Karla Kay “Yoda” Koschkee Baker
Karla Kay “Yoda” Koschkee Baker, age 78, made her final wildly inappropriate remark, rolled her eyes at the general state of humanity one last time, and departed this life today, October 19, Year 2026. Having outlived many expectations—including several of her own—Karla finally traded in her worn-out earthly frame forget whatever great adventure comes next. Her family suspects she is currently somewhere beyond the stars enjoying buttered corn on the cob, a cinnamon roll (or four), a towering mug of Pepsi packed with too much ice, and either reorganizing a heavenly library or overwatering celestial tomatoes while muttering that nobody else knows how to do things properly.
Born in 1948 to Ona LaVonne (Oates) and Carson Alfred Koschkee in Fennimore, Wisconsin, Karla arrived with a sharp wit, a stubborn streak, and absolutely no intention of ever blending quietly into the background. Though her two older brothers, Larry and Bill, might argue otherwise, Karla remained the undisputed favorite child. Family stories still survive about her knocking Larry flat after he read her diary and pushing Bill down the stairs for brutalizing her stuffed animals. Justice, in Karla’s world, was swift, personal, and usually deserved.
She grew up in the Midwest where summers were golden, winters were merciless, and children learned resilience whether they wanted to or not. Karla later graduated from Wauwatosa West High School before making her way to Milwaukee, where she briefly married Karl Koletta. That chapter ended quickly, proving Karla had standards after all.
Later, while working at Allied Van Lines in Waukegan, Illinois, she met Jack William Baker—a truck driver with charm, persistence, and enough audacity to woo her with stacks of books instead of flowers and candy. Falling for a traveling man meant signing up for a life full of chaos, cross-country adventures, constant moving, improvised solutions, and hearing “we’ll figure it out” far more often than any reasonable person should tolerate. But she loved him anyway. Most days.
Together they built a life that was rarely easy, frequently ridiculous, and held together through stubbornness, laughter, resilience, and aggravating one another for sport. Their marriage eventually ended, but the bond between them never completely disappeared. In Jack’s final years, Karla still showed up with favorite foods, commissary money, little comforts, and quiet acts of care. Because beneath all the muttering, sarcasm, scoffing, and exasperation, love remained.
Of course, love in their household often looked a lot like psychological warfare. Jack, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, had a habit of sneaking home early from out-of-state jobs hoping to catch everyone off guard and bask in the confusion he created. One particular occasion, coworkers betrayed him and phoned ahead with a warning. Karla and Shandell immediately got to work. By the time Jack swaggered through the door expecting to surprise everyone, the house had been transformed into evidence of an elaborate secret escape plan: maps spread across tables, fake reservation notes, suspiciously highlighted travel routes, and enough staged chaos to strongly suggest that it did not include him. Jack got magnificently bent out of shape. Karla, meanwhile, could barely contain her delight. The prank was considered one of the family’s finer achievements. Jack preceded her in death in 2015.
Karla often said she wished she had spent less time buried in paperwork, obligations, and everyone else’s nonsense and more time reading books and seeing the world. Yet even amid ordinary struggles, she created an extraordinary life. When money was tight—and it often was—Karla could stretch a dollar farther than basic economics should have allowed using equal parts creativity, grit, stubbornness, and what her family lovingly describes as “Midwestern resourcefulness.”
While living in Cedar Springs for the past decade, Karla became something of a neighborhood legend affectionately known as “Grumpy Granny Karla.” She had absolutely no patience for rude behavior, bullying, or what was referred to as “feral nonsense.” She never softened an honest opinion whether anyone requested it or not, and neighborhood children quickly learned that if Grumpy Granny caught you being unkind, you were about to receive a blunt life lesson delivered with alarming accuracy. A many a stick were confiscated. Beneath the grumbling exterior was someone who quietly protected underdogs and believed kindness mattered deeply.
Her sense of style leaned heavily toward comfort and complete disregard for fashion trends. She preferred holey canvas shoes, soft t-shirts, and clothes suitable for gardening, reading, or disappearing into the yard with a Pepsi mug full of ice. She loved sunshine, chocolate-covered peanuts, Downton Abbey, libraries, and truly good food. She firmly believed burgers should be cooked properly, BLTs required mayonnaise, and vegetables deserved more respect than most people gave them—especially sweet corn, vine-ripened tomatoes, and Brussel sprouts. If Karla had earned a penny for every taco she made over the course of her lifetime, she would have died a billionaire. She was an unapologetic ice cream addict and food purist who considered bad cooking a personal offense.
Books accumulated around Karla in dangerous architectural formations. Librarians knew her by name. She devoured novels by the stack, especially well-written romances. She loved stories in every form: sweeping historical dramas, comedies, action-adventures, and science fiction epics. She adored Indiana Jones, laughed hard at good comedy, and had a particular fondness for Guardians of the Galaxy—especially Volumes 1 and 2.
Karla’s gardens were beautiful and usually just one step away from overtaking the space entirely, except the year of the chickens. That was the last time she ever suggested to Jack she needed fertilizer. Last summer, she famously bonded with a praying mantis while simultaneously contributed to rotting out the deck posts by watering her beloved plant wonderland. In Karla’s defense, the flowers looked fantastic.
Karla considered herself something of an environmentalist and firmly believed very few things should ever be thrown away if they could still be “useful someday.” Old jars, bottles, containers, tins, baskets, and assorted mysterious objects were lovingly repurposed into watering stations, gardening helpers, storage systems, and ambitious future craft projects throughout the house. To outsiders it may have looked chaotic, but to Karla it was possibility waiting patiently for its moment.
More importantly than anything else, Karla loved her family with fierce devotion. When her daughter was little, Karla woke an hour early every morning simply to cuddle her awake before school. She made every place home no matter how often life forced them to move. She showed love not through grand speeches, but through sacrifices, practical kindness, shared laughter, remembering favorite foods, and making sure everyone else was okay first.
Even as age and illness slowed her body, Karla continued searching for joy wherever she could find it. She traveled when possible, laughed often, gardened when she was able, read endlessly, and treasured the people she loved most. In 2026, she made one final “freedom drive” to Marshall, Michigan, staying at a historic hotel she had dreamed of visiting for years. Karla firmly believed that if you wanted to do something, you should go do it before life decided otherwise.
Karla leaves behind a family who loved her deeply and who will forever hear her voice in every sarcastic observation, every practical solution, every garden row, every good book, and every cold Pepsi poured over too much ice on a summer afternoon. She is survived by daughter Shandell Napieralski (Michael VanZyl), step daughters Tracy (Jim Orzula) and Pam (Danny Joe Smith); grandchildren Zoë Napieralski, Genevieve K. VanMalsen (Michael Hyde), Kathryn L. VanMalsen (Landen Hess), and Robert C. VanMalsen II, Sadie Schoenborn Henry, Mark Schoenborn, Samantha Ryfiak Justiniano, Tyler Ryfiak, David Delore, Serena Weedall, and Cody Weedall; and great-grandchildren Jace the Ace, Cal the Pal, and Sam the Man—who she firmly believed should have been named “Jack Jack”, and many more that we hadn’t been granted permission to list.
There will be no formal viewing, largely because her family refused to honor her request to be displayed standing upright on the porch, surrounded by plants, with a Pepsi in one hand and a stick in the other “so people could remember me correctly.” Instead, the family invites you to porch sit awhile, drink something cold, tell honest stories, and remember the good.
In lieu of flowers, Karla would strongly encourage you to read more books, take the trip, eat the dessert, grow something beautiful, and stop wasting time folding fitted sheets properly. Life is shorter than it looks.
