Is it Daddy, Poppy or Tatay?

The first rule of the house: "I don’t want to be called Daddy because we’re not Americans; neither do I want to be called Pop because I’m not a dog. I only want to be called Tatay or Itay because we are Filipinos."

With that, I formed my first impression of this tall, handsome man who lived in our house, who spoke with authority but in a soft, gentle tone that encouraged hugs and kisses rather than discipline and stern looks.

Contrary to what he avowed, he didn’t look Filipino. He was fair-skinned, balat sibuyas (onion skinned) in fact, that became more pronounced because he wore white. White, crisp linen shirt, white pants, white shoes, every day.

He smelled sweet, too. Of fresh mint and the original "Heno de Pravia" that made me think of the immaculate fields in Spain that he loved to visit and recount. He was often mistaken for a physician and he’d laugh every time someone would be so convinced as to ask for a prescription if not a consultation.

At age four, I had my first bout of stage fright. There I was playing in the yard, climbing a mango tree, when my Yaya Rosita pulled my leg to yank me down from a tall branch.

"Naku! Lintik na bata ka, baba ka diyan." (Why, you naughty kid, come down from there).

"Hinahanap ka ng Tatay mo." (Your father is looking for you.)

When this man of the house looked for anyone in the house, everybody jumped. Not me. I knew I could twirl him around my finger, but aha, that’s a secret between him and me.

Yaya Rosita had to wash my feet before I entered the living room. "What could he possibly want?" I asked.

I saw my father talking enthusiastically to visitors who were obviously having a good laugh. My mother entered the room to sit opposite my father. My father saw me approach.

"Come, come, hija."

"This is Mr. Bruce Taylor from the United States and his charming wife, Martha. It’s their first visit to Manila and they are our guests."

My hand turned clammy and I felt my heart beat a fraction faster.

"Oh, oh, please don’t let me hear what I think he’s going to say."

Before I could stand next to my father, he dropped the "bomb".

"Tell Mr. and Mrs. Taylor the story of that painting."

I gulped one, two, three times hoping I would choke but it only made me clear my throat; not lose it. Darn. The thick, marbled floor did not split open either. Where was that storm I ordered from the sky? Any more delaying tactics would only extend my torment.

I looked at the painting, took one big gulp, and began:

"Ah, it shows a young lass fetching water from a running brook. Then, ah, a young man dressed in camisa de chino and working pants approaches her and he waits and rests his foot on a huge stone."

He starts a conversation, "Pretty lady that stirs a passion so pure in my heart that I would like to shout it to every corner of the world, won’t you give me the honor of fetching the jug of water for you? The sight of your imprint on the jar would make my heart sing."

The young lass smiles and replies, "You are so emboldened by your show of confidence, that you masquerade as love, but no thanks. I can very well do this on my own and I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone."

The young man would not have taken "no" for an answer but he knew that patience is a better weapon to use on the young lass. He tips his buri hat and bids the young lass "farewell."

"Until we meet again, fair muse of my dreams, I will fill my reverie with gossamer visions of you."

I told this story haltingly, stealing glances at my mother, pleading to be rescued. I was sweating profusely while my finger nervously twirled knots on my torn and soiled play clothes.

My father clapped thunderously while my mother beamed approvingly and remarked, "And that’s only one native painting, Bruce."

With that, my father signaled me to head for the kitchen for an afternoon repast, my favorite guinataan (coconut-based dessert, a mixture of fresh fruits and root crops). I loved those chewy bananas and bilo-bilo (sticky rice shaped into balls).

When I returned to my mango tree, I could still hear peals of laughter from the living room.

Surely, my brothers could tell that story, too. Why me?

Grown-ups. They sure are a strange lot.

The painting now hangs in my living room.

Every time I stand near it, I can hear the faint but hearty laugh of my father.

The memory chokes me.

I miss him.

* * *

E-mail the author at lettyjlopez@hotmail.com. Thanks for your comments and suggestions.