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By Los Angeles Times Staff

Updated

On Wednesday evenings in retirement, Richard (Dick) Rutledge would put on a bright purple dress shirt, a floral-print tie, white jeans and cowboy boots. With his wife, Norma, who wore a flared skirt that matched his tie, he was off to their weekly square dancing class, “Skirts and Flirts.”

In more ways than one, Rutledge and his wife were the perfect match. While their children remember their mother as the energetic, strict one in the house, Rutledge was the calm, steady presence who kept the family in balance.

“He kept us centered; he never got flustered,” his eldest son, Bill, remembered. “Everything was under control when he was around.”

When Norma died five years ago, Rutledge moved from their San Leandro home, eventually landing at Oakmont Senior Living in Folsom, where he contracted COVID-19. In mid-April, after the first case erupted at the home, almost all residents were tested. Rutledge, along with 17 other residents and three staff members, tested positive.

Two weeks went by without any symptoms, but suddenly his fever spiked and his breathing became troubled.

“It happened very quickly,” Bill said. “He just crashed.”

Rutledge died on May 6 at the nursing home with a hospice nurse by his side. His family, unable to enter due to COVID-19 restrictions, said their farewells the night before, through the window by his bed.

The 87-year-old was a rare third-generation San Franciscan, born into a small home in the Noe Valley district, and remained a Bay Area resident for most of his life. He attended Notre Dame University and went on to serve five years as a lieutenant in the U.S Air Force Reserve, after which he went back to school at UC Berkeley to earn an MBA. But soon after, with the early realization that computers would be the wave of the future, he enrolled at Holy Names College in Oakland to study mathematics and computer science, and then began his long career as a computer systems analyst for various companies.

His career, while successful, was more about pragmatism than passion. More than anything, he saw it as a reliable way to support his family, according to Bill. His children describe him as the ultimate family man, and a real people person.

“It sounds cheap to say, but it’s true: Everyone liked him,” Bill recalled.

Bill remembered a story that captures his father’s charm: Rutledge and his wife first met on a blind date in 1960. When he asked her, "Do you like chicken?" Norma said she did. Offering his arm, Rutledge said, "Grab a wing." A month later, they were engaged.

Survivors include his six children, Bill, Mary, Joyce, Robert, Stephen and Susan, and eight grandchildren. Due to restrictions on public gatherings, no funeral service is currently scheduled.

By Megan Botel

Jose Valero was an entrepreneurial child. Growing up in the small town of Jungapeo, Mexico, he discovered creative ways to make extra cash. Valero would set up shop outside the town’s famous spa, San Jose Purua, and sell pumpkin seeds, guavas and fresh herbs to tourists.

Valero spent his youth in Mexico. By the time he was 19, he had moved to East Los Angeles. He was working in a food truck near the famous 7th Street Produce Market when he met Pedro Astorga.

“He was selling mariscos and seafood,” said Astoga, the president of Listo Produce, a wholesale company with a stall in the 7th Street market. “He would come around the market and offer us ceviche or shrimp cocktail.”

Astorga recognized Valero’s determination and drive: “I said, ‘Would you want to work for me?’ He didn’t believe me! But ... that’s how we started working together.”

Valero loved the work and learning new skills. “He was so smart,” said Astorga. “He could just pick things up so quickly.”

Astorga was particularly impressed by how well Valero connected with others. “People would come to the market and look for him," he said. "They loved talking with him.”

Customers had a nickname for Valero. “They would call him ‘The Goose,’ or ‘Ganso,’” after soccer player Paulo Henrique Ganso, Astorga said, because of Valero's deep love of the sport.

Valero spent his weekends playing soccer with friends or rehearsing and performing music with his band, Pancho Villa. Valero’s specialty was a bass drum called la tambora. But his typical weekend activities changed 10 years ago, once Valero met Maria Isabel. The couple married and had two children, Ullisa, now 7, and Nicole, who was born just 8 months ago. They also raised Jose Luis, a 14-year-old boy Valero adopted from another family member who could not raise him.

As his family grew, Valero’s priorities changed. He went from kicking soccer balls to watching ballet rehearsals. “He would always go and watch Ullisa’s dance rehearsals,” said Astorga. “He would bring fruit from the stand for the other kids —oranges, berries, even dragonfruit. He loved going to watch her. He was so proud of his little girl.”

Occasionally, friends would poke fun at Valero for taking such an interest in ballet and dance. “But he would say, ‘I don’t care,’” Astorga said. “He loved being there for her.”

When the weather grew hot, Valero would often inflate a wading pool and splash around with his three children, or the family would pack a picnic and head to the beach.

“He was the most amazing father,” said wife Maria Isabel.

Because Valero was in the food industry, he and Astorga continued to work, even as the rest of Los Angeles Country closed down. But Valero was vigilant about safety precautions. “He was so so careful about wearing a mask,” said Astorga, “and made sure everyone was using hand sanitizer all the time. He would look out for me and make sure everyone had masks on.”

So it was surprising when Valero began to feel sick in early June. “We thought he had a virus,” said his wife, “but not coronavirus.” Valero died from coronavirus-related complications June 14 at age 35.

“On the Friday before he died, while he was in the hospital, he sold 320 tomatoes from the hospital bed, with the oxygen mask on,” said Astorga. “I said, ‘Man! What are you doing? Take care of your health. Don’t worry about work; just get better. But he was so dedicated to the business.’”

But that was why Astorga, and Valero’s loyal clients, loved him. He saw everyone as part of an extended family. The customers whom he sold the tomatoes to have donated $1,000 to a GoFundMe page Astorga put together for the Valero family.

Valero “loved people so much," said his wife. “That’s where he was happiest, with his friends, and with us.”

Valero is survived by his wife and his three children.

By Chace Beech

Ronald Burdette Culp was known for singing gospel songs in his deep bass, his ability to recreate a cow’s moo and a rooster’s crow, and his version of comedian Foster Brooks’ portrayal of a drunk man, though Culp had never been intoxicated a day in his life, his family said.

He was also known for being extraordinarily frugal, his family said.

Over the years, Culp collected spare change — including any coins from the laundromat at the Green Acres RV Park he ran for decades with his wife, Sheryl Culp — in coffee cans he kept well hidden. When he retired at the age of 83 he gathered his dozens of cans and drove them to a bank.

It took three trips to wheel the coins in with a hand truck. He’d saved more than $7,000, according to his family.

“The clerks were just fit to be tied because they had to count all those coins,” said his daughter Cindy Culp.

Ronald, 84, died of COVID-19 in Redding on April 3. He’s survived by six children — Ronnie “Curly” Culp, Bruce Culp, Nancy Culp, Cindy Culp, Lori Neighbor and Jonathan Culp — 12 grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren.

Ronald was born in San Fernando in 1935 and moved to Yreka with his family in 1953. The Culps funded their move by successfully investing with a donkey-riding wildcat oil driller whom Ronald’s father met at a trading post, said Bruce. In Yreka, the family bought a 160-acre dairy farm where Ronald helped milk cows and work the ranch.

He attended Yreka High School, where he met his first wife, Maxine. The two had three children together.

