The Men
of My Life
By:
Marina V. Torres
ne
must not kiss and tell. But, love? One must tell! And so I tell about
the great men of my life. I tell about those who loved me great and
those I truly loved and won’t forget. I tell; for in telling we only
not recite their tenderness and uniqueness, but we reinstate their hold
on us, the magic which once spell bound us. Do I talk about my lovers?
The answer is – read!
Rather out of
sequence, the first man who entranced me was my abuelito; my maternal
grandfather. The court of last resort and eager benefactor of his only
set of grandchildren from his only child. The long-suffering father of
my mom who spoiled her and spoiled us, too. He, of fair complexion,
bald pate, thick lips and coca-cola eye-glasses. He always had coins
for us kids in his zippered purse, and we routinely ask on appointed
hours; for almuerzo, postre and merienda. Any father would have a hard
time competing for the affection of his own children, not that my
father, bless his good soul, minded.
At
his prime, he served as the Governor of his province, and word spread
far as to his wisdom. Abogado-de-campanilla, they said of him. He
suffered plenty and silently during the Japanese Occupation. Refusing
to serve the puppet government installed then, he hauled his ailing wife
and only child from province to province, hole-out to hole-out,
subsisting on the kindness of relatives and poor folks. The Japs took
over his beloved home, converted it into their headquarters, and I would
have been eternally grateful had they buried a portion of the Yamashita
treasure there, instead, they razed it to the ground during
liberation.
The
perils of war did not allow him and mom the luxury of grieving the death
of my abuela due to cancer. How can one grieve when one fights for
life? How can one grieve when so many, in more miserable circumstances,
find occasion to extend whatever help and kindness they could? One puts
up a stand and lives as nobly as possible, and that is how he lived the
rest of his life thereafter. After the war he rebuilt his house,
smaller and simpler. His dreams had to downsize too. He was aiming for
the judiciary but an assassin’s bullet signaled him to retire from
politics and take care of his only child.
And
so his world started revolving around his only daughter and new wife.
From being a respected figure, he became the endeared figure to his
wife, child and close circles of friends. That was how he was when we
came to know him. He tirelessly talked to me about how excellent a
student he was at Santo Tomas, how a miser he was, counting every cent,
noting down every bite from his stashed sankaka (brown sugar and coconut
concoction). He played chess with his grandsons, singing endlessly to
distract them, and verbally sparred with me even when I was a toddler.
He taught me how to waltz and fox-trot. He taught me how to be frugal.
He taught me not to be afraid of people with booming voices and gentle
eyes.
My
dad, I appreciated much later in life. Never to advertise himself, I
failed to notice him. Dad was a poet in spirit and a lawyer by
profession. Having 7 children to support dictated such. In the end, it
was the discovery of his secret journals that gave us his children a
much deeper understanding and appreciation of our dad. One can never
really contain ones spirit. Few years, that was all I had left to form
this bond a daughter and dad should have. Ironic because I am so much
like dad in many ways.
He
was timid but he was deep, smarter than he appeared. He was too deep it
took us a long time to fathom his quiet confidence, to decipher those
knowing, quizzical looks as if smiling inwardly at all our loony
dissertations. He had war stories to tell too, but did he tell?
Hardly. We had to pry it out of him. Conscripted at age 19 by the
USAFFE, he went to Corregidor and Bataan and survived the Death March.
“What did you do there, dad? What happened?” we asked. “I buried bodies
of comrades” he’d say without emotion. He came out of it emaciated by
hunger, malaria, dysentery and beri-beri. The harrowing experience is
forever locked with him.
Yet
for all the honors he did not reap, for all the titles he did not earn,
for all the positions he did not aspire for, daddy stood tallest in his
deathbed. Again that knowing look, almost a smile, he was calm, eyes
sweeping the room and lucid to the very end, he heaved his last with
difficulty and a farewell look, at peace and at
rest.
The
third father figure God gave me was my father-in-law. What could I have
done in my former life that I was to be given this adorable man as a
father-in-law? He liked me immediately he saw me. Was partial to me.
We were chummy. He was the self appointed architect of our house and he
gave in to my suggestions, adding a basement on strength of my wish. He
respected my mind and found ways to use me in his businesses. As a
businessman, he was astute. As a father he was tops.
A
father makes things happen for his children, he provides the right
climate for their general growth. By being an upright man, he
cultivates them to be so. For the many good qualities my husband
possesses, he attributes to the patient and guiding hand of his dad. He
found comfort and confidence in him. He helped form him to be the man
that he is now, a great blessing and example to his kids, my kids. This
is the legacy of fatherhood…passing on from one generation to the next.
Never leaving us behind but leaving the best of him in us.
What awesome office fatherhood is!! Fathers are so honored to be
appointed as earthly fathers for they are to reflect the heart of God;
as a leader, protector, mentor and friend. In the end, when all other
offices and roles cease, there will only be two roles left, the office
of the Father, and our office as His children.