It's hard to measure impact the way DeDe Irvin has lived it. There's no job title for what she does, no neat category of service to explain the way she has poured decades of care into Litchfield's children, teachers, and families. She's never had kids of her own, but she has raised, guided, comforted, taught, and encouraged so many that it's almost impossible to imagine the district without her steady, joyful presence. And if you ask her where it all began, she'll trace it back not to a plan but to a moment of being needed—and her instinctive decision to step forward.

Long before she became "Miss DeDe" to generations of students, she was Frieda, working as a purchasing manager at Echlin Manufacturing. The nickname came from her nephew—a little boy who couldn't pronounce "Frieda" and settled on "DeDe" instead. He passed away a few years ago — too young, but the name he gave her stuck, carried forward by everyone who's known her since. It's the name that now echoes through hallways, at Walmart, at basketball games, everywhere she goes.

Her path to the schools began when that same nephew joined the military and his wife followed, leaving their newborn daughter Petra in need of care. DeDe's workplace was also shifting in ways that didn't sit right. She was being asked to fire strong employees nearing retirement simply because their benefits had become inconvenient. "That wasn't my cup of tea," she said. So she retired early and began traveling back and forth to Oklahoma, caring for Petra for weeks at a time. When the family eventually moved back to Litchfield and Petra started first grade, the school was looking for volunteers. "I'll do it," DeDe said. Twenty-four years later, she hasn't stopped.

She stepped into book fairs, then took them over. She ran PTO. She became the organizer of the high school post-prom committee. She helped in classrooms across multiple buildings, always going where she was needed most. Though she was offered paid positions over the years, she consistently turned them down. "If I take a job," she said, "then I can't do what I do for all the schools." But she did accept one role—Title I—only because federal rules required it to be paid. When they explained that to her, she had a question ready: "You can't tell me what to do with the money I get, can you?" She uses it as she sees fit, never letting compensation influence her service.

Her work extends far beyond the school day. She's part of the heart behind the district musical, working closely with Cassie, Paige, Emily, Ellis, and Taylor—"We're like a family," she said. Scripts, programs, costumes, logistics—she handles the thousand small details that transform a school auditorium into something magical. She watches Cassie's kids one day a week. Henry used to stand next to his mom at jazz band rehearsals and conduct, arms waving. "We've got a video," DeDe laughs. "It's hilarious."

And she organizes the Holiday Shop, where kids can buy small gifts for their families. DeDe and her board refuse to profit from it. "We don't want to make a profit. We want it to be for the kids to come in and shop and have fun." For those who can't bring money? She runs a discreet drawing. "We don't want the kids to feel like, oh, I don't have any money," she said. At her shop, every child belongs.

Her husband Lloyd has been her partner in every step of service. He's the long-haired kid from the garage band who tried to talk to her at practice and got ignored. When her friend tricked her into riding with him to the drive-in, DeDe wasn't happy. At the end of the night, Lloyd asked, "Could I kiss you?" She was 20 years old. Her response: "My mother wouldn't like that." They've been married 43 years.

When the glass factory closed, and Lloyd came home devastated, he made a decision that changed everything: "I'm going into the medical field." He became a registered nurse doing dialysis. Now, people stop them in public to thank him for caring for their loved ones. "God put me right where I need to be right when I needed to be there," DeDe said. It's a belief both she and Lloyd have lived into beautifully.

Kids recognize her everywhere—Walmart, McDonald's, ballgames. Some with beards, some holding babies of their own. "Hi, Miss DeDe!" they call out. And she lights up every time.

"I'm right where I should be," she said near the end of our conversation. "I absolutely love it."

Litchfield loves her right back.