After high school, he worked as a stucco contractor with his father, as a concrete truck driver and at lumber yards. He eventually became the manager and part-owner of the Yreka Lumber Company.

“He could do anything. He could fix anything,” Cindy said. “He just was a jack of all trades when it came to anything that had to do with construction and building.”

After his first marriage ended in the 1970s, Ronald met Schroeder. They were married for 42 years, until her death in 2016.

Schroeder and Ronald Culp had a strong marriage, and her death hit him hard, said Nancy. She said her father once told her that when he and Schroeder left the RV Park in separate cars he “would purposefully pull up beside her at a stoplight just so [he] could look at her, because she was so beautiful.”

With his children, Culp was a gruff man; he wasn’t one to offer a lot of praise (at least not directly) and his grandchildren called him “grump-pa.” But it was a “mask,” said his son Bruce.

“Deep down inside he was just a big marshmallow,” Bruce said. Ronald would take his kids fishing, skiing or on trips to Mexico in their motorhome.

Nancy said her father was “tender hearted” and deeply religious. “I think the most important thing for him was that we knew that Jesus and that we lived our life for Jesus,” said his daughter Nancy.

That was clear in one of his last conversations with his family.

His children and grandchildren weren’t allowed to visit him in the hospital as he battled COVID-19, but he was able to speak with them on the phone two days before he died. His grandson Matt told Culp how sorry the family was that they couldn’t be there with him.

“And he said, ‘But I'm not alone, Matt,’” Cindy said. “He said ‘Jesus is right here with me.’”

By Arit John

William Minnis loved people.

Known as Willy, he phoned family members and friends each week, sometimes more frequently, to pass along news and stay connected. He often broke into song during the conversations, even if he didn’t know all the words.

“He was the most caring person I ever met,” his sister Milo Minnis said.

Born in San Francisco and raised in Sacramento, William Minnis, 70, struggled with mental illness since his late teens. But his concern for others didn’t wane.

In his 50s and 60s, he roamed San Francisco’s streets each day. He befriended small-business owners and greeted people who patronized their shops. That fit with his friendly, outgoing nature and fondness for talking.

“They always called him ‘The Ambassador,’” Milo Minnis said. “As they got to know him, they just adored him. For someone who was mentally ill, that was unusual.”

William Minnis spent the last several years at the Morton Bakar Center, a skilled nursing facility in Hayward. He stayed up late, surfing the Internet on his iPad learning more about astronauts and space travel and the cosmos. He adored music, too, especially classic rock from the 1960s.

He fought COVID-19 for two weeks before succumbing to complications of the illness on Aug. 14.

Because of restrictions on visitors, hospital staff arranged an iPad on a table next to his bed so he could FaceTime family members as long and as often as he wanted. He had been in poor health before the illness and told his sister he didn’t want to be put on a ventilator.

“I think he really wanted to go,” Milo Minnis said. “His health had deteriorated so much that he said, ‘This is no way to live.’”

William Minnis is survived by his wife of more than 40 years, Carla Marion Minnis; his daughter Margaret Mae Moodian, a grandson and his sister. He was preceded in death by his parents and a brother.

By Nathan Fenno

It’s probably not a coincidence that Merrick “Jenks” Dowson founded his own wine-importing business and developed a great love for the San Francisco Giants after emigrating from England to the Bay Area in 1976.

Fine wines and batted-ball sports were all but hereditary traits for Dowson, who was 67 when he died from complications of COVID-19 at Kaiser Permanente Redwood City Medical Center on April 10.

Dowson’s great-great-great grandfather, Sir Walter Gilbey, was at the center of England’s wine trade and founded Gilbey’s Gin in the mid-1800s. His grandfather, Edward Dowson, was an English cricketer for Cambridge University and Surrey during a first-class career that lasted 13 years.

“We still have engraved cricket bats that his grandfather used,” said Laura Dowson, Merrick’s 39-year-old daughter. “It was kind of cool to hear the stories of his famous family members. I think he was really proud of his heritage.”

Merrick Dowson was born 30 miles outside of London on Sept. 12, 1952. He attended Magdalen College School in Oxford, where he sang in the chapel choir.

He moved to the U.S. in 1976 to explore the growing California wine market, and 10 years later founded Adventures in Wine, importing fine wines from around the globe and storing bottles for customers in temperature-controlled lockers in a Daly City warehouse. He headed the company until his death.

Dowson married Sharon Ackel in 1980, and the couple had three children, Laura, Douglas and Nathan. They divorced 28 years later.

“He was quiet and soft-spoken, but he was also very personable,” Laura Dowson said. “To his family, he was sweet, thoughtful, full of good humor and had a huge heart. To his business associates, he was a man of integrity. He always did what was right. They all say he made them feel valued.”

Merrick coached several of Laura’s youth soccer teams, endearing himself to kids with his British accent and sense of humor.

“He was one of those cool dads that even your friends like,” Laura said.

Merrick became a Giants season-ticket holder in the 1980s and remained a loyal fan from their days at wind-swept Candlestick Park to their championship run at downtown Oracle Park, where the Giants won World Series titles in 2010, 2012 and 2014.

“As a kid, I always remember KNBR 680 on in his car,” Laura said. “We would listen to sports talk radio driving from Mountain View to Candlestick. That was one of the highlights of his life, going to Giants games.”

So were the weekly dinner dates Merrick had with Laura and her daughters, Zoe and Cori. Laura would cook. Merrick would bring the wine. They’d watch one of their favorite British-based Netflix shows, like Downton Abbey or The Crown.

“He had lots of friends and business associates he could spend time with, but he always made time for us,” Laura said. “He would read stories to my girls, hang out and play with them. He was a really good grandpa.”

Laura believes Merrick caught the coronavirus while traveling to Los Angeles by plane in early March. He developed a fever and a cough and was admitted to the hospital on March 15.

“He had a serious case of the swine flu in 2009, and when he checked into the hospital, he said, ‘Oh, these viruses seem to really like me,’ ” Laura said. “His lungs were compromised, and the coronavirus destroys your lungs. He was unable to overcome that, even though he put up a strong fight.”

Merrick was on a ventilator for 3 ½ weeks. When his kidneys began to fail along with his lungs, doctors summoned his kids to the hospital. Laura and Nathan donned gowns, masks and gloves. Douglas joined on a FaceTime call from London.

“We were lucky to be with him when he passed—many people don’t get that option,” Laura said. “It was great to be there and talk to him one last time, tell him how much we love him and that he was a great dad.”

By Mike DiGiovanna

Even at 99, Erane Marie Garrett was known for her energy.

Before the pandemic, Garrett enjoyed passing out popcorn with the staff at her Sonoma nursing home. She played bingo, and looked forward to monthly hula exercise lessons and shows put on by her daughter. She still knew the words -- some in Hawaiaan -- to the popular song, “Little Grass Shack.”

“She learned them as a child on the radio,” said Donna Keegan, her daughter.

Garrett died Aug. 2 after a weeklong battle with COVID-19, Keegan said. Garrett, who spent her entire life in the Bay area, was born and raised in San Francisco and worked as a secretary for years in Oakland. The mother of two also lived in Alameda for a while to be close to her younger daughter.

