Counting Fingers

It was early evening and my older siblings and I were gathered at the top of the stairs located at the side of the house. We were all ready for bed, and my dad was testing our mathematical knowledge. I was the youngest of the bunch, probably 4 or 5 years old, and I was desperate to impress my dad. I wanted to show him that I knew my numbers too. So I urged him to pick me and to ask me a question. And so he did. He asked me to add two little numbers together. He probably said: “Bit, what’s two plus three?” And I distinctly remember sneaking a peak at my fingers resting on the floor, spreading them out secretly so I could count out my answer without revealing to my older sisters and brother that I was cheating. One of them caught me and blurted out: “She’s counting her fingers!” Feeling quite ashamed, I balled up my fingers and dared not look at my dad. But he said to whoever ratted me out: “So what, let her count her fingers it show’s she’s thinking.” I felt my dad was proud of me that night, whether or not I gave the right answer.

Walking to school

My elementary school was probably a mile and half away from our house and every morning my dad would take my hand to walk me safely to school. I definitely remember how I grew from a kindergartener whose fingers were barely big enough to wrap around his index finger to a first grader able to hang on to two of his fingers. As I got older, I went from holding his hand to just walking beside him. And at the end of each school day, I would emerge from school and find my dad waiting for me just outside my school ready to walk me back home. He never missed a single day. As a child, I trusted him to always be there to walk me back home, come hell or high water – and he never failed me.

Hazy Lullaby

The earliest memory I have of my father is probably a hazy lullaby being sung by him. It was a warm afternoon and I was still an infant trying to make sense of the world. My dad was trying to put me to sleep, swinging me in a simple crib made of a single blanket tied at both ends and hung between two pillars. We were downstairs, and through the thin white blanket I could just make out the silhouette of my dad sitting in a chair and swinging me gently back and forth. Outside, students from the nearby Seaside High School have gathered to our store to buy their snacks and lunches. Amidst their animated chattering and their laughter, I listened to my dad’s lullaby – soft, comforting, familiar - as I drifted off into a hazy afternoon slumber.

*Cely*

Memories from Uncle Rex

When the Liquetes left for Guam, I gave Manong Tony one of my suits. I was working with Advertising & Marketing Associates at that time, and I had accumulated a wardrobe that included six americanas. I told him he couldn't go to a U.S. territory looking like a refuge from the Philippines. He gave that short, snappy laugh, more of a he he than a ha ha. It was one of the few times that I saw him light up. He always seemed so serious, like he was anticipating another problem and wondering how he would resolve it. In fact, he resolved a lot problems for himself and his family.

He told me about the difficulties they had when they arrived in Guam.They would forage for Coke cans on weekends and other items of value to recyclist entreprenuers on Guam, and the kids would cheerfully pitch in. Both Manong Tony and Manang Loring worked hard and lived frugally. Manong Tony worked for the Guam power company. The company was originally managed by firm on the mainland. That firm folded up but kept Manong Tony as its lone employee to take care of residual matters. He was always a quiet worker who did an outstanding job, and the firm appreciated it. You know what? All the salary he received from that firm went directly to their joint bank account. He could save every penny of it because Manong Tony created his own Stimulus Package, long before Barack Obama arrived in Washington.

He made a lot of extra money fixing a lot of things. For instance, he showed me grass-cutters and broken lawn mowers that he recently bought at give-away prices. The cutters and mowers had been repaired, repainted and looked like new. He would make about 300% on his investment. Within two or three years after their arrival in Guam, they were able to buy a house and lot with a hefty downpayment. The lot is about a thousand square meters. They were able to fully amortize their bank loan in record time, while sending all the kids to school and making remittances to Edwin in the Philippines. Behind their modest home is an impressive building. It is a two-storey 4-door apartment that generates additional income for the family. In addition, he has been liquid enough to help his daughters and a son on the mainland to purchase their own homes. Financial success did not change Manong Tony and Manang Loring. They continued to live simply, doing simple things like selling home-grown vegetables at the flea market on Sundays. Of course, that's what almost all Filipinos do in Guam on week-ends. It's almost a fiesta. Physically, Manong Tony also did not change. He maintained his slight frame and slight stoop. And I could not help noticing the prominent veinsat the back of his hands, something that he inherited from Auntie Merced who lived a long life. Somehow those veins assured me that he, too, would survive at least another decade, probably more. But I think he lived a full and meaningful life.

