One for the Books Ruby de Vera Philippine Daily Inquirer
June 19, 2009
MANILA, Philippines – There is one vivid memory I had of my childhood. I was probably six years old then, and we lived in Tagaytay before it was the tourist trap that it is now. I woke up disoriented, as it was dark inside the house. I remember I was about to cry for attention because I was alone in bed, but then I heard some music.
I went to the living room, where the front door was opened wide. My mother and father were just outside standing close to each other, whispering and giggling, and there were stars in the sky. I felt happy, if ever a six-year-old knew what happiness is. The song playing was “Highways of my Life” by the Isley Brothers. Even now I can’t listen to that song without recalling that particular starry night.
I was 12 when they had to separate, and we moved to Bacolod without my father. My relationship with my parents went downhill from there, until I became an adult and made peace with what our lives had become.
My father passed away in 2004, and I wasn’t able to make it in time to hold his hand when he breathed his last. We were just beginning to be friends again when he got sick, and when he died I regretted a lot of things I didn’t say to him when he was alive.
He was a rather stingy person when we were growing up, and didn’t allow us most of the luxuries other kids have. He only let us watch TV on Friday nights and weekends, and would just tell us to read. If I were to draw him from memory it would be him sitting down with a newspaper, book, or magazine, a cigarette, and a cup of coffee.
I inherited his love for reading; at three I could already read. When I got older I read anything and everything. I read his Reader’s Digests and Time magazines, his Lawrence Sanders, Irving Wallace, and his spy novels. By the time classes start I have finished reading my textbooks. I was such a late bloomer with the other books that my classmates were reading, like Nancy Drew and Sweet Valley Twins. I only began to read them when I was 12.
He used to push me hard when it came to learning. During walks from school, he made me memorize the Filipino word for north, south, east and west. I hated it so much that I’d give the wrong answer on purpose just to make him mad. There was also the time when I came home from a Spelling Bee showing him my silver medal, and all he said was “What happened to the gold?” It was all for the best, I guess not many third-graders can spell “thoracic” and “vertebrae” and use them in the same sentence.
He was happiest when he’s among his pets, and we had a lot of them. We had five dogs, a cat, a goat, and a rooster. He used to rescue stray dogs and nurse them back to health. My siblings and I counted the dogs as playmates, and would actually ride them sometimes.
As I got older and began to form my own opinions, we would always clash. Sometimes I wouldn’t talk to him for days, and would always resent his advice on anything. Adulthood made me realize I was clueless and stupid, but he conveniently forgot all about the fights we had when I stood on his doorway, hesitant to enter. He waited until I was ready to be his daughter again.
He might be gone and has no real legacy to speak of—no Nobel Prize, Best Husband award, or great riches—but I have read The Man by Irving Wallace when I was 13, and I pick up stray cats to feed. To me and the cats, that’s enough. Happy Father’s Day, Papa.
