To her family and those who knew her, Dalyce Curry was not simply a grandmother or a neighbor — she was “Momma Dee,” a vibrant soul who lived her 95 years with flair, elegance, and quiet determination. When fire swept through Altadena last week during the devastating Eaton Fire, it took with it not just a home, but nearly a century of living history.

Born in 1929 in Little Rock, Arkansas, Curry was a product of her time and also far ahead of it. From the start, she carried a personality far too large for the narrow expectations often placed on Black women in early 20th-century America. As her granddaughter and namesake Dalyce Kelley put it, “My grandmother still wore her big hair, glasses, nails, painted makeup. She was just fabulous, period.” And that fabulousness, it seems, never dimmed.

Drawn by dreams of the entertainment world, Curry eventually settled in Los Angeles, where she pursued opportunities in Hollywood—not as a headliner, but as someone who lived in the proximity of its magic. She backed up jazz legend Pearl Bailey on stage, danced as an extra in Cecil B. DeMille’s epic The Ten Commandments, and appeared alongside Diana Ross in Lady Sings the Blues. Her granddaughter recalls her grandmother’s pride in every small appearance. “It was a small part, but we were big proud,” Kelley said.

Perhaps more important than her film credits was the mentorship Curry received early in her Los Angeles journey. At a beauty salon in the 1950s, she met Nellie Crawford—known professionally as Madame Sul-Te-Wan—the first Black woman to sign a contract with a U.S. film studio. Crawford, seeing a spark in Curry, took her under her wing and proclaimed her a “goddaughter.” From that moment, Curry’s place in the fringes of Hollywood history was sealed.

But life was never only about the stage. In her later years, Curry trained and worked as a nurse, offering care to patients in convalescent homes and private households across Los Angeles. She chose to use her maiden name professionally, carrying a piece of her identity into every chapter of her life. She raised one son and later became the beloved matriarch to a family that included seven grandchildren and many great-grandchildren.

Her final hours came quietly but tragically. On the night of her death, she had just returned from a hospital visit after experiencing dizziness. Kelley drove her home around 11:30 p.m., and while flames from the Eaton Fire glowed in the distance, the power in her neighborhood was on, and there were no warnings to evacuate. Kelley, trusting that all was calm, dropped her grandmother off and promised to check in.

Hours later, that sense of calm was shattered. A flurry of messages on the neighborhood text chain began flooding Kelley’s phone around 5:30 a.m., asking if her grandmother had gotten out safely. Rushing back to Altadena, Kelley found roads blocked by police and learned from officers that her grandmother’s cottage had burned to the ground.

The next few days were agonizing. Kelley searched through shelters, hoping for news. Four days later, the Los Angeles Coroner’s Office confirmed the worst: Curry was one of at least 25 victims who perished in the fire.

Among the ashes, almost nothing remained. Generations of family photographs, mementos, letters, and keepsakes were all destroyed. But one object survived untouched: a midnight blue 1981 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. The car hadn’t run in years, but Curry had cherished it. She often spoke of fixing it up and renting it out to film productions seeking authentic 1980s props. In a strange twist of fate, that dream still sits quietly intact.

Kelley says her grandmother’s spirit endures—not only in family memories but in the example she left behind. “She had this light, this strength,” Kelley said. “And she always told us, ‘Nothing is as bad as it seems, even at its worst.’”

It’s a mantra that resonates especially now, as families across Southern California mourn loved ones and face the monumental task of rebuilding. For Kelley and her family, the loss is personal, but the message remains universal.