Ronald Robert Mann

Ronald Robert Mann was born in Tacoma, Washington and died in Sacramento, California at the age of 80. His longtime partner, Melodi Dalton, was at his side at Kaiser Hospital when he passed on August 15, 2023. He was the son of Robert Mann and Pearl (Gloyd) Mann.

For 40 years Ron made his living working in the newspaper business shooting pictures or editing photos for publications including the Orange County Register, San Bernardino Sun, Monterey Herald, Occupational Therapy Association, and San Francisco Chronicle. His interest in world news, history, geography, and politics was encouraged by his best friend’s dad, who would quiz the young adults about current events at the dinner table. Those conversations and work on the high school paper were instrumental in Ron’s choosing newspaper journalism as his vocation. His years in newspapers were energizing and exhausting, but there were many successes through the years. The highlight, he often said, was assembling the Orange County Register’s photography team covering the 1984 Summer Olympics and winning the 1985 Pulitzer Prize for news photos.

As a child, Ron attended public schools in Tacoma, Washington and in high school led a dixieland band named “The Confidentials”. Their signature tune was “When The Saints Go Marching In”, and Ron earned detention once for trumpeting that tune too exuberantly outside classroom windows. He earned his Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Puget Sound in 1966. He was drafted into the US Army shortly after college graduation. During his 3 year stint with the Army, he was stationed in Kaiserslautern, Germany, working as the company clerk and playing trumpet with the United States Army Band.

Throughout his adult life, Ron appreciated music, wine, food, magic shows, comedy shows, theatre and concerts. He and Melodi actually met at the San Francisco Opera in 1997 where he performed as a supernumerary for several seasons and she was a chorister. Although he had not been formally trained as an actor, he was athletic, expressive, and had a gift for mime. Working on stage came naturally to him and he looked forward to serious and comedic roles as a soldier, priest, guard, or townsperson. He often reminisced about the joy of standing in the midst of vibrant vocal performances onstage combined with the reciprocal energy from instruments in the orchestra pit.

Baseball was Ron’s lifelong passion. As a youngster he loved teaching  and coaching; he taught his younger sister to pitch left-handed so that she might one day pitch for the Yankees. It didn’t matter to him that there were no women pitching in the Major Leagues. His sense of fairness and support for equal rights and opportunities never wavered. When he wasn’t playing the game, Ron fervently kept score on cards he designed himself, despite the chilly winds at Candlestick Park or PacBell Park. He often said he wanted to live long enough to see the Giants win the World Series championship, and he was rewarded in 2010, 2012, and 2014.

After retiring from the San Francisco Chronicle, Ron enjoyed leisurely trips to the Pacific Ocean, Golden Gate Park, sitting on any park bench and listening to bird songs, relaxing with Paco his feathered companion for 42 years, and learning to cook. He was skilled at finding the best recipes online, executing them with precision and sharing his creations at family gatherings. His iPhone camera was always on hand and he readily provided family and friends with photographic images that were unique and personal.

Ron is survived by Melodi Dalton, his constant companion for more than two decades. Other survivors include Ron’s sister, Marjorie Porter, and her sons Dan Gray, John Gray, Bob Matson, and David Porter; and Ron’s son Ron Baker, and his children Jonah, Eli, and Liam. Ron will also be missed by friends, former colleagues, and especially members of his extended family including the Grishams, Espinozas, Gaytans, and Conners. Ron will be remembered as an amazing, loving, kind man that held his convictions. He was a great teacher, mentor, and supporter of diverse movements, ideas, and peoples working to promote love for one another and our planet.

No services are scheduled at this time, but a celebration of life will be held at a later date.

Tribute from Ron Baker

Remembrances of a man who loved life, baseball, and a boy named Ronnie.

A baseball game is simple: nine innings, two teams, hitting, catching, balls and strikes, and, in regulation, 27 outs on either side unless, of course, the home team walks off a win (via a hit or the chance balk). Our time together was different from a typical game. Still, the parts that mattered gave way to later innings that would ensure no loser in this game but a reunion of grace and gratitude.

I am Ronald "Ronnie or Ron" Michael Baker, son of Sharon and Ron Mann and adopted son of William Baker in 1977. On January 18th, 1968, I entered the world in Landstuhl, Germany, while my father served in the United States Army. Funny side note: he wanted to call me Harry. Can you imagine "Harry Mann"? My mom won out, and I was given his name instead.

My life with Ron was short for the better part of my 55 years. Photographs taken of me as a small boy by him, which he told me recently, "you were my favorite subject," newspaper clippings, stories shared with me by my mom, and through an exhaustive search turned up only limited archives and articles from his days of writing for The Trail at the University of Puget Sound (UPS) in the early '60s. High praise to UPS for archiving these gifts.

