Turner Jenness Funeral Home In Spirit Lake Iowa

So, my aunt Mildred—the one who always wore turquoise and smelled like mothballs and peppermint—passed away last fall. The family was in a tizzy, trying to get her from Des Moines up to Spirit Lake, where she’d insisted on being buried next to her favorite fishing spot. We were lost. Then someone mentioned Turner Jenness Funeral Home. Honestly, I thought they’d just hand us a pamphlet and a bill.

But here’s the thing: they didn’t. The director, a calm guy named Mike, actually listened to my mom’s rambling story about Mildred’s prize-winning walleye. He didn’t flinch when my cousin asked if we could play “Fishin’ in the Dark” during the service. That was my first clue that this place was different.

Not Your Average Funeral Home

Spirit Lake is one of those small Iowa towns where everyone knows your dog’s name. You’d expect a funeral home here to be either stuffy or weirdly cheerful. Turner Jenness walks a tightrope between professional and genuinely human.

They’ve been around since, well, forever—the building looks like it’s been there since the 1920s. But don’t let the old-town charm fool you. Inside, it’s clean, modern, and surprisingly warm. No creepy organ music playing at low volume. Just nice people who smell like coffee instead of embalming fluid. (Side note: I checked. They have good coffee in the waiting room. Really good.)

The team there handles the whole “death paperwork” mess without making you feel like a burden. You know that horrible moment when you have to fill out a death certificate while crying? They just quietly slide you tissues and say, “Take your time.” It’s almost disarming.

The “Small Town” Superpower

What makes them stand out is their local knowledge. They know which cemetery has the drainage issue, which flowers don’t wilt in Iowa humidity, and—this is key—which restaurants will cater a funeral lunch without charging an arm and a leg. They’re like a concierge for grief.

Obituaries | BIg Country 107.7

I mean, Mike actually called the local VFW to arrange a military honor guard for a random veteran whose family had no idea how to do that. That’s not in the job description, is it? It’s the kind of thing you expect from a neighbor, not a funeral director.

And yes, they have a pet-friendly policy. My aunt’s golden retriever, Gus, sat by her casket the whole time. Nobody complained. Nobody. Try that at a corporate chain in Omaha. (Spoiler: you can’t.)

The “Death-Planning” Curveball

Here’s the ironic part: I actually visited Turner Jenness before my aunt died. Bored on a rainy Tuesday, I stopped in to ask about pre-planning—mostly to mess with my brother. The receptionist, a lovely woman named Deb, didn’t laugh at me. She sat me down and explained cremation costs and cemetery plots without any sales pitch.

She even showed me a sample urn that looked like a fishing tackle box. “For the anglers,” she said with a straight face. I almost signed up on the spot. That’s the vibe. They make you think about death like it’s just another appointment—one you can actually talk about without wanting to take a nap.

Our Facilities | Turner Jenness Family Funeral Homes

If you’re local, you probably already know someone who’s used them. If you’re not local, trust me: this is the kind of place you drive an hour for. For a funeral home, they’re refreshingly unfunereal. No religious pressure. No upselling of gold-plated caskets. Just a “we’ll figure it out” attitude.

The Real Takeaway

After Mildred’s service, my mom cried for maybe five minutes. Then Mike handed her a box of leftovers from the funeral lunch—ham, scalloped potatoes, and a slice of rhubarb pie. “Your aunt loved rhubarb,” he said. How did he know that? Because he asked. Because he listened.

That’s the whole secret. Turner Jenness doesn’t treat you like a customer. They treat you like a neighbor who’s having a terrible day. They’re the people you call when you don’t know what to do, and they answer the phone on the first ring. No automated menu. No “press one for death.” Just a real human voice saying, “How can we help?”

So if you ever find yourself in Spirit Lake with a lost loved one and a broken heart, do yourself a favor: walk into that old brick building on Highway 71. Bring a good story. Bring your dog. They’ll take it from there. And bring your appetite—because they might just feed you pie.