My father didn’t lead with words. His actions exemplified the importance of honesty, work ethic and service.
Ronald Howard Donoho Sr. passed away on August 24, 2026, at the age of 88. He was married to my mom for 62 years. Served proudly in the Marines. And was adored in the church community where he volunteered as an usher for 30 years.
His health failed in later years, confining him to bed. Mom cared for him with Herculean devotion, even as she was losing her own sight and hearing. Professional caregivers predicted Dad’s passing, so I was able to get to Baltimore in time for a final goodbye. When my father took his last breath I was there with other family members. We held his hands and stroked his head. We told him he was loved. He died peacefully.
My eyes are welling up as I write this.
I put out The San Diego Sun for two weeks in absentia. I’m back in town now. While I catch up on local happenings, this issue of my independent local news site/newsletter is dedicated to my parents. Though not local, it’s an homage that’s universal in nature.
Mom and Dad met as teenagers. They fell in love, married and became an inseparable team. They raised three children. When I’d visit, Dad would introduce me to friends as, “My son who ran away to California.”
The day after my father passed, my mother, Marilyn, kept saying she was waiting for a sign from Dad. We assured her he was up in heaven getting reacquainted with his golf buddies and probably out on links made of cumulus clouds. He needs time to settle in up there, we told her. We reminded her Dad lives on in her heart. She knew but was still holding out hope for some otherworldly communiqué.
“I know he’s in a better place,” Mom said. “I just want him to let me know.”
Who’s to say how the afterlife is organized? Maybe you have to requisition messages that cross the ethereal plane. There’s probably a backlog.
I like to think that if Heaven is set up as a society, it’s bipartisan, free from egotism and idyllically communal. If existence beyond the Pearly Gates is in any way designed like that, Dad is fitting in and contributing in the same way he lived his earthly life.
Wherever we lived around Baltimore, Dad had a garden plot. There were always extra veggies to be shared with neighbors. One random memory that’s stuck in my mind is the two of us walking through a mall parking lot. Somebody left their car lights on. To my self-conscious surprise, he tried to open the car door to turn off the lights. No luck. He noted with disappointment that we lived in an age where people locked their doors. Once a year or more, Dad joined a group of church men who would drive off to the site of a natural disaster. They’d help rebuild houses and do whatever else for those who needed a hand.
He was there for his kids, too. Dad taught me to bend a knee, get low and put my baseball glove on the dirt for a grounder. He taught me to drive. The drill: Parallel park perfectly 10 times in a row and we could move to the next lesson. I did nine correctly and messed up the tenth. I had to start over and do 10 more in a row. (Today, my parallel parking is legendary.)
Dad also devoted endless hours to his grandchildren. It’s one of those things you don’t necessarily notice in real time. My sister collected old photos to make a montage for the funeral service. There was Pop teaching grandkids to garden, shave (even my daughter) and play sports. There’s one Polaroid of Dad showing my daughter how to clean out a storm drain on the side of the house. She appears fascinated.
Not that I was appreciative of good parenting when I was a child. Rather, I was a bratty, self-centered knucklehead who rolled my eyes when my parents showed up to support me. When I was in high school and got demoted on the baseball team, I implored my father not to come to games.
I revisited my high school baseball field during some down time after my father died. I sat on the cement home bench and was flooded by emotion. I turned around, stared across another field and up a steep hill to the parking lot. As clear as I saw it happen decades ago, I envisioned my father in his work clothes standing in the lot next to his car. Trying to be there to see his son play baseball – without getting too close to embarrass the little punk.
In all my extended family, I was the only male incapable of painting a wall, building a backyard shed or fixing a car engine. Once, in my twenties, I managed to do a brake job on our old brown station wagon. I told my Dad. Stone-faced he replied: “I’m not riding in that car.” He was proud I was a journalist but didn’t understand how or why someone with no mechanical aptitude could get paid just to write stories.
He was a conservative and stoic Baby Boomer, but his deadpan sense of humor radiated out of my sister’s photo montage. There he was in bunny rabbit ears. Sitting in a washtub cavalierly waving a brush. Posing in his underwear holding golf clubs and flexing a bicep.
Another photo showed him collecting a snake from the backyard. Dad took care of things like this without fanfare. He showed it off to whoever took the photo. Not for attention or praise but to let you know there was nothing more to worry about.
I’ve been contemplating my father’s death. It occurred to me that a well-lived life can’t be measured in likes, followers or fire emojis. There’s no algorithm in the world that can account for kindness, humility and loving service to family and community.
Maybe occupants of Heaven, like my Mom believes, are watching us. If that’s true, I hope my Dad will glance at this remembrance. And know that his quiet leadership left me with determination. To live an honest life while maintaining a work ethic that might help render a positive impact on the community. SDSun
