Sue Biter was born to Emily and Floyd Hart in Westchester, Pennsylvania and raised in Dover, Delaware with her younger sister Nancy. She then met and married Cleon Biter and moved to Boulder, Colorado, where she resided until she passed away on December 3rd 2024.
Sue was a copywriter for catalogue and seed companies for many years. Following her divorce, her passion for gardening blossomed. Her yard was a vibrant canvas of flowers and vegetables. After becoming a Master Gardener, she extended her green thumb to the Boulder County Jail, where she volunteered, helping inmates enhance their gardening skills.
Along with gardening, Sue enjoyed playing bridge and tennis and was a talented seamstress. She was a devoted mother to three daughters Audrey (Richard), Barbara (Thomas), and Rebecca. In addition to her daughters, she is survived by her grandchildren Sandra Potter (Will), Katie Potter (Ewan), and Eric Kawczynski, and her great-granddaughter Evie Potter.
Her gentle spirit will be fondly remembered by all who knew her.
All my love, Mom. You’re kind and gentle nature will always be with me.
Thank you for growing our food while you were raising us up.
I am now entering the later phase of my life, and the beginning of my passion for planting. I hope I inherited your green thumb along with all the precious flowering plants from your garden.
Hey Mom, I wish you could be here with us this Christmas – both your granddaughters, their partners, your great granddaughter and even Evie’s other grandmother are all here with Rick and I. I’m thinking of you and wishing I could talk with you. I miss you.
Thanks for being my Mom.
Much Love, Audrey
Awww a better and more inclusive, funny, tender, seed, cutter and advice sharing neighbor there never was. Our life was so embellished by our friendships with sue and Mack, and the girls. Rest hon, the tilling and weeding are done, hoping you get to reap what you sowed 💋
Sue will forever hold a special place in my heart, so grateful to have been blessed to know her. Hugs to her amazing family 💜
Sue was a sweet and charming woman. I enjoyed hearing about her youth in Delaware. I loved seeing the flowers bloom in her yard every summer. She was immensely proud of her daughters. I will miss her.
You will always be with me! I am honored and lucky to have been part of your life.
You were always very welcoming to me and mine, from allowing Beck and I to take over your kitchen and make everything from taffy to pickles to allowing spur of the moment, surprise visits, whether Beck was in town or not. Thank you for being easy going, easy to talk to, and offering guidance.
Thank you Sue for being a trailblazer as a fiercely independent and sensitive woman and raising three amazing fearlessly independent and sensitive women.
You have blessed us all with the memory of flowers.
Aloha always
When I first moved in next door, I had no idea that I’d be gaining not just a neighbor, but a friend with the heart of a saint, the hands of a gardener, and the wit of someone who always knew when a good tomato pun could brighten your day.
Sue welcomed me like I was family. Within days, she was on my doorstep, arms full of vegetables fresh from her garden—zucchinis, tomatoes, cucumbers, and sometimes things I had to Google. “I grow more than I eat, and I like sharing better than storing,” she said, and that pretty much summed her up.
She was proud to call herself a Master Gardener—capital M, capital G—and had the business cards to prove it. I still remember the first time she showed me one: held it out like it was a VIP pass to the secret garden society. And honestly, it kind of was. If you needed to know how to make anything grow, whether it was basil or patience, she was the one to ask. Too bad that was wasted on me and my “rock garden.”
But what really amazed me wasn’t just her green thumb—it was her golden heart. She volunteered at the county jail, teaching incarcerated folks how to garden, giving them something to nurture and grow. She believed that everyone deserved a second chance and that sometimes, tending to a plant could be the first step in tending to yourself. That kind of hope doesn’t grow on trees—but it did grow in her.
And then there was her dog Mac. “Like Big Mac,” she’d say, each time I stumbled to remember, with a smile. He was her shadow, her sidekick, her four-legged best friend.
I’m so glad I had the chance to know her, to share stories over fences, and to learn that you really can grow kindness alongside tomatoes. I hope wherever she is now, she’s got good soil, a sunny spot, and a pup at her side. Maybe even a heavenly compost bin. She’d like that.
Rest well, neighbor. And thank you.