SURROUNDED BY SELF-MADE MEN
I've already told you about my brother.
The other self-made man in my life is, of course, Papa. I'm not sure if he would consider himself already made, or still on the brink of being one, a work in progress, if you might call it that... but he certainly has come a long way from when our story began. I think this claim would best be demonstrated by a little conversation we had sometime back. We were driving along Quirino Highway, on our way to visit our families in Novaliches. The convo went this way...
Papa: Mylab o, Pares. (you know, those food stalls selling beef stew and rice served hot and quick for a little over 20 pesos or something)
Me: What about it?
Papa: Nung araw gustong gusto ko nang pares pero wala naman akong perang pambili. Ngayon, may pera na tayo, pero ayoko nang kumain ng pares.
Papa has long since seen better things, tasted better flavors, gone to better places. Inevitably, experience changes perspective, consequently changing preferences... and then again, they may not.
My Dad is a farmer's son, or more accurately, the son of a local school teacher, back in the old days when such men were maestros who walked around carrying pointer sticks and a formidable facial expression, turned farmer. He grew up in a quaint little town in Nueva Ecija, a town situated along the border of Pangasinan, and although Nueva Ecija is not really Ilocandia county, I grew up hearing folks speak Ilocano all around me... my parents, our relatives, the maids. I remember being lulled to sleep by the humdrum of that native tongue which, although I never quite learned to understand at length nor speak fluently, gave me a feeling of security and belonging, knowing that I was in the bossom of kinsfolk.
Gutsy? Oh yeah, my Dad sure was one gutsy little boy. There's a story my grandmother always told us. It was during World War II. My Dad, perched high up on a tree with a handful of stones in his pocket, waited for some Japanese soldiers to pass by, and when they did, started throwing the stones at them, in a swift barrage of hailstones clanking metal helmets. Before the soldiers knew where the hail was coming from, my Dad managed to clamber down the tree and run a few feet away from them. Unfortunately, he was spotted and fired at. He caught the bullet below the ankle of his left foot but he didn't stop running until he was safely home. Surely by Divine guidance, the soldiers did not pursue him and he was able to escape what would have been a painful and fatal end to his pranks. The wound was deep and got infected. It would have killed him too, if not for some voodoo medicine that my grandmother got from some voodoo medicine man. Today, he sports a deep cleft on the site of the wound and he calls it his own 'Achilles' ankle.'
He's a lawyer, and boy... what he went through to be one. He sent himself to college, and later, law school, driving a cab. The irony of it is, he would ferry people to and from places all day, but when it got to him getting to school, he would walk it, all the way to and from, cause he had better use for whatever money he had. He lived alone, save for a pet dog, in a one-room rented shack. He only had 2 changes of clothes, except for his driver's uniforms, and he had to wash his clothes every night, so he would have something ready to use alternately. When he got sick, there was no one to minister to his needs and he had to take care of himself.
By all means, my siblings and I could envisage what that kind of life would have been like but try as we might, we would perhaps never be able to comprehend all the nitty gritty things that came into it day in and day out... a battered body after a day's toil which could not have the luxury of rest until after reading chapter after chapter of sleep-inducing law books; being young and always finding himself on the outside looking in, never quite having the time nor the resources to enjoy what the other students in his day enjoyed; being alone in the city and having had to learn everything fast just to survive a day; never losing site of his dream no matter what the cost in blood, sweat and tears.
And yet, my Dad never looked upon this time in his life as a low point... he considered it the phase of his life that defined the man he would be.
True enough, my dad has had alternating years of scarce and years of plenty, which he has likened to Joseph's life, but nothing and nothing made him buckle down... not a midlife career change after years of working on a job that afforded him the illusion of security, not after having built his dream house in a land as big as he was able to pay for only to give it up in the end because his financial situation has taken a downturn and there was no way he could have maintained it, not after he found himself with failing health just when he was supposed to be at his most robust, not even with a son who woke up to a day when he could not command his legs to move... although this broke his heart immeasurably.
This man, my Dad, has had his bouts with tough luck, life's sorry pranks and misjudged calls of fate, but he has risen up to them, not with indignance nor submission, but with tongue in cheek, a formidable resolve to overcome, and a strong conviction that he has not gone to such lengths to find himself failing.
He is 76 years old today. He still walks... in the mornings when the air is crisp and sunshine dons a kinder shade... in the company of his dog, pausing every now and then to exchange a friendly word with a friendly neighbor, bowing to acquaintances as they zoom to places and circumstances, knowing that wherever they're headed, he's been there before... so he looks on with a kindly smile, grateful for the time he has been blessed to take long, luxurious strides where all around him people are taking short, hurried steps.
My brother conquering his fate, my choosing the husband I have... What is the common denominator? The man who sired us, the man who made his life the best lesson that his children might learn... my DAD.
