Deborah Kay Horn

Deborah Kay Kiser Horn, age 64, passed away peacefully at home October 11, 2020 due to a short illness. She was born December 06, 1955 in Charleston WV. Her parents Ray and beloved Mary “Nellie” Kiser are both deceased. She married her accomplice and love of her life, Denver Horn, May 17, 1971. She is survived by her loving husband Denver Horn, sons Christopher Horn, Jason Horn, and Denver Horn II, grandchildren Kaleb Horn, Skyla Kay Horn, and Jaden Horn, daughter-in-law Crystal Sigmon, siblings Randall Kiser, Rita Eggleton, Juanita Crook, and James Kiser. She loved the outdoors. She was such a force of nature herself that we all believed she would be here to greet us forever, like the morning sun. But the sad truth is, even that great fiery orb’s last day will come, and when it does, the void created by its passing will be equal in grandeur to the feelings of loss among Debbie’s friends and family. She was a crack shot with a .22 long rifle. She could be sentimental at times and sharp as flint the next, but always with an ever-present sense of compassion. Which is to say, if she read a person the riot act they listened, not because refusing would have been at their own peril, (that’s debatable), but because they understood what she imparted was important and Debbie’s no nonsense delivery had a way of making one feel worthy of the effort to be schooled. She graduated from Ripley High School. She worked for several years as a nurse’s aide at Jackson General Hospital. And while she ultimately chose against following the career path of becoming a nurse, she never abandoned her love of caring for other people. As much of herself as she gave to kith and kin, she gave to friends and people in search of shelter from life’s storms. The axiom, she never met a stranger, held true with Debbie. She never encountered someone in need that she wouldn’t cook a meal for or take the time to sit down with and have a chat. She loved to read novels and share good author’s with fellow bibliophiles. She squirreled books away for each winter so she could enjoy the outdoors from the first hint of spring through the last days of autumn when she could always be found spending time with her pets and caring for her plants alongside her husband---a watchful eye cast in his direction, least a rhododendron be pruned too aggressively for her liking. She loved to cook for family and alongside family. She valued the importance of ensuring flavors from her youth be carried over to the next generation. One of the last things she cooked, her son Jason’s birthday cake, was the day before her first hospitalization. She had been feeling unwell and it took a herculean effort to bake that birthday cake, however, once she set into motion in her kitchen, nobody could stop her. Unsurprising behavior from a woman who made it her business every holiday to prepare an array of candies and savory treats that put Russell Stover and Bob Evans to shame. She loved a good board game and considered cheating fair game only when one was savvy enough to avoid getting caught. She laughed hardest and longest at family stories the greater the degree of awkwardness and embarrassment attached to the telling. Even, if stories were at her expense; such as when she had been practicing yoga and decided to “test herself,” as she put it, by climbing through fence gate slats on the family farm, and proceeded to trap herself so completely, it took half an hour before she escaped. Once, in the last days summer of a much quieter time, Debbie’s boys attended bible camp with thirty other country kids. Debbie organized an end of week cookout. At the cookout, adults busied themselves, lighting briquettes in two charcoal grills while the kids crossed the creek in front of the house and climbed en masse up the steep hill on opposite side to reach a cliff screened by oak trees. Before long, a boy found a slab of moss-covered sandstone and flipped it over and found, to his horror, neither nightcrawlers nor a bare patch, but a nest of yellow jackets. As the yellow jackets began attacking, the ensuing exodus of screaming country kids was a thing of epic proportions. They fled in all directions, those nearest the exposed nest leaping from the cliff, hitting the ground running, while others utilized the steep hill and fallen leaves to slither and slide on bellies and backsides down the impromptu slip-and-slide. Pell-mell, they forded the creek, still hectored and stung by enumerable yellow jackets, until they reached the yard where all the charcoal smoke repelled the attacking yellow jackets. Debbie, no stranger to life’s experiences, took the situation in stride, staring at forty wild eyed country kids barreling forward, her own boys among them, she did something unforgettable. She raised both arms and motioned the horde in her direction; especially stragglers who hadn’t noticed the yellow jacket free zone. Then Debbie, the veteran nurse aide, calmed everyone’s nerves. She administered home remedies to the wounded and reassured the frightened. Then, unfazed, the cookout continued. The hamburgers and hotdogs were cooked, plates piled high, followed by slices of watermelon, which led to a seed spitting contest and so much fun, if any yellow jackets remained, nobody ever bothered to look up to notice. Debbie’s most likely advice, for those fortunate enough to have known her, confronted by the misfortune of her sudden passing, and to all unfortunate enough to never had the chance to be fortunate enough to meet her, would be to remember that good times never just precede or follow the most bitter. They mingle. She’d tell us to face this unforeseen stress like her, with varying degrees of cheerfulness, spunk, and tenacity. And when that’s managed, she’d say to continue setting the table, because there will always be a call for good food, cooked with the greatest of care from the deepest chambers of the heart, to be eaten and savored to the fullest limit. Then she’d remind us there are stories to be shared, each infused with equal parts of love and happiness and the occasional---always unexpected---arrival of a yellow jacket swarm, all to be treasured for years to come. Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared. -Budda Debbie chose to have no services. Instead, think of her when winter nears and time comes to pull out squirrelled away books and delight in a good read. This last decade, she’s enjoyed West Virginia native, Craig Johnson’s, Walt Longmire mystery series. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made at www.hospicecarewv.org, or to the American Indian College Fund at www.standwithnativestudents.org