We cherish his grit, his example, his individualism. I am so glad I journeyed last May to Guam to rediscover him.

Thoughts from Uncle Edgar

I may not have been as close to Manong Tony as Rex has been - after all, wewere a generation apart - but I do echo Rex's appreciation of his talents.Strangely, I find that previous generations possessed and displayed moreabilities than my (and your?) generation, even though they had less formaleducation. Dad, for example, was a mere high school graduate, but he coulddesign a house, write articles in English published in the Free Press, writeshort stories in Ilocano published in Bannawag, and attempt to solve one ofthe unsolved problems in plane geometry.

I do recall being amazed with Manong Tony's fashioning of a banjo fromscratch. Well not exactly from scratch, but all he had, I remember, was ahandful of frets and nothing else. Then he gathered the required materials,several pieces of wood, a monitor lizard's (bayawak?) belly skin, the tuningpegs, and the strings. In my memory's eye, I can distinctly picture himcarving the body of the instrument, hollowing the wood, sanding thefingerboard, and stretching the lizard's skin over the 'pot'. The tailpiecemay also have been home-fashioned although, at this remove, I am not quitecertain. I do know he decorated the fingerboard with pearl inlays.

Where do such gifts come from? Where do they go? We can only hope that wecarry these gifts in our DNA to pass down to future generations.

Memories from Uncle Edgar

This episode might be called, ”Cousin Tony Brings Home a Bride”.

Nothing much happens in this episode, it is just impressions and thoughts of childhood memories

It is early afternoon in San Esteban in the late (?) 1950’s. I could not been more than 10 or 11 (see footnote 1). As with all memories of my life at that time, the air is shot with sunlight, suffused with a lazy, golden haze. Someone shouts – I do not know who – “Manong Tony has brought home his new wife!” – and we all troop to Auntie Merced’s house next door. I am perhaps standing at the wide doorway to the sala of the nipa hut, and I can see our sister Norma (who has long preceded Manong Tony to the Great Beyond) going directly to Manang Loring and greeting her with warmth.

The first thought I remember having is: How easy it is for women to connect with each other. For I can see Norma and Manang Loring talking animatedly as if they have known each other for a long time. But perhaps it is the occasion of a newlyweds’ homecoming, and there is no standing on ceremony, no social falsity here, only the comforting and welcoming embrace into the extended family of a new member. I cannot quite see where Manong Tony is in this memory. He hovers at the edge. He must be seated somewhere, perhaps over by the window overlooking the dusty road that winds along the seashore. I study Manang Loring and I see a fair bride with large dark eyes.

Then the second thought, unbidden, strikes me: How could Manong Tony win the hand of such a fair, young and beautiful bride? No, no, do not scowl - just laugh - at my impertinence. For even as a child, I knew Manong Tony to be ever so serious, rail-thin and seemingly older than his years, and I could not imagine him proposing to – much less being accepted by - such a young and comely lass. But, as they say and as I have read – and yes, if I may say so, as I have learned in my own experience (see footnote 2) – women are wise in choosing their partners, seeing beyond the false facades, unerringly sensing the true worth of a man beneath the, hmmm, unprepossessing, and sometimes even faulty, exterior.

After this ‘homecoming’ episode, we moved to Manila in 1958, and I remember my revised impression of your Mom some years later. This must have been during a holiday visit back to the old hometown, and by that time Edwin - and perhaps even you - had joined us in this world of joy and tears.

In that visit, I recall thinking, upon seeing your Mom: Oh, she has aged and been browned by the sun and been matured by motherhood. And I wondered if Manong Tony had been treating her right. I wasn’t sure of that last - until your Mom smiled, and on the instant I was reassured that he had been, for I could see once again, in the smile, flashes of that young, fair girl that Cousin Tony brought home to San Esteban on a golden afternoon a long, long time ago.

Memories from Marilou

The last 48 years is filled of many memorable, very special moments spent with my dad, and now that he is no longer here to help me make more memories with him, i find myself reminiscing and reliving the many special moments he had created with me. Each moment spent with my dad was in itself special and unique...each one of course, carefully and wonderfully etched in my memory. Be it something others consider unfavorable or one of my fondest moments with him, each moment, truly in every sense, defined my dad and only fitting what in my mind is the description of the distinguished man who i have always looked up to, admired and loved - the man who is my dad.

