Cresencio

I know I have lived a billion beautiful moments with him. I’m 36 and, exactly today, he’s 73. Of the many moments we have shared, my discovery and rediscovery of him always lead me to a heartwarming realization that the most precious thing he has imparted to me is the value of life and love.

He has taught me by example that superheroes don’t really have superpowers. He cannot fly but his wisdom has allowed me to soar and find my own place in the sun. He cannot be invisible when he wants to be but his being visible is reminder enough to make me advance myself and fathom the things that the eyes cannot see. He has no magic powers to create all the material things in the world but his sacrifices for my family have continuously inspired me to provide for them. He’s not schooled, finishing only up to Grade 2, but he has brilliantly taught me that real heroes don’t really fly.

My first vivid lectures in History are courtesy of him. He tells me stories about the war like the battle just happened yesterday. He remembers the frightening sound of war and the underground shelter where he and his whole family hid, afraid of being caught alive by the Japanese soldiers. He was a kid then but to this day he can still describe the shelter — its size, its color, its smell. The shelter, he says, was in the middle of a field, and he remembers that their trepidation made it clear that it was not a field of dreams.

After the war, the kumpadre of his parents adopted him and sent him to school. He just finished his second grade when he fell ill. He went back to his parents’ home. He recovered. Because of his desire to help his parents and his four other siblings, he became a fisherman at an early age. In those days, Laguna Lake was still teeming with marine life. So, it was not hard at all for him to catch a haul. Early on, he knew what sacrifice was all about.

He also became my first teacher in meteorology. Because he was also a farmer — he planted rice and managed other people’s rice fields since he was 12 years old up to 66; he stopped farming in 2001, the year he first suffered a severe hypertensive attack — he was equipped with folk knowledge about the weather. From June to September, he would tell me and my brothers that the blowing wind was called habagat, because the breeze was originating from the west. Come October to May, the wind would come from the east and it was called amihan. Sabalas was a bad wind because it carried with it, from the north, strong rains. Timog, coming from the south, was the most awaited type of wind when it was storming because it had the “capacity” to stop the torrential rain.

In the subject of justice and equality, he taught me that it was always important to let your voice be heard. In the late ’70s, he stood as a witness to a local agrarian brouhaha. He swore to tell the truth. He told the court the truth. He and his group won the case.

Still on the subject of speaking up for his rights. He and his farmer comrades in Laguna went on a picket in early ’90s at the Department of Agrarian Reform in Quezon City, pressuring the government not to side with the propetaryo (land owners) who were adamant in selling their farming lands in Laguna. Land conversion, he explains, would mean fewer lands to till, less food on the table of an ordinary farmer. For a while the government listened. But with the mushrooming low-cost housing in Laguna and in other parts of the Philippines now, he was not at all surprised about the rice shortage the country is beset with now.

There are times, however, that he is a beautiful study in contrast. There are instances that he will rather comply than complain, condone than condemn. Take for example his relatives, the owners of the hectares and hectares of land that he had farmed for more than two or three decades, who asked him to sign a paper detailing that, in any event that they would sell the land, he, as the kasama (tenant), would not get a single centavo. He knew, as explained to him by an agrarian technician, that what he was being asked to do was illegal and would work to his disadvantage. He signed the papers anyway. They sold the land. “Pera lang yan (It’s just money),” he says. And he never looked back.

He could barely read. He could barely write. But he taught me about art appreciation. Not the paintings, not the murals. But the beauty of nature itself. The colors of summer excite him to this day. These are the same colors that he points out to me when we are in our humble garden. He loves to philosophize: “Kahit salat sa ulan, bubuka at bubuka pa rin ang mga bulaklak kapag tag-araw (Even without the rain, the flowers will still bloom in summer).” The flowers around him will surely wither and die. But he always manages to keep them alive in his heart and mind.

When it comes to GMRC (good manners and right conduct), he astutely reminds me that I have to return whatever I borrow. His simple rule: “Hindi bale ng mahirap, huwag lamang magnanakaw (It’s better to be poor than to be a thief).”

 My weekends are non-negotiable because of him. On Saturdays and Sundays, I will find him in his favorite spot — on the hammock, under the himbaba-o tree, in our backyard. He whistles to invite the wind to blow. Or sometimes he just sits still on the hammock, his wooden cane in hand, listening to the cooing of pigeons or crowing of roosters. Since today is his birthday — two years ago he celebrated his birthday in the ICU after he suffered a massive cardiac arrest which he miraculously weathered through — his loved ones will all be present to partake on a simple feast, which will not be complete without his favorite pancit mike garnished with longganizang pula, hibe and kintsay. If I can find my magic ladle today, I will be the one to cook it. Oh yes, he also inspires me to tick from time to time the kitchen wizard in me.

The most important lesson he taught me is about love. That it should be lasting; that it should be exclusive. He was 30 when he brought to the altar his wife, then 20 years old. They were so poor when they married that they just borrowed their wedding rings from the priest who solemnized their vows. Sans their own band, they bond. And they bond so well that in their prime, they would sing to each other beautiful kundiman songs while in the rice field, or at home. Somehow, they passed the gift of music to their five children. And with it they passed with us the most important lesson of life: love.

I know I will love him forever. After all, he is my father who, with his own hardships and sacrifices, taught me uncomplainingly that legacy is all about hopes and dreams, love and affection, among other bright and beautiful things.

Happy birthday, ‘Tay! Here’s praying that we will share a billion beautiful moments more.

(For your new beginnings, please e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com or my.new.beginnings@gmail.com. Have a blessed Sunday.)