It was a surreal day in Cupertino…
I woke up this morning (Wednesday, October 5) to the sounds of helicopters and police sirens and my daughter bursting into my room yelling, “Mom, there’s a gunman loose in Cupertino! The police are everywhere. Turn on the TV!”
That was enough to make me jump out of bed and turn on the television. Sure enough, on the news was a scene shot just about three blocks away from our home. Police had cordoned off a 10-mile radius and police cars had blocked off the road we took to school, which was also the road to the quarry, where a tragedy had occurred. It appears an employee at the quarry had shot and killed some people and fled the scene. The police were hunting him down.
Then, more sirens and another piece of breaking news. Another group of law enforcement officers were at the corner of Homestead Avenue and Wolf Road. There had been another shooting incident by the Hewlett Packard parking lot. Were these two incidents related? The news crew didn’t know.
Then came the phone calls and emails from the school. A message on my cell phone, home phone and later, office phone, notified me that due to police activity in the area, I was to keep my child home from school. Of course, my daughter cheered. I was in a quandary. I had to be in Los Gatos for a meeting in an hour. While I felt we were safe and believed the gunman was no longer in the area, my mother instinct told me I should remain at home with my daughter, at least until I was sure that the authorities had everything under control.
Later, we learned the shootings were related. The gunman was sighted by the Sunnyvale/Cupertino border, which happened to be close to where I work. Feeling my daughter would be safe at home, I decided to skip the meeting and proceed to work. When I got there, the office received a notification from the police department, asking us to keep safe and giving the gunman’s description. Our office remained open, but was placed on lockdown.
As the day progressed we learned more about this gunman. A single-parent, father of a teen-age daughter, a seemingly good person, a TV host who even authored a book and preached against non-violence. How could he have shot and killed three people and wound six others? For a while I felt sorry for the man. He must have snapped. But how? Why? I wondered out loud.
“He will be judged at the pearly gates. I have no sympathy. He killed three people,” someone muttered.
With the day off from school, I allowed my daughter to watch a movie with friends. Some people at work were surprised I was so permissive. I seriously doubted a man on the run would want to visit the mall. And I couldn’t keep my daughter home alone, when I recalled that time, when I was not much older than her. That day when I had arrived at school and was met by a flood of students streaming out of the school. Martial law had been declared, they cried out. No school! Soon after, my friends and I found ourselves frolicking around the streets of Manila, carefree, oblivious to the soldiers with guns that rode by in their trucks. That day we pranced into a parlor and got our nails and hair done, unconcerned about the uncertain future before us and the gravity of what was to unfold after that monumental day. Little did we know that a year later, we would be among the many students marching in front of the President’s palace calling for justice, democracy and the end to a corrupt dictatorship. My daughter’s afternoon was tamer than mine, it seems. She returned safely home after the movie and her afternoon was otherwise uneventful.
Back in Cupertino it soon turned to afternoon and still the gunman had not been found. I received yet another notification from the school thanking us for our cooperation and telling us they would continue to keep us abreast on further developments.
At around 4:30 p.m. we received yet more breaking news. Steve Jobs, Apple co-founder, innovator, visionary had died. The toll of the day had finally taken over and I trekked home with a very heavy heart.
I was reminded of a few things today:
1. Stuff happens and your life can change in an instant.
2. The safety of family is more important than a meeting at work.
3. I was impressed with the school’s diligence in notifying parents about the status of the school and students.
4. Kids have to experience a little adventure. You can’t keep them locked up in the house, alone and afraid.
5. I didn’t realize how much I admired Steve Jobs until today. I didn’t know the man, but have always loved his Apple and Mac computers. I was surprised his death hit me hard. Godspeed, Steve Jobs and thanks for my Mac and iPhone!
Where “home” was always meant to be …
As we stepped outside the airport in the wee hours of the morning, a blast of hot air hit us. Then came the noise from the traffic and a swarm of people. I smiled, for I knew I was home. After a short drive, we arrived at my mother’s house. There was Mom, who is 84, looking so well and happy to have us back.
It was raining; in fact, there was a typhoon, which thankfully, had not crossed our airplane’s path. I loved the smell of the rain. Then came the sweet aroma of garlic rice, eggs and spam, a traditional Filipino breakfast – yet another sign that I was home. Except for a few out of town trips and gatherings with friends, I stayed close to home this trip. It was just nice to be in the house.
