Seve Medina, 60, second son, third child out of eight children of Gilbert and Susie Medina, passed into eternal rest Dec. 20, 2022 at his mother’s home, where he resided and for 21 years lived with as protector and knightly hero to and of our/his mother, who hospice poisoned with morphine and passed away Oct. 16, 2021, his/our father passing in 1991, his/our brother Tommy in 1983 and his/our brother, David, in 2013.
He was father to Matthew Medina (Kim Knippa) and Shaneal (Carrie Short).
In our youth, the three above-mentioned younger brothers were my constant charges, entreating to be taken to the river for yet another cooling dip. In appreciation of going again, they would jump high with comical forked leg splits, dropping to the ground for fast push-ups, then posing their skinny arms into muscle poses and presenting their young boy ribs (abs).
Severo apart was our definitive jungle boy out in our homes jungle-like bosky terrain, running around in knee-high boots, belted canvas dungarees and grandpa’s WPA helmet that upon starting kindergarten at the school bus stop would bellow out that he wished he were a cow so that he didn’t have to go to school. That if in a careless moment of my keeping a careful eye on him would, rolling off my out-stretched arms, run fast back home and there was no time to go retrieve him. That at, and from the 1968 kindergarten buildings set sideways to the tall brick school building downtown, he would, according to his teacher, Mrs. Decker, who shortened his name to Seve, relay his many jungle adventures centered around a black puma-like cat he called his “gat” — gato. Also relaying that at school, Seve listening for the distinct sound Dad’s behemoth red Chevy pickup truck made, with Mom as a new driver driving it, taking Lewis Street for going to the post office and hearing it, would bail out of class, sprinting quickly high over the concrete embankments out front, dashing to the corner of Staners and catching the truck at the stop sign, bailing in and would get to go home.
Seve, growing into a private tranquil man that liked to walk with the animals, talk to the animals, leaving behind only quiet-desolation journals, his well-thumbed brown leather New Testament under his pillow, but most surprising of all, as I in idle reflection stroked his still-black hair, spying only now, his white roots grow in! Hah! And upon his dresser a taped-shut box of lady Clairol!
I once owned a pet cockatiel. It became suddenly sick, spontaneously spewing out long streams of water. Treated with antibiotic, he was sent home to die, the vet saying that in the wild, male birds even though sick, will hide their sickness, standing stoic to the very end, but by discovery time, it is too late for their recovery.
Love and miss you, brother.
His son Matthew plans a service in the spring and his ashes laid to rest “atop the mountain.”
