My Father, Ebot

• By ebotpandayan
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On June 10, 2018
• 3 Comments.

“It’s my father’s birthday today,” I told the son of my cousin to tell his mom. She didn’t own a cell phone at the time this story took place. I don’t think she has one now. “If she could please come to the house and cook, we’ll celebrate.”

She was cooking up a storm when suddenly she froze, looked at me, and with a bewildered look on her face, exclaimed, “Naku po! E birthday din nga pala ng Amang ko ngayun!” (Oh dear, it’s also my father’s birthday today!”)

“Of course, it’s your Amang’s birthday today, too. He was my father’s twin brother, remember?” I laughed hysterically, teasing her no end. “How could you forget?” So many things in mind all at the same time, her lame excuse, then she was silent for a long while but still focused on her cooking. I thought I saw a tear fell. I stopped teasing her. It did not take long before she was back to her old self again, humming a tune. I know she was trying to hide the sadness. She told me that she was very fond of my father, he of her and her siblings. “He was a beautiful man, in and out, my Tata Ebot, very kind. The best uncle one could ever have.” I wish I could say the same for her father.

I never got to know her father. I must be very young when he passed away. It was hardly discussed in my family when and how he died. Discussed though was how my cousin’s mom lost her sanity soon after when my father died; that she got by with some help from my father – her husband having left nothing that would let the family survive the harsh realities of life. With six kids to feed and not knowing where to get the next meal for her brood, plus the sad fact that my father was no longer around to extend a helping hand, she fell into a deep depression.  Eventually, she just left one day, vanished, never seen or found again. It was a scary story for a young child like me to hear. I had then so many questions which I just kept to myself, not daring to ask anyone.

I was happy to hear though lovely stories about my father.

Yes, my father was the best father one could have. Isn’t that what children say about their own? Unlike other sons and daughters, though, I don’t have much to talk about my father. Whatever I remember most about him will stay vivid in my mind, will cherish them and will stay with me until the time when my memory fails me to remember anything at all. The scary thing is that time has been lurking for quite a while now.

I was barely seven years old when I lost my father. I will be seventy this year, and before the inevitable happens, I must put down on record whatever it is I remember most about this wonderful person – my father.

PRIZE BOXER

He was a hobby boxer. He would take me and my year-older and only brother to his weekend boxing matches held in our town’s cockpit arena. Unlike my brother, who enjoyed boxing sports, I would tag along with thinking of the goodies that awaited me after the fight, win, or lose. At home, my father would fix boxing gloves into our tiny hands. My brother would always get excited and proud wearing those oversized boxing gloves. Me? Oh, I would run away and hide behind my mother’s back. I was a cry-baby and hated violent sports like boxing. I’d rather play fantasy games. Please don’t ask me what and don’t wonder why!

HIS CURIOUS SENSE OF HUMOUR

My father was a jolly good fellow, with a great sense of humor. He had a temper, but with us, he was a doting father, a loving and patient husband to our mother who would try and test incessantly how far his patience would hold but would only get frustrated when she would not get a reaction from him. He would ignore and humor her each time, like the time when my mother was conceiving another child four years later after she had me. She left us one day in one of her mood swings and stayed at my grandfather’s house, which was just a few yards away from our own. It was just only for a day. She was upset with my father. She would not come home so that evening my father – me perched on his shoulders and my brother holding my father’s hand – walked the short distance to my grandfather’s house to woo her to come home. He was bringing polished and shiny castanias (chestnuts) as a peace offering. Our mother was still crossed with my father; we could tell because she wasn’t smiling when my father gave her the bag of goodies. My mother grabbed the small bag, threw it furiously out the window, and punched my father in the chest. We stood frozen, my brother and me. My father broke into hysterical laughter. I don’t remember at all if she ever came home with us that night.

TORN PESO BILLS

I remember the day when he was playing a game of mahjong at an uncle’s barbershop. A guy was standing behind him and kept whispering something all the time until my father suddenly stood up, knocking down his chair, grabbed the wad of paper bills he had on the table, and ripped them in two. The man was pestering my father to lend him money. Talk of temper and lousy timing, especially when playing a game of mahjong, and you’re not winning! I don’t remember how my mother got hold of the ripped money, but I remember her and a cousin trying to piece them together at home.

A DAUGHTER AT LAST!

My father waited for years for a daughter, and the day my sister was born was probably the one singular sensation he cherished most in his short life. He would be home early from work and cuddle this bundle of joy and show it off all the time, even telling other mothers – friends of his – how ugly their daughters compared to his. They would have a field day teasing each other, but theirs was no match to my father’s. He pampered her to the max. Coming from work he would bring her presents, big and small. My sister would sit on our staircase and wait for him even when the gifts stopped coming. She would wail and cry until she fell asleep, waiting for him. No one, not even my mother, could take her away from that staircase until one day when it dawned on her that he was coming back no more.

My father had a fatal car accident, leaving two young sons who were eight and barely seven years old, respectively; a three-year-old daughter, and another daughter who was then three months old. The girls grew up never knowing how beautiful it was to have our father, who insisted that we call them by their first names. Not Tatay, not Nanay, not Amang, not Inang, not Daddy, not Mommy, not Papa, not Mama. Just Ebot and Ne. It was not a sign of disrespect. It was only his sense of humor.

I miss my father to this day! Ebot, I love you and will love you always and forever. My thoughts are with you, especially today, Father’s Day. And I wish I got to know more about my uncle, your twin brother.