Daddy

...it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

-"Sonnet 116", William Shakespeare

Once upon a sleepy afternoon in a sleepy town, I was seven years old and, rubbing my tired eyes, I sauntered over to the hammock in the backyard, where my dad was reclined, poring through the day's newspaper.

"I just finished Beauty's story. The drawings are kinda strange. But the story had a lesson."

"Ah, yeah?" my dad's eyes didn't leave the page he was at, but I knew he was listening. He was always listening. "And what's the lesson?"

"Um, that a person's true beauty can't be measured by his or her looks?" I squinted at the afternoon sunlight.

"That's true. Good that you read it that way," he looked at me briefly and kept quiet, in case I had something more to say.

I gave him a grin, nodded and skipped away, proud that my dad approved of my take on the tale. Our conversations, then, were short and crisp, but we understood each other, counting the few sentences, and all. His good opinion meant the world to my childish heart and to this day, world-weariness and cynicism aside, I still seek to please him in what way I can, and more so now, that I'd already given him so much heartbreak and disappointment.

Whenever I finish a good book, read something smart online, or come across music by the artists we both like, there's always still that urge to tell my dad about it. I've long stopped harping about "lessons" or "morals", and, instead, bicker to him with all the candidness my blase heart can afford to express through the distance and the phone lines. At most, I hear him laughing, or giving me verbal nods at achievements I tell him about, could picture him--ever the benevolent man that he's always been--shaking his head, could hear an inaudible sigh escape from his weary chest at whatever recent sadness I share with him.

After all these years, my dad is still my go-to guy when something ground-breaking cuts a mark on my turbulent life. Though these days, I try my best to refrain from over-reacting to things, try my damnedest to stay strong for the sake of my family, as I know they have their own troubles to take care of.
The winds of time have taken away so much of what once was there. But the strength of my father, fired ever so constantly by the love he has for his children, has remained unwavering.

To this day, I still think of that hammock in that little town. And to this day, I remain that little girl, looking to my father for consultation on the things that matter, for concurrence on decisions I have to make, for a shoulder to cry on when the tears prove too difficult to keep in.

And I could only pray that I, too, could be those things for him, someday.

What do you know, My father has the makings of a blogger.

A couple of weeks ago, my dad posted this on his Facebook:

The Son Also Rises (With apologies to Hemingway)

After waking up in the morning the father, still with ruffled hair and his maintenance medicine awaiting, immediately pounds the keys of his laptop for his FB...

...while the son, awkward for lack of skill, prepares their breakfast.

The title totally cracked me up. My father has a quirky sense of humor.

=D

Rainy Days and Mondays no longer bring me down

"Each moment is a place you've never been." 
— Mark Strand

It's been a while. The days have gone by, one after the other, in a seemingly perpetual stream of hours and people and places.

But let me start with my dad, and the cherished hours the two of us, once upon a sunny morning, whiled away in music, and talks about melody and lyrics, and performing on stage, and the Beatles and Crystal Gayle and books and writers, and family, and life. Priceless, that's the word that comes to mind. I am lucky to have a father who understands me and whom I understand and with whom I can talk to about things in languages that are familiar to us both.

And, from there, comes everything else that's keeping me on a high these days:

the job I have that's become more than just a job, recently, something more than a reason to get out of bed at a certain hour and drag oneself to start and complain about and finish because one has to, but something that has finally, finally turned into a place where I know I can be (extremely) productive and useful and, yes, happy, at the same time;

the weekend getaways that are proof of the importance of work-life balance, the bouts of conversations and laughter--be it in holes-in-the-wall, or bowling joints, or a cinema where "Transformers" is proof that robots can also wear shawls with flair (hello, Megatron!) or loud music-infested joints, or quiet cafes--that are best shared with well-trusted buddies, or peers with whom one can be comfortable, or new-found friends that one is getting to know better;

and, not least of all, the moments I spend with myself, those few, precious hours that keep my sanity intact and my sense of the world and my reason for being in it, in place, where my only companions could only be either of these: a good book, or a good song. And where the only constant is coffee, with sugar and lots of cream.

Run, Run, Run.

My dad called me up a couple of days ago to remind me of how sedentary my lifestyle is--up to and including the nature of my work--and the dangers that come with it (high blood pressure and other cardiovascular-related diseases). It was stating the obvious, but being a parent, he told me that I needed to have some exercise routine that would alleviate the height of the risks. He reminded me, too, that I had medical insurance that I should be taking advantage of. "When was the last time you had a general check-up?" he asked me. Silence. I couldn't remember the last time I had one.

And, of course, he had to add, "how old are you? thirty?" And I was, like, "Daddy! 29 pa lang!" He chuckled. Well, technically, I am only 29 years old. Until March. Grrrr.

And so, yesterday, I ran. This morning, I ran, too. The thing about running is that once you get started, you can't stop. I just wish I had more time. I'm making it a resolution to run at least 3 days a week--that's Friday, Saturday and Sunday. A friend made me try that Wii exercise thing, but I stopped five minutes after trying it; I couldn't wait to go out into the twilight and catch some evening breeze. My legs and feet itched for activity.

Yeah, nothing beats the real thing. As early as now, I can already feel the effects: I feel less drowsy, readier to do things.

Yep, dads always know best. =)

Have a great Sunday!

My dad

is really something else.

We were texting just this afternoon and I was telling him about my unusually busy (not that it's ever been not busy, just that it's been especially busy) and colorful week at work and he told me that he had just dismissed the foreman of the team of builders working on the new house because said foreman was reporting to work inebriated (which is, come to think of it, ground for termination). My dad is now acting as foreman. I have no idea what it is that a foreman does. But, there.

In my mind, I was, like, sheesh, Daddy, is there anything you can't do?

See, my dad is sort of a jack-of-all-trades, an all-around kind of guy, cosmopolitan, if you will, doing a little bit of this and that and everything else.

I remember being a first or second-grader and seeing the plan my dad had drawn of the house he was having built (which was ours). Awed, I asked him, "Daddy, did you draw this? You're goooood!" Even as a child, I was already a doting fan.

A few years back, when Friendster was still the "in" thing, I remember writing in my profile: "My dad is the one man whom I measure all other men against."

The loot: Erstwhile stage actor, Fisheries grad, one-time teacher, competent banker, talented singer/musician (he sings and plays the keyboards in his rock band and the church choir and he plays the guitar, too), architect/engineer, contractor, real estate broker, interior designer, Ping-pong champ, dancer, Art aficionado, guidance counselor, loving husband to my mom, wonderful, wonderful father to his three proud, adoring kids, and my steadfast saving grace.

Whew.

I told him, "Daddy, you are one tough act to follow."

And he is. He really is.

The 7 Von Trapp Children...

...all grown up.


I got this from an e-mail my dad sent me. There was a warm, fuzzy feeling in my heart when I saw these pictures. I must've seen "The Sound of Music" a hundred times.

Well, okay, maybe less.

Happy Birthday, Daddy!

"One father is more than a hundred schoolmasters."
- George Herbert

Happy birthday to the man who's never, in my entire life, ever let me down.

I wish you good health and happiness always!