Garrett was originally going to be named Irene, but the priest who baptized her pronounced her name “Erane”. Her mother thought it sounded pretty, so it stuck, Keegan said.

After her husband left her alone to raise two young girls, Garrett got a job as a secretary in the personnel department at Moore Dry Dock, a ship repair company in West Oakland. She also worked as a secretary for a now-defunct paper company.

As a single mother, Garrett made sure her daughters attended private Catholic school, despite the cost. Each night she’d put curlers their hair, and the two awoke to freshly-polished shoes each morning for school.

Every Saturday, Garrett and the girls would walk or take the bus to a local swimming pool, even though Garrett did not know how to swim herself.

“She would always take us down there to give us a nice thing to do on the weekends,” Keegan said.

After retirement, Garrett volunteered at her grandchildren’s school and for Meals on Wheels. She also worked as a saleswoman for Avon, selling beauty products.

When her granddaughter, Marlena, got married in 2000, Garrett, then 80, made the trip to Kona on the big island of Hawaii just to be there.

“She wouldn’t miss anything,” Keegan said.

When Garrett tested positive for COVID-19 and had to be isolated, she tried sneaking out of her room at her nursing home, because she didn’t like being alone.

“She wanted to be out where the people were,” Keegan said.

Before the pandemic, Keegan taught a hula exercise class once a month for the residents. Though in a wheelchair, Garrett always participated. Keegan would also take her mother to her own hula performances at the nearby Sonoma Valley Woman’s Club.

Garrett beamed with pride as she watched her daughter, Keegan, dance.

“That’s my daughter up there,” she’d say.

Garrett is survived by daughter Keegan, six grandchildren and 14 great-grandchildren. She was preceded in death by her daughter, Lynne Madigan.

By Nicole Santa Cruz

Trini Lopez, a singer and guitarist who gained fame for his versions of “Lemon Tree” and “If I Had a Hammer” in the 1960s and took his talents to Hollywood, has died in Palm Springs at age 83

Filmmaker P. David Ebersole, who just finished shooting a documentary on Lopez with Todd Hughes, confirmed that Lopez died from complications of COVID-19 at Desert Regional Medical Center.

Mentored by Buddy Holly and Frank Sinatra, Lopez became an international star while performing in English and Spanish. Unlike Mexican American singers such as Ritchie Valens, Lopez rejected advice to change his name and openly embraced his Mexican American heritage despite warnings it would hurt his career.

“I insisted on keeping my name Lopez,” he told the Dallas Morning News in 2017. “I’m proud to be a Lopez. I’m proud to be a Mexicano.”

Sinatra signed Lopez to his Reprise Records label after seeing him perform at a West Hollywood nightclub. They became friends and were spotted together regularly in social circles in Las Vegas and Palm Springs.

Lopez also appeared in the film classic “The Dirty Dozen” and the comedy “The Phynx.”

Born Trinidad Lopez III to immigrants from Guanajuato, Mexico, Lopez grew up in Dallas’ poor Little Mexico neighborhood. The family’s dire economic situation forced Lopez to drop out of high school and work.

His life changed after his father bought him a $12 black Gibson acoustic guitar from a pawn shop. His father taught him to play the instrument, which led the young Lopez to perform at Dallas nightclubs that didn’t allow Mexican American patrons.

Buddy Holly saw Lopez at a small nightclub in Wichita Falls, Texas, and introduced him to Norman Petty, his record producer in Clovis, N.M. Holly died in a plane crash six months later, and Lopez briefly replaced him as lead singer of the Crickets.

Lopez moved to Southern California and got a regular gig at P.J.’s Night Club in West Hollywood. Sinatra saw him perform and offered him a contract with his new record label, Reprise, where Lopez got his first major hit with “If I Had a Hammer.” It went to No. 1 in nearly 40 countries.

Lopez was rarely on the charts after the 1960s, but his line of Gibson Trini Lopez guitars released from 1964 to 1971 unexpectedly influenced a generation of younger guitarists, including Dave Grohl, the Edge and Noel Gallagher.

Ebersole and Hughes recently finished shooting a documentary on Lopez called “My Name Is Lopez.”

Lopez never married and had no children.

By Associated Press

Dr. Manuel Ramirez had two strong passions: cooking and medicine.

The day before his daughter Bonnie Denise’s high school swim meets, he’d always make sure that she would get her carbs. He would prepare his specialty: lasagna or spaghetti. He’d let the sauce simmer for hours — he called it “Sophia Loren” sauce, after the Italian actress.

“He told his children that Sophia came to see him at his office and told him how to prepare the sauce,” his wife Bonnie said in an email. “They believed him!”

Ramirez, 81, died of COVID-19 complications on April 25 at Keck Hospital of USC in Los Angeles. He contracted the virus at Montrose Healthcare Center, a skilled nursing facility in Montrose where he was recovering from gallbladder surgery. Before then, he had been living at the Mountview assisted living community, also in Montrose, since 2018.

As a family medicine doctor for nearly 40 years in Eagle Rock, East Los Angeles and Chula Vista, Ramirez was meticulous and would take his time recording his patients’ medical history, his daughter Bonnie Denise said. He inherited his love for medicine from his father Manuel, who practiced in Guadalajara, Mexico, where Ramirez was born.

“There were several times where he was able to treat a patient and help them recover when other doctors weren’t able to,” Bonnie said. “He was really big on making sure his patients got their treatment, even if they couldn’t pay.”

One time, a patient who couldn’t afford treatment offered him a crate of oranges in lieu of payment, she said. Ramirez accepted.

“To him, it was more important that they were healed,” his daughter said.

Ramirez expressed his love through food and he enjoyed watching his family eat his delicious meals. He could make a gourmet meal out of a few ingredients and his dishes ranged from teriyaki steak to carnitas to pozole.

Ramirez passed down his Mexican family recipes and taught Bonnie Denise how to make a rice dish dubbed “Grandma Tati’s rice,” after Ramirez’s mother.

“When I finally got it right, he said, ‘Mija, you got it. The texture. The flavor,’” she said. “He enjoyed every bite.”

The last time Bonnie Denise saw her dad in person, Ramirez asked her to cook Grandma Tati’s rice for him. She promised that once he left the skilled nursing facility, she would cook it.

“I didn't get to make it for him,” she said in tears. “But I made a huge birthday dinner in his memory [on May 22]. And I made that rice.”

Ramirez is survived by his wife, Bonnie, his children, Manuel III, Michelle, Donald Hugo and Bonnie Denise, and his sisters Maggie, Elsa, Diana and Pati. He also leaves eight grandchildren and two great-grandchildren.

By Tomás Mier

On sunny weekend afternoons, James Lanier Craig liked to visit Flight 126 Cafe, one of his favorite breakfast spots in his hometown of Santa Paula. He would order pancakes and eggs, sip a cup of hot black tea and watch the planes fly in and out of the town’s small airport. It was the perfect spot to meet up with friends, which Craig, a social and outgoing man, did often.

“The staff absolutely loved him. Everyone loved him,” said Flight 126 owner Evie Kramer. “He was truly cherished in this community.”

