Tatay

He was my grandfather, but I called him, “Tatay.” So did all his other grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Tatay Igmedio C. Reyes was one alpha male, and being a patriarch to all his seven children, 16 grandchildren and great grandchildren was a task his sturdy shoulders could easily, staunchly bear. His offspring and their children knew that as long as Tatay was around he would be an unyielding source of strength for them. A sentinel who would stand guard over you so you could sleep soundly no matter what hand life dealt you.

Even in his twilight years Tatay was a take-charge person, the father who could set things in order after a storm, the grandfather you could run to when all the other kids on the block were teasing you, the one who wouldn’t ask questions when your allowance was short.

My grandfather was born on Aug. 5, 1906 in Bongabon, Oriental Mindoro, a distant town in Southern Luzon then and still a distant town now, though tourists going by Ro-Ro to Boracay now pass through the highway that connects it to the port of Roxas town.

It was a New Frontier wherein your industry was directly proportional to your income. And Tatay, even if he inherited vast tracts of land from his father, was as hardworking as a bonded worker. Tatay was a landowner who did backbreaking work on his land. Like the farmers he supervised, he got down and dirty on the red earth, walked the rice paddies in his rubber boots and shoveled palay into sacks after they were sun dried.

He was a gentleman farmer. After a hard day’s work at the farm, he would then till the prose of his favorite authors. A wide reader, he and his brothers Cenon, Guillermo and Pedro owned the first copy of the book Gone with the Wind in Bongabon. A day wouldn’t be complete if he didn’t digest the day’s newspapers, and for a time, he was Bongabon’s newspaper dealer. Our ancestral home in Bongabon still holds a treasure trove of reading materials to this day.

With my late grandmother Nanay Jovita, Tatay built his business from scratch in Bongabon. They had five general stores, two gasoline stations, a bakery and a cargo boat that transported their supplies from Manila to Bongabon. They retained two accountants to watch over their books and employed dozens of bakers, storekeepers and helpers.

This, Tatay accomplished without compromising his principles. He would rather go to court — and did — than tolerate deceit.

Tatay collected guns, books and Classics Illustrated comic books. I remember I first read The Count of Monte Cristo in Bongabon, as well as The Black Tulip, The Corsican Brothers and Ivanhoe. I also devoured Dennis the Menace, and Superman there. He kept his trove of comic books in a steel cabinet, I guess the way Antwerp’s gem merchants would store their diamonds.

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Tatay would wear a salakot to the farm, but in business meeting, he would wear an Omega on his wrist. He didn’t get past high school, but he sent my mom to intern at St. Scholastica’s College in Manila, and my aunt Pat to Philippine Women’s. Although he never owned a  car, he sent his five sons to Colegio de San Juan de Letran. His coming-of-age gift to each of them was either an Omega or a Rolex.

Thus I was born lucky because hard work was — is — in the threads of my DNA. I have no memory of my grandfather idle, smoking or drinking. He was either in the farm, or reading.

During my yearly summer visits to Bongabon when I was a child, I would sit by Tatay’s rocking chair in the second floor “family room” and he would say, “I work, work, work,” all day, then go home and “read, read, read.” He loved to spar with me on many topics — we would argue about religion and politics and morality. He didn’t believe that unbaptized babies went to a place called “limbo” because he believed they were born innocent. He didn’t go to Sunday Mass, but his prayers would fill the house at night.

When I was afraid of the dark, he would say, “If you believe in God, you won’t be afraid of the devil.”

Tatay was a macho man who was quick to the draw and always had a balisong waiting in his cabinet. But he also carried around  a sewing box, an old Cadbury candy box where he kept  buttons and a needle and thread. My mom Sonia says this is because Tatay, who made frequent business trips to Manila, didn’t want to be caught in any emergency unarmed. Makes sense, for nowadays, which five-star hotel doesn’t have a sewing kit among its amenities? He also was never without Tiger Balm, his cure-all.

My sister Val said that when she used to complain of pains here and there, Tatay would open his “magic” box and take out a container of Tiger Balm and it would drive her aches away.

Tatay didn’t smoke and didn’t drink. His biggest indulgence was the movies. Whenever he was in Manila, he would watch two movies a day. I watched El Cid and The Sound of Music with him.

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When I was a teenager and started showing interest in makeup, he would tell me, “Oh, but when would you paint a can? Only when it is rusty!” For Tatay, there was only black or white, no grays.

Tatay put his family first, and said he worked so that they would have the best (the best didn’t always mean the most expensive). “Mabuti naman at ang ating pamilya ay nagkakasama-sama pa rin. Walang nag-aaway-away.” Of course that was not always 100 percent true, but his constant reminders helped a lot. They were a mantra I could recite in my sleep, no matter what time zone I was in.

To my sister Geraldine, Tatay was the epitome of unconditional love. When she needed extra money while in medical school, Tatay would send her a regular stipend and “never asked for anything in return, not even good grades.” And like clockwork, she said, her stipend from Bongabon would arrive every month.

Tatay worked till he was about 92 years old. One day, as he was counting the sacks of rice in his bodega, one sack slid down unexpectedly, triggering a domino effect. Tatay was half-buried in the ensuing pile up. Passersby heard his cries for help and he had to be airlifted to Manila in excruciating pain. His ribs were fractured. His health went downhill after that.

Tatay passed away three weeks before his 96th birthday. My dad, mom and Geraldine all flew to the Philippines to pay their final respects to the grand old farmer who raised the bar for his children so that they might enjoy what he didn’t have. He lived and died expecting nothing in return but that they use the legacy he had left them to build a better life — for themselves, nothing more. (You may e-mail me at [email protected].)