My Father, Ebot

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

“It’s my father’s birthday today,” I told my cousin’s son, so he should 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. I explained to him that it was a special day for us, as we were planning to celebrate and remember the life of my father, his grandfather, who was a significant figure in our family.
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 to no end. “How could you forget?” So many things were on her mind 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 fall. 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.

A DOTING FATHER
I never got to know her father. I must have been 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; 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 left one day, vanished, and was never seen or found again. It was a scary story for a young child like me to hear. I had so many questions that I just kept to myself, not daring to ask anyone.
I was happy to hear, though, lovely stories about my father. Stories of his kindness, his sense of humor, and his love for his family. These stories, shared by my relatives, painted a beautiful picture of my father, a picture that I hold dear in my heart.

Yes, my father was the best father one could have. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. He was kind, patient, and always had a smile on his face. 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; I will cherish it, and it will stay with me until the time when my memory fails me and I can remember nothing 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 my year-older and only brother and me to his weekend boxing matches, held in our town’s cockpit arena. Unlike my brother, who enjoyed boxing, I would tag along, thinking of the goodies that awaited me after the fight, whether it was a win or a loss. At home, my father would put boxing gloves on 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 crybaby 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 and a loving, patient husband to our mother. She would try to test his patience incessantly, but only get frustrated when she wouldn’t elicit 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 only for a day. She was upset with my father. She would not come home, so that evening, my father and I perched on his shoulders, and my brother held my father’s hand, and we 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 cross 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 I. My father’s patience and love for my mother were evident as he broke into hysterical laughter. I don’t remember at all if she ever came home with us that night.

TORN PESO BILLS
I recall the day he was playing a game of mahjong at an uncle’s barbershop. A man was standing behind him and kept whispering something all the time until my father suddenly stood up, knocking over his chair, grabbed the wad of paper bills on the table, and ripped them in half. 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 obtained the ripped money, but I recall her and a cousin trying to piece it together at home.

A DAUGHTER AT LAST!
My father waited for years for a daughter, and the day my sister was born was 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 were compared to his. They would have a field day teasing each other, but theirs was no match for 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 always love you. My thoughts are with you, especially today, Father’s Day. And I wish I had gotten to know my uncle, your twin brother, better.