Ramon, you were a good man, and I admired you

We lost Ramon today.

He was 83? Maybe 87. Long life. Successful life. Good life.

Ramon was a WWII veteran, fought in the Pacific. He'd tell me stories of all the guys getting sick on his ship. That always made him laugh.

Ramon was the man in the Romero family. I mean, he had his stuff together. Most of the family are living in houses Ramon paid off in the 1970s. Even last year he was telling me of an auction he wanted to check out for a little crappy lot, maybe put an apartment building on it. He had it figured out.

It was great seeing such a large gathering at the hospital. He was the man, and you could see that by all the sad faces at LMH over the last two weeks. The day he went into the hospital (12 days ago) I counted 15 people in the room, all family, both close and distant, all worried about "Papoo." And I thought to myself, "Man, I hope half this many people give a shit about me when I'm his age."

He left peacefully at around 1 p.m. today. Everyone got to say goodbye. Even Evey told Papoo, "I love you Papoo. Bye-bye Papoo."

I've known Ramon what, five years? I don't have as many stories as his immediate family has... but I can think of a couple things I want to remember about the man.

First, he LOVED his little Evelyn. Loved making cow noises at her. MOOOO!!!! I'm not sure Evey loved the cow noises, but she loved the attention he'd shower her with. They were an odd couple, her just learning to walk, him walking with a cane, but they were tight.

Ramon had a loud laugh, and he used it frequently. These last few weeks, that laugh always trailed off into uncontrollable coughing. But he loved to laugh, and he found lots of things about this world amused him.

Check out that shock of white hair! His white hair always cracked me up. Ramon could rock a suit, too, couldn't he? He looks like the 80-year-old Mexican James Bond in that photo with Adro.

Ramon always tried to get me to eat the chili peppers on their dining room table. Every time I refused the peppers, he'd give me that look that said, "Ahh, OK.... white boy!"

I once moved a pile of junk to his farm for him. Ramon organized junk the way librarians arrange books. Every piece of junk had a specific pile. I picked up an old toilet, and he told me that the proper place was behind the barn. I'm thinking to myself, "Behind the barn? I don't wanna dodge cow pattys all the way over there!" I'm thinking that I get out of sight, I'll ditch the toilet wherever I feel appropriate. But then I round the corner on the barn, and, I'll be damned... I found the "bathroom" department. Toilets, tubs, shower heads, sinks. Who was I to mess with this controlled chaos? I neatly set the toilet next to two of its fellow forgotten brethren. "Well played, Ramon," I thought to myself.

Well, I need to shut this down. I could go on (I have more stories about his truck and his junk piles, but I'll save those for anyone willing to listen after the funeral). But all I want to say is this: Ramon, you were a good man, and I admired you.