The house we now call “home” is the perfect place for Mom. It’s almost identical to, but a smaller version of the home where my siblings and I spent much of our childhood years. This one-story house where Mom now lives is located in an exclusive village in Makati, the business and shopping center of the country. It is the very first house Mom and Dad built a few years after they were married, though they never lived here. Instead, they had the same architect design and build a larger two-story version of this Eichler home, 900 sq. meters, in Loyola Heights, close to the schools they wanted us to attend.
For nearly three decades they rented the Makati house to the U.S. embassy, until one day, the embassy informed my dad that it would no longer be renting the house. At the time my father was stretched for money and decided to sell the Makati house. Each time, for some reason, the sale would fall through. Eventually, the real estate agent told my dad, “Mr. Meily, I’m not a religious man, but it’s really uncanny that something always happens whenever we try to sell this beautiful house. I think God has another plan for this house.”
Not long after, the plan unraveled … Dad finally gave up the idea of selling the house and, instead, had it rented. A year later, Dad died and we decided it was best for Mom to move to the house in Makati. It is less than half the size of our house in Loyola, but it would be more manageable, and a safer place for her to be.
Mom and I sat in the terrace and reminisced. Although Dad had to wade through an hour or more of traffic to get to his office in Manila and then spend the same amount of time to get home, he refused to move to the smaller house in Makati. He loved the sprawling front lawn and backyard of our Loyola home, Mom recalled.
“Where would I put my things, hija (daughter)?!” I remembered Dad groaning whenever I broached the subject of moving. How he worried about his papers and collection of magazines – Look, Life, Time, Newsweek, and yes, even Reader’s Digest!
For a while there Mom and I lamented about the house in Loyola. The buyer had torn it down and it is now the tallest condominium on that street. Perhaps it was for the best … We (and so many of our friends) have many happy memories of our time in Loyola Heights, but I think I would feel sadder if I passed by the house today and wondered who was sleeping in that large room, once occupied by four little girls. How about the boys’ room? I would wonder who was now browsing through the books lined in the gigantic bookcase in the study, and who was playing with the old turtle that had made our backyard pond its home.
“That house served us well. It was a good home,” said Mom. “Before we left I cleaned that house from top to bottom and left it spotless, even though I knew they were going to tear it down. Then I bade it good-bye and thanked it for being such a wonderful home for our family.”
I observed Mom walk across the living room, pass the dining room and kitchen, and head toward the hallway, which is just a few steps from her bedroom. I concluded, without a doubt in my mind, that all this was meant to be – the look, the feel of this house is almost identical to our house in Loyola. Best of all, it’s always felt like “home.”
They say there’s a reason for everything … It’s nice to know this house that Dad and Mom first built had a purpose from the beginning. It never sold because it was always meant to be “home.” I only hope old Mr. Turtle was able to walk away before the bulldozers leveled the house in Loyola …
A family gathering at the Makati home a few years after Mom moved there. It's so much like our home in Loyola. It is here where we now make happy memories.
A young Mom and Dad, newly married.
We have many happy memories of our house in Loyola Heights.
To my grown-up son
My cousin Sandy kept this poem by Alice E. Chase in her wallet while her only son was growing up, to remind her to spend more time with him. He is now a young man and lives far from her, so she doesn’t often get to see him. Like Sandy, I miss my son and I also wish I could go back and do all the things he asked me to do …
To My Grown-Up Son
by Alice E. Chase
My hands were busy through the day,
I didn’t have much time to play
The little games you asked me to,
I didn’t have much time for you.
I’d wash your clothes; I’d sew and cook,
But when you’d bring your picture book
And ask me, please, to share your fun,
I’d say, “A little later, son.”
I’d tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers, turn out the light,
Then tiptoe softly to the door,
I wish I’d stayed a minute more.
For life is short, and years rush past,
A little boy grows up so fast,
No longer is he at your side,
His precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away,
There are no children’s games to play,
No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear,
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands once busy, now lie still,
The days are long and hard to fill,
I wish I might go back and do,
The little things you asked me to.
I have one more child at home, but it’s not going to be long when she, too, will be off on her own. And soon, my busy hands will lie still, and the days will be long and hard to fill …
My oldest daughter is expecting … When that joyous moment arrives, I will pass this poem on to her, so she will cherish those simple joys that I sometimes forgot to do.
