Victor Leon Befera
April 1, 1926-March 1, 2025
Palo Alto, California
Vic Befera scorned traditional memorials, eschewing what he felt were overused expressions such as “passed peacefully,” and “surrounded by loving family.” Yet we cannot lie, he slipped away gently with a sigh, sent off with love from all three adored daughters as he entered into final rest (a phrase he approved) exactly one month shy of his 99th birthday.
“Please remember me more for who I was, rather than what I did” were among his instructions. Throughout his well-lived life, Vic proudly admitted he was an April Fool, a self-proclaimed invincible romantic and dreamy idealist.
He asked to be remembered for the letters he had written, an easy request for anyone who received one. Vic spent a lifetime crafting gorgeous, loving missives, many typed on his loyal Royal typewriter, begrudgingly replaced in the 70s by an IBM Selectric. His letters gave lavish thanks for a thoughtful gift, shared a cherished memory, or enumerated why he loved the recipient: daughter, sweetheart, grandchild, or dear friend. Newspapers received more scorching notes, as Vic championed public causes such as keeping branch libraries open, banishing ugly public art, and decrying an encroaching, overly entitled private school, or scolded a miscreant editor for missing an egregious typo. University admissions clerks were startled to receive courtly prose enumerating the talents of applicants fortunate enough to earn Vic’s friendship and support. And when so moved, he penned deeply affecting poems, treasures that wistfully described his three daughters’ transition to adulthood, the all-encompassing love of his first grandson, the loss of his father, and the Venetian wedding of his middle child.
He also asked to be remembered by the art forms he loved, noting that in typical Italian fashion they were his first loves (“Il primo amore non si scorda mai.”) Words defined him; as a boy he read dictionaries, and throughout his life Vic never used a garden variety word when a more eloquent option was at hand. Serving in the Navy during WWII, a dreamy teenager with brilliantined hair, he hauled along an enormous duffle bag of books, including the “Greatest Poems of the English Language” with a list of his favorites penciled on the inside cover. He also learned to adore opera from his Italian immigrant parents, Delmo and Rose, and went on to cherish music in many forms, including classic stage musicals, and the Great American Songbook.
While we celebrate Vic’s loves, we should mention a few specifics of his life. He was born in Hibbing MN (actually in a nearby hamlet called Brooklyn, later absorbed by the larger Hibbing) and enjoyed an idyllic childhood as the youngest son. His chronicles of those years were published as a series in his hometown paper, recounting warm tales of his beloved community - as well as a hair-raising story in which his devoted mother stashed in his infant crib the copper coil from his father’s illegal prohibition-era still, to elude the revenuers (federal agents) who couldn’t prove the crime without that crucial piece of paraphernalia.
In 1943 at the age of 17 he enlisted, shipping off to the Philippines after a stint in San Francisco. He fell in love with California, and after returning from service and earning a degree in Journalism from Michigan State, he moved to Palo Alto to start his newspaper career at the Palo Alto Times. There he met Bea Morton, a feisty young widow raising three small boys, who left him positively thunderstruck. Defying his protective Italian mother’s disapproval of the match, the pair married in 1952 and Vic became a parent to Bea’s three boys: Skip, Rex, and Dennis. Together they added three girls to the family: Lynn, Carla, and Lisa, all of whom he cherished.
In 1953, Vic joined the San Francisco Chronicle, where he launched a Sunday Datebook column highlighting the explosion of celebrity performers coming to Las Vegas/Reno/Lake Tahoe. During those years he met and covered a starry roster including Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole, Jack Benny, Marlene Dietrich, and Tony Bennett, among many others. Indeed, Vic covered Bennett’s show at the Fairmont Hotel in 1961, when the singer debuted a song about little cable cars climbing halfway to the stars. In a backstage visit, Vic asked about that new tune, to which Bennett responded “Oh did you notice that? That’s something new we thought we’d try tonight. Did you like it?” Vic agreed the soulful anthem was a wonderful addition to Bennett’s repertoire - and for decades to come, he and the rest of the world enjoyed “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”
Vic’s marriage to Bea lasted 48 years, a partnership that expanded to work when she helped him found a thriving PR firm, until her death in 2000. At that time, Vic was convinced he had bid adieu to his greatest, only amore. But life had more in store, and a few years later he discovered a second all-encompassing love with a sparkling blue-eyed Irish lass, Joan Meyn, whom he met at a local church’s Widow & Widowers Club. Her warmth, charm, and effervescence brought him new life, and together they started a joyous second chapter, traveling around the state, across the country, and every year to Hawaii, where they held hands and watched sunsets in bliss. Joan lit up his life and was warmly embraced by Vic’s children. Her presence was a true blessing and Vic, along with his entire family, was devastated to lose her in 2023.
One of Vic’s favorite poems was a prayer by Cardinal John Henry Newman, which describes when “the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over.” Vic’s long and happy life has come to a close and he will be deeply missed by his children and their spouses, Lynn Befera (Stephen Gold), Carla Befera (Bruce McLeod), Lisa Farfan (Marty Farfan), and Rex Morton (Peggy Morton). He also leaves adoring grandchildren Ryan McLeod (Gina Caputo), Lily McLeod (Angelo Domitri), Kyle Morton (Shannon Morton), Lyndi Morton, Dan Morton, beloved great-grandchildren and cherished nieces and nephews across the country. He will also be mourned by the entire Meyn family, and his hundreds of dear friends, near and far.
He asked to sign off, not with “sincerely” but with the words his mother taught him, “baci cari” (dear kisses). A memorial service is planned for 5pm, April 1, at St. Thomas Acquinas Church, 751 Waverly Street, Palo Alto.
Tags: veteran
