My Daddy in Me

My father had been gone for so long—28 years tomorrow—we don't very often talk about him anymore. I find myself missing and reminiscing more about my mother, who passed on only seven years ago.

But once in a while, when I talk about the love of reading to children, my memory brings back Dad, he who loved books and any printed matter while he was alive.

As I write, I am commemorating in my mind his 98th birthday and 28th death anniversary—on this in-between day.

Yesterday was his birthday; and tomorrow was the day he went beyond the sunset, the same day Martial Law was being mourned as an unfortunate era in our land, but which Dad thought was done for our own good (he was an Ilocano and a lawyer like Marcos, and a fan of the strongman).

There are no planned family get-togethers or anything to mark both dates.

If he were still around, I know—I'm sure—he'd be the most stringent critic of my books. Alas, he never found out I'd one day be so involved in writing books, the love of his life in the same league as planting trees.

And so I get the next best thing—from Dad's clone in reading and planting, my sister Aie, and her not-too-subtle comments preceded with: "Madi!" (bad); or "Mayat!" (good).

Dad may not have figured in my conscious mind for sometime, but by God's miraculous grace, he figured largely in my subconscious. When I examine my books, I read about orchards; arts and crafts; honesty, living simply, loyalty, respect for privacy, patience; love for family, friends, country, books, and the environment; and many other values in each story.

These are my very own experiences and life's influences that came at me strongly through someone who lived them: my father.

Again subconsciously, I chose plants for my blog headers. My dad was regularly planting trees, shrubs and all sorts of seeds. A master of marcotting and grafting, he had a well-maintained orchard where he nurtured fruit-bearing trees that my siblings, friends, and I enjoyed as children. All the tall trees in my backyard were planted by him.

Today, in Dad's honor, I am changing my header. The old one, which is moving down, and all the headers I have ever posted since I started blogging almost four years ago, are all leaves of plants I grew up with, reminding me of him.

Rarely do I talk about Dad, but the work that I do—and love—is proof that regularly, his memory is a part of me.