Juan Ignacio Castro

Juan Ignacio Castro passed away peacefully at the age of 93 on February 8, 2026, surrounded by his family. Juan was born in Durango, Mexico, on January 5, 1933. He immigrated to the United States in 1958, moved to Lorain, Ohio, and became a U.S. citizen in 1963. He then moved to Sheffield Lake, Ohio, in 1964 and lived there until his death from natural causes.

His children survive him: Daniel Castro (Angela), Tawnya Castro-Waara (Jon), and Kelly Castro-Van Meter (Scott).

He leaves behind grandchildren, Amber (Kevin) Acree, Derek (Liz) Castro, Casey (fiancé Stacy) Moreno, Breanna Castro, Cristina Castro, Nicholas (Alison) Van Meter, and Alexander Van Meter, along with step-grandchildren Stephanie and Brandy Budak.

Juan was the proud great-grandfather of Tre, Mende, Kristina, Odessa, Liam, Cohen, and Elias; step-great-grandfather of Makayia, Sabrina, and Kennedy; and great-great-grandfather to Michael.

He is also fondly remembered by many nieces and nephews across the United States and Mexico.

Juan was preceded in death by his beloved wife, Mona Castro; his son, Shawn Castro; his stepson, William (Bill) Budak; his parents, Martha and Juan Castro; his sister, Martha Castro; his brother, Enrique Castro; his sister-in-law, Irma; and his nieces, Gabriela and Mary-Carmen Castro.

Juan's toughness began early. At just two years old, a tarantula fell into his crib and bit him. A doctor rushed to the house and sliced open his leg twice to release the venom, leaving Juan with a scar he proudly showed to nearly every nurse he met for the rest of his life - whether they asked or not.

Tragedy struck when Juan was only five years old, and his father passed away, leaving his mother to raise Juan and his two younger siblings. Determined to help, Juan lied about his age at 14 so he could work in the coal mines and support the family. He even earned extra pay digging out bodies after mine collapses - proof that from a young age, Juan never shied away from hard or frightening work, though he later told these stories with a grin that made them sound almost adventurous.

At 18, Juan was drafted into the Mexican Army, where he claimed his specialties were archery and rock throwing - skills that he spoke of with such confidence that few dared question him.

Later, Juan worked at hotels in Durango, Mexico, where famous actors stayed while filming nearby. He proudly practiced his English with stars like John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart, and he never missed a chance to mention it. At one point, Juan was even offered a role in a movie as an "Indian." He turned it down immediately upon learning he would have to shave his mustache. His children never quite forgave this decision, but Juan believed some sacrifices were simply too great.

By 1960, he had two children and was helping raise two stepchildren through his first wife. He began working at the Ford plant in Lorain, starting in the kitchen, where he worked for three years. When he applied to work on the line, his supervisor refused to submit the application, telling him he would not be given a job over any white man with a family. This was a clear example of the racism Juan faced while trying to build a better life for his family. Eventually, a higher-level manager at Ford learned what had happened and stood up for Juan. He was given the opportunity to work on the assembly line, where he remained for 34 years. On the day he filed for retirement, that same man who had helped him told Juan he was a cherished worker and asked if he would consider staying.

Juan experienced many examples of racism from people in his community and even, at times, from those close to him. Yet he faced these challenges with quiet strength, holding his head high and refusing to let prejudice define him. These experiences shaped him into a stronger, more compassionate man, and he worked to teach his children the same resilience, dignity, and respect for others.

In 1977, he lost his wife, Mona. She was only 30 years old, leaving him to raise his two youngest children, Kelly (9) and Shawn (7), on his own with no nearby family to help. Overnight, he became both mother and father, learning to cook in the pre-microwave era through determination, trial, and a generous amount of smoke. His cooking quickly became legendary: burnt pancakes the size of a skillet floating in a lake of syrup - two per elementary-aged child - because in his book, more was always better and burnt meant properly cooked. Thankfully, over the years, he improved enough in the kitchen that the smoke alarm eventually got a well-deserved break, and the family could finally tell when dinner was ready without needing to evacuate first.

Juan was especially proud of his two sons and stepson, who served their country in the Marines and Navy from Vietnam to the Gulf War. He can also be credited with raising two strong-willed daughters - a role that required equal parts patience, humor, and the occasional strategic surrender.

He had many hobbies, though reading was by far his favorite. It's how he taught himself English, often juggling two books at once-one for work breaks and one at home. He loved horror and history books and passed that love of reading down to his daughters.