As a young child growing up, i remember watching my dad in awe and thinking to myself that he must be the most intelligent person in the whole world. I remember finding out in total wonderment that my dad had subscriptions to Time magazine and Reader's Digest and had a collection of books of many different topics: from auto mechanics to carpentry, beer-brewing to gardeningand the like, which as a child, somehow made me wonder how my dad could read such a wide array of books and from one extreme to the other. My dad was a mere high-school graduate but I grew up knowing that there is not anything he could not do or fix or build. To this day, when i think about those good ol' days, i still find myself in awe, pride and have such great respect for a truly self-taught genius. Through the years, i've heard from relatives, neighbors, friends and from my dad's very best friend who was a college-graduate doctor of medicine...how my dad was the most intelligent person they've ever known. That knowledge i have of my dad as being respected and looked up to by his peers always made me feel very proud inside that such an admired person is MY dad and that i belonged to him. I remember looking forward to the times when his monthly magazines arrived, as did my father, for as he was as voracious a reader, my dad had also instilled in me a love of reading and learning about the world and its politics and cultures. I believe that my dad, in his own humble way, knew and believed that he is a very smart person, though he didn't brag about it to other people, but to his family, he was never one to hide his pride when one of his children or grandchildren received an award of excellence or such in school. My dad believed even to his last breath that his children and grandchildren had inherited the Liquete intelligence and he always carried a certain pride and contentment about it within him.

One of the fondest memories i have of my dad, is that he always spent spare time with us his young children when there was not anybody to play with in the neighborhood and these particularly special times he spent with us then were some of the times i always looked forward to and enjoyed as a young child. Even when reminiscing about these times to this day and tell my own child about them when i talk about her grandfather, these times by far are most memorable to me. My three siblings and I were probably still all in grade school (Cely and Emilio were not born yet). I remember my brother Edwin, sister Nancy and i think my sister Linda was probably too young then, but she may have joined us anyway, always played educational stuff with our dad. He would give us pads of paper and pencils, give us what i thought then as a child must have been the longest most difficult words in the dictionary and that my dad would probably the only person in the world who knew these words. What he always wanted us to do was to come up with as many different words derived from the one word he gave us and whoever wrote the most correct number of words is the winner. Other times he would ask us to come up with as many words we can think of ending in such and such (tion or ent for example). Many times, he showed us a picture of some sort which we would study carefully because he would take the picture away after a certain time and we were to answer questions regarding the picture. I always looked forward to those times when my dad spent such educational moments with us. I guess because, deep inside, i was really like my dad, always had an appetite for learning. There were times through the years later when i see the pride in my dad's eyes when during family get-togethers, we all play scrabble and games of the like and he ends up not winning. I always felt some sense of pride within him that he did not mind losing to one of his children. He was proud of such moments and i felt that he was content.

One other fond memory i have of my dad when i was a young child was when he taught me how to play the game of chess and how i have really enjoyed learning the game. He told me then that chess was the game of champions and it is good for the mind. My dad loved to challenge me and my siblings mentally and i guess that being his child, i could only love having my mind challenged and honed. I believe to this day that i am what i am today because my dad had taught me how to have the hunger to learn and to enjoy the satisfaction of having learned something new everyday.

Looking at my dad, it can bee a bit difficult to see past the often present stern and at times angry look on his face that he possessed a very compassionate and kind akin to animals. Two instances during my younger years proved to me how much my dad loved them and he would try to do anything to protect that love from whatever threatens it. We had a dog "Salikbay" which one day came home with a big cut on his neck. It did not take a moment longer for my dad to become very angry, grab his BBgun and started to walk down the streets. Neighbors would know when my dad becomes very angry and would automatically stir clear the streets and stay indoors. It's just one of my dad's way of letting everybody know that no one messes with him and with anything that belonged to him. My dad took it upon himself to nurse Salikbay back to health, taking care of the big gush on his neck and giving him milk everyday to drink when the dog could not take in anything else. Another time, my dad firmly believed that a dolphin was unjustly caught and killed by the fishermen from the ocean right in front of the town. He researched and gathered every information he could get about dolphins and the kind intelligence these mammals possessed, recorded the information on tape and patiently went around the neighborhood making sure that each neighbor willing to listen will hear and learn all the facts about dolphins. My dad believed that doing this would prevent future instances of dolphins being mistakenly captured and killed. There were many other instances later I observed myself or heard from my siblings and neighbors about how concerned and worried my dad would be about a certain dog or cat or any other living thing for that matter.

