Introducing Yolande Annie Biver

Yo Was Her Name, Yellow Roses Her Joy

A Glimpse into the Life of Yolande Annie Biver

If you grew up in the 35th Street house, you knew it by the sound of 10 kids playing and the quiet strength of a woman named Yolande Annie Biver — or just “Yo” to those who loved her.

Born in Phoebus, Virginia, on August 26, 1933, Yolande was the daughter of French immigrants who built their American dreams on grit and grace. She grew up with sisters, laughter, and a little mischief, eventually joining the Future Homemakers of America and graduating from Hampton High.

At just 18 years old, she married Louis Miller in Indianapolis. Together, they raised ten children in a tiny three-bedroom house — a space bursting with bunk beds, old school lockers, sibling scuffles, and fierce love. Even after Louis left the home but continued to support the family financially, Yo never once abandoned her values. As a devout Catholic, she remained faithful to her vows — and to her role as a mother, grandmother, and quiet matriarch.

She was strict, but she loved purely and deeply. She favored yellow roses, and if you were lucky enough to get a glimpse of her rare smile, you’d remember it for a lifetime.

When she passed away on February 28, 2009, she left behind ten children, 25 grandchildren, and 45 great-grandchildren. Her impact echoes not just in names and dates — but in values passed down, stories still told, and the sacred memory of her gentle fire.

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🕊 Visit Yolande’s Full Family Page

Want to see more photos, records, and details from Yolande’s life?
👉 Click here to visit her Family Page

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🌼 Living Memory: A Daughter-in-Law Remembers Yolande

What the records don’t say—the glances, the inside jokes, the fierce devotion—it all lives here, carried in the hearts of those who knew her best. The following reflections come from Yolande’s daughter-in-law, though in truth, that distinction likely wouldn’t have mattered much to Yo. If you were family, you were family. Period.

She was…

Strong. Helpful. Loving.
Not the loud kind of love—but the kind you felt. The kind that looked at you, really looked, and said everything that words didn’t need to. She was quiet, serious even—but behind that calm exterior was a wicked sense of humor and a secret weapon: those pinching fingers.
Yes, you read that right. She had a habit of pinching your nipples and thinking it was adorable. It hurt, but you’d both laugh. There was no escaping her particular brand of affection.

She was introverted, but when kids were near, her whole being lit up. Her heart smiled in the company of family. Her door was never locked. You didn’t call ahead. You just walked in. That smile of hers? Always ready.

She loved yellow roses and the song of birds in the morning. Spring was her season. Not loud or showy—just quietly blooming, resilient, full of life.

Though she dressed in comfort, her spirit was tailored in strength. She cooked. She sewed. She crafted. And if you so much as showed a flicker of interest? She was already teaching you how. Canning, cooking, stitching—these were sacred arts in her hands.

She was a disciplinarian, a caretaker, a commander of order, raising ten children largely on her own after her husband Louis moved away. Still, they never divorced. Her faith in him never faltered. She told the kids for years that he’d come back. She believed it. When he died, she called in tears. That was her sorrow—the deep kind, the kind that doesn’t need to be spoken.

But children were her joy.
They were always the sun she turned her face toward.

She had no time for fear, but she carried worry like any mother would—for her children, their futures, their safety. Her love was mostly shown through actions. She stitched it into quilts, cooked it into stews, packed it into school lunches, and tucked it beneath blankets.

And oh—she laughed.
Even when a mischievous daughter-in-law stuck a bright orange “fresh produce” sticker to her backside in the Kroger aisle, and she walked the whole store with it… she laughed. She called home, half-scolding, half-giggling, pretending to be angry—but her mirth betrayed her.

She didn’t talk about music after Louis left. The house was full enough already—with stories, with movement, with life. But she shared memories of her sister often. They were close. And she dreamed of buying her childhood home again someday, maybe to live in it part-time. A dream not forgotten, only paused.

She was close with Doris, the next-door neighbor. And yes, one day her daughter-in-law brought her flowers that “looked just like the ones Doris grows.”
“…They are,” she confessed.
Yolande wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be mad.
She chose laughter.

She was deeply respected in her family and community—not for being loud or flashy, but for being steadfast. For holding it all together. For making home wherever she stood.

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🧵 Bonus Memory: The Craftswoman of the Kitchen Table

Yolande loved to teach.
If you sat next to her long enough, she’d place a spoon or a needle in your hand and say, “Here, let me show you.”

She taught canning, cooking, and crafts to any grandchild or guest who showed the slightest interest. Her lessons weren’t loud, but they stuck. And they still linger in family recipes, hand-stitched ornaments, and preserved peaches that taste like sunlight in a jar.

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💬 Share Your Memories

If you called her Ma or felt the warmth of her table, we invite you to share your own memories in the comments below. What did Yolande mean to you? What did she teach you? What still makes you laugh?

This page is not just a tribute—it’s an invitation. Let’s keep the yellow rose blooming. 💛

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