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By Los Angeles Times Staff

Updated

The Echaluce’s home had four bedrooms. Melissa and her parents, Edwin and Celia, occupied two of them. But the spare rooms were rarely empty. They were filled with friends, extended family members, acquaintances–anyone who needed a place to stay.

“We always had people staying with us,” Melissa said. “It was just my father’s generous nature.”

Along with bedrooms, Edwin Echaluce, though living on a tight budget as a mail carrier, would give away money, too.

“Anything he had,” Melissa said. “He’d give.”

His generosity extended to everything in his life, except for the television. On weekdays at p.m., he would watch “Jeopardy.” No matter what else was happening–or what anyone else wanted to watch–Echaluce would be in front of the TV, yelling out the answers.

“Everyone was amazed,” Anna said. “He knew all of them.”

On March 29, Echaluce had a fever, and got tested for COVID at a drive-up station in San Jose. His positive test result was not so much of a surprise: A week before, just after lockdown orders were put in place, Echaluce met with three friends at one of their homes.

Within a week, one was in the hospital with symptoms of the virus, and another had a fever. In the end, three out of four in the group contracted the virus. Echaluce’s friends have since recovered.

Although Echaluce had a history of diabetes, high blood pressure, and congestive heart failure, his decline with COVID was shockingly fast. Only three days after his fever spiked, he called his daughter, unable to breathe, and was rushed to Kaiser Hospital in Santa Clara. It was the last time Melissa spoke to him.

“He looked miserable over FaceTime,” Melissa said. “It was hard to see.”

When it was clear Echaluce was nearing the end, the doctors asked Melissa if she would like to come see her father to say goodbye. Though difficult, she declined.

“I have a family,” she said, crying. “I would have been taking a risk.”

After three weeks in the hospital, on and off a ventilator, he died April He was

Echaluce grew up in Legazpi, the capital of the province of Albay in the Philippines. Melissa remembered stories of her father’s meager upbringing, and how he and his five brothers would share shoes, fighting over the one pair without holes.

In hopes of better economic opportunities, Echaluce and his wife immigrated to the U.S. in , settling in San Jose where they remained for life. Echaluce first worked as a janitor at an elementary school and went on to become a mail carrier for the U.S. Postal Service for the next 24 years. For a while, he was also a security guard, which meant working long hours.

In retirement, after being “constantly overworked and overtired,” as Melissa remembered him saying, he simply wanted to rest. He would fish, hang out with friends, play Candy Crush on his iPad and, of course, watch “Jeopardy.”

Most of all, Echaluce loved his grandchildren. On Fridays, Melissa said he would take his 3-year-old granddaughter, Ava, to McDonald’s to buy her a Happy Meal. Every evening, during “Jeopardy” commercials, the two would FaceTime.

“He was enamored by her,” Melissa said.

When his grandson, Austin, was born nine months ago, he looked forward to buying him fast food too.

The tradition will live on in his daughter’s house: Every Friday, they go to McDonald’s and get Happy Meals.

Echaluce is survived by five brothers, a sister, his daughter and two grandchildren.

By Megan Botel

Birthdays and Christmas were special to Emma Patiño, who would craft handmade blankets and pillows for her many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She'd add superheroes or cartoon characters or other interests from their lives.

One year, Emma made her grandson Jaime Patiño an Elvis Presley blanket — both of them were fans.

“She didn't have much money, but she had time and she knew how to sew,” he said. “Those meant more than any gifts you could buy at a store because they were made by her. She took the time because she cared.”

Emma, 84, died of complications from COVID on April 13 at Kaiser Permanente in San Leandro. She’s survived by her three children, five grandchildren and 11 great-grandchildren.

The daughter of a sheepherder, Emma grew up in a large, close knit family in Del Rio, Texas. When she was 20, she married Ricardo Patiño, who grew up in the same town.

Emma worked different jobs in Del Rio, and her husband took up seasonal work in the East Bay at the old Hunt’s fruit packing cannery. When the cannery offered Ricardo a full-time job, Emma agreed to relocate their family of five to Union City in

“She said, ‘Yes, we’re poor here in Del Rio, at least we’ll have a chance over there,’” said Jaime Patiño, a city councilmember in Union City. Though neither Emma nor Ricardo finished high school, they watched the next generations graduate college and earn advanced degrees. The couple divorced years before Ricardo's death in , but remained on good terms, Jaime said.

Emma was a soft-spoken woman who enjoyed visits from her loved ones — when she'd insist they sit and eat something even if they weren’t hungry — and her 'novelas. “We’d be talking on the phone: ‘Oh, oh, I gotta go, my show’s coming on,'” said Jaime.

In October , Emma moved into the Gateway Care and Rehabilitation Center in Hayward. She had been diagnosed with dementia, but still remembered her relatives and details about her family, and she seemed to be happy there, Jaime said.

Five days before she died, Jaime went to see his grandmother after receiving a news alert that there was a COVID outbreak at the facility. They communicated silently through the window of her room; Emma waved at him to come inside, unaware of the halt on visits. A few hours later he went to see her again through the window, this time with his daughter.

“Just within two or three hours, she started having a cough,” he said. She became the 10th resident of the Gateway Center to die of complications from the coronavirus, in an outbreak that killed at least 18 others.

She died less than two weeks before what would have been her 85th birthday. To celebrate her birthday last year, the family took her out to lunch at a Mexican restaurant in Fremont. It was the last time the entire family was able to gather around to see her. In one of the pictures from that day, she’s surrounded by her great-grandchildren.