Yes, each one of dad's six children would agree on a couple of things about him: that he was probably the most strict father any child could ever have. It is true that my dad believed in punishment for any misbehavior, misdeed and mistakes from any one of us six siblings, and as painful as i thought those many times from long time ago have been, i have along the way realized how my dad had really been just being a protective and nurturing father in his own unique, loving way even if to us, his young children, we viewed his disciplinary tactics as mean and unfavorable. I have come to realize the truth of how much my dad really loved us and only meant well for us with each punishment we were subjected to, when one day while i was away to college in Manila, i received an unexpected, very emotional handwritten letter from him. i could sense that it must have taken a lot for my dad to compose such a letter as he has never been one to really show his feelings and emotions. The letter started very emotional that from the very first sentence, (it went like this... "they say, that real men don't cry, but believe me my dear child that men who don't cry could not have possibly experienced the joy of being a father, for as i write this letter, tears are running down my face...") - i was not able to keep myself from crying and could only continue reading the rest of the letter through tear-soaked eyes. When i came to the very last sentence where my dad had written down on paper how much he loved me and my siblings, i had no doubt in my mind.

The one other thing that i know my siblings and i would agree on about my father is his stubbornness. But i would say that all six of us have inherited this streak of characteristics as well. I consider myself a very stubborn person and i see the same trait in my siblings, but i have not met anybody more stubborn than my dad. There may have been some times that i would have preferred his stubborn streak to have been toned down a bit, but i have come to accept it and i truly and completely would not have had it any other way....otherwise, it would not have fit the basic characteristics of my father. Yes, to me, my dad was a self-taught genius, a very angry, mean, strict, protective, and a very stubborn man but he was also compassionate, nurturing, loving and a great teacher and those descriptions and many more are the very traits that so define the person i admire, respect and love. They DEFINE a very DISTINGUISHED MAN who is MY DAD!

My Father's Words

As a child, I often viewed my father as the meanest man alive. An angry scowl was pasted permanently on his face. He cursed at everything that went wrong: dogs that barked too loud, plants that grew in his direct path, and tools that went missing. When I was not the one being yelled at, I often laughed in secret at the myriad of words that exploded from his mouth. My mom or the dictionary could not define what any of his words meant

I did my best to be well-behaved and obedient, but somehow I still found ways to anger him. I learned to suppress my tears after I realized that crying only made the punishment worse. He was a staunch believer in corporal punishment. I seemed to learn the house rules much better and faster when lessons were accompanied by a good spanking. My father's anger always traveled through his firm right hand which was so expansive it was as effective as Mom's bread board. He would yell at me so loud people in the next town knew when I was in trouble. I constantly walked on eggshells when in his presence. I never spoke directly to him and found my mother to be an essential resource whenever I wanted permission to do anything. She was especially useful during my high school years, a time when independence mattered more to me than the skin on my back. Having a boyfriend or being allowed to stay out later than ten p.m. were luxuries I couldn't have. If I dared question his authority, my dad would yell that as long as I was living under his roof, I had to live by his rules.

I knew I had to leave home if I wanted to be free. I couldn't wait to graduate, to fly far away where his anger couldn't touch me. I was tired of being afraid, of hiding my emotions, of proving myself worthy of his love. I was nothing more than a nuisance to him. I was sure he would gladly send me away like he would shoo a fly. It wasn't until the summer after graduation that my dad proved me wrong.

I was working graveyard shifts at the airport, just biding my time until heading off to the University of Utah in the fall. Utah was perfect; it was exactly halfway around the world from Guam, where we lived. That was the longest distance I could put between my dad and me.

I was driving to work late one night. It was raining and the coral reef roads were slicker than a waxed floor. I was running late, I was barely awake from my nap, and the white truck in front of me was going awfully slow on a two-lane road. All I could do was pass it. It was one o'clock in the morning, no other car was around, the cops were probably asleep, and I was a wild and crazy teenager. I sped up way above the speed limit, feeling a little unsure but enjoying the thrill of my defiance. I did not realize what a clueless rebel I was until I saw the intersection ahead and the traffic light that had just turned yellow. I returned to the right lane in hurry, barely passing the truck. I immediately stepped on the brakes. Nothing happened, just the sound of my tires skidding on the sopping wet road. I stepped on the brakes a few more times to no avail as the light turned red. I was approaching the intersection way too fast. I couldn't stop. I could only run the red light and pray that no other car was crossing. Besides, it was one o'clock in the morning. Everyone else should be in bed, right?