“Let my father’s honours live in me.”
A friend of mine lamented that it’s been five years since her father passed away and she still feels guilty because she had to return to the U.S. after a month’s visit with her sick father and then he died a few days later.
She said, “I packed my stuff to come back home stateside to attend the graduation of my two boys. I assured him the two would be in Manila for the whole summer. The good-byes were quick, since I anticipated I would be back again. Indeed I was – a week later – for his funeral. Until now I have not forgiven myself. The burden of guilt for not being there for him and for my family is eating me. I am the oldest, yet I was not here for them.”
Father’s Day is the one day we set aside to honor our father. Perhaps, in reflecting about our dads, we, whose fathers are no longer with us, carry some guilt and feel we could have done more, shown more affection toward them, shared more of our time and even our possessions …
I think it’s natural to feel this way, but I told her, this is a day when we should actually rejoice, for we are the lucky ones! We were blessed with such wonderful dads, who taught us so much, and they and their teachings remain in our hearts today. I was lucky enough to have had a father who truly loved me and showed it. His was such a selfless love. Not many people are blessed in this way.
My father died very suddenly 18 years ago. It’s like God plucked this special human being from this earth and just like that, he was gone from our lives. My only regret is that we never got a chance to say good-bye and to tell him one last time that we truly and deeply loved him.
Looking back, I now realize his was a beautiful death and God really was being kind and meant to spare our family much pain. Dad didn’t suffer at all. Yes, we hurt, we cried, boy, did we cry, but at least we didn’t have to see Dad suffer for months or years with an illness or disease, like some families have to bear. This way, we remember Dad happy, smiling, vibrant, teasing and joking. We had no regrets for Dad. He lived his life to the fullest, it had meaning, and he did what he wanted to do.
From Dad, we, his six children, learned to work well and work hard. “No matter what you become, even if you are a street sweeper, you need to be the best street sweeper there is,” he would tell us.
Dad built up our self-esteem, and from him we learned to be self-confident. Whether it was giving a speech in class or a talk at some function, or teaching a college course, he would tell us, “Trust in yourself. You know better than the people in the audience. That’s why you are the one up there, so share what you know.”
When we had an idea, he would encourage us to fly with it. “Go for it! You can do it,” he would say. That was Daddy, our number one cheerleader!
From Dad we learned to be kind to others, to be generous and share what we have. “You have to help the people around you because they have nothing and you have so much,” he would constantly tell us. Dad did all these, even if it meant paying less attention to his business. As marriage and youth counselors, he and Mom would make time to speak to parents and children in the schools about God, life, marriage or parenthood. Dad would give the little money he had to a hard-up employee, a classmate of ours who needed money to finish her schooling, a friend of ours who was just short on cash, or a big tip to a waiter.
Dad was kind; he was gentle. Even his spankings were more like pats. He could get angry though, and there were a couple of times when he took out his belt, but never did he strike any of us.
Dad could be consoling, and no matter what, we felt as long as he was around, we were safe. I remember one time in the third grade, so many rumors floated around at school about kidnappings and robberies. I just couldn’t sleep. Dad embraced me and said, “We have Brownie, hija (daughter)! He will never let anyone into our home. You hear him barking? He will bite anyone who comes inside our house. So go to sleep now and don’t worry. He will protect us all.”
From Dad we learned to have courage, no matter what confronted us, and to persevere. Whenever I would return to the States after a visit, his parting words to me would always be, “Be brave, hija, be brave!” I would always wonder why he would tell me to be brave. I’ve been through a lot in my life since then and, somehow, remembering his words has helped pull me through the most difficult trials.
Most of all, from Dad we learned to trust in the Lord and pray. “Pray, pray pray, hija. You are nothing without God,” he would say. And when things got tough, he would tell us, “God will provide.” And God always did.
Since Dad’s death, whenever my siblings and I would each reach a fork on the road, we would wonder what Daddy would have said to us at that time. I miss his advice, but somehow, I have always felt I knew what he would have said. He taught us well, my dad.
What I really miss is Dad’s warm embrace. Our last took place when I was leaving for the airport to return to the U.S., after Mom and Dad’s 40th wedding celebration in the Philippines. That was a few months before Dad died. Dad hugged me tight in the rain and said, “Take care, hija, be brave, and pray.”
