Carolyn Kyle was born on July 24, 1942, in Lancaster, in California’s Antelope Valley, the only child of farmers Thomas and Marjorie Kyle. She spent her earliest years roaming the Mojave Desert with a blind dog, a turkey, and a sheep as her companions. Solitude never frightened her; she grew up self-sufficient, imaginative, and precociously observant. By age three, she was playing piano, and by her teens, she was performing as a concert pianist and playing cello in her high school orchestra.

A rebel at heart, she chafed against the rigid 1950s long before she had the words for it. One favorite story: at a school assembly, she strode across the stage in shower shoes to accept a music award—her defiant footsteps echoing through the auditorium in violation of the dress code. It wasn’t a stunt; it was simply who she was.

Carolyn graduated from Antelope Valley High School at seventeen and soon joined the Marine Corps. After a posting to the military language school in Monterey, she became fluent in Swahili and later earned her bachelor’s degree in Anthropology from UC Berkeley. As a young mother living in Point Richmond, Calif., she supported her children partly by teaching piano and partly by ghostwriting papers for Berkeley students—an early demonstration of her formidable intellect and her determination to care for her family. Though they had very little money, they never felt impoverished. Carolyn had a way of making every birthday and holiday celebration much larger than her means allowed.

After graduate work at UC Hayward (now CSU East Bay), where she earned a master’s degree in Education and Psychology with a minor in art, she was selected—over more senior art students—to paint a mural in one of the university’s halls. The choice caused controversy; she accepted the honor with characteristic humor and quiet confidence.

Carolyn’s professional life unfolded mainly through teaching and administrative roles, including serving as an office manager at UC Berkeley, where she worked until retiring at 55. She taught writing to the Richmond police and adult education in Berkeley, and once coolly stared down a student who pulled a knife on her— much as she once stared down a rogue wave on the Eureka jetty. She met danger with an unnerving, almost amused stillness. Despite her formidable intellect, she never lorded it over anyone; she had a gift for making people feel heard and on equal footing.

In 1976, she married the love of her life, artist Irving Moskowitz, whom she met through the PTA. Their blended family—Carolyn’s children, Allene and Thomas, and Irving’s son, Marc—grew up together in Point Richmond, in a home filled with art, classical and African music, sharp wit, and the joyful chaos of holidays celebrated in both their traditions. Carolyn and Irving shared a playful, intellectually vibrant partnership marked by creativity, mutual respect, and deep, enduring affection. During those early years with the kids, she also perfected the art of smuggling giant bags of popcorn and candy bars into the Rialto Theatre in Berkeley for family movie nights—yet another act of rebellion born of a tight budget and a shared sense of fun (and snacks).

After the children were grown, Carolyn and Irving travelled widely in their camping van, then later their RV, exploring the West and Canada in search of a place that felt like home. They found it in Eureka, where they retired in 1999 for the redwoods, the ocean, and the thriving artistic and musical community. Irving’s passing in 2004 was a profound loss, but Carolyn continued to build a rich life in the city they loved together.

In Eureka, she became a vibrant force in the local early-music community. She volunteered with The Ink People and was instrumental in forming VRKA (Violas, Recorders, Krumhorns, and All), a group that performed for many years at venues including Arts Alive, the Morris Graves, the Chamber Players, and notably at Pierson’s annual Black Friday events. She arranged an enormous amount of music for the ensemble—so much that she eventually began composing her own pieces in her mid-60s. Her musical colleagues consistently describe her as the creative engine of their groups, the one who quietly made things possible.

Carolyn’s home was an extension of her creative mind: beautifully arranged, stylish on a budget, always evolving. Late in life, she could still be found nudging heavy furniture across the room using her secret technique—one that worried but impressed her daughter.

She loved nature, animals, and the quiet order of her surroundings. She was sharp, witty, often wickedly funny, and possessed of a private brilliance she never flaunted. She raised her children to be ethical, kind, generous, polite, and unabashedly creative—values she embodied by example.

Carolyn survived cancer once, and when it returned years later in another form, she met it with calm stoicism. She died peacefully in her sleep on November 12, 2025, in her own home, held by the life she built, with her husband’s art, the objects she cherished, and her children close by.

She is survived by her children, Allene and Thomas Rohrer; her stepson, Marc Moskowitz; and her cousins Frances Epson, Sharon Ashton, and David Davis, among many other extended family members. Her lifelong best friend, Carol Selinske, was by her side—spiritually if not physically—until the end, as she had been since third grade.

In keeping with her wishes, there will be no memorial service. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to cancer research. Her children extend their deep gratitude to Hospice of Eureka and to the team at St. Joseph’s Hospital—especially in the ICU—for their kindness, respect, and exceptional care.

Carolyn Kyle Moskowitz was a rebel, a scholar, a musician, an artist, a mother, a creator, and a woman of immense quiet strength. She leaves behind not just a body of work, but a way of seeing the world—curious, sharp-witted, and uncompromisingly her own.

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The obituary above was submitted on behalf of Carolyn Moskowitz’s loved ones. The Lost Coast Outpost runs obituaries of Humboldt County residents at no charge. See guidelines here.