His Story
Bruce Alan Ross died peacefully on March 1, 2026, just four days shy of his 94th birthday.
Bruce was born in Denver, Colorado on March 5, 1932 — though not, technically, as a Ross. He came into the world as Bruce Alan Rosenbaum, the middle child of Marion B. Rosenbaum and Beatrice Lifshutz. His older brother Harvey Myron was about two years ahead of him. His younger sister Barbara Mae came about two years after. By his own account, Bruce was "probably the ugliest baby you ever wanna see in your life" — black and blue all over from a difficult delivery.
The family lived in Denver, at 2524 Glencoe Street near Park Hill School, and for a time in Greeley, where Bruce's father worked as a grocer. Bruce's earliest memories were a jumble of cousins, mischief, and the particular chaos of a large Jewish family in Depression-era Colorado. His grandmother Molly Lifshutz and her sister Fanny Lorber were women of consequence — together they helped found the National Home for Jewish Children in Denver, which grew over the decades into a major institution, which today is known as National Jewish Health. Bruce grew up surrounded by aunts, uncles, and cousins, including his cousin Dina, with whom he got into regular trouble. Once, the two of them snuck into a Catholic church across from their house and lit every candle in the place. When the church told his mother, she informed Bruce that if he ever did that again, he wasn't going to be Jewish anymore.
When Bruce was about seven years old, the family piled into a 1938 two-door car and drove to Miami. There were five of them crammed into that car — three kids fighting in the back seat. His mother bought them comic books to keep the peace.
It was somewhere on that drive that Bruce's parents told the children they were changing their name. Rosenbaum was becoming Ross. The reason was Jewish prejudice — his parents didn't want to deal with it in Florida, and they didn't want their children to have to either. Bruce was seven. He didn't care. "They could tell me my name was Shithead," he said later. "I wouldn't have cared." But the decision would echo through his life in ways none of them could have predicted.