Craig was deeply involved in Santa Paula. He volunteered for 15 years as the football coach at Santa Paula High School and went on to work as an announcer and statistician at school basketball games.

He was an active member of the local Masonic community and spent 38 years working in the Santa Paula oil industry as an oil gauger.

In his free time, Craig would photograph the Ventura County landscapes surrounding his home.

“We loved to go down to the Ventura beach at sunset to take photos,” said his son Jason Craig. “The tranquility of the beach helped him relax, but he didn’t like the sand!”

Familial love was a driving force in Craig’s life. He was a father to three and grandfather to 10. To his youngest two granddaughters, Adelle, 3, and Madelyn, 1, he was known as Papa.

“Adele would come over and say, ‘Papa, sit,’” said Craig’s wife of 45 years, Martha Jo Craig. “She would sit on his lap and inspect his arm for ‘owies,’ and he would just sit there for ages and let Adele put Band-Aids all over his arms, and make her laugh.”

Those who knew him said Craig treated everyone in his life with that same love, affection and patience, as though they were part of the Craig clan too. Many people outside of his immediate family saw him as a paternal figure.

“He was always so positive with the kids he was coaching,” said Santa Paula High School football coach Mike Montoya. “During a game, he would often tell them, ‘The next play is the most important play,'” to buoy their spirits.

And it’s that closeness so many in Santa Paula already miss. Craig died May 9 at Ventura County Memorial Hospital of complications related to COVID-19. He was 64.

Born in 1956 in Santa Paula to Wilford and Martha Craig, James Craig spent his life serving the Ventura County community he called home. His mother and his wife had the same name and were known as Big Martha and Little Martha.

“We met when I was 17 and he was 18, the summer after he graduated high school,” his wife said. “I met him in August, and we were married by July the following year — that was it. We had a wonderful life together.”

In many ways it was Craig’s ability to blend in that made him stand out. “He got along with everyone,” she said. “People just wanted to be around him.”

His own children experienced that warmth throughout their lives. “As a father growing up, he was a good and fair disciplinarian,” said his daughter Melissa, mother to Adele and Madeline. “He never broke a spirit. He would never make you feel bad about yourself.”

And Craig’s surefire way to lift his loved ones spirits? A hug. “I loved those big bear hugs so much,” his wife said. “He was a gentle giant. He is so missed.”

Craig is survived by his wife, Martha Jo Craig; children Jason Craig, Josh Craig and Melissa Lewis; and his 10 grandchildren.

By Chace Beech

The irony was not lost on David Feinberg, the former UCLA Health System president who is in his second year as vice president of Google Health in Mountain View, Calif.

Reflecting on the life of Wayne L. Strom, a former Pepperdine professor of behavioral science who was 85 when he died of complications from COVID-19 on April 2, Feinberg recalled an assignment from Strom’s organizational behavior class that still sticks with him two decades later.

“You had to write your own obituary, speaking of obituaries,” Feinberg, 58, said. “It was a high-powered group of executives in the class, and it was, like, ‘Do you want to be remembered for making a lot of money and that your stock went up, or do you want to be remembered for helping humanity?’ I think it taught me to lead with empathy, and that was the best thing I learned from Wayne.”

Strom, who earned a bachelor of divinity degree from the Berkeley Baptist Divinity School and a PhD from UCLA, became a full-time Pepperdine faculty member in 1970.

He was a founder of the prestigious Pepperdine Presidential and Key Executive MBA program and was selected as a Harriet and Charles Luckman Distinguished Teaching Fellow in 1991.

Strom’s primary interests during a 42-year teaching career were organizational performance enhancement and spirituality in business. He coached, assessed and taught leadership to more than 1,500 company presidents and senior executives, and served as a consultant to numerous corporations in the U.S., Europe and Asia.

“He really helped create the business school that we have today,” said Ann E. Feyerherm, 59, an associate dean and 27-year professor of organization theory and management at Pepperdine’s Graziadio School of Business. “He believed you develop leaders through a better understanding of one’s self.”

Strom retired from Pepperdine in 2012.

Strom and his wife, Kathy, were married 38 years and lived in Thousand Oaks, where Strom turned their backyard into something of a nature retreat, planting several redwood trees and fruit trees — fig, cherry, nectarine, apricot, peach, persimmon — and a rose garden.

“He was a very caring person, a gentle person,” his wife said. “He loved nature and the mountains, and he really loved to garden.”

The couple also enjoyed biking along Pacific Coast Highway and hiking. In 1988, they climbed Mount Fuji—at 12,389 feet, the highest peak in Japan—reaching the summit in time “to watch this beautiful sunrise,” Kathy said.

Wayne Strom’s health began to decline last fall, and he moved into the Kensington Redondo Beach senior living facility in December. He developed pneumonia in late March and was admitted to Torrance Memorial Hospital on March 30. He was diagnosed with the coronavirus and died three days later.

“He went quickly,” his wife said. “It was just a matter of three days, so I was really shocked. It was very hard to not be able to be with him when he passed, and that we’re not able to have a memorial right now. That’s been challenging.”

Strom is also survived by his son, David, and a grandson, Everett.

By Mike DiGiovanna

Dr. Ernesto Victor Sotto Santos was excited when he was called to work as a nurse in a COVID quarantine unit at the Pomona Sheraton Fairplex Hotel in March. He was being compensated generously with hazard pay, and for the first time, money wasn’t a concern.

He bought a brand-new BMW X5 right before he started working there. “I remember him being really happy when he bought it, but also feeling really guilty for splurging on himself,” his youngest daughter, Andrea, said. “We just kept telling him, ‘You deserve it, you work so hard for this.’”

The promise of being financially stable encouraged Sotto Santo to continue his work in the COVID hotel. He’d tell his children, “Sorry we can’t hang out today, but I’m getting paid $1,700!”

Eventually, however, COVID-19 would take his life.

Sotto Santos loved his family more than anything. Before his experience at the Pomona hotel, the single father had worked hard at his job as a registered nurse at Kaiser Permanente to provide for his three children and their grandmother, who lived together in San Dimas.

Born in the province of Pampanga in the Philippines, Sotto Santos was the eldest of four siblings. His mother, Elizabeth, described him as mischievous and playful as a child. She would call him “Jonjon,” later shortened to “Jon.”

Despite his carefree personality, he was serious about his studies. Sotto Santos moved to Manila to study nursing at the University of Santo Tomas College of Nursing, then obtained an M.D. degree at the University of Santo Tomas Faculty of Medicine and Surgery in 1998.

Afterwards, Sotto Santos and his wife, Ruth, whom he had married while in nursing school, moved to the United States with their children, Ernest and Eliz. In America, the couple decided to pursue careers in nursing even though Sotto Santos had passed the U.S. medical license exams.

Their youngest daughter, Andrea, was born in 2002. The couple eventually separated in 2008, and Sotto Santos became a single parent to his three children. His parents emigrated from the Philippines to help take care of them while he worked.

“I saw firsthand how devoted, loving and selfless he was,” Elizabeth wrote.

Andrea, who is 10 years younger than her siblings, was only 6 when her parents divorced. “I’ve just been raised by my dad my entire life, and I took it for granted,” she said. “My dad made it seem like we had everything.”