“She loved that,” Jaime said. “And for her to pass away just shy of a year later, when she was so full of life, even the last time I got to see her, she got up out of bed and walked over to the window so I could say hi to her. It’s just weird — five days later she passed away.”

By Arit John

Whether he was competing in a giant-slalom ski race as a year old, backpacking through the High Sierras or driving from Los Angeles to Cabo San Lucas in a Volkswagen Microbus, Jack B. Indreland was born thrill-seeker.

“He would drive across deserts with maybe enough gas to get through … or not,” David Indreland said of his father, who was 94 when he died of complications of COVID on April

“He did some risky stuff. He was a great outdoorsman, but he liked to use topography maps, not trail maps. He really liked getting off the trail, and he knew a lot about it.”

Jack Indreland was born in Los Angeles on July 14, After graduating from Alhambra High School, he enlisted in the Army at age He was deployed to Europe as part of an artillery battalion in October of , and that winter, he took part in the Battle of the Bulge, one of the last major battles of World War II.

“Everyone was really anxious to fight in the war,” David Indreland said of his father’s desire to enlist before his 18th birthday. “He was inspired by the mission and the general patriotism of the time.”

Indreland returned to Southern California after the war and graduated from Occidental College with a degree in geology in He co-founded a company that worked on water and geothermal projects in the U.S. and abroad.

He spent some 30 years as a member of the ski patrol and rescue team at Mount Baldy, competing in age-group ski-race events well into his 70’s, and 20 years as a substitute teacher in the L.A. Unified School District.

He and his second wife, Vania, were married for 30 years, and he remained active up until about three years ago, when he fell down a flight of stairs leading up to his Los Angeles apartment and broke his hip.

“He was a great spirit and he really loved the outdoors—he was at one with nature,” said his son. “And he had a very tough Norwegian spirit that carried him though his adventures. He would challenge himself on some hikes to the edge of risk.”

David said his father was in and out of hospitals because of pneumonia for much of January, February and March and spent part of that time at the Kei-Ai nursing home in Los Angeles, where his family believes he may have contracted the coronavirus.

Indreland was sent to the Alhambra Medical Center with a temperature of degrees on April On April 15, Vania Indreland received a call from hospital staff saying her husband’s condition was deteriorating and that he probably wouldn’t survive. He tested positive for the virus on April 20 and died two days later.

“I was able to go into ICU with all the protective equipment and talk to him for one last time,” his wife said. “I’m very proud of my husband. To me, he was one of a kind. He was Intelligent, brilliant, the best husband a woman could have because he lived to make us happy. We loved each other dearly.”

By Mike DiGiovanna

Twenty-two years ago, Emilia Ibarra immigrated to the United States from Mexico, putting down stakes in Fresno and giving birth to a son, Joshua. Eager to familiarize herself with her new country, she took English language courses as she raised her son as a single mom.

Three years later, she and Joshua moved to Coachella, working first as a massage therapist at a resort in La Quinta and later doing volunteer work to assist undocumented workers in the region.

On Mondays, Emilia would read the Bible with friends and every Sunday she attended Our Lady of Soledad Church with her son. Ibarra was “very close to her faith,” Joshua said.

Well known in the community because of all the events and causes she supported, Ibarra helped local migrants by providing them with food and second-handed clothes and took part in charity events at her church. Cheerful and vibrant, she performed dances from her homeland at the annual date festivals.

“She did more than at least hours of community service work,” Joshua said,

Joshua remembered his mother opened her door to a family going through hard times and sheltered them for a month for free. For those unable to go to the church, she would bring bread and wine for communion at local nursing homes.

In her down time, Ibarra loved watching Korean soap operas with Spanish subtitles on television. She even added “Salaheyo” -- “I love you” in Korean – to her vocabulary.

Joshua said his mother always made time to support him. She cheered him on when he ran cross country, took him to Mass when he graduated from high school and swelled with pride when he was accepted to Cal State San Bernardino.

Ibarra’s health began to decline in recent years, first a stroke and then a bout of breast cancer. She also had difficulty breathing because of constant bronchitis and carried an inhaler.

In late April she contracted COVID, likely from her son who worked as a caregiver for people with disabilities in a nursing home. During Joshua’s self-quarantine after he tested positive, Ibarra took care of him but showed symptoms herself after just one day.

Ibarra began coughing up blood, had trouble sleeping and had difficulty catching her breath in early May and was admitted to Eisenhower Medical Center. She died May 28 at age She is survived by her son.

By Xinlu Liang

Gloria Martinez wanted to look good. It didn’t matter where she was going.

Even if she was just heading to a doctor’s appointment with her daughter Emilia, she’d sport a colorful blouse or dress, and accessorize with a watch, rings and earrings. Oh, and she’d never forget her red lipstick.

Her favorite pattern? Cheetah print.

“She had a drawer full of it,” her daughter said, laughing.

After a long, full life, Martinez, a Visalia resident, died of COVID complications on April 17 at Kaweah Delta Medical Center. She was

Before moving to Visalia, she had lived in Montebello for 40 years and for a dozen of those years worked in the cafeteria at Ford Boulevard Elementary in East L.A..

“Every morning, no matter how early, she’d always say, ‘Good morning!’ in a happy voice,” Emilia said. “She really never let anything bother her.”

Martinez was blunt yet loving, her daughter said. She’d tell you things as she saw them and didn’t hold back — but it all came from a place of love.

