Whenever I would come home every vacation from Manila, I would always find my father waiting at the bus terminal to pick me up; ready to bring me home. He would always extend his warm regards with his hands. Most of the time, however, his efforts went unnoticed.
I grew up in a remote area in Mindoro. When I was a kid, there was no electricity except the generator that worked for three hours every night. Fresh clean air, blue skies, clothes drying in the sunshine, peace and quiet, seclusion away from the hurried "what can we go buy at the mall?"-type of life. Not the life for everyone. But it was for us and all our critters. I wouldn't want to miss a single day of it. During weekends or harvesting time, me and my siblings were going to the farm riding our carabao and "karusa" (cart) to help my father and play in the haystack afterwards. If someone were to ask me what experience has shaped my life and personality the most, I would say, without hesitation, growing up on a farm.
They said I was one of his favorite sons, because he's always talking about my achievements, but I was never close to him. I spent most of my childhood days without him at my side. I was a little bit uncomfortable whenever he was around. He was also a silent-type but disciplinarian. I have experience a lot – physically and emotionally, whenever I would commit mistakes or silly things that made him mad. I never heard him saying a lot of words, as my mother always do. He’d rather sit at the corner and calculate on papers or fix something with his machinery tools.
When I was in High School, I never told him how I did in my academics, the name of my teachers nor my classmates, nor my crushes and love interests. I thought they would not interest him at all. That was what I thought then. I never tried reaching to him because I feel awkward to do so. Those were the days before I realized his sacrifices and hard-works.
(Farming with SUKOB, Our favorite carabao)
(My Father with his brothers and friends during one of their typical drinking sessions)
One afternoon, when my father became drunk after an occasional drinking session with his fellow farmers after his usual rice field routines, I heard him telling his friends how proud he was to have a son like me. He almost narrated all my academic and extra-curricular achievements. I heard all those stories directly from his mouth. From that day, my perception about my father started to change.
(The usual weekend day with my siblings back then)
No other experiences this world can offer even come close to watching the sun set over the mountains while carrying harvested coconuts with my father, smelling blooms as they drift up from the dike bottom or saving a baby goat from sure death. These are things you can't appreciate until you've experienced them. These are the things life on a farm with my father is made of.
(Our Backyard Rice fields)
One day, while watching TV show about farming. I urged to ask him about the show, which I think he knew a lot. He eagerly and earnestly shared what he knows. Each time I ask him questions, he never failed to satisfy my curiosity. His eager countenance changes as he briefly recounted his experience in farming. That afternoon talk made a vivid impact in my memory.
(My father's Hand Tractor)
(My father)
As years passed, my father exerted silent effort to prove his being father to us. He was both a quite ordinary and yet, remarkable man, hard-working father who spent so much time in farming to provide us with foods and other necessities. I commit mistakes or do bad thing sometimes, but I never heard anything from him, not an angry look or a harsh word. His understanding and acceptance mean a lot to me.
Before I graduated college, I finally realized how much my father means to me. I was a Sunday service – a father’s day special. That day I learned that he was suffering from hyperthermic attack for several days. I was anxious of his condition because I knew how much he worked hard in the farm every day. I was afraid because I knew I had never done any significant thing for him. I never fully expressed my appreciation and love for him. On that moment, I promised myself to give my best effort in showing how much I owe him. I made a phone call for him for the first time and asked about how he was doing and his condition. From that day, I always bring something for my father; material things or anything that would make him feel valuable. Last Barangay election, despite my loaded work schedule I chose to go home to support my father’s candidacy. Thank God he won.
Now, whenever I would come home, I would find myself holding something for my father as he looks out at the bus terminal to pick me up - things that cannot be replaced by any possessions or riches in this world. More than the material things I have for him, the love and the warm embrace are worthless expression of how much I love and appreciate him. Perhaps, the wall between us is completely torn down, and I can finally say to ORIE FADRI GAMOL, “I Love You, Pa”. You are my hero and my secure foundation. Happy Birthday.
(ORIE FADRI GAMOL, my beloved father)
