I will tell you how he lived...

I have missed my father everyday since he departed this life on June 24, 2009. Antonio Lores Liquete passed away on a Wednesday morning at Guam Memorial Hospital after two months of battling an infection that started with a cut on his left arm. Ever the stubborn man who endured his pain silently, he did not tell anyone of the wound until the infection became virulent enough to land him in the hospital for over two months. Towards the end, the infection did go away and he was on his way to a long recovery. We all thought he was getting better; my sisters and I made plans to go back and see him once he made it back home. But it was not so...his very last battle was with aspiration pneumonia - and it was a battle he did not win.

It was a shock to all of us. When I received the news he was still there somehow, coding on the hospital bed. Over the phone, the nurse said "we're in the second round of code blue."

I just stared at my cell phone, not understanding. Of course I knew what a code blue was - but I couldn't understand - why was it happening - there must be a mistake. "What do you mean?" I asked, "He's supposed to be getting better...what are you talking about!"

Again the nurse spoke. "You need to tell your mom to make him DNR."

In my state of disbelief, I just kept repeating "what do you mean? what do you mean?"

Finally the doctor came on the phone and he said "I'm sorry to say your father has passed away."

Still in disbelief, I said "what? how could this happen?"

"He lived a very long life," he said, sounding sincere in his sympathy. After a few more words, the doctor handed the phone to my mom, who did not know what was going on.

"Daddy is gone" I told my mom, and her sobs were the last I heard before my brother spoke to me. I told my brother to take care of mom and promised we will on the very first flight out to Guam.

At my father's funeral service, Father Dan quoted a line from "The Last Samurai," in which the character says: I will not tell you how he died, I will tell you how he lived. In doing so, I have briefly described how my father died. Now, the bigger picture is how my father lived.

His life story is 83 years long. That life began in San Esteban Ilocos Sur, Philippines on December 15, 1925 and spanned a spectrum of changes and constants. I am sure he had a colorful life long before he became a husband, father, and grandfather. Sadly those stories are locked in the memories of his cousins, old neighbors, and his lone living sister - my Aunt Josefa. On his last visit here to the states, at the San Francisco Airport just moments before he departed for home, I asked my father how he met my mother. The story he told was one I never heard before, and I craved for more - but time was short and he had to board the plane. Truly, time was too short and I now realize how precious my father's memories are now that they are lost forever. But... all is not lost. My memories of him are abundant; stories of him from my sisters and brothers, my many aunts and uncles, his cousins, his neighbors-they are still within my grasp. And as I get them, I would like to share with you stories of how my father lived.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

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.
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