Constance Mirambeau was a consummate survivor. She outlived two husbands, a house fire, and a diagnosis that was supposed to take her at sixty-seven. She died at ninety-two in the house on Habersham Street, a home she occupied long enough to make it an argument she finally won.

The azaleas she planted her first spring in Savannah have gotten completely out of hand; she would have been pleased about that. Born in Natchez and educated at the University of Louisiana, she spent her life arguing with books in the margins—a habit she never found a reason to quit.

She taught English for twenty years, providing students a model of someone who took ideas seriously. She kept George's reading chair until the end and never stopped recommending books, because some habits are simply the shape of a person. She is survived by Marie, Paul, and a great-grandchild she held twice.

Jim Featherstone taught history at Denfeld High School in Duluth for forty-one years. Not the dates—the argument underneath the dates. Students wrote him letters decades later, which he kept in a shoebox and never mentioned unless pressed. Born in Ironwood, Michigan in 1945, he served in the Army and joined the Denfeld faculty in 1973. He started the school's first Model UN program in 1988, which continues today. He was named Teacher of the Year in 1999 and used the distinction to skip the next two faculty meetings. He built furniture for all three of his children when they bought their first homes. His son Derek still uses the dining table Jim made in 2003, despite a leg repair Jim performed with wood glue and what Derek describes as excessive confidence. He is survived by his wife Carol; children Derek, Patricia, and Mark; and five grandchildren.

Gus Poplowski died at eighty-three, surrounded by family and, according to his son Dale, at least three things in the room he had repaired using methods no manufacturer would have endorsed. Born in Hamtramck, Michigan in 1940, he moved to Amarillo for pipeline work in 1965 and stayed because the wind reminded him that nature didn't care what he thought, which he found grounding. He made his chili from what he called "the formula" and refused to write it down. His wife Barbara had watched him make it so many times she could reproduce it exactly. When she told him this in 2019, he considered it carefully and said, "You're probably missing something". He is survived by Barbara, his wife of fifty-eight years; children Dale, Renata, and Steven; six grandchildren; and one great-grandchild who has already demonstrated a suspicious interest in taking things apart. Gus never met her, but everyone agrees she would have been his favorite.

Every morning for thirty years, Ruth Coberly made her coffee the same way. Two scoops in the old percolator, then out to the back porch in her robe—green metal chair, mountains coming up in the light. Her daughter Linda says she never seemed to be thinking about anything in particular. She was just there. Ruth was born in Laramie, Wyoming in 1938 and spent most of her adult life in Fort Collins. She worked as a bookkeeper for Larimer County for twenty-two years. She kept a spiral notebook by the telephone with every grandchild's schedule written in pencil, updated every Sunday. She showed up to all of it. She took up watercolor in her later years, gave the paintings away freely, and when asked why she kept painting if they weren't good, said the hour belonged entirely to her. She is survived by her children Linda, Gary, and Thomas; seven grandchildren; and two great-grandchildren she held before she died.