Every year, he enjoyed watching the Miss Universe pageant, and even went to go see the competition live in Las Vegas one year. He loved the Beatles, and his favorite song was “I Will.”

In May, Sotto Santos began to feel sick, and he drove himself to the hospital on May 29. He was diagnosed with pneumonia and later tested positive for COVID-19. He was able to FaceTime with his children one last time before he was sedated and put on a ventilator. Even then, his condition worsened and he had to undergo dialysis.

Sotto Santos died on June 8, at age 47. He had underlying conditions known to cause more severe cases of COVID-19, including diabetes and hypertension.

Elizabeth, who went to visit family in the Philippines in December, has been unable to return to the U.S. because of the pandemic. Ernest, 27, Eliz, 26, and Andrea live together.

Sotto Santos is also survived by his brothers, Eric and Elizer, and sister Elaine.

By Tiffany Wong

Jack Ohringer had many titles throughout his life — stock broker, property manager, retail manager — but Mr. Personality is the one that stuck.

“He had a twinkle in his eye, he had a bounce in his step, and he had the cutest little ponytail I had ever seen,” Jamie Szabadi said of the first time she met her husband. “And if you worked with him, you pretty much became a friend for life.”

Born in Pittsburgh in 1945, Ohringer earned his nickname during his days at Taylor Allderdice High School as a member of the Gamma Phi fraternity. After attending Robert Morris University in Pittsburgh, he followed his passion for the ocean and enlisted in the United States Coast Guard.

In 1966, Ohringer and his best friend moved to Los Angeles, where he eventually met Szabadi in 2003. The two married in 2007 and, with Szabadi's children Kara Lyne and Zack, became a family. It was Ohringer's second marriage.

“I really do believe that he treated my brother and I like his own kids,” said his stepdaughter, Kara Lyne Szabadi. “The moment he was in our lives, it was like he had been there forever.”

Ohringer had an infectious personality. He liked to dance and was said to have appeared on "American Bandstand." He loved to be the life of the party, and his family said he brought joy to them and to his friends.

In their younger days, he and friends came up with a series of dances they'd perform at "every single bar or bat mitzvah" they attended, his wife said. "He just loved it. He loved any kind of silliness like that. And dance was like a really easy way for him to access that.”

In addition to Ohringer’s exuberance, he was a person of "unmatched" generosity and a determined gift-giver, Kara Lyne said. So when he would ask her what kind of present she wanted, she would say "a pony — knowing that he couldn't deliver or shouldn't deliver, at least. It continuously frustrated him. A couple years later, he showed up … with a stuffed animal pony, and he thought it was the funniest thing in the world.”

On May 7, when Ohringer started having unusual difficulty moving following his regular dialysis treatment, his wife knew something was wrong. At the request of his doctor, he was tested for COVID-19. After days of exhaustion and illness, Ohringer was rushed to an emergency room on May 10. He received the notification that he had tested positive for the infection on May 11.

Ohringer remained hospitalized on a ventilator until he went into cardiac arrest and died on May 25, two days after his 75th birthday.

He agreed to donate his blood and organs to assist any efforts to combat the virus.

Ohringer is survived by his wife, Jamie Szabadi; his stepchildren, Kara Lyne and Zack Szabadi; his three siblings, Cecia Hess, Lee Ohringer and David Ohringer; and numerous lifelong friends and relatives.

By Astrid Kayembe

Tonatiuh, the Aztec sun god and patron to Jaguar and Eagle warriors, was among the first roles that Noe Montoya embodied for the Bay Area theater company El Teatro Campesino.

The year was 1972 and, as the sun, a teenaged Montoya rose majestically behind a pyramid for the group's first TV special in Los Angeles.

The role would eventually lead to many more within the troupe, including that of Juan Diego — the man who witnessed the apparition of Our Lady of Guadalupe — in El Teatro's biennial production of "La Virgen del Tepeyac" at the Old Mission San Juan Bautista. He played the role of Diego from the 1970s to 2008.

Before the pandemic hit, his last role was Benito Juarez in the premiere of “Adios Mama Carlota” at San Jose Stage.

A cultural warrior, musician and civil rights champion, Montoya marched alongside Caesar Chavez and connected his audiences with indigenous music he played for the United Farm Workers. He always performed while wearing the union’s emblem — a black eagle stylized as an inverted Aztec pyramid.

The theater was founded in 1965 as the cultural arm of the union, specializing in Spanish-language performances about the struggles of agricultural laborers. Montoya was the "blood and bone" of the company, his fellow performers said.

"The COVID 19 pandemic has been merciless to an extreme, especially among farm workers, so it comes as no surprise that despite the risk, Noe did his utmost to alleviate the suffering of our fellow campesinos, continuing to make appearances to sing at car caravans organized to raise food for the workers," Teatro founder Luiz Valdez wrote on the group's Facebook page.

"His great heart was always at the core of his humanity and commitment to our community."

On Nov. 19, Montoya announced on Facebook that his COVID-19 test came back positive: "I got careless for a moment and I apologize to all of you," he wrote.

His symptoms included body aches and fatigue. He planned to isolate for 10 days. Three days later, he said he was feeling better and encouraged fans to "please stay safe, wear your face covers, wash your hands and social distance."

He died on Thanksgiving Day at the age of 66.

By Nardine Saad

Jay Johnstone, the fun-loving outfielder who was best known for his clubhouse pranks and a dramatic pinch-hit home run that helped the Dodgers win the 1981 World Series, died Sept 26, his daughter, Mary Jayne Sarah Johnstone, confirmed on Facebook. He was 74.

Johnstone, who hit .267 with 102 home runs and 531 RBIs in a 20-year major league career from 1966-85, suffered from dementia and was in a Granada Hills nursing home when he died of complications from COVID-19.

“COVID was the one thing he couldn’t fight,” Johnstone’s daughter told the Associated Press.

Johnstone was born on Nov. 20, 1945, in Manchester, Conn., and his family moved to Southern California when he was a toddler. He attended West Covina Edgewood High and signed with the Angels in 1963.

Johnstone reached the big leagues in 1966, the start of a lengthy career spent with the Angels, Philadelphia Phillies, Dodgers, Chicago Cubs, New York Yankees, Chicago White Sox, Oakland Athletics and San Diego Padres.

In his first postseason appearance for the Phillies in 1976, Johnstone went seven for nine with three RBIs in a three-game National League Championship Series loss to Cincinnati. But his biggest October hit came for the Dodgers in Game 4 of the 1981 World Series. Trailing 6-3 in the sixth, Johnstone followed Mike Scioscia’s walk with a pinch-hit, two-run homer off Ron Davis to pull the Dodgers to within 6-5.

The Dodgers scored again in the sixth and twice in the seventh to win 8-7, evening the series at two games apiece. The Dodgers won Games 5 and 6 to win the championship.

“It was certainly memorable,” said Fred Claire, the former Dodgers general manager who was the team’s vice president of public relations and marketing in 1981. “But I think the biggest contribution of Jay was just in keeping all the guys around him loose.”

