Lydia Beatrice Mendoza

Lydia Beatrice Mendoza, 97, born on July 28, 1917 in Durango, Mexico passed away January 4, 2015 in Van Nuys, California. She was survived by her daughters Cynthia and Debora, and her grandchildren Cassandra, Melinda, Robert and David.

You can touch a lot of people in 97 years. Lydia Avitia Mendoza was the middle of five children, mother of two daughters, four grandchildren—two boys two girls—and countless cousins and friends. She went by Lydia, Lyd, Mom, Nana, Nana-banana, or as my Dad would call her… Beatrice.

My earliest memories of my Nana involve her warming a tortilla on the stove, spreading butter on it, rolling and serving it to me wrapped inside a napkin, shielded from the heat.

A napkin, which was plucked from a hand crafted arrangement—a decorative way she stored and displayed her napkins, and something she maintained even until recent times.

She was routine, consistent and balanced. Many reasons she was able to live for such a length of time. She knew the power of moderation.

She was pretty much fearless. She wasn't afraid of confrontation and she was the only family member brave enough to kill a bug. She wasn't afraid to die herself either. Having faced it more times than most.

Light as a feather, tiny, cute, little Nana standing at 4 foot 11 inches… with her age and weight nearly the same number. But despite her petite nature, she was full of hidden strength, she survived a heart attack at age 50, cancer, and plenty of other health scares over the years.

She loved walking in her neighborhood for exercise. Zigzagging through the side streets of Toluca Lake, never really doing the same walk twice. She kept pretty active and surprisingly fit. I dare say she could arm-wrestle any of the guys here. Even if it wasn't lady like.

She took her liberties and situations in her own hands. Once someone cut her off and she followed him or her home in the hopes to teach them a lesson.

She wasn't shy from following celebrities either, like Frankie Avalon, just to know where he lived. She once even said that Raymond Burr, who played Perry Mason could keep his shoes "under her bed."

She was a licensed cosmetologist in Texas, New Mexico and California. Even at one time working along aside her daughter. She had several regulars, some even in her own kitchen or bathroom.

Of course she was a great cook. Chile rellenos, molé, her Chirstmas cheese ball, lasagna and special cookies she made with Rice Crispies—which I'm not sure we'll be able to recreate.

She loved this church. Crafting, baking and raising money with fellow golden girls at the Chirstmas boutiques. Spent weeks every spring hoarding egg shells and making confetti eggs year after year for the church carnival or sitting and enjoying a Mass right here… there, in the first few rows on the left. Always bringing her offering written as a check even in the amount of one dollar, sealed inside a St. Charles envelope.

She enjoyed a Dodger or a Laker game, a cold beer or a glass of wine… or even better… ice cream. It really didn't require too much to bring a smile to her face. She wasn't about excessive frills or over-doing it. Simplicity was plenty. As long as everyone was together, that was enough in itself.

Only a few weeks ago were we faced with the tough decision to move her into a nursing home to better manage and take care of her. It was there that she quietly and slowly drifted away in her sleep. Peacefully and beautifully, marking a simple end to a very simple life.

I can still see her in the morning, standing at the kitchen sink, looking out the window across the street. Daydreaming. I can hear the sound of the clink of her spoon stirring sugar into her coffee… over and over again. Over and over again. Or the swizzle of ice in her ice tea… cause the tea was too strong. Those little nuances and tid bits that will always return in my memory at the strangest, most random times, will keep her right beside me in the years to come.

— Robert J. Kiser, eldest grandson