was a generous friend who was always willing to help and support others and a great scrabble player. My deepest sympathy to all of you. You are in my thoughts and prayers.
So sorry to learn of Nancy’s death. Condolences to he family. Nancy and I worked in the same building and became good friends.
I am so sorry to hear of Nancy‘s passing, and our most sincere condolences go out to Tom, Eric, Chip, Karl and Elaine. Nancy was a kind and generous soul, and a loving aunt and Lou and I will always remember her coming to our wedding in 2017. We will miss her greatly.
Dear Ma,
It has been just over a month since you died, and Sundays are the hardest, because Sundays were ours. When I began working in travel, you insisted I write to you every Sunday, no matter where I was, just to tell you where I had landed and that I was safe. Your age never softened that instinct. You were still my mother, still needing to know where your child was in the world, still needing reassurance that all was well. Those emails became a kind of diary, my way of anchoring myself to you, even after your vision failed, and Tom had to read to you, and you could no longer reply. I kept writing anyway, telling you about my business, the people I met at book signings, what I was cooking for dinner, because from the day I was born, you were the one constant in my life, and sharing it with you felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Your funeral was hard in a way I did not expect. The pastor would not allow the family to speak, and instead delivered a sermon that somehow twisted your love of owls into a metaphor for sin. It was confusing, hollow, and painfully detached from who you actually were, the kind of logic that only works inside rigid belief systems and collapses when applied to a real human life. It was not the eulogy you deserved.
If I had been allowed to speak, I would have told them about a happy child in Ohio who was her daddy’s darling. I would have told them about the moment, at sixteen, when you truly understood the depth of your own mother’s love, when she showed up for you in a way you never expected and never forgot. I would have told them about a young woman working as a school secretary who adored Broadway and musicals, who travelled to New York whenever she could to see shows like The Most Happy Fella and My Fair Lady, which you loved so much you went to the matinee and then turned around and bought a ticket to see it again that very night. I would have told them how your lifelong love of Carol Burnett began with Once Upon a Mattress, and how we sat together on Saturday nights watching The Carol Burnett Show, laughing side by side; those hours became some of my happiest memories of us.
I would not have spoken about the abusive man you married because he did not define your life. You did. You defined it when you divorced him, when you took back control, when you worked three jobs to pay off debts and start over again at nearly fifty. I would have told them how deeply I respected you for that strength, for choosing dignity over fear and rebuilding your life on your own terms.
I would have told them about my birthday morning, when Beauregarde woke me early to go outside, and we found you in the kitchen after only three hours of sleep, quietly making both my favourite pie and cinnamon rolls so I could have them for breakfast. Seeing you there, exhausted and determined, made me feel profoundly loved in a way I have never forgotten.
I might have told them about the day I refused confirmation in your religion, and how you not only allowed it, but after the service, when the others in my class were confirmed, you came home and told me how proud you were of me. You said you had raised your children to think for themselves, that you did not agree with my decision, but you respected me for standing by it and being my own man. Then you smiled that sly smile of yours and added, “Coffee hour was fun,” letting me know, without ever saying it outright, that you had defended me to anyone who dared comment.
But I did not get the chance to say any of that.
What we did have was time to say goodbye. Because of Tom, we were given a full week, and I drove to see you twice a day. We went out for breakfast, where you ordered your favourite pancakes, and days later shared a Reuben for lunch. You told me you usually ordered a Rachel, the turkey version, but that day the Reuben really hit the spot. At the end of that week, we both believed it was the end. You hugged me tightly and sang “I’m So Glad We Had This Time Together,” both verses, and I told you how much I loved you before walking to the car and crying for an hour. I thought that was our final goodbye.
But a few months before you died, Tom and Theresa were married, and I went. It was wonderful to see you dressed up, your nails perfectly matched, even though it was painful to watch how difficult it was for you to climb the stairs. We hugged one last time, and you whispered in my ear, “Do you remember our song?” I sang the one line to you, and we said goodbye again.
After your funeral, Tom and Theresa hosted a dinner, and all five of us were in the same room for the first time in fourteen years. There was no fighting, no bitterness, no old wounds reopened. We each had a different relationship with you, but we were all careful, gentle, and united by the one thing we shared: we loved you deeply.
I am not a sin, and you were not a sinner. None of us truly knows what happens when someone leaves this world, but I know this with certainty: you are alive in my heart.
I inherited your blue suitcase. Now you will travel with me, as you always have, carried with me wherever I go, just as you are carried in my heart.
I just learned about Nancy’s passing. My vision is not what it used to be, and my health aide had to read to me and write for me. I am 97 now and still in Santee. I knew Nancy when she was a newlywed, and Karl lived with my mother, Evelyn, when Bob would not allow him in the trailer. He called her grandma until you all moved to Kansas. I babysat Elaine and Chip often, as did my mother.
Kids, if you are reading this, your mother was the strongest woman I have ever known, and she loved her children more than life itself. What she endured is beyond words. She had courage like I have never known in another woman.
We weren’t so good at keeping in touch; I last spoke to Nancy maybe 40 years ago. It was so nice to know that she built the life she wanted after divorcing that beast. You, kids, take care.