Phyllis “June” Kerns

If you’re reading this, then buckle up—because this isn’t your typical, somber farewell. She wouldn’t have wanted that—and let’s be honest, she probably would’ve rolled her eyes at the very idea of a quiet, tearful gathering. No, she wanted a party. A proper celebration with cocktails flowing, laughter echoing, and stories that are just the right amount of inappropriate to make you wonder, “Did that actually happen?” (Yes, it did.)  
 
She was a one-of-a-kind woman—a force of nature with flawless hair, perfect makeup, and jewelry that could blind you on a sunny day. Men lined up for her attention, drawn in by her beauty—but they stayed for her sharp wit and the unexpected joy of hearing a perfectly timed cuss word drop from someone who looked like she belonged at a royal gala.  
 
Born with enough grit to outlast any storm, she grew up surrounded by seven siblings, where love came with a little chaos and a lot of heart. From those early days, she lived by one simple rule: Treat everyone the way their mama would want them to be treated. And if you crossed that line? Well, she’d remind you—with love, sass, and zero hesitation.  
 
Her life wasn’t ordinary—she wasn’t ordinary. She raised her child solo, hustled through every challenge, and wasn’t afraid to dive headfirst into something new—whether that meant hitting the road for weeks as a traveling salesperson or making history by securing the first-ever Habitat for Humanity house in Marshall County.  
 
And then there was Vegas. Because of course, when she did love, she did it big. Married on Valentine’s Day (her fourth time, naturally), she spent the next month living it up with her husband—attending boxing matches, dining like royalty, and soaking in every glamorous, indulgent moment.  
 
When that chapter ended, she didn’t go quietly. No, she turned her divorce into something worthy of a John Grisham thriller—an eight-year battle of stubbornness and strategy that ended on her terms. He had to sign away his parental rights and agree to be banished from Marshall County. Yet, in true poetic fashion, they loved each other—deeply, (very) strangely, and fiercely—until the day he died.  
 
But her greatest pride wasn’t in court victories, sparkling nights, or wild adventures—it was her family. She was proud of raising her son Willie, who carried forward her strength, stubbornness, and entrepreneurial fire. When her granddaughter Brooke came along, life gave her a second act she treasured even more—becoming Grammy. From potty training to first bites and all the messy, magical moments in between, she was there—every step of the way.  
 
She leaves behind a family who adored her:  
Her sons, Willie & Ronnie, one of which made her proud almost every single day; her beloved daughter-in-law, Kristy; and her granddaughter, Brooke, who was the joy of her later years. She is also survived by her loving sisters—Shirley, Sandy, and Janice—who carry forward her spark, laughter, and memories.  
 
She joins in rest those she missed dearly: her brothers, Johnny and Dennis; her sister, Barbara; and her beloved mother, Mina Mae Smiley—no doubt ready for a joyful, rowdy reunion somewhere beyond this world.  
 
Her life was messy, beautiful, chaotic, and fully hers—lived boldly, unapologetically, and with a heart that loved hard and laughed louder.  
 
And because sadness just wasn’t her style, there won’t be a funeral. Instead, we’ll throw a party around Easter, celebrating both her and her brother the way they would’ve wanted—no tears, no silence, just vodka, laughter, and the kind of stories that make you laugh until you cry.  
 
Here’s how you honor her: Tell the wild stories that deserve to be shared. Raise a glass. And remember that she didn’t just live—she owned every damn second of her life.