Good evening. I’m Mark. Luis’ son in law.

Today we are honoring, celebrating, and remembering Luis Nunes. A day that has come all too soon. A day that hardly seemed possible just a short time ago. But this is a day that belongs to Luis. A caring and compassionate father, brother, son, uncle and so many more roles that he played in our lives.

Luis Manual Nunes was born, as many you know, in the smallest Azorean island of Corvo. Just 6.6 square miles in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Already halfway to America from the coast of Europe. On January 11th 1943 Luis was born, the youngest of seven, in the small town clinging to the edge of the island’s Calderon. Corvo has al- ways been more than just a place. It was a like a family member in it’s own right. He would have visited every summer if he could have. In total he made 22 trips back. Luis’s love and pride and respect for the island has always been a special part of who he was. When he joined the military to serve his country he spent time on every island and the mainland. And none compared to Corvo. This wasn’t in the eulogy originally but we were reminiscing just this morning that every trip to Corvo one suitcase was dedicated to bringing as much cheese back as possible. We knew it as the cheese suitcase.

Luis had a wry, mischievous sense of humor despite his otherwise serious poker face. He loved to tell stories. He loved telling stories with his brothers and sisters. Tears in your eyes, colorful stories of their lives together. Stories that make families.

But if you remember any of his stories they are likely start with a particular num- ber. The same number, along with the word Corvo, that he proudly displayed on his cars license plates. That number was 1968. .... That’s when everything changed. In 1968 Luis married Maria Alves and they moved to America. To here... to San Jose.

One of his first homes here in San Jose was on the premises of the Southern Lum- ber Company. He loved to work. While he continued to work there for 43 years, joined by many of his family over the decades, he moved into his own home just before the original Southern Lumber Company building burnt to the ground in the fire of ’73. God had many plans for Luis and this was just one of the ways he blessed him and his family. And blessed he was... with daughter Elizabeth followed by his son Michael. And then later his granddaughter Isabella.

Luis was a humble, soft spoken man. He didn’t need to raise his voice since he was always right. When you asked him what the weather was going to be like tomorrow it was less an estimate or guess but merely a statement. Like he’d already arranged the details of the weather which he kindly shared with you.

Luis looked up to his uncles here in the US. His ambition was for his family to lead the good life. To have the rose bushes in the front garden and a Cadillac in the drive way. When he finally got that Cadillac he was proud of the achievement that he’d set mind on so sincerely, and hopefully all those years ago. He was proud that he was the Families Chief Financial advisor, with, as he’d often remark to us “with only four years of school”.

In his last days in Hospital he would repeat the phrase “I tried the best I could. I tried the best I could.” Yes you did. Yes you did.

Luis’ goal was always the comfort and security of his family. Whether he was taking care of the Cadillac or the garden or making linguisa. He knew the way things should be done and he committed to doing things right. He was a craftsman. A careful and considered mind at work. His integrity was .... visible. It was difficult not to admire his care and thoughtfulness. To see the trust he had in himself .... and the trust he saw in you. As one family member remarked after his passing ,...“he was, and is, an example for all men”.

Talking of his craftsmanship he and I would often work together on construction projects at home. Or rather I would try to keep up and be helpful. From replacing sub floors, building interior walls and far too many plumbing and electrical fixes that I can count.

We’d always start with “take the doors off”. Removing doors, apparently, I learned early on, made everything easier. But I was always prepared for him to tell me to “get the big hammer”. That’s when you know he meant business. And after several swings of the hammer with his arm at full extension he would say “That’s not going no where”. And I like to think that’s how our memory of him will persist. Like the homes that he’s build will persist. To shelter us and keep his loved ones warm and safe. Like the care and attention he surrounded us with. The stories about family and the jokes enter- tained us with. Our love of him and the memories of the time we spent with him .. well ... that’s not going no where.