While my parents divorced when I was just 3, I knew Ron was a man who played trumpet in the US Army band and had a gift for journalism, a fantastic eye for photography, and a lifelong love of sports. I always knew of him but had little more than the stories shared with me. As I grew, my need to know him did as well. In 1976, now 8 years old, I traveled alone by plane to meet the man I shared a name with. Landing in Detroit, MI, I barely recall that initial encounter, but July's summertime with him provided me a glimpse. We attended a baseball game at old Tigers Stadium, where I was introduced to Mark Fidrych "The Bird." It was a special day of baseball for me alongside him. It was the one and only time we would attend a game together. It was the summer of our nation's bicentennial. Paul McCartney was on the radio with "Silly Love Songs" flooding my eardrums. We shared a catch at a local park with the new glove he bought me. His house was filled with impressions of sports memorabilia, and the sound of "The House at Pooh Corner " by Loggins and Messina played in the other room. This summer with him was short, but I always hoped there would be other times. My mom remarried a kind man named William (Bill) in December of 1976, who adopted me as his own after that. Ron met with my mom and Bill and blessed the adoption. My mom told me Ron thought Bill was a good man. I am genuinely grateful for that.

While life has a way of happening, and time passes quicker than we would like, Ron was always close to my heart and mind. It would take me 43 years later to rekindle our relationship as an adult.

I hoped for a second chance at a relationship with my father. After so many years of thoughts of reaching out, soul searching, and guidance from close friends, I took a chance. I wrote him a long letter expressing things that should have been said years before and memories of our time together in the summer of 1976. I placed the stamp on the handwritten envelope, took a deep breath, and let go in hopes of his response. Time passed, and then, before my eyes on my phone, there was an email from him. It was as if time stood still in the seconds before I dared to open it. His following responses opened a door that had been closed for 43 years, and what followed was more than I could have ever hoped for. I was granted a second chance to know this man. We began slowly by exchanging notes about one another, building on filling in gaps, and on March 13th, 2020, that vacancy of time was put to rest in a face-to-face meeting. It was the eve of a global outbreak of the COVID-19 virus, but we took the chance to see each other in the face of it. Those three days together in March served as the fourth greatest moment of my life, only after the birth of my three sons. I was given another chance. Ron embraced me, and we never looked back. He made me feel welcome. The time that followed gave way to a flood of childhood memories, shared love of baseball, life lessons, children, places lived, jobs we had, and events and memories of each other's pasts were revealed. I found time stood still before me in his presence. That weekend gave me a glimpse of what was similar between us but also allowed me to open a book that I couldn't turn the pages on fast enough to learn more. Melodi's remarks on our similar mannerisms filled me up and made me feel even more connected. It told me that I was in the presence of a man who was part of me. Time slipped, food and wine were shared, music was enjoyed, and tounges tired from conversations of a lifetime apart were shared at a kitchen table. We took a few photos. I will forever be grateful to Melodi, his beautiful partner of 26 years, for one of Ron and myself with his beloved parrot Paco in the background. The likenesses we shared, and his warm smile showed our genuine comfort toward one another. It is an image I will hold close to my heart for the rest of my days.

The time that followed was both wonderful and sad. A pandemic kept us apart, but the ability to communicate via text and email gave way to our passion for baseball, disdain for particular umpires, and more stories and experiences of what my sons were up to and their travels. The list went on. Texting one another three to four times a week was not uncommon. Our last communication involved the intricacies of making a Chicago Dog. I told him my frustration over not finding the proper bun, but a moment of grace and kind thought followed from him. We also discussed Felix Hernandez's induction into the Seattle Mariners Hall of Fame that day. These would be our last thoughts shared. I am both sad and at a loss that I didn't get to share more. But this previous message reminded me that I had a chat with my father about something related to baseball, and for that, I am grateful.

On the morning of August 16th, I was confronted with the news that Ron had passed. In the short four years of reconnecting, I was overwhelmed by complete loss, uncontrollable tears, and grief.

Since his passing, I have been gifted messages and conversations from those near and dear to Ron. Their stories of his mentorship, friendship, and experiences have been nothing short of a morning under a Christmas tree, experiencing gift after gift of my father's life. Photos from his friends and family fill in the blanks of a man growing alongside me from afar, showing me a life I am now just learning about, celebrating, and sharing with my sons.

In the game of baseball, there are nine innings played in regulation to determine a winner and a loser. The last four years provided me with extra innings. Ron's scorecard laying in his lap of our life together, apart, and back together would read most likely like a no-hitter. Still, the final extra innings would be filled with marks of singles, doubles, triples, home runs, and even a balk to win the game.*

I am proud of the man that I took a chance to find again. We may not have seen the whole game of life together, but life isn't about the marks on a scoresheet but how the game played out. Ultimately, it wasn't about two teams but a father and son winning a game alongside one another. With tears in my eyes, I am proud of the extra innngs we shared. He will forever be remembered as a man I was grateful to look like and love.

*On June 25th, 2011, The San Francisco Giants beat the Cleveland Indians 1-0. Indians pitcher Tony Sipp balked home the only run with the bases loaded in the seventh inning, giving the Giants a 1-0 win. The critical thing to note about this game is that my oldest son Jonah and I attended it, and unbeknownst to me, Ron was in attendance to witness the same game.