My fifth grade English teacher sent this message to all her students this morning. It is so appropriate. On this day and every day, I pray:
My dad, as I remember him.
“Let my father’s honours live in me.” – William Shakespeare
Playing the piano evokes a moment “when I feel that speech is nothing after all”
It was a proud moment for me when I listened to my daughter play “Für Elise” this morning. It was just her second piano recital, and she performed even better than the first time.
I’ve always liked “Für Elise” by Ludwig van Beethoven. It’s a simple piece which I remember playing when I started piano lessons decades ago. The short, romantic piece evokes much emotion for which Beethoven’s pieces are well known.
The story behind this musical composition is clouded in mystery. There’s been much speculation about for whom he wrote the piece. The English translation is “For Elise,” though historians say there appears to have been no one in his life named Elise at the time he composed the piece. Some say his handwriting was misread and it actually meant “For Therese,” a woman with whom he was deeply in love at the time and whom he intended to marry, but it never happened. In any case, it’s a pretty piece and when one listens to it. It can’t help but stir our emotions because it’s so moving and beautiful.
As I listened to the little more than a minute-long rendition, I was glad I bought my piano and happy that my daughter likes playing it. It takes up much space in our living room, but the melodies from this instrument can be quite entertaining and many times, even soothing.
It pained me that I had to leave behind my beautiful piano when I moved to California. Not having it around made me feel like our home was incomplete. Then, when I considered purchasing a new one last year, I worried where I would put my Christmas tree because the piano would take so much room. A friend told me, “The piano will make you happy all year long. You can worry about the Christmas tree in December.”
So I bought the piano, and it all worked out in the end. Like the miracle of the five loaves and two fish, somehow, there was more than enough space. I managed to fit everything nicely – the piano, the Christmas tree, and even a new treadmill – all in the same room!
Having a piano warms my heart. Sometimes, I’m afraid to sit down by the piano because once I do, I find myself playing the instrument till the wee hours of the morning. I would never get anything else done. Like writing and reading a book, it transports me to another place and calms me. When playing the piano, I get to soak in the loveliness and pure beauty of music, and I feel much like Beethoven wrote in one of his love letters:
“My heart is full of many things… there are moments when I feel that speech is nothing after all.”
I’m glad my mother made me take lessons. I think my daughter is beginning to feel the same way.
As my daughter turns 16, is it time to let go? – Part 2
There is an episode on the television show “Parenthood” that’s endearing to me. It’s the episode where Haddie begs Adam, her dad, to take her practice driving. He’s surprised, because he thought mom Cristina had been doing just that the last few weeks. Well, it turns out Cristina and Haddie had just been sitting in the car the whole time, while Cristina lectured. Cristina hadn’t allowed Haddie to get behind the wheel. When Adam confronts Cristina and asks why, she repeatedly replies, “She’s not ready yet.”
I can relate so well to this episode. You see, I’ve used every excuse possible to postpone this chapter. My daughter will turn 16 in August and, for the past months, I have been stalling. I told her she couldn’t even think of learning to drive until her grades improved. When they did, I said I was too busy to even consider it.
Finally, I could no longer postpone the inevitable. I got her the DMV handbook, so she could study. She took the online course, passed, and a couple of days later, her certificate arrived in the mail. On Wednesday, we went to the DMV office. She passed the vision exam, then took her permit test and passed. Tomorrow, the instructor is coming over for her first behind-the-wheel lesson.
Where have the years gone? It seems like yesterday, when I wrote that column about the time I dreaded buying my oldest daughter her first car. She is now 27 years old, married, and just bought her very first brand new car. Three years later, my son followed in her footsteps. Now, it’s their sister’s turn. She is the last, the youngest of my three children. My baby!
C’mon, she was just riding her push and ride racer and that Little Tikes Cozy Coupe not too long ago. It’s not fair that the years have gone by so quickly!
The other reason I’m dreading this is I never taught my children how to drive. In Iowa, the schools still have driver’s education as part of the high school curriculum. On weekends, their father taught them, so I was saved from the torment. When I finally rode with them behind the wheel, they were experienced drivers, and yes, like many mothers, I loved sending them to the store for milk and other items. We didn’t just skate through those times, though. They had their own share of fender benders, but thankfully, no major accident.
