Pappy

First, a humorous story: On his way to an angiogram, to bolster my father’s spirits, my mother with raised fists said to him: "Fly high, blue eagle!" To which my father replied: "Go, blue eagle, fight!" It seems fitting then that we would all end up here in the Ateneo college chapel – that our own little blue eagle has been given a few hours to rest here.

You might want to know what my Father’s days were like.

He was an early riser and a creature of habit. His breakfast was always the same: a glass of water, lukewarm, two pieces of pan de sal, no palaman, which he would dunk into his morning coffee which was Kaffee de Oro three-in-one, sugar-free, of course. He had his breakfast while reading the Philippine Star.

From 7 to 9 a.m., depending on the season, variations of grandchildren would come and go to greet him good morning. This remained an inviolable pact between us as children and grandchildren. It angered him if we would forget to pass by his room and say good morning. He would say, "Parang wala kayong may-ari." As a young girl, I rebelled against this rule, but in adulthood, I realized its simple meaning. He wanted attention and I was only too happy to acquiesce.

To his grandchildren, he would remind them to always wear their slippers or make sure they have a good breakfast. He would straighten Aviva’s hair, look deep into David’s eyes and put Ani, my youngest boy on his lap. He designed a good morning series, which went from good morning trees, good morning flowers, good morning sun, to good morning god.

When the grandchildren were smaller, he loved holding them in his arms. He spent many hours putting them to sleep. He looked forward to us leaving the house so he could be major yaya. With Yaki, the first apo, he put it upon himself to make sure every house had a crib.

Lunches were his way of romancing my mother. They went out every day. For Pa, going out was a necessity. To deprive him of it caused him to be masungit. We all called it suroy time and everyone made allowances for it. He and my mom were simple in these dates. Their lunches were predictable. If they ate at Metro East it would be at Pancakes where he would have the classic order of pancakes sprinkled with Equal. My mother would eat only mashed potatoes. If it were Sta. Lucia, it would be at Le Couer, where they would share one tuna sandwich. These dates would never cost more than P200. All the waiters, waitresses and managers knew them, touched perhaps by their love and constancy.

Pa would take a nap no matter what, no matter how busy the schedule. This he and my mother decided to do after having read the biography of Douglas MacArthur, who insisted on taking a nap even in the middle of war.

Nighttime was TV time. He watched everything from the new to EWTN, which helped him with his religion, to old movies showing on TCM. He loved sports as well and it was a constant worry that his blood pressure would not be able to take it when La Salle and Ateneo would come head to head.

He was a workaholic. He was in constant research. He was always on the computer. He had many cases and many dreams and schemes. He was above all, a great dreamer and therefore a great achiever. I struggled often with this because he taught me that mediocrity was never an option. A true Atenean and a true Catholic, he taught me that the capacity to dream and to fulfill one’s dream was only in order to contribute to a greater dream: God’s dream of his kingdom on earth.

The day he died, I would practice on my heart and prepare it by imagining scenarios. In my head, I would imagine the doctor would tell me, he is dead, and I would gauge my heart and see what it would do. Nothing practices you, however, for when it finally comes. Walking, almost running that long corridor to the ICU, I would reach it and see three men trying to revive him. I turned to the doctor and told him to stop because we were prepared to let him go. As they released him, I ran to his bedside and whispered. "Go, go swiftly with the angels and do not look back. Follow the light and let go." When the rest of the family arrived, my head was on his heart and my arms around him. As they said goodbye, I said thank you to those three men and in my romantic heart I thought that perhaps they were the three kings, or Gabriel, Raphael and Michael, the three archangels.

There is no longer any need to practice now that death has finally arrived. Now that he is here, I am surprised by what I have learned.

Death is loving. In the 24 hours we were at the hospital, our family was loving beyond description. We were in constant permutations of hugs. We held fast to each other. We would not let each other go. In that long corridor, we did not allow anyone to walk alone. Much like the apostles sent two at a time we, too, were often two at a time. I would look at my brothers and sisters and they would look at me and so much love would be in our eyes. We were, and are, so united in love. At no other moment had we ever been so united.

Death has brought people into the light. We’ve met many of our father’s friends and people he has helped in his lifetime and we are amazed at what our father has accomplished without our knowledge. It has given us a picture of him that is comforting. He was truly giving, loving and generous and he touched many lives. People came to tell us this (some from as far away as Cagayan de Oro) – we received their stories and have kept them in our hearts.

Death is private and yet shared. People came to comfort us and we in turn have had to comfort people as well. I’ve realized that to participate in someone’s grief or someone’s happiness is an act of love. I’ve watched many relatives in tears and I am enlarged by the experience of this. At the wake many people came to be with us to mourn and grieve collectively, but at the end of every night, we retire to our own homes: my mother to a bed that is suddenly too large; his children to memories that now have the gift of perspective; myself to a marriage and a family life that is now even more inspired by this man.

I remember that when I was 12, in Pappy’s office, hung a poster. It was a picture of a blue sky with white clouds and a flock of birds and written were these words:

"The best gifts we can give our children are these: One is roots, while the other is wings."

Thank you, Pappy, for these gifts.

* * *

Ricardo Kintanar Bolipata was born in Talakag, Bukidnon on February 7, 1929. During World War II, without the knowledge of his parents, he took charge of hiding several Jesuits in the mountains of Bukidnon from the Japanese forces. At night, the Jesuits taught him English and Latin. At the end of the war, they took him back to Manila and made him a scholar at the Ateneo where he eventually graduated with a law degree in 1956.

In his lifetime, not only would he be known as the Father of Security Printing, he would also be a father to artists, and a father to more than 100 scholars.