Papa’s Day

The origin of Father’s Day celebration dates back to June 19, 1910 in Spokane, Washington  with a daughter, Sonora Smart Dodd, suggesting that a day be set aside for honoring fathers. In 1966, President Lyndon B Johnson officially announced the third Sunday of June as Father’s Day to honor fathers. After six years, President Richard Nixon signed the day into law thus recognizing it as a permanent national holiday. 

Not to be left behind, the Philippines celebrates Father’s Day every third Sunday of June.

Last Sunday brought back to my mind a luncheon party given two years ago by the children of the late Pedro Aranas on the occasion of his 100th birthday. Aranas died on July 2, 2002. Being a BFF (Best Friend Forever)  of the eldest Aranas daughter, lawyer Coleta Aranas Campaneli, I was given a plane ticket to be a speaker at the celebration. Instead of the usual eulogy for Sir Pedro, I chose to “advise” the audience to tell their fathers, if they’re still alive, how much they care for them. Saying those three words —  â€œI love you” — accompanied with a hug, will make the grand patriarchs feel good. Those words may be spoken beyond, or before, Father’s Day, or every day.

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My husband was very happy  when one of his children living in California, greeted him by email last Sunday. The 81-year-old dad  felt good, as he wove the printed  message around the house.

As for myself, perhaps,  being  in my twilight years, I tend to reflect on things of the past. Much of my looking back has to do with my  father.

I have pictures of him in my mind, mostly good ones. There were not so happy events like when, because I was hard-headed, he gave me a lot of spanking for going to the movies alone, or talking  back in the course of a scolding.  But generally  my thoughts are about what a great guy Papa was.

First a few words about him. Gregorio “Oyong” Torrevillas  grew up in Masbate, was the eldest of four children of small traders. He  took up the commerce course at Jose Rizal Colleges (now a university) in Mandaluyong where, he said, he was one of the top students in his class. After passing the board exams for certified public accountants, he joined the  Elizarde firm in Manila. A few years later he was assigned as the assistant manager of  a lumber company in Anakan, a barrio of Gingoog City in Misamis Oriental.

He brought with him his wife, Corazon, and their two children, Hermaneli and Louella. He and Corazon had been  classmates in the lower grades and high school in Masbate, but they struck up a romance when they were in Manila, where she studied to be a writer while working  as a kindergarten teacher. He was dark and swarthy, with a high-bridged  nose, and she was fair and slender, a declaimer,  a good singer and amateur violinist.  A year after they moved to Anakan, yours truly was born, the third among ten children.

 Mama would talk about Papa’s being a good person. He did not drink or smoke or gamble.  He was a Protestant, and she was a devout Roman Catholic. Although he never talked about religion, he was a puzzle to her, as each time they prepared to go to bed, he would kneel down, press her hand, and pray, “Lord, give my wife light and understanding.” What, did he think she was stupid, she asked herself. But Mama saw her husband’s good traits, and, from  that modeling, and her associations  with the Christian women’s society, she was convinced  to embrace the Protestant faith. I was born, she said, in the year the Lord found her, so she called me Anna Domini. I tell you, it’s not been  easy living up to my name.

I could see Papa playing tennis with his boss and office mates after office hours, but I never took interest in the game until I was in my 30s, years after Papa had gone. I remember, though, that when I was in college, I asked him to send me his tennis racket, which he  sent  by boat a week later. That meant he gave up playing;  I never thought of depriving him of his racket.  He also sent me his bicycle when I suggested that I could use one going around the campus. The bike was his mode of transport until he bought a second-hand passenger jeepney which he drove at 10 kph.      

There are things and people in our lives whose value we do not appreciate until after they’ve gone. I sometimes wonder why I had no special feelings for my dad. I felt he cared more for my cousins, to whom he gave more money than me. He cared for my cousins’ mothers — Papa’s sisters —  whom he visited often, and asked  if their rice bins were empty, or if they had marketing money.

Without realizing it then,  he did care for me and my sister. I did not think much about his purchasing  matching aparadors and dressing tables for each of us. One time when he came home from a business trip to Manila,  he handed us jars of Vaseline cream for pasalubong.  He also had wooden beds made for us; I overheard him telling Mama, “The girls should have their own beds.” If that was not caring, what was it? I don’t remember saying, “Thanks, Pa.” Why could I not have said so?

He did not shout; the only expletives I heard him utter were “Caramba!” and  â€œKalag sa Purgatoryo!”  when things got out of hand, like when my brother Warto forgot to feed the pigs and  mailed an envelop containing a money order and not removing the receipt.

He was very thoughtful, always bringing something for Mama when he came home from another barrio. He took pains to drive her to Cagayan de Oro to buy African daisy seedlings; Mama had a garden of the flower and huge, red American roses. He was always hugging her, supporting her projects in church, and encouraging her to run for city councilor.

He was no saint, to be sure. He flirted with the sales girls in stores whose books he audited, and he became infatuated with a girl my age, but which infatuation was nipped in the bud. I felt shattered when I learned about this episode, but Mama said she forgave Papa, and I should not feel hurt that he had hurt her feelings.

Papa accompanied  me to Dumaguete to enroll at Silliman, first taking the light plane from Gingoog to Cagayan de Oro city,  then by bus to Iligan, then by boat  to Dumaguete. After my graduation, he met me at the airport in Manila where he had gone for some business matters, and visit my brother Nell who was taking up medicine at the UERM Medical Center.  When I landed a job as a feature writer at the Manila Daily Bulletin, I told him I would take care of my brother’s monthly allowance. You know, his face lit up, he was so happy that I made such an offer.

Last Sunday, I said, and I knew he was around listening, “Happy Father’s Day, Papa. I love you.”

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