After retiring, he proudly achieved what he considered a lifelong milestone: owning his Harley-Davidson, which he admired almost as much as he talked about riding it. Gardening and yard work ranked a close second, especially when he could do it alongside his daughter, Kelly. Some plantings even became family traditions - like the year Kelly carefully planted poppy flowers, only for Juan to proudly cut them down weeks later, convinced those prickly leaves were nothing but stubborn weeds. This soon became a yearly activity, with Kelly planting and Juan faithfully "saving" the yard from them.

He outlived many in his generation, saying goodbye to family and friends. The worst losses were his youngest son, Shawn, and his beloved brother Enrique - losses he carried with quiet strength. In the end, Juan spoke of wishing he had done some things differently in his life, yet all who knew him understood that the life he lived made everyone around him better.

Many pets shared his home, though not one was ever actually chosen by Juan. Each was lovingly (and sometimes suddenly) delivered by one of his children. Fortunately for the animals, Juan could never say no. Before his passing, he jokingly asked his daughter Kelly to dig them all up and bury them with him. The last count was four ferrets, three cats, and two dogs. Kelly has since declined this request and is bravely prepared to face whatever ghostly consequences or playful hauntings Juan may have planned.

There will always be a lifetime of stories about Juan. He wasn't just a father and beloved family member - he was unconditional love, strength, and kindness. His humor carried him through the last ten years of illness, and it was that same humor his family leaned on in their hardest moments. His stories grew only better with time, and they will continue bringing laughter, comfort, and disbelief to those who loved him. Juan - a man of legendary stories, ageless looks, and an unshakable devotion to his mustache - lived a long and colorful life fueled (according to him) by salsa and tequila. His family suspects the real secret was his humor, which he kept sharp right to the very end. If there was a secret to the fountain of youth, Juan had found it - place a baby in his arms and watched him grow ten years younger. His grandchildren especially gave him that spark of life and joy that never faded.

Juan spent the last 19 years living with his daughter, Kelly, her husband, Scott, and his grandsons Nicholas and Alexander, surrounded by family, love, and a well-stocked supply of sweets. His grandsons learned a lot of medical skills: they could administer insulin, flush an IV, pass out medication, transfer him safely, and understand his dietary needs. Because of this, they grew into very compassionate young men who adored their grandfather, whom they called Ito - a nickname from the Spanish word Abuelito, meaning grandfather. Over time, everyone came to call him Ito.

Over the years, he made it very clear that proper care was expected - or he would return to haunt the household with dramatic flair and strong opinions. Kelly bore the brunt of these warnings, while his grandsons, of course, could do absolutely no wrong in his eyes.

For the past six years, Juan was also cared for by his devoted health aide, Melanie Comito, who managed his daily needs, accompanied him to his doctor's visits, and ensured he received the best care possible. She also became his trusted accomplice in shopping adventures and his carefully hidden bedroom stash of sweets. Melanie loyally covered for him, denied everything when questioned, and maintains her innocence to this day.

Juan's life was filled with resilience, humor, stubborn pride, and unforgettable storytelling. His grandsons especially loved the stories of his life in Mexico, and the medical personnel who cared for him often became the audience - and sometimes the targets - of his humor. If he had surgery and a doctor asked if he knew why he was there, his response was, "Yes, I'm here for a sex change so I can get my own set of TaTas!" If they asked whether he had a living will, he would reply, "Yes, and my daughter Kelly is in charge. Just don't let her know which plug to pull - she knows she's in the will and keeps pulling all the plugs!" Over the years, Juan liked to say that he used to be six foot three with blonde hair and blue eyes - but after marriage and children, he mysteriously shrank and darkened. His legend will live on in family gatherings, retold stories, and every smile sparked by remembering him.

He will be deeply missed, fondly remembered, and very likely still telling stories somewhere - taller, blonder, and with his mustache perfectly intact.

In accordance with Juan's wishes, there will be no formal services, no flowers, and no donations. He was very clear that he didn't want anyone standing around in uncomfortable shoes or spending money he'd rather see put to better use. He insisted that if you feel inclined to do something in his memory, enjoy a good meal, tell a slightly exaggerated story about him (he would expect nothing less), read a good book, plant something in the yard - and try not to let anyone cut it down.

If you'd like to raise a glass, a little salsa and tequila would be perfectly acceptable. After all, he claimed that was the secret to his long life. And truly, he doesn't need flowers now - he can't smell them anyway.

Should proper remembrance not be observed, please be advised that he has promised to return and supervise accordingly. www.buschcares.com 440.933.3202