An Ode to Dad

Two weeks ago, I left for an unplanned trip to the Philippines because my grandfather was dying. When I arrived in Manila with my mother and aunt, we went straight to the hospital. My grandfather, who used to stand tall and dominant in the room, was now frail, yet dominant still but now for another reason. A day after, he passed away. This began our journey to his hometown in Ilocos Sur. There was a viewing for 9 days, and on October 23, he was interred in the town cemetery. By then I was already on the plane back to San Francisco.

Our grandfather touched so many lives, from the people who served him to the government agency whom he served. There were so many prayer services last week at his house in Ilocos. In the necrological service given by one religious group and the DILG, I said a little something, along with my brother, cousins, aunts, and mother. I would like to share the speech I delivered to honor my grandfather.

Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. In his many speeches, the late “Edward Bloom” (in place of my grandfather’s name) recognized the guests of honor in attendance. So, I would like to recognize you all as we celebrate the life of a great man.

Dad, as he was so fondly known to us, was every bit that word. I knew of his professional life as a teacher and a provincial head of a government agency, garnering much respect for his position and for all the work he did. But I knew him more as a doting grandfather, an amazing storyteller, and a magnificent conversationalist. Unlike how it was with my sister and my cousins, Dad, along with Mom, pretty much took care of me when I was already an adult. The sound of his endearing “Ms B” resonates in my heart as he said it so proudly when I said something witty, when I acted as a handyman at my father’s house, when I was able to get a job, and when I moved out of the house to start my own life.

From his political opinions, recipes and instructions, literary quotations, and Spanish lyrics, Dad knew his words well. His words full of courage and conviction were his weapons. And to his grandchildren, these words in stories and song were our security blankets. In January, how lucky I was that Dad was still strong enough to deliver a speech in my wedding to my husband. This was the first time I’ve ever heard what he thought of me. In his speech, Dad reminded us of an advice he had given all his grandchildren. He told us to study hard and learn, that way, we would lose nothing but our ignorance. He continued saying that we must work and earn, for us to lose nothing but our poverty. I take comfort in knowing that I did him proud, because according to him, I followed his advice to the letter. It is my regret, however, to have not had a child who had met dad, whom he could’ve cradled and sung lullabies to, who he had made sure had 10 fingers and 10 toes. My brother, sister, and cousin are so lucky for that. But, if God permits, I will surely take these words to my children one day.

In her grief, my sister sent me a message that I would like to share with you. She said, “I did not sleep at all last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dad: Dad as the doting grandfather, carrying his first granddaughter in my baby pictures; Dad as the 61-year-old tucking me to bed with the classics or stories of his own adventures, and English and Ilocano folk songs; Dad with his Aklan straw cap telling me how pristine this little island was and how much he enjoyed the simple life by the beach, surviving the nights with gas lamps. This island he was talking about would later be known to the whole world as the Boracay; Dad as a proud grandfather taking me around town on foot, introducing me to everyone we encounter. This would earn me my Santa slogan: Apo ni Erning. Dad (along with Mom) as the jetsetter frequently traveling to the US and the Philippines, visiting loved ones and friends, and making sure to spend time with their grandchildren, carving memories in their hearts in the process; Dad’s little moments with Captain Awesome, his amazing times with Little HRH, and then just flashes of his great memories that I was fortunate to be a part of; Dad collapsing on September of 2005. We all know that marked the beginning of the end. His health deteriorated rapidly from then on. I see Dad in the hospital. It hurts me to imagine, but I just have to make out a picture of everyone?s description of his last 5 days, how blessed I feel to have his last words to me as ?I love you, too, Ms C? and then his final breath. Our cousin told Um that she felt like he wanted to go when nobody was around. Given that he was never going to be left alone in the room, the next ?best? time to go was when it was only our cousin and his maid around. He adored our cousin so dearly, we all know that. And she was probably the companion he had chosen for his final moment. He left this world a few months short of his 85th birthday. He always said he would want to live only until he?s 85, surpassing his mother?s age when she died (84), but younger than his father, who was 89.” That was from my sister.

Dad taught us so many things directly and through how he lived his own life. There is one I find most valuable. Dad wasn’t the luckiest man, but he knew how to roll with the punches. In fact, he even punched back. He was able to provide for his kids, and he was ever-present to his grandchildren and great grandchildren. This world lost a great man. This family lost its patriarch, and I lost a grandfather. It is hard to imagine life without dad. But now, we all have to roll with it. Roll with it and thank the Lord for the time we had with him, and take comfort in knowing that we live under the shadow of his wings as one of our angels, watching over us as he always did.

Dad was a literary man, and I will end this by reading excerpts from “The Psalm of Life” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, one of his favorite poets:

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow

Is our destined end or way.

But to act that each tomorrow

Find us further than today.

Trust no future however pleasant.

Let the dead past bury its dead.

Act – act in the living present.

Heart within, and God overhead.

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sand of time.

Let us then be up and going

With a heart for any fate.

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

As Dad used to say, damas y caballeros, muchas gracias.