A car suddenly slammed into me from my left. Things happened really fast. My car skidded into the dark jungle of bushes and trees. My one remaining headlight lit the way to a very big and very scary-looking coconut tree. I steered the wheel quickly to the right, and my car headed for another giant coconut tree. I yanked the wheel to the left, grinding the right passenger door with the second coconut tree only to find a third straight ahead. I turned to the right again when I realized that the car was finally slowing down, and just in time before a fourth coconut tree met my front bumper and smashed the one remaining headlight. In all this swerving and turning, all I could think of was if the coconut trees were not going to kill me, then my dad surely would.

Suddenly motionless, with my dying engine sputtering in agony and the rain pouring in from the broken windows, I began to cry. "Dad's going to kill me. Dad's going to kill me," I kept repeating into the darkness.

I don't remember when other people arrived, or how I was able to extract myself from the wreckage with nothing more than a sore leg. I don't even remember how fast the police appeared at the scene, or how the other driver fared. But I do remember shaking my head adamantly when one officer asked for my home phone number so he could call my parents.

"Don't call my dad! He'll kill me when he finds out!" I whimpered, rain mixing with my tears. Realizing the gravity of my situation, I crouched down to the ground and sobbed. The cop tried to console me. He said that I was exaggerating, but I only insisted that he did not know my dad.

It wasn't long before they finally phoned my parents. The rain had abated to a soft drizzle. I stayed crouched down, finding comfort in the bright light from the police car. I did not care how I looked to the other drivers passing by. I never wished harder in my life for it all to be nothing but a bad dream, willing myself to wake up in the safety of my bed.

When my parents arrived, I saw my mom first. Her eyes were red and swollen, her white handkerchief twisted in her hands. When she saw me crouched on the ground, she burst into tears. She ran to me, picked me up, held me close, and checked me to make sure I was not damaged anywhere. From the corner of my eyes, I looked at my dad. I expected to see his eyes ready to burn anger into my flesh, his mouth ready to yell at me, his firm right hand ready to strike. But none of these were there. Instead I saw concern and a flicker of relief when he saw I was truly alive and well.

My dad spoke to the cop. He nodded a few times. I kept my eye on him, still waiting for his anger to burst out. After signing some papers, we got into my dad's car and drove home. Throughout the drive, my mom talked about how the phone call woke them up and how shocked and worried they were. I waited for my dad to start yelling at me, but he drove in silence. When we reached home, he finally turned to me.

"You must be tired," he said. "Go to bed and get some rest. Everything will be all right." I stared at him blankly, completely awestruck. Maybe he was saving his anger for the next day when I had more energy.

The next few days, I readied myself for my dad's outburst, but it never came. He neither raised his hand nor his voice. Instead, he made unusual attempts to talk to me. He wanted to know my thoughts on the weather, my ideas for dinner, and my opinions on the day's headlines. It was then that I realized how hard my dad was trying to fix his relationship with me. His eyes had softened. I sensed in the way he spoke and in the words he never said that he was sorry. Sorry for being so angry. Sorry to see me go.

The night before I left for college, my dad sat with me at the kitchen table. "Because you are accident-prone, I don't want you driving," he said. "But I know you will. So when you are driving, just imagine that I am always there right behind you, watching over you." I will never forget those words. I knew he meant more than just my driving. I knew that within those words, he wanted to say how much he loved me. But that was my dad. Words never came easy to him.

To this day I know my dad is behind me, watching over me no matter how far away he is.

The Great Departure

In November 1980, Antonio and Loreta carried out their decision to provide a better life and wider horizons for their young children by moving to the USA. It was a short distance, a small step, a mere 4 hour flight to Guam but it was a giant leap for the Liquete clan. They traveled on a Pan Am Jumbo Jet. They have never been on an airplane before and the two young children were too excited to stay still. They clambered over other passengers to see the clouds and the ocean underneath and making such a ruckus until their father's stern voice brought them down to their seat in a split second. The airplane food was a spectacle. They did not know what to do with the butter and cocktail sauce, the salad was just too pretty to eat, and why do the shrimp still have their tails on? After landing in Guam, a new world awaited the family. Antonio's sister Josefa had petitioned for them and they would stay in her house with her family for awhile until Antonio and Loreta could secure their very own house.