“She never said what she didn't mean,” Emilia said. “And she always did what she said she was going to do.”

She also opened the doors to her home to anyone who needed it. After Emilia’s divorce, her mother welcomed her and her three youngest children home. If someone was in need of a place to sleep, Martinez offered her home.

“We always had someone living with us,” Emilia said. “Always.”

Martinez was a devout Jehovah’s Witness and would make it clear to all of her guests that “this is a Christian home.” She loved making tamales and her delectable chile verde, her daughter said.

Her favorite pastime was shopping at the “goody goodies,” the term she used when referring to thrift stores. She’d roam around and check out the clothing.

Martinez tested positive for COVID on April 15, yet showed no symptoms until two days later when her oxygen levels started to drop. The family believes she acquired the virus at Redwoods Springs Healthcare Center where residents have tested positive and 29 have died. She had been receiving physical therapy at the facility after a serious fall a month earlier.

She is survived by her husband Raymond, children Emilia, Freddie and Daniel, 14 grandchildren, 14 great grandchildren and a great great grandchild.

“She was the icon of the family,” Emilia said.

By Tomás Mier

Joyce Marie Pierce Johnson had one of the meanest Mardi Gras spreads in Houma, La. Fried turkey, Cajun dirty rice, gumbo, Johnson’s special potato salad; it’s the place people wanted to be.

“When she was there, the party was on,” said her daughter, Monique Washington.

But this year, for the first time her children can remember, she missed Mardi Gras. Instead of being at home in Houma, Johnson was in Atlanta, nursing Washington back to health from a double mastectomy.

Even at 71, Johnson was a force to be reckoned with, lifting her daughter’s full weight to help her around the house or to use the restroom. “That kind of strength,” said Washington.

It’s why, two months later, it was so jarring to hear her voice over the phone from the hospital. Gone was the “strong, joyful” voice that was the center of every party; in its place, “a whisper.”

“She cared for me, and all of us [children],” said Washington. “We could not be there one second to help take care of her.”

In late March, Johnson and her year-old granddaughter were on vacation visiting her son and his family in Hemet when she began to have diarrhea and nausea. She went to the doctor and tested positive for COVID, and then on April 1, as her condition worsened, was admitted to a hospital.

Even from her hospital bed, Johnson was confident she would recover. She called her granddaughter, who had flown back to Louisiana, on April 4. Her voice was weak, but she was convinced the hospital wouldn’t hold her long.

“Her last words to us were that she loved us and that she couldn’t wait to come see us,” said Kristie Johnson, the girl’s mother and Johnson’s daughter.

On April 15, Johnson died of COVID

A year earlier, Johnson had retired after 25 years as a grocery store cashier. Her daughters say everybody knew her, that she would make people’s day with her banter.

Johnson dedicated her retirement to making sure her children were taken care of, whether it was nursing through recovery from a surgery, helping with a home purchase or just paying a visit.

Washington said Johnson was the person people would go to for confidence or inspiration. In the middle of Washington’s battle with breast cancer, Johnson spray-painted her hair pink to show support. She taught her children to stick together and to be honest.

“She made me the woman I am,” said Washington. “The ugly truth and the sweet truth. Whatever it was, she told it.”

Johnson is survived by her children, Monique Washington, Trisha Brownlee, Kristie Johnson, Terrence Johnson and Frank Johnson Jr.; stepchildren Gregory Wallace and Ivy Wallace; 31 grandchildren; 17 great-grandchildren; and several nieces and nephews. Her son Corey Johnson died in

By Isaiah Murtaugh

Dena Louise Connelly died the way she lived — as a fighter.

To her family, she was an honest woman with great integrity, a person who would tell it like it is and remain unafraid of hurting someone’s feelings.

She was stubborn, yet nurturing. She cared about the things you cared about, but didn’t care what you thought about her. And most of all, she was “a tough little lady.”

Connelly, 64, died April 30 after battling COVID for weeks.

Born in Washington, D.C., Connelly was orphaned as a child and shuffled through the foster care system. She moved to Los Angeles in her 20s and later gave birth to a daughter, Tatiana Molinar. While raising her daughter, she worked as a data entry clerk at a bank.

Connelly’s hobbies included gardening and reading mystery books. She was a fan of red nail polish.

Even as she grew older, Connelly tried to remain self-sufficient. She enrolled at Long Beach City College at 63 to pursue a degree in art, though the goal escaped her while she lived in an assisted living home for seniors.

Molinar said it’s unclear how her mother contracted the novel coronavirus. She suffered from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, a condition that attacks the lungs, and had been hospitalized repeatedly over the years, her daughter said.

It started with a fever and a cough, and then progressively worsened. Connelly sought treatment at a hospital and eventually was placed on a ventilator. For 30 days, healthcare workers tried to help her breathe on her own, but without success.

Molinar, who is a nurse at Providence Saint John’s Health Center in Santa Monica where her mother died, was able to say goodbye.

Unlike some of her patients’ families, who could only Facetime loved ones, Molinar, dressed in protective gear, sat at her mother’s bedside and held her hand in the final moments.

“I told her she was strong,” Molinar said. “At least she was able to hear me say that.”

Connelly is survived by her daughter and two grandchildren, Sage and Lennox.

By Emmanuel Morgan

When Herbert “Herb” Segall learned he had missed a single math question on the New York State Regents exam in , he was certain it was the test, not he, that was wrong. He insisted on a meeting with the exam board and roundly proved that his answer was correct. The small victory confirmed what those around him had known for some time: Herb Segall had a special kind of mind.