Johnstone’s pranks were legendary. He set teammates’ cleats on fire and nailed them to the floor. He and former Dodgers pitcher Jerry Reuss once replaced the celebrity photos in manager Tommy Lasorda’s office with pictures of himself, Reuss and Don Stanhouse.

“If there was a tax on the amount of fun we had, we couldn’t afford to live,” Reuss, 71, said by phone from Las Vegas. “There are so many different memories … but unfortunately, a lot of them you can’t print.”

Johnstone and Reuss once dressed as groundskeepers and dragged the Dodger Stadium infield in the fifth inning of a game against Pittsburgh on Sept. 2, 1981. The players hustled into the clubhouse to change into their uniforms and returned to the dugout.

Johnstone once gave Lasorda’s uniform to the Phillie Phanatic, the mascot placing it on a blow-up doll “and having a blast with it,” Reuss said.

Claire was heading from the field to the press box as a game was about to start when he saw Johnstone — in full uniform — ordering a hotdog from a concession stand outside the Dodgers clubhouse.

“I screamed at him, ‘Jay, get your butt in the clubhouse!’” Claire said. “I don’t know if that was Babe Ruth-like or Jay Johnstone-like, but it was great.”

Johnson appeared in the hit movie “The Naked Gun” as a member of the Seattle Mariners in a game against the Angels and had a broadcasting career. He wrote a 1985 book called “Temporary Insanity,” with author Rick Talley.

“I’ll be honest,” Reuss said with a laugh, “there was nothing temporary about it.”

In addition to his daughter, Johnstone is survived by his wife of 52 years, Mary Jayne Johnstone, and a son-in-law, Ryan Dudasik.

By Mike DiGiovanna

Carol Murphy loved French wine and German beer. She traveled to more than 20 countries as a civil servant and Peace Corps volunteer, but her penchant for being in the right place at the right time—Seoul in the 1950s, East Berlin in the 1960s and Saigon in the 1970s, for example—led her family to joke she was really a member of the CIA.

“She was everywhere,” said her niece Anne Mendoza, “although she never did fess up to that!” Murphy died at a skilled nursing facility in Vallejo on May 10, 2020, at the age of 91 from complications of COVID-19.

Murphy was a firebrand from the start. Born in San Francisco in 1928, she was the second of three sisters, with Lois above and Elinor below. She chose to remain single and dedicated her life to her work overseas, returning to California only once or twice a year to make her rounds with family. Her many nieces and nephews treasured her visits, which often came with trinkets and gifts from the places she had been.

Carol spent much of her career as an educator in the U.S. Army’s Morale Welfare & Recreation program, which took her to military bases across Europe, Southeast Asia and the U.S. She helped set up the first education center for the Army Sergeants Major Academy in Fort Bliss, Texas, before eventually making her way to Belize with the Peace Corps, where she ran an education center for teachers.

“We’re all giving to a point, but Carol would go without in order for you to have something,” Mendoza said. “Helping people” was her aunt’s favorite hobby.

Ever the activist, Murphy never shied away from a protest or a political debate. She called the Berlin wall a “a pathetic tottering partition” and advocated for women’s rights “even before Gloria Steinem,” her niece said. Her stories ran the gamut from tea parties with Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie to meetings with Norodom Sihanouk, the prince of Cambodia, in the jungles of Angkor Wat. They were enough to fill a book, although she hardly sat still long enough to write one.

“She would show up in her red Porsche,” recalled her nephew, Tom O’Brien. “She would always come rip it up. She was pretty cool.”

Upon retiring at the age of 66, Murphy knew precisely what to do next: she traveled to England with a friend from Korea, then embarked on a months-long trip to India, Singapore, Bali, Bangkok, Saigon, Hanoi, Hong Kong, Macau, Japan and Hawaii. She continued traveling until her mid-80s, at which point she had friends all over the world.

Although Murphy was reluctant to name a favorite country—she called them all “great places”—her niece said India was the one she loved most.

“Out of all her pictures,” Mendoza said, “the one with the biggest smile on her face is at the pool in front of the Taj Mahal.”

By Hayley Smith

More than 25 years ago, Lynne Lerner walked onto the set of “China Beach,” a 1980s television show about medics in the Vietnam War, to check in for work as an extra. There, she met the man who would become her husband, Larry Lerner, an assistant director on the show.

Over the years, the two would share beautiful moments as a married couple. They loved to rescue pit bulls together, attended Emmy events and watched TV shows in their Van Nuys home.

She acted in “General Hospital,” “Married With Children” and “Days of Our Lives.” He worked on shows that included “The Man in the High Castle,” “Ambitions” and “Drop Dead Diva.” Sometimes they worked together.

On April 1, their decades-long Hollywood romance was cut short when Larry Lerner died from COVID-19 at the age of 71.

“We were best buddies,” said Lynne Lerner, 67. “We did everything together — everything. We were joined at the hip. I thought he’d be here forever.”

Lynne said she and her husband got sick around the same time in mid-March, but they were never too worried. They were healthy, their symptoms didn’t match with the most severe cases of COVID-19, and they followed all the safety protocols to protect themselves against the virus.

He developed a low fever and a cough, but it wasn’t a dry cough. She was weak but had no other symptoms. Their doctor told them to go to the hospital only if they reached a fever of over 102 degrees. They felt they could battle it out at home.

Lynne said her husband appeared to be less sick than she was. All she could do was stay in bed, but he watched TV on their living room couch. She teared up at the thought of not having been able to make him tea or lunch. “I could hardly make it fast enough to sit back down,” she said.

On the evening of March 22, she heard her husband bump into something in the living room. She found him on the floor. When the paramedics arrived, Larry’s fever was 104 degrees. He was admitted to the intensive care unit at Valley Presbyterian Hospital and put on a ventilator. Because she felt so weak, she was also hospitalized.

The following day, the couple called each other on FaceTime from their hospital beds.

“Hi, baby, everything’s fine,” she recalled her husband saying. “I’m fine. I love you.”

That was the last time she saw him.

More than a week later, a doctor called Lynne, who had already returned home, to tell her that her husband had died.

By Alejandra Reyes-Velarde

Scott Woodard, 67, wasn’t a talkative man, but his words and actions spoke volumes about what and who was important to him.

He was known for his habits: getting the same concession stand combo at baseball games, leaving in the fifth inning, wearing a ball cap and fanny pack whenever he went out, walking around Oakland’s Lake Merritt tidal lagoon for exercise each day.

He was quietly proud of his apartment, the janitorial job he held for more than two decades, and the life skills he had learned from Clausen House, an independent living program in Oakland for adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities. He cherished time with family and friends.

“Just about every time I ever saw Scotty, it was at something routine, like a family event, which he loved,” said family friend Scott McFadin. “He’d talk about it for months in advance. Everyone knew how important it was to Scotty, so it became that much more important to them.”

Scott Douglass Woodard was born June 8, 1952, to Clarence and Patricia Woodard. The third of four children, he was born prematurely with serious complications, severely impaired vision, and developmental disabilities. With the support of his family, he graduated high school and went through the independent living program at Clausen House.

Every season for about 35 years, McFadin and Woodard attended San Francisco Giants or Oakland A’s games together on weekends. As McFadin drove, Woodard would ask about things McFadin had mentioned in past conversations and friends he’d been introduced to at previous games.

