And then there were four

In late March, I wrote about the death of my Uncle Paul, the oldest of seven brothers on my dad's side. Now here I am again, writing about the death of my Uncle Manuel, the youngest of those seven Rede boys.

My Uncle Manny died a week ago (June 3) at age 78. He'd suffered strokes in recent years that had left him unable to travel and, in his waning days, unable to talk. Quite a contrast from the image I will carry in my mind of a tall, slim man with a quiet personality, erect posture and wry sense of humor.

He lived in Irvine, California, the epitome of an Orange County suburb, and is survived by his angelic wife of 55 years, Linda, who provided 24/7 care in the final stage of his life; four children (my cousins Michael, Laura, Bobby and Stephanie); and seven grandchildren. The online obituary that appeared in southern California newspapers dutifully noted that he was a graduate of California State University at Fullerton; a U.S. Navy veteran; and that he had a long history in public service, working in local government as a personnel director, deputy city manager and city manager, and later for the Immigration and Naturalization Service. (No, he wasn't an enforcement agent; he was a property manager for the federal agency.)

What the obit didn't say was that he was the only one in a family of nine siblings who had made it to college (a bachelor's degree in political science and a masters in public administration). My dad often told me that he and his brothers, most of whom didn't graduate high school, worked hard in very physical jobs so their littlest brother could have a shot at higher education. They weren't resentful of him; they were proud.

Uncle Manny's passing hit my younger sister, Cathy, particularly hard as he and my Aunt Linda were her baptismal godparents. Though separated by thousands of miles -- she lives in Alaska -- they were very close and she visited them every chance she got. She was able to find a cheap redeye flight this week and is headed down today for the memorial service Saturday.

When I spoke with my dad earlier this week to express my condolences, he seemed subdued. And with good reason. His oldest brother, Paul, died one day before my dad's birthday. A little over 10 weeks later, his youngest brother, Manny, died, just two days before the anniversary of their sister Mary's death.

This leaves just four of the original nine siblings: Valentina, the oldest, now in her 90s; my dad, Catarino; and two brothers, Joe and Luciano.

On my mother's side, there are also four surviving siblings out of the original nine: sisters Lupe, Theresa (my mom) and Antonia, and their youngest brother, Julian.

With each passing year, I'm more appreciative of each chance to visit with them, and I'm reminded of the considerable obstacles they've overcome as working class Mexican Americans to create better opportunities for their spouses and children. Uncle Manny was a living, breathing example of someone whose accomplishments reflected his family's aspirations for a better life and who, in turn, served as a role model for nieces and nephews like me.