The exam was just the start of Segall’s lifelong intellectual journey, which included a doctorate in chemistry, a stint on Linus Pauling’s research team at Caltech and more than three decades as a professor of physics at Occidental College in Los Angeles. He died in Pasadena on May 1, , from complications of COVID He was

“My father was a giant,” said his daughter, Adrienne Segall. “He was a sequoia.”

At 6-foot-2, Segall stood as a towering presence to everyone in his orbit. He was adored by his family, his fellow faculty members and the numerous students he nurtured throughout his long career, but his great intellect lacked the great ego that so often accompanies people of such abilities, his daughter said.

Ever humble, ever patient, Segall was a humanitarian and an activist who participated in the Civil Rights Movement, the Chicano Movement and the Women’s Movement. He dedicated more than 20 years of his retirement to weekly volunteer guitar shows at the Jewish Home for the Aging in Los Angeles, where he played and sang in four languages: English, Spanish, Yiddish and Hebrew. Both the music and the company brought him great joy.

“What distinguished my father wasn’t just his scientific mind,” his daughter said. “It was his ability to locate, through the chaos of the world and through knowledge itself, what is important.”

Segall doted on Adrienne and her sister Carole, and his wife, Miriam, whom he met at City College of New York when she approached him for help with math. They were married in , and the two of them could often be found lost in conversation about obscure topics, such as the politics of 13th century China, over a plate of lunch. He was so steadfast that when a friend’s garage caught fire, the friend didn’t call the fire department—he called Herb.

That Segall’s daughter should compare him to a sequoia is fitting given his lifelong sense of wonder for the natural world. In the vein of the great American transcendentalists he admired, he often sought out big adventures and even bigger skies.

“He didn’t like being hemmed in by the small and multiple trees of the East Coast,” Adrienne said, noting that her father fell in love with California during an early teaching stint at Deep Springs College in the desert beneath Mount Whitney. “He was a Western wanderer. He drove that car with my pregnant mother across the country and he never looked back.”

And although Segall’s intellect won him many accolades, it also won him a bit of mischief. When he was called into the L.A. Superior Court for jury selection in , the judge asked him to disclose the occupations of his adult children. Segall replied that he couldn’t answer the question because the phrase “adult children” is an oxymoron. The judge took such offense that the ensuing kerfuffle (which included a court officer consulting a dictionary) was covered by the LA Times.

Wrote Times columnist Steve Harvey of the incident: “Nothing gums up the judicial process like a display of intellect.”

By Hayley Smith

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 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 on June She was

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, 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

June Pantages was always a natural caregiver, even before the duty was thrust upon her later in life.

She was only 18 when her son Dick was born without an ear. The young mom changed out his bandages and in subsequent years, when he returned from one of his surgeries, had his favorite meal ready.

When she and her late husband, Harry, took their three kids camping off Lake Chelan in Washington, it was Pantages who made sure the trips went off without a hitch, cooking and cleaning while everyone else enjoyed the outdoors. When Harry was diagnosed with ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, Pantages became his primary caregiver. She even learned how to drive their RV and load his wheelchair, so they could continue traveling with the American Clipper Owners’ Club.

After her husband died in and the RV stopped running, Pantages still wrote the club’s newsletter.

“She was always behind the scenes,” Dick Pantages said, “but she was the glue that held the whole thing together.”

It wasn’t until Pantages was in her 90s that she stopped driving and traveling and decided to move into a senior living home. Her health had worsened over the past year, and in mid-July, she contracted COVID She died July 31, a little over a month after her 96th birthday, at the Carlton, an assisted living home in Pleasant Hill.

An only child of alcoholic parents, Pantages left home shortly after graduating high school and married Harry. They were married 49 years, the last five of which she spent caring for him as his condition deteriorated. Although Harry was the more outgoing of the two, her quiet warmth and compassion were her calling card, her family said.

Pantages was a busy member of her church for more than 50 years, coordinating weddings and memorial services and making lunch for its men’s group every Thursday. When a family friend began suffering from dementia, she took time every week to visit. She also spent decades volunteering with Kaiser Hospice, out of gratitude for their help with her husband.

“She was always a mama bear, trying to take care of everyone,” her son Dick said. “She was amazing.”

Aside from her oldest son, Pantages is survived by a daughter, Jerri Long; son Timothy Pantages; and grandson Geoffrey Long

By Ryan Kartje

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 , 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 , Ohringer and his best friend moved to Los Angeles, where he eventually met Szabadi in The two married in 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 After days of exhaustion and illness, Ohringer was rushed to an emergency room on May He received the notification that he had tested positive for the infection on May

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

Bill Kling could often be found tinkering with computer parts in his home office. He liked to take laptops and old desktop monitors apart, fiddle with them and make improvements. In his hometown of Camarillo, Kling was known as the go-to person when someone had a computer malfunction. But he always refused payment.

Computer connection for Kling was ultimately about human connection.

“He would just say, ‘Take me out to dinner!’ when he’d helped out a neighbor or friend,” said Sandy Kling, his ex-wife. “He never did it for the money and he loved going out for meals with friends.”

Kling and Sandy met as teenagers at Camarillo High School. “We were both 19 when we got married,” said Sandy. The couple divorced in but remained close friends.

In mid-March, he began to feel sick. While he rested at home, their children, Rachel, Ben and Jake, would drop off medicine, drinks and food for him.