With all my love Daddy, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
I've already told you about my brother.
The other self-made man in my life is, of course, Papa. I'm not sure if he would consider himself already made, or still on the brink of being one, a work in progress, if you might call it that... but he certainly has come a long way from when our story began. I think this claim would best be demonstrated by a little conversation we had sometime back. We were driving along Quirino Highway, on our way to visit our families in Novaliches. The convo went this way...
Papa: Mylab o, Pares. (you know, those food stalls selling beef stew and rice served hot and quick for a little over 20 pesos or something)
Me: What about it?
Papa: Nung araw gustong gusto ko nang pares pero wala naman akong perang pambili. Ngayon, may pera na tayo, pero ayoko nang kumain ng pares.
Papa has long since seen better things, tasted better flavors, gone to better places. Inevitably, experience changes perspective, consequently changing preferences... and then again, they may not.
My Dad is a farmer's son, or more accurately, the son of a local school teacher, back in the old days when such men were maestros who walked around carrying pointer sticks and a formidable facial expression, turned farmer. He grew up in a quaint little town in Nueva Ecija, a town situated along the border of Pangasinan, and although Nueva Ecija is not really Ilocandia county, I grew up hearing folks speak Ilocano all around me... my parents, our relatives, the maids. I remember being lulled to sleep by the humdrum of that native tongue which, although I never quite learned to understand at length nor speak fluently, gave me a feeling of security and belonging, knowing that I was in the bossom of kinsfolk.
Gutsy? Oh yeah, my Dad sure was one gutsy little boy. There's a story my grandmother always told us. It was during World War II. My Dad, perched high up on a tree with a handful of stones in his pocket, waited for some Japanese soldiers to pass by, and when they did, started throwing the stones at them, in a swift barrage of hailstones clanking metal helmets. Before the soldiers knew where the hail was coming from, my Dad managed to clamber down the tree and run a few feet away from them. Unfortunately, he was spotted and fired at. He caught the bullet below the ankle of his left foot but he didn't stop running until he was safely home. Surely by Divine guidance, the soldiers did not pursue him and he was able to escape what would have been a painful and fatal end to his pranks. The wound was deep and got infected. It would have killed him too, if not for some voodoo medicine that my grandmother got from some voodoo medicine man. Today, he sports a deep cleft on the site of the wound and he calls it his own 'Achilles' ankle.'
He's a lawyer, and boy... what he went through to be one. He sent himself to college, and later, law school, driving a cab. The irony of it is, he would ferry people to and from places all day, but when it got to him getting to school, he would walk it, all the way to and from, cause he had better use for whatever money he had. He lived alone, save for a pet dog, in a one-room rented shack. He only had 2 changes of clothes, except for his driver's uniforms, and he had to wash his clothes every night, so he would have something ready to use alternately. When he got sick, there was no one to minister to his needs and he had to take care of himself.
By all means, my siblings and I could envisage what that kind of life would have been like but try as we might, we would perhaps never be able to comprehend all the nitty gritty things that came into it day in and day out... a battered body after a day's toil which could not have the luxury of rest until after reading chapter after chapter of sleep-inducing law books; being young and always finding himself on the outside looking in, never quite having the time nor the resources to enjoy what the other students in his day enjoyed; being alone in the city and having had to learn everything fast just to survive a day; never losing site of his dream no matter what the cost in blood, sweat and tears.
And yet, my Dad never looked upon this time in his life as a low point... he considered it the phase of his life that defined the man he would be.
True enough, my dad has had alternating years of scarce and years of plenty, which he has likened to Joseph's life, but nothing and nothing made him buckle down... not a midlife career change after years of working on a job that afforded him the illusion of security, not after having built his dream house in a land as big as he was able to pay for only to give it up in the end because his financial situation has taken a downturn and there was no way he could have maintained it, not after he found himself with failing health just when he was supposed to be at his most robust, not even with a son who woke up to a day when he could not command his legs to move... although this broke his heart immeasurably.
This man, my Dad, has had his bouts with tough luck, life's sorry pranks and misjudged calls of fate, but he has risen up to them, not with indignance nor submission, but with tongue in cheek, a formidable resolve to overcome, and a strong conviction that he has not gone to such lengths to find himself failing.
He is 76 years old today. He still walks... in the mornings when the air is crisp and sunshine dons a kinder shade... in the company of his dog, pausing every now and then to exchange a friendly word with a friendly neighbor, bowing to acquaintances as they zoom to places and circumstances, knowing that wherever they're headed, he's been there before... so he looks on with a kindly smile, grateful for the time he has been blessed to take long, luxurious strides where all around him people are taking short, hurried steps.
My brother conquering his fate, my choosing the husband I have... What is the common denominator? The man who sired us, the man who made his life the best lesson that his children might learn... my DAD.
With all my love Daddy, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
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