Remembering my late mother
I have read somewhere that every daughter is a papa’s girl, and every son is a mama’s boy. Today is the birthday of my late mother who passed away in the US three years ago. And I am still a mama’s boy. I am the eldest and I was Mama’s trusted son. I took care of all her children while she and papa were very busy earning a living in the fifties and sixties. My parents used to teach in the many mountain villages in Ronda and Dumanjug, and every summer, they would go the city to pursue their studies. I was left with three or four of my younger siblings in a cogon hut in the middle of a field planted to corn, camote, and coconut. I had to make sure that my brothers and sisters were fed well and on time, at the same time, to make sure that our farms were planted and corn were harvested properly and on time, and that the goats, chickens, cows, and carabaos were cared for as well.
My mother taught me hard work and perseverance. My father (who is still alive and 94 years old, but bedridden in Seattle, USA) taught me how to enjoy life and to take it easy. The two were always opposite. My mom was the eldest child and my dad is the youngest in their families. It was always my mother who made the plans and supervised the implementation. My father was part of the implementing team. But I had the feeling that I was the “de facto” supervisor. My mother taught me the importance of industry, the value of hard labor, and frugality, of not wasting time and of always preparing for the rainy days. She was walking her talk, she was leading us by example. She was a very hardworking woman who did everything honest and proper to feed a growing family of eight living children. (Actually she delivered 18 babies but only eight of us survived.)
My mother was a teacher in the mountain barrio school in our town. She would wake up early dawn, prepare our breakfast, and baon; and she would come back in the afternoon to cook our supper and prepare her lesson plans. My father always took it easy. On Sundays, my mother would sell mosquito nets and blankets that she used to sew from materials brought from her relatives in Argao. She would also sell “tabliya” and handwoven pillows and mattresses, and everything that she could lay her hands on just to make both ends meet. She never complained and always did her toils with joy. She never said any negative thing about my father. She adored him and loved him until the end. They were together for more than 70 years of marriage.
Today, my mother would have been 91 years old. She died at the age of 88, a happy and contended person, very devoted to God and to her patron saint, Saint Joseph, in whose honor I was named.
In the last 30 years of her life, my parents migrated to the US. My father was a guerilla fighter in the Second World War. He was granted US citizenship with my mom and my younger siblings. I opted to remain here because Mama told me to take care of the farm and her burial place. I am a good son but I could not have been what I am now if not for my mother. My mom was a Birondo from Argao, Cebu -- Constancia Birondo, Sara, Aballe, Sarmiento y Susas. My father is from Dumanjug and I grew up in Langin, Ronda, Cebu.
My mother was a living saint when she was with us. She is now in the company of the angels and in the mansion of the Lord. I know that she is preparing a room for me and for my siblings. I look forward to kissing her hands and hugging her again.
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