“He started to feel better,” said Sandy, but by April 8 Kling’s condition had worsened. He died the following day from complications related to COVID He was

The family held a small service to honor his life on May 1 at Camarillo’s Conejo Mountain Cemetery.

“I went through our text messages and the last thing he sent me was a picture of his beer at Cronies, his favorite sports bar in Camarillo,” said Ben. “He would show up by himself, and everyone there knew him.”

Kling could often be found at Cronies catching a game (he loved all sports) or chatting with his friends from work.

After graduating from high school, Kling began working on the assembly line at 3M, an electronic manufacturing plant, assembling data storage back-up cartridges. He later worked in analytics and quality control at Imation Corp. and ZPower.

“He didn’t go to college, but he was so smart,” said Sandy. “Bill could pick up on things really quickly and had a photographic memory.” Kling was a master at Trivial Pursuit, and could remember minute details from history and current affairs.

“He loved Marvel comics and all the lore behind them,” said Jake. “We would go see the Avengers movies the day they came out, and he would explain all the secret information from the comics; it was awesome.”

Jake last saw his dad the week before he died. The two went to In-N-Out, drove to a nearby parking lot and munched on fries. “It’s something we always did,” said Jake. “We just had a normal conversation about a few Netflix shows he had been watching. It’s a really good memory of mine now, I’m going to cherish it forever.”

For Sandy, the kids have been a saving grace in the midst of so much sadness. “It’s so hard to be isolated and unable to grieve with people,” she said. “But they all worked together on the memorial service.”

Rachel wanted to make sure her father’s memory was properly commemorated. So, like her father with his beloved computer pieces, she began to tinker and fiddle in a creative way.

“He was cremated,” said Rachel, “and I knew we needed some sort of urn. I wanted to make something personal just for him, so we got wood and made a box and I painted it.”

Rachel, Ben and Jake covered the lid with their handprints. On the sides, Rachel painted images of her dad’s favorite things; the Cronies’ logo, the Avengers’ sign, the LA Dodgers emblem. And, of course, one side was devoted to Kling's expertise: a desktop computer, mouse and hard drive.

Kling is survived by his children; his father and stepmother, Dick and Shirley Kling; and siblings Mike Kling and Teresa Jolliff.

By Chace Beech

Eric Oshiro was the stoic, soft-spoken type, quietly helping wherever he could, but never asking for much in return. He preferred not to draw attention. “Your typical IT person,” his wife, Lori, said.

But there was a quiet strength beneath that soft-spoken demeanor, a virtue he always hoped to pass along to his two sons, Ryan and Steven.

“A quiet man with quiet leadership,” Lori described.

His mother, meanwhile, had no trouble finding her voice. Betty Oshiro always loved to sing. As an instructional aide at Lincoln Elementary School in Paramount, where she worked for 25 years, Betty, 89, joined a singing group of student mothers called Abe’s Babes. She danced hula and played the ukulele, too, picking them up later in life as an homage to her Hawaiian culture.

“She was always known to have a smile on her face,” Lori said.

But on March 14, Lori and Eric were contacted by the assisted living facility in Cypress where Betty was staying. She wasn’t feeling well. Soon after, she was admitted to the hospital and tested for COVID Eight days later, on March 22, Betty Oshiro, 89, died from complications of the disease.

Her grandsons said their goodbyes through the hospital door, but her son was unable, stricken now himself with symptoms of COVID Over the past year, he’d taken care of his mother whenever she needed him, balancing her care with his search for additional IT work. It was on that final emergency room visit, as Eric and Lori spent hours waiting in the hospital, that Lori believes they both contracted the virus.

Lori got a fever three days after that hospital visit. The fever hit Eric two days after that.

Lori would eventually recover, after three weeks of symptoms. Eric, 61, never did. He was admitted to St. Jude hospital and intubated a week later. Then, on April 8, less than three weeks after his mother died from COVID, the disease claimed Eric as well.

Outside of a mild case of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, Eric had otherwise been healthy. He liked to play golf, and on occasion, he and his sons hit the driving range together.

Mostly, he lived a quiet life in La Mirada, one in contrast to his mother, who preferred singing and dancing and wanted to travel the world. He worked 25 years in IT at Unified Grocers, leaving only when the company merged with another. He enjoyed a glass of wine after work and NPR on the radio. Every now and again, he played the guitar.

“I just keep saying to myself, this shouldn’t have happened,” Lori said. “We’re both We’re not old. It’s horrible, the toll it takes.”

By Ryan Kartje

Donald Kennedy, a former president of Stanford University who also led the U.S. Food and Drug Administration and served as editor-in-chief of the journal Science, has died at a care facility in Redwood City from complications of COVID He was

Kennedy, who suffered a serious stroke in , died Tuesday at Gordon Manor, a residential care home where he had lived for two years, Stanford said in a statement. Nursing and assisted living facilities have become hot spots for outbreaks of the coronavirus disease.

Kennedy, a neurobiologist who was known for his humor, dedication to students and bold leadership, spent the bulk of his career in science and education at Stanford University.

Born in New York City and educated at Harvard, he taught at Syracuse before arriving at “the Farm” in as an assistant professor. Kennedy climbed the ranks to become chair of the school’s biology department.

Kennedy took a break from Stanford to serve as commissioner of the FDA under President Carter from to

Kennedy returned to Stanford and became president in During his year tenure, he presided over a $billion fundraising campaign, the largest attempted by a university at the time. He emphasized teaching over research and oversaw a refashioning of the school’s “Western culture” curriculum to incorporate the achievements of women and minorities. He invited students to join him on daily runs around “the Dish,” a radio antenna and landmark on campus.