I’m having a harder time letting go of this one. She is my baby. We now live in the Bay Area and it can be dangerous driving here. Also, I am now a single parent and feel solely responsible for her safety.
When she visits her father in Iowa this summer, he promised he would teach her, too. But that’s in Iowa. There are fewer cars in Iowa. There are no pedestrians in Iowa. Merging on the freeway in Iowa is not the nightmare that it can be here, in the Bay Area.
When I spoke to the driving instructor last night, I asked him why is it that the California DMV only requires six hours of professional driver training. She needs more hours, I told him. If I had my way (and more money), I would pay for a year’s worth of professional driver training. He pointed out that in addition to the six-hour driving course, she is supposed to have 50 hours of behind-the-wheel experience with an adult, like a family member.
“A family member? You mean, me? … I just can’t!” I shrieked.
The instructor chuckled and said, “Let’s see how it goes on Saturday after I evaluate her.”
Thank goodness California law still requires her to have her permit for six months before she can take the driving test and get her driver license. And until she turns 18, she will have provisional restrictions.
The last of all the toys have been packed away for quite a while. This is my millennial child, who runs with earphones attached to her iPod and would rather text a friend than talk on the phone. I still cannot understand the music that blares from here iHome, and yes, like her siblings before her, she no longer calls me “Mommy.” Like them, she, too, has grown up and is about to enter a milestone in her life.
I’d like to wail, “She’s not ready yet!!!”
Let’s see how tomorrow goes …
Fairy tales and tending my garden
The last few days have seen much coverage of the royal wedding. Many, including myself, stayed up through the wee hours of the morning to watch the special event. There were others, like the woman I saw at the craft store, who, in my opinion, got a bit carried away and bought wedding accessories for a royal wedding get-together with friends in front of her television!
Some people scoff at all the fanfare, but I am one of those who believe the occasion is truly one for celebration. As young girls, we grow up with fairy tales, from Cinderella, Snow White to Sleeping Beauty. Always, in these fairy tales, the girl ends up with her Prince Charming, she becomes a princess, and we assume they live happily ever after. What these fairy tales seem to leave out is it takes a lot of hard work to live happily ever after and, sometimes, it just doesn’t turn out that way.
For me, the royal wedding symbolized a renewed hope that true love still exists, a confirmation of marriage, and best wishes for the happy couple, that they can, indeed, live happily ever after.
As I watched the ceremony unfold, Shakespeare’s words “To thine own self be true,” echoed in my mind. Unlike the marriage of his parents and many people in this world, it was obvious as William and his bride entered into the Sacrament of Marriage, that they were being true to themselves, devoid of pretenses, truthful and transparent with each other.
I, like many people, entered marriage with high hopes and the belief that we, too, would live happily ever after. It didn’t turn out that way. I still have to meet that someone who is devoid of pretenses and can be transparent with me, and who adheres to those same words:
“This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”
Marriage is like planting a garden. It needs to be watered, tended and cared for. Relationships can’t continue on an even keel and be expected to succeed. Hopefully, the royal couple will “tend to their garden.”
This brings me, literally, to the subject of my raised garden. How does my garden grow? So far, so good … It took several days, but finally, it is done, thanks to my brother-in-law, who is the one member of our family with a truly green thumb, and my nephews, who gathered here on Easter Sunday and lent him a hand.
When I enlisted his help to assemble the kit I bought and drill screws into the pre-cut cedar, my brother-in-law shook his head and said, “Take it back. This is too much money for what you are getting. I’ll build you a better one.”
So off to the hardware store we went. It was an ambitious project, but we – rather, he – got it done in a few days, with redwood, bolts and screws, a table saw and handy drill – a 4×8 garden box with legs. Then we carried tons of garden and special organic soil, chicken manure and perlite into my yard, donned gloves and proceeded to mix this, his “sure-fire formula.”
As we mixed everything in the box, my brother-in-law turned to me and said, “Can you feel it? Isn’t it so warm? That’s the manure.”
The distinctive pungent aroma reminded me of the farm, but I had to chuckle, for even in the farm, never did I mix manure by hand!
“Ugh, this is disgusting,” I muttered.
“I promise you, you will be able to grow anything in this mixture,” he assured me.