His memory was incredible,” McFadin said. “He could remember details about a person he met 25 years ago. He was a very caring person, very loving, very interested in other people.”

Woodard also loved going to restaurants and exchanging family gossip over a meal. He called relatives often and persistently to ask how they were doing, said Jessica Woodard, his niece. “You’d get lots of missed calls from Scotty if you didn’t pick up.”

They started meeting regularly after Woodard’s older sister, Sarah, died two years ago. She had been a pillar in Woodard’s life and a big help with weekly tasks including banking and helping him pay his rent and utility bills. Her death was the latest in a series of losses, including the deaths of his eldest brother, Charles, and his best friend and roommate of over 30 years, Bob Gaede.

Woodard found these big, destabilizing changes a difficult adjustment, but he did his best to carry on and adapt, said his youngest brother Tom, who took over many of Sarah’s responsibilities.

Health issues in October landed Woodard in the hospital and then in the Orinda Care Center to recover in February.

“It was a very difficult last couple of months for him,” Jessica said.

During their last in-person conversation, she said he seemed frustrated and wanted to go home. She tried to cheer him up by reminiscing about his favorite meals and restaurants, and encouraged him to focus on getting better.

Then visits were halted because of COVID-19 restrictions, another jarring change. Tom, who had visited almost daily while Woodard was in the hospital, tried to get the staff to arrange daily phone calls instead.

“That didn't exactly happen,” Tom said, though one nurse did use her personal phone to let them FaceTime him a few times in his last weeks.

In early April, news broke of a cluster of coronavirus cases at the Orinda Care Center, infecting 11 staff members and more than half the residents.

Woodard tested positive but when he didn’t show any symptoms for two weeks, his family dared to hope that he’d be all right. On April 15, they heard that Woodard had developed a fever. He died three days later of complications of COVID-19.

By Jennifer Lu

At St. Paul University in the Philippines, Maria Teresa Banson was known as "Mama Teng," the go-to person for students or coworkers who were looking for advice.

In her Human Behavioral Organization class, she motivated her students to “go out of your comfort zone and explore the world in a different perspective,” wrote Ria Uy-Salazar, a former student of Maria's, on a GoFundMe page. “Teachers teach, but a great teacher leaves a positive impact to one’s journey in life after school.”

Banson taught computer science, among other courses, at St. Paul in Iloilo City for more than 20 years before moving to Southern California in 2005. Once here, she worked as a secretary for an immigration law firm and later as a clerk at the Hubert H. Humphrey Comprehensive Health Center.

Banson had hypertension and borderline diabetes, and had had a stroke 20 years ago, which made her more susceptible to the coronavirus. She died of complications from COVID-19 on June 27. She was 62.

Banson, whose four adult children also immigrated to the U.S., lived in an apartment with her husband, Rolando Banson, in Huntington Park. On her days off, she would go to the malls with her best friend, Mary Therese Valdevieso, who had been a co-teacher at St. Paul’s when they were both in the Philippines. In recent years, the two also traveled extensively, sometimes visiting former students in different parts of the United States.

A member of the Household of Faith, a Catholic charismatic group, Banson was deeply religious. Every Sunday, she would attend Mass at either St. Columban Catholic Church near downtown Los Angeles or St. Basil’s Catholic Church in Koreatown, her daughter Aileen said.

Banson had a good memory and often sent cards on her friends’ birthdays, according to Aileen. With limited money, she was generous, especially with food, and always brought extra food for her colleagues and friends.

Valdevieso wrote on the GoFundMe page: “Teng was a caring and thoughtful person. She would show up in my doorsteps with fruits or just anything she could think of.”

“She remembers everything,” Aileen said.

During struggling times, Banson made sure her children were fed, Aileen added.

“We were not brought up [on]...sodas and juices, but every time she would remember to give extra sweets like chocolates to us,” Aileen said. She remembered getting the sweets in school lunch boxes, with notes saying “good luck today” or “I love you.”

Aileen inherited the knack of helping others from her mom. But when, fresh out of college, she lent 10,000 pesos to a friend and didn’t get it back, she remembered her mother telling her: “You have to look out for yourself. You only give extra to other people if you know we have something for yourselves.”

“That’s my mantra in life now [that] she’s away,” Aileen said.

Maria is survived by her husband; two brothers, Danilo Baltazar and Mario Baltazar; her four children, Aileen Banson, Kim Roland Banson, Jule Bryan Banson and Ken Philip Banson; and one grandchild.

By Xinlu Liang

For Andy Marin, weekends were for barbecues and family.

Blasting his “lowrider oldies” playlist, Marin would spend the weekend cooking up tri-tip and ribs for his family and neighbors. After he was done, he’d sit back and watch with a smile on his face as his wife and children ate his delectable meals.

“It didn’t matter how long he was away from home, he’d spend his weekends barbecuing,” his wife Krystal Magno said. “That was how he unwinded.”

Andres “Andy” Marin III died on July 1 of COVID-19 complications at Sierra View Medical Center in Porterville. He was 38.

From tacos on his flat-top grill to Filipino lumpias and pancet, Marin always knew the way to people’s hearts: his cooking. When Magno took lunch breaks during her 12-hour shifts at the Sierra View emergency room where she worked, he’d feed everyone there, she said.

“What’s our husband bringing us for dinner today?” her coworkers would ask jokingly.

This year, Marin began living his dream of being a long-haul truck driver. After working with truck drivers for much of his life at a shipping and receiving company, he took on this new challenge to help his family. He wanted his wife to focus on nursing school.

Marin loved being on the road and taking in the scenery. One of his first road trips on the job took him across the country to Florida. He came back inspired (and with some trinkets).

“He wanted to see and absorb as much as he could,” Magno said.

Marin started developing COVID symptoms during a two-week work trip in early June, when he started having headaches and a light cough.

“We were always afraid it would be me who would get it,” Magno said, referring to her job at a hospital emergency room. “I had seen so many people recover from it; I never thought it would kill one of us.”

Marin later went on a second trip and cut it short after experiencing body aches, nausea and vomiting. On June 15, his oxygen levels dropped, and he was admitted to the hospital. He died 16 days later, after being diagnosed with both bacterial and viral pneumonia. He spent his last days intubated.

“It was a roller coaster ride from the day he was admitted to the day he passed,” Krystal said.

Marin is survived by his wife, Krystal, children Karrie, Andres IV and Alyssa, his parents Maribel and Andres II, his grandmothers, Jovita Marin and Graciela Mercado, and his sister, Lorraine.

“I cry tears of happiness because so many people made it and with them, a little bit of Andy [does] too,” Magno said. “One victory is a victory for all of us.”

By Paige St. John

From an early age, singer and actor Chris Trousdale radiated charisma on and off the stage.

As a child, he appeared on Broadway in “Les Miserables” and “The Sound of Music.” His longtime friend, Greg Raposo — who performed alongside Trousdale in the children's theater group Broadway Kids and later as one fifth of the popular teen boy band Dream Street — remembers the funny gestures and faces Trousdale would make during shows, tempting him to break character.

