Shirlee Oyen Famighette taught her family how to love unconditionally

Shirlee Famighette was loved by all who knew her.  She lived a long happy life.  Shirlee passed away at the age of 88, on June 1, 2024.  Her passing left a void in the hearts of her large family.

Shirlee and the love of her life, Don Oyen, were married in 1953.  Don passed away in November. 1994.

Together they raised six children:  Cyndi (Mike) Ilseman, Mark (Sue) Boozell, Rebecca (Joseph) Zammuto, Jayne (Greg) Ragan, Andy Oyen, (Linda) and Chip Oyen (Teri).

Shirlee is deeply missed and lovingly remembered by her family, including many grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

According to her children, the most important things in life to their mother was family and God.

“We had a great childhood. Mom and dad were so close.  We never heard them argue,” Rebecca said.

Don was the owner of the Highway Grocery Store in Machesney Park while the children were growing up.  All of the Oyen children were graduates of Harlem High School.

“Mom was also an accomplished dressmaker. She taught me how to sew,” Jayne said.  “She made dresses for all three of us girls, always in different colors.”

As her children got older, Shirlee began branching out, knitting, crocheting and making soft sculptured stuffed animals.  She was constantly working on some kind of craft that she either gave away or sold at craft shows.  All the money she made from her sewing hobbies was donated to her church, GPS Faith Community Church in Machesney Park.

Shirlee married George Famighette in 1998. "George was a wonderful companion for mom," Cyndi said. They traveled all over the world together before his death in 2021, at the age of 95.

George and Shirlee made their home in Roscoe.  They built a barn on the back of their property where the family got together frequently for Bible studies, music, games and fellowship.

Shirlee’s children remain close.  All live in Roscoe, not more than five miles from each other.  Being together and sharing memories of their parents is important to all of them.

An unknown author once wrote, “You never really stop missing someone dear to you.  You just learn to live around the hole of their absence.”