I had already known Susan Otto for about 17 years when I moved into her step-grandmother’s (and mother-in-law’s) house on her family’s farm for 14 months. It was the perfect arrangement, as 96-year-old Florence needed a companion in the house, and I needed a place to live while I was building PerryWood. Susan and Ray would come for dinner about five times a week, and her neighborhood reports were always the centerpiece of the dinner table—she was a keen harvester of information and collector of stories, with knowledge about everyone and everything, ranging from whose cows broke out of the fences to who was a new grandmother to whose kids made the high school honor roll. I will deeply miss the cadence of her entertaining stories.

Although as a child Susan grew up on the wide-open pastures of the Brown dairy farm, her adult heart lived in the forest on Pucky Huddle Road, in the house her husband built. Tucked into the woods, she delightfully shared her home with all of the forest animals. What we had most in common was that we both treasured the intimacy of our respective audiences with the deer, the fox, the owls, the bears, the turkeys and all the other creatures we shared our habitat with.

Susan had both a heart and home that opened easily: to friends, neighbors and particularly to any stray that crossed her path. When I found and trapped two abandoned baby raccoons, she transported them to her house and cared for them until they could repatriate back into the woods. Rudy, the surviving sibling, continued to grace her with his appearance for several years thereafter. Two years ago, when a stray calico wandered to my door, Susan gleefully adopted it and made it part of her family. And yes—that was her Subaru with the “I brake for turtles” bumper sticker proudly displayed.

Susan’s signature look of a T-shirt or sweatshirt with a strand of pearls was an accurate reflection of who she was—one moment catching up with the neighboring farmers about the hay harvest, and the next, speaking fluent French to her international tax client. She moved through life unpretentiously, with a sunny smile and a childlike optimism.

Our community has lost a light—one that shined brightly, proudly, steady and true. Susan’s spirit lingers in the woods she loved, in the animals she cared for, in the music she played in church every Sunday, and in the hearts of those who knew her. The next time you see a turtle crossing a quiet country road, get out of the car and help it cross—Susan will be smiling down upon you!

This tribute originally appeared on Facebook. It is printed here (with minimal editing) with permission from the author.