Kennedy withstood several controversies, including the university’s continued ownership of land leased by a farming operation that used migrant labor, investments in companies that did business with South Africa, and his relationship to the Hoover Institution. During his tenure the university also weathered the Loma Prieta earthquake, which caused $ million in damage to the campus.

In , Kennedy announced his resignation amid allegations that Stanford had misspent millions of dollars in federal research grants, including billing for the depreciation of a foot yacht, floral arrangements for the president’s residence and upkeep of a mausoleum where Stanford’s founding family was buried. The university refunded the government for many of the charges and was largely cleared of wrongdoing.

From to , Kennedy served as editor-in-chief of the journal Science.

Kennedy is survived by his wife, Robin Kennedy; children Page Kennedy Rochon, Julia Kennedy Tussing, Cameron Kennedy and Jamie Hamill; and nine grandchildren.

By Nina Agrawal

Her masterful brushstrokes brought to life many of Disney’s most vibrant characters, but those who knew her best will remember Ann Sullivan for the vibrancy she brought to life in general.

Before her animation work on Disney classics like “Peter Pan,” “Lion King” and “Little Mermaid” was cherished far and wide, Sullivan preferred to paint the California coastline. She loved the beach and sun nearly as much as the art it inspired. As a young mother living in Manhattan Beach, she often pushed her children to a nearby beach in a wheelbarrow, painting afternoons away, soaking in what sun she could.

As she grew older, spending her final years at the Motion Picture and Television Fund’s skilled-nursing facility, Sullivan would still ask staff to wheel her outside to a bird sanctuary, just to sit in the sun.

Sullivan died from complications of COVID on April 13, a few days after her 91st birthday. She was the third of six housed at the Woodland Hills facility who have died from the novel coronavirus.

Her family celebrated her final birthday on Facetime, saying their goodbyes as they recalled the remarkable life that had brought her there.

Sullivan grew up in North Dakota, at the onset of the Great Depression. As a child, her family was too poor to buy patterns to make their own clothing, so she designed her own, honing a creativity that later bloomed into her life’s passion.

After two years of studying art at North Dakota State University, she rode west on a whim with her sister and brother-in-law to California, where she enrolled at what is now the ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena. All along, she dreamed of working for Disney.

That dream came true soon enough, as Sullivan got her first job mixing paints, remarking to her children that Disney was “the most prestigious company to work for in the world.” Before long, she was helping bring classic Disney characters to life, beginning with Tinkerbell from “Peter Pan.”

But Sullivan gave up the job to care for her children, raising two daughters, Shannon and Liz, and two sons, Joe and Tom, mostly in La Mirada. She still found time to paint and share that passion with others. When she could, she held art classes for neighborhood kids and encouraged them to follow their own passions.

“She was a free spirit,” her daughter Shannon Jay recalls. “She didn’t dictate how you did this or how you did that. She wanted you to be creative on your own.”

Sullivan returned to work at Hanna-Barbera in , shortly after she and her husband, Kevin Sullivan, divorced. Soon enough, she would return to Disney, continuing animation work on films such as “Oliver & Company,” “Hercules” and “Lilo and Stitch.” When Disney switched to a mostly computerized product, Sullivan taught herself how to translate her art digitally.

Bob Beitcher, president of the MPTF, described her as “a remarkably gifted and resilient woman who chased her dream of life in California and work at Walt Disney and succeeded with grace and resiliency.”

“My mom was one-of-a-kind,” her daughter Shannon said. “She just had that ability to be true to herself. She was just amazing that way. I’m proud to say she was my mom.”

By Ryan Kartje

Antonia “Toni” Sisemore lived to care for elderly patients as a certified nursing assistant, a devotion that likely cost the year-old her life.

Sisemore worked for several decades at Stollwood Convalescent Hospital, part of the St. John’s Retirement Village in Woodland. She had retired from her job but returned three years ago “because she was lonely and said she’d rather work than stay home,” her brother Felipe Sanchez said.

Sanchez said his sister likely contracted the coronavirus from a patient in early April. After a four-week battle against COVID, she died April 30 at Sutter Medical Center in Sacramento.

“She liked taking care of old people; she took pride and a real interest in taking care of them,” Sanchez said. “She was just that way. She and my younger sister took care of my father in his last days, before he died in ”

Family members were concerned about Sisemore at the beginning of the coronavirus outbreak, but she insisted on continuing to work. By early May, 32 residents and 34 staff members at Stollwood had tested positive for the virus, with 14 dying from COVID

“Even though we told her not to, she’s really stubborn,” Sisemore’s daughter, Ruth Edwards, told CBS 13 in Sacramento. “She’s going to do what she’s going to do.”

Sisemore was born April 6, , in McAllen, Tex., and moved with her family at a young age to Solano County, where she attended school and farmed before graduating from Vacaville High School. She lived in Esparto, outside Sacramento.

As a young mother, Sisemore suffered a debilitating back injury in an automobile accident. She recovered after months of physical therapy and remained relatively healthy until undergoing knee-replacement surgery two years ago.

Sanchez said Sisemore began experiencing headaches and body aches in early April. She took a coronavirus test and went into self-isolation for two weeks, avoiding contact with family members while her daughters and nieces brought food to her door. Her condition worsened in mid-April.

“At one point, she was so weak, she couldn’t do anything,” Sanchez said. “We called an ambulance, and they took her to the hospital.”

