Mary Beatrice Guild Lowry wasn’t just my grandma; she was the grandma. My dad’s mother died five years before I was born, so Grandma Lowry carried the whole title by herself. Truth is, she was more than enough to fill the role for three families.

Everything about Grandma’s five-by-five-foot frame was loud, sassy, and in charge. Her confident voice was slightly nasal, slightly gravelly, and impossible to ignore. Grandma always carried a faint aroma of day-old coffee, homemade chicken-and-noodle soup, and a topical ointment. A pair of cat-eye glasses perched high on her long, narrow nose, and behind them, her blue-gray eyes twinkled with mischief. If those eyes didn’t give her away, her cackling laugh did.

Her own mischief began on a stormy Oklahoma night in July 1901. While she was still an infant, her parents traded Oklahoma mud for Indiana mud and returned to Pulaski County to farm among kin.

In December 1924, Grandma married Ogle Lowry, an area laborer and farmhand whose easygoing nature matched her high spirits. They laughed a lot, worked hard, and raised six children. My mom, Carol Maude (“Maudie”), was the third oldest.

In the 1940s, Medaryville, Indiana, named Grandpa their new sheriff, and the family moved to town. Grandma’s resounding laugh and sharp tongue soon made them fixtures of Medaryville life.

Grandma’s lifelong pursuits were raising their youngest child, Ellie, born with Down syndrome; knitting yarn-based creations by the mile; and dashing off thousands of letters. Many of them were destined for my family in northwest Iowa.

Grandma died in 1984, but we still talk about her like she’s sitting next to us. Whether dispensing advice (wanted or not), scolding mischief that she probably started, or laughing loudly at bad jokes, she did what grandmas do: linger, whether in person or in memory. Through her letters, she spent her life ensuring everyone knew what was going on. Judging from how often we still quote her, mission accomplished.