My garden is now lined with tomato and pepper plants, a row of lettuce, a couple of cucumber plants and zucchini. I even threw in some beans for good measure. Let’s see what grows …
Garden fever must be upon us. Yesterday, my daughter and I got more of that soil and planted some orange and red zinnias and pink and purple begonias. They look so pretty by my yellow and pink roses and lavender bougainvilleas, which are now in full bloom, and thankfully, still untouched by those dreadful rodents.
“Just make sure you water the plants every day, or all that hard work will go to waste!” my brother-in-law reminded me when he left.
Yes, I need to tend my garden, just as the royal couple now needs to tend theirs. Time will tell …
As my father would say, “That’s not the end of the story yet!”
I do hope both have a happy ending!
My raised garden
Happy Spring!
Yes, I know. It has been months since I have written in this blog. “Too busy,” I shrug off an answer when my friends ask me why. The truth is, sometimes, life slaps you down so hard it takes some time to get up. It’s happened before, and always, I managed to get up, though barely. This time, it took a toll on me, and even writing was no longer a safe harbor.
The tragic news came on Thanksgiving Day, right after we had enjoyed a great meal, a wonderful Thanksgiving with family. I look back now and realize God was still kind. When I received the news, He made sure I was surrounded and comforted by family. If a big storm had to hit me, I was in good company.
It’s taken months to get back on my feet. Some days I would even wonder how long I could keep it all together. Since then, Christmas has passed, we greeted a new year, and now, it is spring. Friends have visited, I’ve attended celebrations, loved ones have passed on and I have managed to continue to bury myself in my work and dote on my loved ones. I am grateful for the friends who know and who are brave enough to ask me how I am. Sometimes I can talk about it; other times, I just can’t. But they ask anyway, and it’s nice to know they care.
I know that no family in this world goes through life unscathed. Rich or poor, we have all had our share of problems. For years I have wondered, can anyone have a problem as unbearable as mine? For it’s a problem that won’t go away for many years, if at all.
The past months I’ve come to fully accept and also realize that things could be worse. I have friends who have close relatives who have “disappeared” and have found no closure; then there are those with a son or daughter in the military, stationed in the Middle East, and each day, they worry whether they will ever see their child again. Then there’s the tragedy in Japan, watching your family being swept away by the tsunami. There are those caring for relatives with debilitating sicknesses. Yes, no one goes through life unscathed.
In the past months I’ve also learned to compartmentalize my worries and try to dismiss the needless anxieties – to accept the things I cannot change and not dwell on them so much that it brings me (and the ones I love) down. And not to worry too much about the future. As my dad used to say, “God will provide.”
Just the other day I came across one of the columns my parents wrote in a weekly Philippine magazine. They related the story of some blind beggars in an Italian town. A man observed that one blind man seemed to be receiving more money than the others. Curious, the man approached the blind man and saw a small sign hanging across his chest. On it were written the words: “It is April, and I am blind!”
With April here, I think about this story and open my eyes to everything I didn’t see because I was dwelling on my sorrows. That radiant sun, the beautiful sky and stars aglow, the glorious sunset, the flowers that are now starting to bloom. I think of my very favorite Bible verses in Matthew 6:26-34. These words calm me:
26 Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
27 And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?
28 And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin,
29 yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
30 But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?
31 Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’
32 For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.
33 But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.
34 “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.
His message is clear, isn’t it? May God protect me from needless anxiety. Keep me strong and let me continue to have faith. If God takes care of the trees, the flowers and birds, what more you and I, right?
It is April. The storm has passed for now and the sun is shining. Happy Spring!
Remembering my hero on Veterans Day
November is truly Dad’s month. His birthday is on the 19th. He would have been 91 years old. This Thursday is Veterans Day. I like to tell his story every chance I get. He and many others fought a great war, so we may all be free. This is for Dad and all our heroes …
Covering a Veterans Day memorial service for the newspaper one year, I heard someone speak of our World War II veterans as “the generation of heroes … ordinary people who serve as examples of what we should be,” and I remembered my hero.
Dad was a lieutenant in the Philippine Army, which at that time was part of the USAFFE (United States Armed Forces in the Far East). He fought in the Philippines against the Japanese during World War II. He was captured in Bataan and survived the infamous Death March. That’s all I knew about my dad’s war experience until many years later, when one evening, after meeting another veteran and Death March survivor in our town in Iowa, and with some prodding from my father-in-law, Dad opened the door to a part of him we had not known before.