Sisemore was hospitalized for two to three weeks and placed on a ventilator. Her two daughters were allowed to don protective gear and visit before she died.

Sisemore is survived by her brothers Felipe and Gabriel Sanchez, sisters San Juana Contreras and Mary Lara, daughters Noemie Adela Sanchez and Ruth Edwards, five grandchildren and one great-grandson.

A post on the St. John’s Facebook page described Sisemore as “one of our most talented and dedicated CNA’s” and praised her for her tireless work ethic, dedication and compassion toward those more vulnerable than herself.

“Her selfless sacrifices and unwavering commitment to our residents astounded and inspired all of us here at St. John’s,” the post read. “She loved and treated the entire St. John’s staff as if we were her family.

“Her humility, generosity and warmth never failed to put a bright smile on all of our faces. Her exuberance, dedication, bravery and devout faith had a profound impact on our campus. She was our hero.”

By Mike DiGiovanna

It was the last day of high school and Julio Ramirez didn’t have money to buy his yearbook so his friend Julie Murillo helped pay for it. The two would go separate ways and begin their own lives, until 10 years ago, when Murillo received a Facebook message.

“A million years later, he found me and he’s like, ‘Is this really you? Don’t think I forgot, I still owe you money for your yearbook,’” Murillo said. “That’s kind of how we started talking again.”

The rekindled love led them to get married in and the two lived together in San Gabriel where he worked as an executive sales representative at MK Diamonds.

Everything changed, however, when Ramirez returned from a business trip with a fever in early March. After a week of flu-like symptoms and trouble breathing, Ramirez died at the age of 43 next to Murillo in their bed.

Ramirez’s death was originally pinned to pneumonia, but weeks later a private autopsy company hired by Murillo found that he tested positive for COVID

“I kept fighting for answers,” Murillo said.

Ramirez's story sparked multiple local news stories and a GoFundMe page started by his “MK Family.” The page has already raised over $46,

Seeing people come together for her husband has helped Murillo cope — especially when his co-workers share stories about him on the job.

Linda Guerrido showed Ramirez “the ropes” when he started at MK 17 years ago. Since they spent so much time together at the job, he became like a little brother. As he was one of the younger workers at MK, Guerrido called him “my little pulga” or “my little flea.”

“He always had a big smile on him,” she said. “He talked to everybody, regardless of who they were.”

Guerrido and Ramirez would often travel to diamond trade shows where, on their days off, Ramirez would be “one of the girls.”

“He could hang out with us, because he had patience to put up with all of our crap,” she said with a laugh.

As a group, they’d go to karaoke bars, where Ramirez was never afraid to grab the mic.

“He could sing anything, but everything sounded like a mariachi voice,” Guerrido said. “We would laugh and laugh. Singing brings joy and it was a sharing experience. That’s just how Julio was.”

Ramirez is survived by his wife Julie, two sons Juan and Isaac, siblings Claudia, Guillermo and Luis, and his parents, Esperanza and Julio.

“He was the true meaning of what a gentleman is,” said Murillo.

By Tomás Mier

When Raul Alaniz learned that his teenage daughter, Rebecca, wanted a tattoo, he hated the idea. As a single father he had always been one for strict curfews, limited socializing and an emphasis on schoolwork.

Imagine Rebecca’s surprise, then, when the two of them wound up at a tattoo parlor together. She got a rose, he got skulls. Anything for his daughter.

“He was a really personable guy,” said Rebecca, now 33, “but I think he also made sure that people knew there was a time for seriousness and a time for fun.”

Alaniz died in El Centro on June 10 from complications of COVID He was

Born in Mexicali in Baja California, Alaniz grew up in Holtville, outside El Centro. Always studious, he excelled in math and maintained a GPA at Holtville High School, his daughter said. When he graduated in , he was the class salutatorian. Rebecca was born just a year later.

“He was very serious and strict for most of my childhood,” she recalled, noting that her father once greeted her high school boyfriend with a baseball bat, “but he was just making sure that I was taken care of.”

Through the years, Alaniz put his math skills to work as an accountant and bookkeeper. He was particularly good with charts and graphs, and he prided himself on his system for managing personal finances. He volunteered at Rebecca’s school functions and was a familiar figure on the sidelines of band competitions and athletic events. He met his partner, Ana Barraza, online, and was with her for the last 15 years.

“From day one, he was the perfect, one-in-a-million man,” Barraza said. “He would tell me he loved me 10, 20 times per day. He had a big heart, he was a little grouchy, but he was a kind person.”

When Alaniz wasn’t focused on fatherhood or finances, he loved going to concerts (tribute bands in particular), watching Law & Order reruns and spending time with his beloved pets. He had so many dogs—some fosters, some permanent—that neighbors regularly complained, but he didn’t care. He adored them all.

And though he was married and divorced several times in his life, Alaniz remained loyal to his families, past and present. He doted on his five step-kids and 11 grandchildren, and loved nothing more than to spend an afternoon with them at Disneyland or the San Diego County Fair.

“He wouldn’t treat anyone differently,” Rebecca said. “If you were part of his tribe, you were part of his tribe.”

At the time of his death, she added, her father had four more tattoos.

Raul Alaniz is survived by his mother, Francisca Alaniz; daughter Rebecca; his partner Ana; sister Rosa; 11 grandchildren and five step-children.

