Viola Mildred Beyl

Viola Mildred Beyl — The Lady With the Laugh That Lingered

For the Beyl family, I will start with Viola Mildred Beyl.  Born just as the world was tilting into war, on a chilly February day in 1914, Viola Mildred Beyl arrived in Bartholomew County, Indiana. You may find her on records as “Viola,” but make no mistake — this gal went by Mildred. That name had spine. It had sass. It probably had a candy dish and a well-worn apron, too.

She came from a bakery family — her father, Edward, a foreman with flour on his sleeves, and her mother, Edna, the glue that held it all together. Mildred was one of the older Beyl siblings, nestled between her sister Margaret and little brother Charles.

By 1930, the Beyl household had grown — baby Mary Lou now part of the fold — and Mildred was blossoming into young adulthood. She was 16 when the Great Depression was in full swing, and while we don’t have diary entries or Polaroids, we can safely imagine she had a head full of curls, a strong sense of right and wrong, and a talent for spotting nonsense a mile away.

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Becoming a Buchanan

On May 25, 1935, at just 21 years old, she married Charles Beckett Buchanan — a young typewriter salesman with charm in his voice and ambition in his shoes. They lived in little apartments, the kind where every square foot meant something, and started building a life filled with resilience.

A year later, their daughter Barbara Ann was born, full-term, healthy, and undoubtedly wide-eyed like her mother. Charles had moved up the sales ladder by then, working for Smith & Corona. Mildred, likely managing motherhood and the domestic dance of the 1930s, held down the home front with grace.

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The Wander Years

They moved around — a lot. By 1942, they’d been out to Oregon, then back to Indiana. City Directories put them on Guilford Avenue, then Sherman Drive, then Ritter Avenue. (Mildred must have had a system for labeling moving boxes like a general planning a campaign.)

And then, much later in life — Florida.
The house on Allyn Drive, nestled beside the Gulf of Mexico. A boat in the backyard. Pool lessons in the Florida room. These are the fragments of memory we hold onto, sunlit and salt-kissed.

You remember her laugh.
You remember the boat.
You remember the feeling of home, wherever she made it.

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Final Chapter

Mildred passed away on January 21, 2000, just before the world tipped into another century. But her legacy lives on in her family, her stories, and the scent of something baking when the house is too quiet.

Her gravestone, Find A Grave memorial, and this living archive keep her memory grounded and growing.

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Got a story about Mildred?

Drop it in the comments — whether it’s a full memory or just a single word that reminds you of her.

Some people disappear when they die.
Others — like Mildred — stay baked into the very bones of who we are.

With affection,
~Kris

Karen says:
March 17, 2017 at 11:00 am
Mildred was a grandmother, a very sweet one. She was a fabulous cook and her Spanish Rice and homemade spaghetti and meatballs were legendary. I was always amused how she would prepare a plate for the dog before she fed the family, he even got a buttered dinner roll! She was also a great card player, a favorite pastime for her and Charles. She was one of those people that you always enjoyed seeing as she was smiling and genuinely happy to see you. She worked very hard taking care of the home and family as a quite old fashioned lady, by our standards today in 2017. We shared a habit that I didn’t know we shared until years after her death. Every new place she visited she brought home a rock and placed it in her garden. She could grow anything! As we walk through our gardens we remember those fond times, people, and places. Now as I walk through my garden I also remember my connection to Mildred.

Revisited by Bones

Originally published March 19, 2017 | Updated July 2025