Final goodbyes to Los Banos’ last WWII vet, as well as a community matriarch

The end of a year is a good time to think about the many people who have impacted our lives, especially people who have died this year.

A new year reminds us that time is passing more quickly as we get older, and we seem to feel more deeply the loss of family members, friends and mentors who have influenced our lives.

In the last months of 2019 Los Banos has lost two people who impacted my life, Carmella Lewis and Albert Biel. Each was a cornerstone of a large family that touched many people in Los Banos.

Bert and his wife Claire raised a wonderful family, all of whom contributed time and energy to Los Banos, especially to St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. Bert and Claire lived long and eventful lives. I felt Claire’s loss deeply last year, when she passed away at age 96.

Bert’s loss is particularly acute, since his death at age 97 closes a chapter, not only on the Biel family history but on Los Banos veterans. He was the oldest surviving Los Banos veteran of World War II. And what a distinguished military service he had — a bomber pilot flying 35 missions over France and Germany, earning three Bronze Stars, the Air Medal with four oak leaf clusters and the Distinguished Flying Cross.

I’ve been privileged to know many of Los Banos’ World War II veterans, and it’s hard for me at accept that another of these brave persons has died. Their service was a proud part of Los Banos’ history.

Carmella Lewis, like Claire Biel, was a remarkable Los Banos matriarch. She and her husband Danny raised a caring family that was an integral part of the community. Like Claire, Carmella lived a long and full life, passing away at age 89. Her husband Danny, who feels her loss deeply, continues as the heart of their extended family.

I saw and interacted with Carmella often. She was an active member of the Los Banos chapter of Young Ladies Institute, among the many organizations to which she belonged. As an annual fundraiser for many years, the YLI made and sold enchiladas, many of which I bought from her gladly and ate appreciatively.

I also saw Carmella, along with Danny, at many football games. They were avid fans of their son Tony (whom she always called Anthony), a star player for Los Banos High School and Merced College and later a successful head coach for the college’s football team. It’s hard for me to accept that Carmella won’t be in the stands again.

Besides people close to me in time and geography, like Carmella and Bert, I recently found myself strangely and deeply affected by the death of a person distant to me in time and place, someone I hadn’t seen in a half-century, a university professor named David Bevington.

In the fall of 1967 I was a 21-year-old student just starting graduate school at the University of Chicago. I had recently received a bachelor’s degree from a small college in Lisle, Illinois, and was a little apprehensive about whether I could succeed in the university’s graduate English program.

David Bevington was the professor I encountered in my first class, Pre-Shakespearean Drama. He had just come to Chicago from the University of Virginia.

I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to graduate school teaching. He was a kind, soft-spoken man whose knowledge of English literature was extensive. And he made every student in his class, including me, feel welcome and appreciated.

He would invite his class to his apartment near the university for sherry and conversation, enabling all of his students to get to know each other better. He developed in us a spirit of cooperation, not competition, and nurtured in us a love of literature.

A year later I had him for a second course, a seminar in Jacobean drama. It was another challenging class, but once again he made me feel I deserved to be there, continuing to boost my confidence. That was in 1969, the last time I encountered him.

Many years after I finished graduate school, I continued to think about him, grateful for how much he had helped me. I wrote him a thank you 15 years ago, and he was kind enough to respond graciously. When I read in the most recent edition of the University of Chicago alumni magazine that David had died, I was surprised by how intensely it saddened me.

I don’t think I’m alone in feeling loss at the end of a year. I’m sure many readers have that same feeling, especially those of us lucky enough to still be alive as senior citizens. This year, approaching a new decade, that feeling seems stronger.

Perhaps my reflections will encourage others to think about persons who have been significant in their lives, whether nearby or distant.