My friend and next-door neighbor, Ignacio Astondoa, died a few days ago at age 82. He was a good and sweet man who enjoyed life to the fullest, with family, friends, music, food and the soul of his native Pamplona, in Spain's Basque region, always central in his life. 
I met him about 40 years ago when we moved into our to house in Fleetwood, Mount Vernon, where we still live. His daughters, Wendy, Audrey and Chrissie were a few years older than our Jennifer, so they quickly became both babysitters and family.
Ignacio loved to cook and he would be outside grilling even on the coldest winter days. He and Willi often had family over on Sundays, around the picnic table in their back yard, and he'd often call across the hedges for us to join them for food and wine and laughter.
Over time, we learned that Ignacio, or Inaki as he was known, was a musician who had been in a band that was quite popular in Spain. We knew he entertained a few nights a week at a Spanish restaurant, El Rincon de Espana, down in the Village, and we went several times to enjoy the food and hear him play Spanish favorites and take requests from diners.
But where I heard him sing most frequently was at home. On many weekends, I'd hear his voice in song coming through the open windows, as he'd sing and whistle while he worked around his house. He would sing as he endlessly worked on an old Mustang in his driveway. He'd take a break to show me what he was doing, recalling that he worked on cars as a kid. I think he said his father had a garage back in Spain.
And I'd hear him singing from up on a ladder, when he'd be painting his house or repairing shutters. It often seemed that unless he was eating or watching sports, he was singing.
But I'll never be forget the first time I heard him sing Ave Maria. It was at the funeral mass for his middle daughter Audrey, who died of a sudden illness. She was only 15. To this day, I don't know how he found the strength to do it, but I'll always remember how clear and strong and beautiful his voice was as it carried through the church. He was singing to send his baby safely up to heaven.
Over the years, he often spoke to me about Audrey and it was painfully clear what a big hole he had in his heart.
He surprised us at Jennifer's wedding when the DJ played Havah Nagila and he grabbed the mic and sang along. When he got to the end of the song, we all stopped dancing as we were enthralled by a spectacular solo that would put any cantor to shame.
Inaki often talked to me about growing up in Pamplona. One night after dinner, he showed me a map of the city, pointing out his house and where he went to school. He showed me pictures and talked about his family and that town that he loved. I'd love to visit some day, but I regret that we never did make the trip while he was there on one of his annual summer-long visits back home.
I knew he was a hero in his home town and that he was known throughout Spain for his time with Los Irunako, his band. But until seeing some of the write-ups now that he's gone, I guess I didn't fully grasp how well-known and loved he was. If I'm understanding the tributes online in Spanish media, he joined the group in 1957 and, 
with his beautiful voice and engaging personality, helped propel it to the very top, not only in Spain, but through Europe and Central and South America. He and his bandmates combined traditional Basque music with current pop tastes, playing more than 2,500 concerts in some 30 countries. Before they disbanded in 1965, a survey listed Inaki's band as more popular than The Beatles in Spain.
Fame aside, I always knew Ignacio was a gifted musician who could make his guitar sing as beautifully as his voice. I liked to watch his fingers move so quickly and effortlessly across the strings.
But above that, he was a good family man and a friend.
I will miss hearing his voice. Photo above: Ignacio is at top right