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.

Arizona and The Old West Highway

I've been to Arizona about a half dozen times, typically when I've gone to visit my dad in New Mexico or to attend a Rede family reunion in Tucson. One of the more pleasant trips came when I combined work and play, first meeting with journalism students at Arizona State University in Tempe and later attending three spring training baseball games with my dad.

In all my visits, I've always traveled on Interstate 10, the route that takes you from Phoenix to Tucson and then eastward to New Mexico. Others may enjoy the desert landscape at 75 mph but mile after mile of cactus, brush, rock and distant brown mountains doesn't do much for me. Nor does the experience of pulling into a rest area, hoping to walk around a bit before getting back on the interstate, only to spot a sign saying: "Dangerous snakes and insects in area." Uh...no thanks.

So, after visiting with my dad and stepmom last week, I decided to change it up and drive back to Phoenix along U.S. 70, also known as The Old West Highway. It was a 285-mile trip that took about seven hours from Silver City, including a stop for lunch. Why so long? It's a two-lane highway that passes through several towns where you have to slow down quite a bit. Plus, I was in no hurry. I wanted to see another side of Arizona other than ribbons of interstate asphalt.

Any notions I had of a quaint drive were quickly dispelled when I crossed the N.M. border into Duncan, Arizona (population 713). Signs told me I was in Cattle Country. No surprise there, given the many ranches in the area. But I wasn't prepared for the abject poverty on the outskirts of town. Dilapidated trailers on both sides of the highway, a used tire shop and a boarded-up souvenir shop told me I was light years away from the prosperous suburbs surrounding Phoenix.

It was more of the same as I passed through mining towns like Superior and Miami, where ramshackle houses, unpaved side streets and broken-down vehicles spoke volumes about poverty among rural whites.

But the worst, most dispiriting scenes, were those on the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation. Talk about a bleak, dreary landscape. I saw car tires laid on top of plastic tarp covering the roof of a mobile home; clothes hung out to dry on wire mesh fences abutting the highway; a dog lounging a few feet from the highway as cars whizzed by; and only two viable businesses -- a small market and a laundromat next door.

Many San Carlos families have no running water or other services. But efforts to help the tribe's poorest often get derailed by political wrangling, administrative ineptitude and corruption.

Little did I know that San Carlos Reservation is one of the poorest Native American communities in the United States. Wikipedia says the median annual household income is about $14,000, roughly 60 percent of the people live below the poverty line and one-fourth of the active labor force is unemployed. The reservation was established in 1871 and is home to a conglomeration of tribes forcibly removed from traditional Apache homelands in Arizona and New Mexico.

There's a casino on the reservation, miles away from the sad scenes I observed in the community of San Carlos. Somehow, I don't think that's a panacea. Sad to say, according to the alternative weekly Phoenix New Times, "The San Carlos tribal government is known nationally as one of the most inept and corrupt in America's Indian Country." The details are laid out in a devastating piece titled "Tribal Belt."

I couldn't bear the thought of stopping to take a photo or two as I pulled to the side of the road. It felt too intrusive. Still, I've posted a photo (above) from New Times that gives you an idea of the despair, bordering on hopelessness, that I felt.

Next time I'm in Arizona, I think I'll stick to Interstate 10.

Photograph by Paolo Vescia

64 hours in Silver City

Son and father

Could there be two places in this country more different than Portland, Oregon, and Silver City, New Mexico?

I suppose so, but the pairing of these polar opposites is something that gives me pause to consider what brings joy and fulfillment to my father and me.

I flew into Phoenix Thursday morning, rented a car and hit the road for the five-hour drive to my dad's home in Silver City, roughly 50 miles from the Arizona border in the southwestern corner of the state. Silver City is a retirement community located in the heart of the Old West, with open-pit mines, an historic downtown with a laid-back vibe and clear blue skies soaring above the surrounding Gila National Forest. The town has 10,000 residents (1/3 of Grant County's total population) and it's situated at an altitude of 5,900 feet, something that became quite apparent when I went for an afternoon run on Friday. Whew!

About half the town is of Latino descent and the Spanish, Mexican and Native American influences are seen everywhere -- from food to architecture to street and geographic names. Walmart is the dominant retailer and, as far as I can tell, there is a single two-screen movie theater and a bowling alley. A billboard on the east end of town proclaimed: "Congress...you betrayed us! Now it's personal. Return freedom to America!" Sure enough, Grant County has a thriving tea party -- much to the consternation of my "union man" dad and his progressive/compassionate wife.

And Portland? No value judgments here, just a recitation of the facts. You've got the nation's No. 1 ranked city for mass transit; an ecofriendly hub for young creatives that's become the darling of East Coast media; a cool, damp climate; and an overwhelmingly white and liberal population. Silver City has green chile, tamales and turquoise; Portland has microbrews, coffeehouses and nose rings.

Historic downtown Silver City

While visiting with my dad, Catarino, and stepmother, Oralia, I attended a Thursday night community concert at Western New Mexico University's fine arts theatre; treated them to a foamy  drink at an internet cafe (Javalina Coffee House) on Friday morning; and accompanied them to an American Legion monthly breakfast on Saturday morning, where I met a few veterans (WWII, Vietnam and Iraq) and their wives.

On Saturday afternoon, we took a drive to Bayard, 10 miles to the east, where we toured Fort Bayard National Cemetery, dropped in on an arts and crafts sale to benefit women and girls living along the U.S.-Mexico border; and devoured a delicious Mexican lunch at a hole in the wall. Sunday morning, we met a friend of theirs for breakfast at Vicki's Eatery, a delightful place that serves great eggs benedict and got a recent mention in The New York Times. I said my goodbyes, gassed up and hit the road.

During my two-plus days in town, I transitioned easily into the take-it-easy pace led by my dad, soon to turn 85, and stepmom. They have a view of the mountains from their place and it's quieter than a morgue. They've got comfortable rocking chairs set up in front of the wood stove, which heats the home quite nicely, and their 14-year-old Chihuahua, Mickey, is their constant companion.

My dad is slowing down but still stays active with the American Legion, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the Knights of Columbus and the League of United Latin American Citizens, also known as LULAC. Oralia, meanwhile, is engaged in a variety of volunteer organizations and humanitarian causes, plus the church choir, and seems to know everybody in town.

Catarino and Oralia

Clearly, my dad and Oralia have embraced the comfort born of small-town familiarity and peace of mind that comes from clean air, quiet nights and a low level of crime. After a lifetime of physical labor, Dad deserves a less stressful lifestyle like this, in the state where he was born. I suspect that Ora, a registered nurse who once worked the emergency rooms in Oakland, California, could be happy just about anywhere. I'm grateful that she's such a resourceful person and a supportive wife.

As relaxing as it is, I could never see myself living there. Too small, too slow, too isolated. I need -- "want" is probably the more accurate term -- more options when it comes to music, movies, food, shopping and things to do, whether it's visiting a bookstore, catching a lecture or a concert. I'll gladly make the trade-off anytime between urban living, with its sometimes unpleasant aspects, and anonymity because Portland provides all the stimulation I need.

Photograph: www.placeeconomics.com