"Everything was very light ... with him," Raposo said. "It was always just fun and games."

Dream Street broke up in 2002, but Raposo and Trousdale kept in touch. In a final conversation earlier this year, they made plans to reconnect sometime in person, "figuring that there'd be another million chances,” Raposo said.

Trousdale died of complications from COVID-19 in a Burbank hospital on June 2, a few months after that last phone call. He was 34.

"He was one of those people that no matter how long you hadn't seen him for, it felt exactly the same every time I would see him or talk to him," Raposo said. "That was something special that you don't get to have with too many people."

Over the summer, Dream Street reunited for a musical tribute to their fallen bandmate, who was the only trained dancer in the collective and always emerged as a natural leader during choreography sessions.

"After one time showing [a dance], he was already doing the moves as well as [the choreographer]," Raposo said. "In many ways, he was like the dance teacher of the group."

Trousdale, who also enjoyed a successful solo career and acted in TV series such as "Lucifer" and "Austin & Ally," was born Christopher Ryan Pask in Port Richey, Fla. He is survived by his mother, Helena Pask, and a half brother, Ronnie Pask.

"Some people ... they perform, and they sing, and they write music as a hobby or as a passion," Raposo said. "But forhim, it was a lot more than that. It was truly his identity. It was who he was above anything else. …

"More than a brother, more than a friend, more than a son — more than all the other titles you could put on him — he was a performer and a dancer and a really talented person."

By Christi Carras

Artemio Ramos met his wife Sylvia on the dance floor. The two would dance to música norteña at the weekly bailes that drew other young Mexican Americans on weekends.

“It took awhile for me to date him because I really didn’t like him,” Sylvia said, laughing. “I just loved to dance, but then after a while, he was the only one asking me.”

Now, Sylvia reminisces about Ramos’ moves, his hardworking nature and the love he had for his grandchildren.

Ramos died April 4 of COVID-19 complications at Mission Community Hospital in Panorama City. He was 77. He had been in a wheelchair since 2014, when he became a quadriplegic after falling from a tree.

Long before then, Ramos and Sylvia settled in Reseda in the mid-1960s, where Ramos worked in construction for 30 years.

“He never missed a day,” Sylvia said.

Along with his daily work, he was known for being the handyman in his neighborhood. If the drain was clogged or the toilet needed plumbing, Ramos was the first person people called.

From the age of 12, he helped his family pick crops in the South, before he decided to move to Los Angeles at 19. As an adult, he worked full-time but took English language classes in the evenings, before earning a GED and diploma in 1985, the same year his son Andrew graduated from high school, Sylvia said.

“You can never have enough education,” his daughter Sandra said her father would say.

Ramos rarely shared his emotions, like many Mexican dads, Sandra said. He loved going to casinos with his wife and watching soccer, especially his favorite team, las Chivas de Guadalajara. Sandra described him as a “big provider.”

Ramos’ quiet nature shifted once Sandra and Andrew started having their own children.

“The grandkids brought out a whole different Artemio,” Sandra said, adding that she would set her youngest son, who lives with special needs, on his lap and he would sing him Mexican lullabies. “You would never see my dad doing that.”

Sandra said Ramos became a father figure for her children, and they’ve emulated his special work ethic as they’ve grown up.

“I can see where they’re like my dad,” she said. “Everything has to be perfect, otherwise they don’t accept it.”

Ramos contracted the coronavirus at the Windsor Terrace Healthcare Center, where at least eight patients have died. He had been recovering from pneumonia and respiratory syncytial virus since late February.

He started running a fever March 24 and was put on antibiotics the next day. A week later he started having trouble breathing and was transferred to the hospital where he tested positive for COVID-19. He died four days later.

Ramos is survived by his wife, son and daughter, and six grandchildren.

“Grandpa was like their superhero,” Sandra said. “That’s the best guardian angel they can have.”

By Tomás Mier

Carlos Oropeza Canez was 22 years into a 30 year prison sentence when COVID-19 began to spread through his correctional facility.

By June 2020, more than 900 people at Avenal State Prison were infected with the deadly virus. Canez phoned his sister-in-law, Sandra, to tell her he’d been written up for refusing an assignment in the prison’s kitchen. It was, he told her, where many people were getting sick.

“Then he called back and said, ‘I prayed last night, and I told God that if it’s meant for me, then it’s meant for me,” Sandra said. “And he went to work in the kitchen.”

On June 20, Canez became the first inmate at Avenal to die from complications of COVID-19. He was 60.

Canez was born in Bakersfield in 1959, the youngest of 11 children. His father died when he was just an infant, and for many years, his family lived below the poverty line. Canez was full of charm and charisma; a bright and curious child who would grow into a smooth-talking Cassanova with confidence and style. He loved baseball, Soul Train and disco dancing, and in 1977, he was voted “Best Dressed” senior at Arvin High School.

“He had such a beautiful smile, and he was good looking,” said Sandra, who married into the family when Carlos was in fourth grade. “He was a kind guy, and he could talk to anybody. My husband used to call him ‘silver-tongue.’”

But life in his Lamont neighborhood outside Bakersfield was full of temptation. While working as a janitor, Canez got involved with the local drug scene and began using heroin. It was an addiction that would plague him for much of his life, even as he fell in love, got married and became a father.

In 1998, Canez made a decision that would change his life and the lives of others. High on drugs, he got behind the wheel of a car and got into an accident that killed two people: Ruben Pinon, a passenger in his car, and Virginia Adams, a passenger in another. Canez was convicted of second degree murder and sentenced to back-to-back 15-year sentences.

“He made some bad choices,” said his son, Xavier.

It took Canez a long time to process what had happened. For years, he was full of anger and frustration, and the family didn’t have the resources to pursue an appeal.

More than a decade into his sentence, Canez apologized to the victims’ families, his sister-in-law said.

While in prison, Canez reconnected with Angie Jimenez, a childhood flame who visited him regularly, and they married in 2011. He checked in with his children weekly, and in the year before his death, he made it a point to reconnect with many of his siblings.

He also began studying psychology and mentoring younger inmates in need of guidance.

“He said, ‘I take them aside, I talk to them,’ ” Sandra recalled, noting that Canez had plans to become a counselor upon his release.

Last year, Canez graduated from the Avenal education program. It was one of the proudest moments of his life, Sandra said.

Today, Canez’s family doesn’t sugar-coat what happened, but they also recognize the demons he battled, the goodness he had within him and the lessons his life provided.

“His decisions in his life have given me the ability to have an open heart and open mind, and to see people for who they are versus what they’ve done,” said his son, Carlos Jr.

Xavier said he thought about his father when he taught his own son to play baseball. Sandra said she’ll never forget how her brother-in-law used to fill the house with music and dance. Jimenez said she will miss her best friend whose smile could “light up a dim room.”

But it was Carlos Jr. who seemed most openly moved by his father’s story.

“A strength I took from him was never judging anyone,” he said. “Love people for who they are, and forgive people.”

Carlos Canez is survived by his wife Angie; children Xavier, Carlos Jr., Samantha, Emanuel and Adriana; grandchildren Gabrielle, Xander and Grace and siblings Connie, Jane and Raymond.

By Hayley Smith