By
Ramon Dacawi October 31, 2012
WE,
lesser mortals, can only borrow Douglas McArthur’s lament to explain why we
couldn’t go home to say a prayer or two before the graves of our loved ones in
this week of remembrance for the departed The famous army general explained
that “the deepening shadows of life cast doubt on my ability to say again, ‘I
shall return’”.
My
pro bono doctors’ advice against stress provided alibi against my boarding the
bus to remote Hungduan, Ifugao. That’s where my parents, both unschooled
laborers, and my youngest brother, woodcarver Manuel, were buried. To make up,
I resolved to make the rounds before or after the Nov. 1 crowd at the Baguio
cemetery where some of those who had touched my life rest.
It
would take time, as their tombs are scattered. They were my superiors, in age
and experience, mostly Baguio journalists who had reported to the Great Editor
in the sky: Sid Chammag of the Manila Bulletin; my editor Steve Hamada and his
wife Lulay (nee Abellera) near where his dad, the venerable Sinai Hamada,
founder of the Baguio Midland Courier, inside the circle lies with his wife
Geralda (nee Macli-ing); editor Jose “Peppot” Ilagan of the defunct Gold Ore
and his mother, public school teacher Colasita (nee Lambinicio) just outside
the circle; dzHB newscaster, Sunstar Baguio editor and secretary-to-the-mayor
Willy Cacdac at the memorial park below, near human rights lawyer and
occasional writer Art Galace and my teacher Emmett Brown Asuncion. It will take
me time locating the tombs of Rufino Candelario, my father’s immediate superior
at the Pacdal Forest Nursery, and those of his wife and children Romeo and
Leon, who were my early teachers.
My
rounds would end up at the plot where my elder brothers Joe and Danilo rest
with Janet, Manong Danny’s special daughter. The plot is a choice one, situated
behind the wall just after you enter the first gate of the overcrowded
patchwork of graves, right behind where a mausoleum was recently built. It’s a
curiosity, as it’s quite spacious, purchased and reserved by Joe, our eldest
brother who was known for his lack of material acquisitiveness, a trait he
shared with many of the journalists of his generation.
I
learned of Joe’s plot reservation when Manong Danilo died of aplastic anemia.
Manong Danny kicked the bucket a few months after my buddy, Peewee Agustin,
drove him to the Army training camp in Tanay, Rizal, so he could see his only
son, Ronald, get recognized as a cadet, on his way to fulfilling his dream as a
military officer.
First
night of the wake for him, I learned why Manong Joe reserved the plot. He
passed on before dawn of July 30 last year, a year and a half after he began a
grim battle against cancer. The ailment was diagnosed a month after he retired
September, 2009 as personnel officer of city hall.
During
visits to his room at the Pines City Hospital, I noticed Manong Joe’s gift of
humor and repartee that marked his student leadership days coming back. He
reminded me of Peppot, his friend and fellow journalist at the defunct Focus
weekly under former city councilors Des Bautista and G. Bert Floresca. From his
own hospital bed, Peppot would lighten up visitors with his wit and
spontaneity, so that those who came to comfort him ended up being the
comforted.
It
takes courage – and love – to put up a front to lighten the impact of one’s
passing on –on family and those who one knew. Manang Corazon, Manong Joe’s
widow, asked their four children where their dad would be laid to rest. At the
risk of being intrusive, I reminded them there’s more than space at the plot he
had reserved and where we buried their uncle Danilo.
Gently,
Manang Azon revealed my brother Joe had reserved the plot for his younger
brother Ramon. She explained he was concerned that I’d go ahead of him because
of my incessant gulping and puffing, habits I never learned to give up years
after our pro bono family physician, Dr. Julie Camdas-Cabato, diagnosed me as a
sugar magnate without a hacienda.
At
the wake, city councilor Peter Fianza confirmed my brother’s original intention
for buying and reserving the plot. Peter, forever gentle, forever a true
friend, told me Joe had worried my drinking and smoking would eventually do me
in.
Despite
his reputation for bluntness, my brother had kept me from his intention for the
purchase of the patch. He knew quite well, too, that warning me of the dire
consequences of my lifestyle would trigger another argument between siblings
that we both took time to learn not to inflict on each other. That’s why he
asked others to tell me to slow down on vice.
My
eyes welled after Noel Padilla, my nephew Joris’ brother-in-law, came to fetch
me for the hospital at three o’clock in the morning. Still, I fought back tears
even when I saw my nieces Jennifer and Joann moaning over their dad’s remains
covered by white hospital sheets. At the morgue, I put up a front of calm in
quiet conversations with the doctors who had propped up his fight against the
big C.
My
reaction to my pre-need gift was one of ambivalence. Yet when the mist cleared,
it was clear my brother fitted novelist Richard Paul Evans’ reflection about
some people we meet along this journey to the grave called life: Those with
softest hearts sometimes build the hardest shells.”
As
former city councilor Edilberto Tenefrancia noted at the necrological rites,
Joe was not really a popular figure at city hall, what with his uncompromising
adherence to civil service rules as if he were serving in Singapore. Dr. Rhey
Bautista, the educator who honed Joe in academic leadership at the then Baguio
Tech, described him as “Mr. Clean”.
Sorry,
but Joe’s work ethic and ethics are meant not meant for this Third World.
That’s what I told a friend and job seeker who asked me to lobby for him before
the personnel officer. “Tell him to apply on his own, as rating of applicants
is based on merits, not on endorsements,” Joe told me in the presence of the
applicant. And that was it.
We
had our differences. For years, he’d walk to and from work, something I was only
too tired of doing since way back in high school. Often, I’d be aboard a taxi
and pass him by, reining in the impish thought of offering him a lift or fare.
He was task-oriented as I’m now and then a petty country club manager. I
finished college in five years, stalled for a year by the parliament of the
streets and recovery from alcohol-induced jaundice. He got his bachelor of arts
degree after 15 years also marked by student activism that the University of
Baguio nurtured and his early love for print and broadcast journalism. I
inherited his shoeshine box and then rented out ponies at the Wright Park while
he and Willy Cacdac elevated themselves as caddies at the Baguio Country Club.
He played football and competed in sipa in the Inter-scholastics while I only
covered sports events.
Joe,
Willy, Manny Salenga and George Jularbal lost their jobs at radio station DZHB
and RMN-IBC when martial rule was declared. Still, Joe’s story on the
declaration made the headline of the Baguio Midland Courier, which military
authorities curiously forgot to shut down earlier, as they did all the other
media outfits.
In
1980, Joe yielded to me his news editor post at the Courier, with the blessings
of Steve Hamada, who succeeded his dad Sinai as editor-in-chief. Steve tried to
climb Mt. Sinai, but people still asked him how he was related to the venerable
Sinai, the Igorot lawyer, short story writer, Philippine Collegian editor and
founder of the Courier. In the same token, people would now and then ask if I
was, in a way, related to Joe.
“Tell
them Sinai is the father of Steve, while I’ll announce Jose is the brother of
Ramon, not the other way around,” I advised Steve.
(E-mail:mondaxbench@yahoo.com for comments).
http://www.sunstar.com.ph/baguio/opinion/2012/10/31/dacawi-remembering-joedax-and-company-250747
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