With deep sadness we saw the rapidly deteriorating physical condition of Cousin Louis (Papito) Max Rodriguez. He had been stricken with a type of bone cancer which was unforgiving, but which was also all in the the hand of our Sovereign Lord Who called Louis home early this morning, Tuesday, December 20, 2022, exactly 7 years to the day after the passing of his mother, Aunt Sarah, and one year plus one day after the passing of Cousin Max (Papaito). 

Louis, the eldest of the Barnes/Rodriguez cousins, was born in Miami, Florida, July 13, 1949.

His mother, Aunt Sarah, was and continues to be an ever-present influence on us all: dearly loved and honored. I’ve written about her before, such as her insistence on having us faithfully attend church, including Easter sunrise services, as well as participate in outings. These events had lasting emotional as well as educational — not to mention spiritual –impacts on me and I’ll be forever grateful.

Louis was her first child and she loved him as a devoted mother can love her firstborn. He would be the first to tell you he went through some rough patches in life; however, his mother never ceased to pray and to care for him and, over time, Louis remembered the old paths she had pointed to him in times past.

In times like these, memories flood the mind.

His visit with us in El Pao in the early 1960s. One evening, in the early 1970s, he talked garrulously about that visit and the friendships he made with Herman Gerbracht and John Thuoy, both of them among the “big boys” that I looked up to whenever they returned to the mining camp for summer or Christmas. 

He also got many years worth of mileage having seen me run to catch a fly ball, going over a steep incline at the end of the field, and promptly slapping a nest teeming with angry picaojos (“stingeyes”). In Louis’ version, I first disappeared over the edge, and then bounced right back and ran like the wind towards the house, slapping my face, yelling at full volume. I know he was concerned, like the rest, but after I went to the hospital and was put on some medication and therapy, knowing all would be well, he began his years’ long, hilarious narrative of the event.

His recollections helped me remember some incidents and relationships centered around El Pao — here again, that mining camp is present with us a lifetime later. I most certainly would have forgotten some of these forever had he not mentioned them on that early 70s evening.

His invitation to visit Fisher Island with him in the late 1980s. Having breakfast in the cafe, we ran into Bryant Gumbel, whom we only knew from sports news broadcasts, but who was right at home doing whatever he was doing on the island. Neither we nor Louis were anywhere near the per capita income levels of the inhabitants, yet Louis was right at home, unpretentious, loquacious, and helpful as always.

His invitation to go sailing with him when we had a one-day layover in Miami in 2001. There were 12 of us then plus a Great Pyrenees puppy. “Bring him on board! Plenty of room!” And so we did, along with Aunt Sarah who had prepared a paella that I can still taste, some 21 years later. We had a ball and the event was stamped on my children’s minds. And mine.

His telling us about Shake-A-Leg charity for children with disabilities, a work he thoroughly enjoyed and for which he was well suited as it combined sailing with working with children.

The last time we saw him was in late 2015, shortly before Aunt Sarah’s death. A small group of us had lunch together at a Cracker Barrel north of Miami. He had been as jovial as always but then suddenly turned to me, and to my astonishment, “Hey, Rick, I wasn’t too hard on you as we grew up, was I? I mean, do I owe you an apology?”

Stunned, I first looked at his face to see if this was a joke, but he was serious. Then I searched my mind and heart to try to remember if I had ever held anything against him. And nothing coming to mind I replied, “No, Louis. You’ve been a good friend and I am enjoying spending time with you today.”

He was content. And that incident said more to me about Cousin Louis than a well written and researched encomium could ever do, not least his childlike inquiry seeking to ensure all is well.

My second to last conversation with him took place about four weeks ago, shortly before Thanksgiving: “I look forward to coming to see you soon when I get out of here…how is Lillie? How are the children?” Over the phone, his voice was strong and energetic. But we both knew the condition was serious.

Then, about a week later, I called him to see if he was OK to have some of my children drop by to say hello as they were in the state. His voice was not as strong and he politely demurred, saying to visit in the clinic was a hassle and it was quite a bit out of their way. Of course, I fully understood and so did my sons and daughters. I wished him well and we agreed to speak again.

The last time I spoke with him, last night, he was unresponsive, but I agree with his sister, Cousin Vivian, who believes that one should assume a patient in such a condition can somehow hear. I spoke to him, assuring him of our prayers and love. And then I prayed with him. Later, Lillie and the children gathered around the phone to sing Silent Night as Vivian had the phone on speaker for him to listen.

My sadness cannot be compared with that of his surviving sisters, Janis and Vivian, and their husbands, Pete and Rick, and their children — Louis’ nieces and nephews — to all of whom I extend my deepest sympathies and love.

This is not an adiós but an hasta luego, for we sorrow not as others which have no hope (I Thess. 4:13).

All is well with you now, dear cousin. Rest in peace.

From left: Sarita Barnes, Janis Rodriguez, Eileen Barnes, Louis (Papito) Rodriguez, Max (Papaito) Barnes, Vivian Rodriguez

Louis (Papito) at left and Aunt Sarah, seated in front of him, along with Janis and Pete, Vivian and Rick and their children

Louis with Charles Barnes (2) and Lillian Barnes, Fisher Island, Florida, circa 1987

Cousin Louis (Papito): 1949 – 2022