By Hayley Smith

More than 25 years ago, Lynne Lerner walked onto the set of “China Beach,” a s 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 at the age of

“We were best buddies,” said Lynne Lerner, “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, 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 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 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

Later in life, Joseph Alexander, a Marine veteran and Congressional Gold Medal recipient, became a documentarian of sorts.

He liked to record things: He taped television programs and kept a scrapbook of news and magazine articles. The content varied, but mostly dealt with the military, or anything historical. When family or friends would come to his home in Hayward, he’d share an item or two from his collection.

“We called him the librarian,” his daughter Kay said. “He’d have recordings about people you’d never even heard of.”

And like a true librarian, he would let people check out shows or articles based on their interests.

“But he would want them back,” Kay said, laughing. “And he’d remind you if you forgot!”

Alexander had other nicknames, too. When General Motors, where he worked as an assembler for nearly 30 years, shuttered its Fremont assembly line in , they offered him a job at their Kansas City plant. Alexander agreed to the transfer, but his wife, Elmarie, vetoed the idea, so they stayed put.

With Alexander’s willingness to leave their Bay Area life and relocate to Missouri, his family teasingly began to call him “K.C.” Mostly, though, people just called him Joe.

Six months ago, when his health began to decline amid a history of congestive heart failure, he moved into an acute nursing facility in Hayward.

Kay and her sisters would typically visit him three or four times a week. But when the lockdown began, they couldn’t visit him any longer and suddenly were unable to reach him by phone.

“We called and called, with no answer,” Kay said, “I have no idea what his health was like for those few weeks.”

In early April, Alexander was rushed to St. Rose Hospital in Hayward when he had difficulty breathing, Kay said. Two days later, on April 7, when one of his daughters called to check in on him, she was told by the hospital staff that he had died earlier that day. His positive COVID test result came back the next day. He was

Alexander grew up in New Orleans. At 19, he joined the Marine Corps, one of the first African Americans to do so. “A real trailblazer,” Kay said.

Alexander, like many African American soldiers at that time, did not get the recognition or veteran benefits that his white counterparts received once World War II ended. When he returned to Louisiana, he would go into restaurants–in his Marines uniform–and was still refused service, he told Kay.

Along with 6 million other African Americans seeking to escape the racial oppression in the South, Alexander decided to move west to California. Settling in Oakland, he began working at the Naval Air Station in Alameda, and soon met his wife. He remained an East Bay resident for the rest of his life.

Though 70 years late, Alexander did finally receive recognition for his service when, on Aug. 2, , he was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal for helping end segregation in the U.S. military by joining the Marines’ first African American unit.

“I’m glad he was able to get that before he died,” Kay said.

Alexander didn’t achieve all of his goals, though. He told his family he would make it to He died just five years shy.

“That’s just his spirit,” Kay said. “And if it weren’t for this virus, who knows?”

The family held a small funeral service for relatives in Hayward. They paid their respects in the church–6 feet from the casket–and watched from afar as it was lowered into the grave.

By Megan Botel

Rosary Castro-Olega loved Kobe Bryant and the Los Angeles Lakers.

Before Bryant’s last game, she bought an $ nosebleed seat to watch No. 24 shoot hoops at Staples Center one last time. Her house was filled with Lakers merchandise and Bryant jerseys, her daughter said.

When Bryant died in a helicopter crash earlier this year, Castro-Olega was devastated.

Castro-Olega’s daughter Tiffany takes solace in thinking that now her mother gets to see her favorite player.

“She probably gets to watch him now all the time that she wants,” Tiffany said.

A longtime Los Angeles resident, Castro-Olega died on March 29 of COVID complications at Panorama City Medical Center. She was

Castro-Olega worked for 37 years as a registered nurse at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center before retiring. She continued to work as a traveling nurse at short-staffed hospitals in Los Angeles County after that.

“She was more than a nurse. She was more than a mom,” Tiffany said. “She was always taking care of everyone before herself.”

Castro-Olega and her twin sister, Rosalie, both dedicated their lives to nursing. Rosalie lives in Washington state but visits L.A. as a traveling nurse. She said she occasionally worked at the same hospitals as her sister, and on occasion, co-workers and patients mistakenly call her by her sister's name, a painful reminder of her sibling's death.

“I cry every day,” Rosalie said. “When I’m driving, I think about her.”

And although it hurts to hear people confuse their names, she’s also reminded of the memories the twins shared. The two attended grade school together in Los Angeles, where they were often separated for being too talkative. They graduated from Franklin High School in

“Sometimes we would get mischievous,” Rosalie said with a chuckle. “One time, she got in trouble and they taped her mouth.”

The twins had a favorite pastime: disco dancing. Even after hour shifts at the hospital, they would find the energy to dance.

Castro-Olega graduated from the University of San Francisco with a bachelor's degree in nursing. She always did her job with a smile on her face, her daughter said. And, Tiffany added, her mother was open-minded.

Castro-Olega was in the middle of watching a Lakers game when her daughter Tiffany shared that her friend was actually her girlfriend.

“She was very accepting,” she said. Her mom loved the woman Tiffany married, she added. "I was very grateful to have a supportive mom.”

Castro-Olega fell ill during the last weeks of March and started having trouble breathing. It was unknown whether she became infected with the coronavirus at Centinela Hospital in Inglewood, where she last worked. Her condition may have been complicated by a family history of heart trouble, Rosalie said.

Castro-Olega is survived by her three daughters, Tiffany, Tatiana and Trisha; her husband, Mario; and her five siblings, Jessie, Joe, Conchita, Rosalie and Pa.

By Tomás Mier