When I was so young, around 2-4 years old, I fondly remember that I used to wake up early in the morning around 5am-6am and I would walk down the stairs of our big old house in Marasbaras, Tacloban city, and I would go directly to the home office of my grandfather, whom we called “Papa”, who was already awake and busy typing away on the typewriter. When he saw me, he would greet me good morning and place me up on his lap while he smooched my cheeks with his grainy unshaven stubbly face. I remember this experience many times for I was always looking forward to seeing him first early in the morning despite trying to avoid his stubble-filled smooches. After the morning ritual of affection, I would then start rummaging through his office for anything a young kid my age at that time would find interesting, and he would then chide on me to not make a mess in his working space.
I remember walking into a court session in the old courthouse in Candahug, Palo, where he was the presiding judge. I was so oblivious to what was going on and I remember being pulled away from the courtroom by my grandmother, who found out I started exploring inside the building.
In my prepubescent years, I loved to watch Beavis and Butthead on MTV but the show came on around midnight. But during nights when he was at our old home after staying for some days in Samar with his second wife, He would come out sometime before or after midnight with a flashlight to roam and check the house. It was a habit for him, for he loved the big house despite it being rundown after years of neglect. Sometimes, when I was watching TV in the living room waiting for the show to come on, I had to switch it off and hide somewhere (like under the sofa), the moment I hear him going out of his room to do his rounds. I would hope not to get caught staying up late watching TV at night by him, or else get some tongue lashing the day after.
He helped me land my first job as a radio Disc Jockey. I guess he wanted me to learn how to work and study college and become hardworking and successful as he was. Unfortunately, I regret failing him. He wanted me to become a doctor but I dropped out of Medical school because I later on realized that it was not something I wanted to do. But I learned to put myself through college and finish it the hard way.
My last memories of him was when he was on his deathbed in UERM hospital. I was in my late teens and spent a night in the suite with my brother. He could barely talk and breathe. He would have bouts of bad coughs in the middle of the night and I felt so sorry for the pain he was going through. He died a few days later.
Then I saw this old article on him posted on facebook some months ago, so today I decided to share it here with this short blog post with some of the memories I have of him.
February 7, 1917 – August 19, 2000