Rockford’s grandmother started sending me obituaries in 2007. I’d been reading “The Dead Beat: Lost Souls, Lucky Stiffs, and the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries” at her house, and we’d talked about how fascinating those brief biographies could be. She clipped obits from the Washington Post and sent them to me for years after that conversation.

She was thoughtful like that.

She renewed our subscription to Smithsonian magazine every year, and she used to send my sister-in-law $5 at the start of each Vidalia onion season so she could treat herself to a tomato and onion sandwich.

She was whip-smart, she was dignified, and she had impeccable manners. I was intimidated the first time I met her. Not physically — although most of her children and grandchildren are from my vantage point very tall, she didn’t tower over me — but she had a Presence. Being around her felt like what I imagine being around Maya Angelou feels like.

She knew Rockford loved her cinnamon applesauce, so she made sure she always had a fresh batch when he visited. She welcomed most of the staff of our college newspaper into her house one year when we went to D.C. for a conference. She’d stocked the house with all sorts of treats before we arrived.

She was kind and generous like that.

She was a kindergarten teacher. She loved her family fiercely. She loved to read, she was devout and active in her church, and she was always learning new things.

She passed away on Saturday. I’ll miss her.