Dad, along with other ROTC cadets, was inducted into the Philippine Army just a few months before the war. He was only 22 years old at the time. Since he had a college degree, he was commissioned a second lieutenant in the Quartermaster Corps and only went to the front lines when he had to take food supplies.
“It saved my life,” he said.
It was while Dad and some of his men were on a truck delivering canned goods in the Bataan peninsula that they were captured by the Japanese. When Bataan fell, Dad and the other prisoners were made to walk 60 miles in the searing heat from the battlefield to a main station and then transported to Camp O’Donnell in Capas, Tarlac.
The Death March lasted from five to nine days, depending on where on the trail a prisoner began the march. There were about 75,000 Americans and Filipinos captured in Bataan. After the march, there were about 54,000 still alive. Less than half survived the internment camps.
Dad said even after many years, he would still wake up in the middle of the night from nightmares of the “heat and sweat.” He said not one day went by when he didn’t think about his friends who were killed.
Dad recalled being fed one bowl of rice a day and, sometimes, nothing at all. He was only allowed to drink water from the river, along with the horses, and he remembered it being tainted with blood. He could not sleep because he was tied back to back with another prisoner during the night.
He never forgot the burly Japanese sergeant who hit the prisoners with a stick when they walked in the middle of the road, or whenever he felt like it; the Japanese soldiers who passed them in trucks, eating watermelon, taunting and laughing as the hungry prisoners reached out for the fruits; the hot, airless cargo train that took them to the concentration camp, where he was sick with malaria one day and dysentery the next. He watched his dead campmates being wrapped in blankets and taken to unmarked graves, and he wondered when his turn would come.
Dad’s mom and sister would visit the camp daily and beg the Japanese to release him. Finally, after several months, the guards relented because he was so sick. He later hid north of Manila, listened to a short wave radio and charted the progress of the American forces until Liberation.
The young man at the Veterans Day service said the greatest part about these veterans being heroes is not only that they had fought in the war, but “it is in what they did after that should inspire us. They went on to be doctors, lawyers and teachers. They went on with their lives and continued to make ours better.”
After the war, Dad continued his studies and became a lawyer. He never practiced law; instead, he worked in advertising for the Philippines Herald newspaper. He put up his own advertising and marketing firm a few years later. Then, he and Mom went back to school and earned their graduate degrees in marriage and counseling. They became marriage and youth counselors and gave countless talks to schools and organizations. They also became weekly columnists for the Panorama, the Manila Bulletin newspaper’s Sunday magazine.
On January 23, 1993, the day Dad died, he experienced an excruciating pain in his stomach, but refused to miss a talk to hundreds of parents of elementary school children at La Consolacion College. His last words were to them: “Teach your children to pray. Don’t just tell them; show them.” As he walked out of the auditorium, he collapsed to the floor. It was quick, as if he had been snatched away.
As we grieved after his burial, I lamented on the loss of his knowledge, his wisdom, and I was so afraid I would forget him. Mom consoled me and said, “You have to have faith. All he was is passed on to all of us. He lives on in our hearts.”
It’s been 17 years since Dad died and I still remember, like it was yesterday. I miss him. I miss his warm embrace, his humor, his teasing voice, even his corny jokes. I miss his laughter, and I even miss his nagging, “Hija (Daughter), pray, pray, pray!”
That was my father, a man of great faith.
“You can’t live on prayer alone,” I, the rebel, would sometimes chastise him.
When times would get tough, he would sit on his office chair, scratch his chin, stare out the window and say, “God will provide, Hija.” Strangely as it would sometimes seem, somehow, God always did.
War leaves an indelible mark on people. The experience made Dad more sensitive, more giving toward others and more trusting in the Lord.
Veterans Day reminds us life is about faith and giving, the giving of life for country, making sacrifices so generations after can have a better life, and trusting in God. No matter the reasons for each war, all who have served their country are brave heroes. They pass on a legacy we should cherish and always remember.
Dad passed on to me the story of his life, and most of all, he passed on his strong faith in God, so when I can, I try and share it with others.
