Papa
When Ninang asked us to write down our memories and anecdotes of Papa for the book they’re writing about him, I was anxious and a little sad; I don’t have that many memories of Papa.
I was born 10 years after my youngest cousin so I never experienced the fun Baguio summers and exciting trips to Hong Kong that my siblings and cousins all did. Instead, I grew up hearing all about their wonderful adventures with Mama and Papa. The Papa I remember was a small, quiet, ailing man with smiling eyes who was more of a fixture in my life than the involved, doting grandfather that he was to the others.
Despite that, Papa still made quite an impact on my life, albeit indirectly.
Books are my passion and Papa must’ve loved books too because he had a library in each of his houses. These were proper libraries with books neatly cataloged and bearing call numbers on their spines.
One day, I don’t know how old I was; my Ate Chickee brought me to Papa’s office in the Shaw Blvd. house. I must’ve been very young because I remember looking up and seeing rows upon rows of books. I must’ve asked her about it because Ate took one down, showed me the call number, and told me about how Papa had had a librarian catalog and label all his books for him. I knew right then that I wanted my own personal library – just like Papa! When we got home Ate indulged me and painted little white squares on the spines of all my picture books with Liquid Paper and when they dried she carefully inked in call numbers. My library has been growing steadily ever since and though I’ve long given up on putting call numbers on all of them; I’d like to think that my large collection is just as organized as Papa’s was.
One of my clearest memories of Papa is of him quoting from his favorite poem, The Rhodora by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
During Sunday lunches, while everyone was chattering around his extremely large dining table, Papa would raise his hand and quote “If the sages ask thee why this charm is wasted on the earth and sky, tell them, dear: if eyes were made for seeing, then beauty is its own excuse for being.” I was too young to fully understand what the poem meant but I enjoyed hearing the rhythm and sway of the familiar words and enjoyed watching his hand gently punctuate the air as he recited.
Many years later, in one of the many literature classes I took for my Humanities and Literature degree, we were asked to submit an original poem. Without conscious effort, the poem that came to me (as creative fiction is wont to do) was about Papa. My only copy has long since been lost but I remember that it was a set of haikus aptly entitled “Labuyo” because that’s what papa was: a little pepper. He was small in stature but had an incredibly fiery and passionate personality whose warmth still radiates, long after he’s gone.
And, yes, I did get an A on that assignment.
A picture book with the call number Ate made for me and a book I inherited from Papa’s library.
