Welcome to What We Remember, our reader-submitted obituary series. Submit your story for next Sunday’s installment here.
Fernando Zaragoza, 87
First to call
My Tío Fernando made bad dad jokes, adored his wife and mother, teased his siblings and middle-aged children, and showed his love through service. Every painted wall, mowed lawn, car filled with gas, and grocery item picked up was how he cared for his loved ones. His phone calls were short and filled with gentle teasing for not calling him first. He never missed a birthday card, baseball game or graduation. You always knew you mattered to him. I was far from the only one to receive calls, cards, visits, occasional loans and acts of service. His magic was connection.
Fernando Leonel Zaragoza was an industrial air conditioning repairman and Air Force veteran. He died March 20 in Tulsa. — By his niece Sandra Zaragoza
Dorothy Robbins, 103
You’ll manage
Widowed at 56, Dorothy lived nearly half of her life alone, never remarrying. She always told me she didn’t want to train another husband. To support herself after he died, she worked as an upholstery seamstress. She was a beautiful soul and my best friend, 53 years older than me. Older people are such a gift. She always told me, through and of life’s trials, “You’ll manage.” How can you not believe that from someone who has lived through the last century?
Dorothy D. Robbins was a seamstress and mother of five. She died July 3 in Westminster, California. — By her friend Jen Carter
Samuel Landrum, 91
A gentleman’s handkerchief
My widowed father was a consummate gentleman. A general surgeon who never denied anyone care, he sometimes accepted farm produce or fishing invitations in lieu of payment. He treated everyone with respect — patients, families, nurses, orderlies and fellow physicians. As his health waned, he transferred to assisted living, then to custodial care. Many of the staff at the nursing home had worked with him in some capacity, and treated him with compassion in his last year of life. At one point, I took him to see a neurologist; he wanted badly to be cured of his dementia. He patted his hip pocket to feel for his handkerchief during his exam. It was not there. When I offered him a tissue, he explained that he did not need the handkerchief himself, but “a gentleman always carries a handkerchief in case a lady needs one.”
Samuel Edward Landrum was a surgeon and private pilot. He died April 20 in Fort Smith, Arkansas. — By his daughter Leslie G. Landrum
Elinor Farquhar, 93
One last party
Grandma Elinor threw her final party this spring, hiring a magician to entertain most of her 16 great-grandchildren for an afternoon. As children their parents had spent a week every summer under her roof in Connecticut, cutting their sandwiches diagonally, placing napkins on their laps before eating, hanging their wet bathing suits on the line and — table stakes — making their beds each morning without prompting. Now a tiny woman with impeccable coiffure gripped her walker and instructed the next generation how to walk while balancing a slender book on their heads. Thank you notes flowed in weeks later, some brought by the parents seeking more time with the grandma who listened and shared her unfiltered opinion on any topic. In her final week, when she discovered the dinner table set with stainless, not silver, her physician son-in-law sheepishly admitted responsibility. “Oh, well then, that’s all right,” she said.
Elinor Kenney Farquhar was a Washington volunteer and philanthropist. She died Aug. 1 in D.C. — By her daughter Sarah O’Hagan
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The Post is publishing reader-submitted obituaries as part of a weekly feature, What We Remember.
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