When times get tough, I find myself doing the same thing – staring out the window, scratching my chin and murmuring the same words, “God will provide,” knowing Dad and God are with me.
Here he is, grinning from ear to ear, my dad, Lt. Jose M. Meily, Jr. (far right), celebrating at a club in San Francisco, where members of the USAFFE were recognized at the end of the war. This photo was published along with a similar column of mine in one of the newspapers I worked at several years ago.
Dad, Mom and me at my school’s Parents’ Night, 1965
Finding humor in all this madness
It has been a week of madness. Laughter is the best medicine, so please, help me find humor in all that transpired during the week.
My relatives are still in town and there is not much peace and quiet in my home. My poor daughter told me the other day she has hesitated asking me questions because she sees me constantly being interrupted with questions and comments from the relatives.
Then, the other night, I noticed a portion of the living room carpet was wet. It was not till close to midnight when I discovered my neighbor’s hot water heater was leaking on to my living room floor. By morning much of the carpet was soaked, and we had to move the furniture aside. Even if I had called and informed him about the steady leak, my landlord didn’t get there till mid-morning.
“What should I bring?” he asked me, as he was about to head to my place.
“Hello! Can our roles actually be reversed from now on, and can I now collect rent?” I didn’t actually say that, but cynical I was and upset was an understatement. It was a comedy of errors, though at the time, I wasn’t laughing.
It took all day to get estimates which were deemed too high, and it was finally dark when the winner of the bid arrived to fix the problem. The water was turned off the whole day. The landlord tried to turn it back on at around 11 p.m., but the faucet of the main valve was so corroded it broke! Luckily, the plumber was able to rig it and by midnight we had water. The workers and landlord didn’t leave till 1:30 a.m. And me, well, I was left with still very soaked carpet, a laundry basket filled with wet towels, a wet vac (supplied by me!) and my two fans running 24-7 for four days, not to mention a house in disarray.
“What is wrong with this picture?” I muttered to myself in frustration.
In the meantime, there’s still office work I have to do, in between shuttling the relatives to the different sites and shopping centers.
I need to come up for air. Can someone save me, please?!
The carpet is almost dry now, and my relatives are leaving mid-week. I know my house will be back in shape soon; and I know, I will miss my uncle and aunt once they’re gone – even their stories, which they continue to repeat over and over again. My uncle is 81 years old, you see, and boy, do I admire his stamina! No matter the minor irritations, it has been so nice to have them visit.
All week, too, there has been so much sadness in my heart, as I bade goodbye to a very kind man, a family friend and father of my childhood friend. And now, I am preparing to bid yet another childhood friend good-bye …
Dear Susan,
I will always remember your giggles, your squeals in grade school and high school, lunches and playing pelota at your place … You had a quiet, graceful demeanor. Your shrieks never pierced my ears! In fact, I would always giggle when I heard you shriek with delight or horror. Even if we attended different colleges and moved on to different parts of the world and separate lives, you were always one of my special friends.
We all have our special memories of you. I feel so fortunate I was able to visit you and spend that special time with you and your family in Singapore many years ago. I still remember the morning you picked me up at the hotel. Your eyes grew big when you saw me.
“Rosie, are you chewing gum? Quick, spit it out!” you quietly squealed into my ear.
No chewing gum in Singapore; it’s against the law, you informed me. Good grief! No wonder people in the hotel were staring at me. We had a good laugh about that – after I threw the gum in the trash can.
Then you took me shopping, and after, a special dim sum lunch, dinner with Gueli, meeting your little girls … They are so grown up now; so are mine. Where have all the years gone?
You recently reminded me it was at the Holland Village where we found those treasures and our freaky experience with the mix-up of packages! I still have many souvenirs from that day, except for that porcelain elephant whose trunk pointed downward. You were right – that was bad luck, so I sold it at the garage sale I had before I left Iowa!
My heart is heavy and I can’t stop my tears from flowing. I’m so glad we reconnected again on Facebook. And I’m glad the pictures I posted brought you much joy and laughter.
Can I find humor in this, Tuta? Whenever I glance at the batik tapestry we bought at that store, which now hangs splendidly on my dining room wall, and whenever I chew a piece of gum, I will chuckle and think of you and the good times. I’m sure you, too, will chuckle and find some humor in all this. Till we meet again …
Rose Meily
At ground level 