MY THOUGHTS EXACTLY

Growing Up With My Father
By Angel B. Casillan

Summer vacation was a much anticipated period during my grade school. I would spend it playing with friends in my neighborhood or vacationing in the barrio with my grandfather, who loved to entertain me with stories. But most endearing to me were those times when I would tag along with my dad to the capital of Pangasinan, where he would do business at the provincial capitol. My dad was a very simple man, unsophisticated in the ways of the city, but I adored him because he was always around when I was growing up. He loved to tell stories about his childhood in the barrio, stories brimming with so many lessons in life that later, when I reached adult age, I came to refer to him as “the backyard philosopher.” A math teacher, my dad supplemented his meager income by doing miscellaneous jobs as a clerk and as a public notary for sales and mortgage contracts and other documents.

On those days when I would go with my dad, we would start quite early to avoid the heat and hustle of traveling.  After an early morning breakfast, I would put on my good attire of short pants, white shirt, and rubber shoes with the Marcelo label (a popular brand at the time). This was because my mother wanted me to look good every time I went out. She would say that every time I go to church, I should look special as a sign of respect to God, and that I should do the same when I travel so people who didn’t know me would be nice to me. Anyway, my dad and I would go to the town center to catch the red Pantranco bus bound for the town of Lingayen. The 17-kilometer trip would seem forever because the bus would stop every now and then to pick up passengers. As the big bus roared along the bumpy and dusty road, a thick cloud of dust would follow and it would overcome us every time the bus stopped. So,  by the time we reached the next town, my dad and I would be covered with dust, dust that coated my black hair and made me look like a brunette. (In those days, women wore bandannas to protect their hair).

In the next town, the bus would stop in the town center in front of the Catholic seminary school that my mother wanted one of us her boys to attend. My mother, a devoutly religious woman whose bag brimmed with novenas for the saints, wanted a priest in her family to complete her devotion. One of my brothers tried to  make her wish come true, but he dropped out of school when he found out that girls were more interesting company than boy seminarians.

Before reaching the town proper of Lingayen, the Pantranco bus would turn right to a beautiful boulevard, the center of which was lined with blooming kalachuchi (frangipani) and acacia trees, giving the road a grandiose look. The boulevard ended in front of the provincial capitol building, which at that time was the tallest and biggest man-made structure I had ever seen. As my dad proceeded to the treasury and registration area to finish his business, I would run up the stairs to the building’s sky room to marvel at the sea that extended all the way to the horizon.

I often wondered what lay beyond that horizon. It was a question that always peppered my little mind.  I remember asking my dad that question and he answered, “The world is round and if you go around it, you would be back to where you started off,” which was such a profound statement at that time of my life. Very often, as soon as he was done with his business, my dad would take me to the beach where I would wade in and play. The roaring waves would sound like marching soldiers trying hard to get ashore, only to be pushed back by the million grains of sand lining the shore. For fear that someone might grab my legs, I never went deep in the water beyond my father’s reach. I would pick up seashells for souvenirs and watch the waves as they kept on roaring monotonously onward to the beach, only to be foiled again and again. Of added interest to my innocent eyes at such times was the sight of girls and young women in swimsuits, for there were simply no places in my hometown where such revealing outfits could be seen.

Before taking our trip back to my hometown, my father and I would go to the city market to buy bocayo, my favorite coconut pastille. He would always buy it from his favorite salesgirl, who always gave him a discount. Finally, we would take the red Pantranco bus bound for San Carlos. Along the way, while my dad told me stories about things we saw along the way, I would enjoy the bocayo. We would once again be subjected to the dust and bumps of the road, so that by the time we were home, I would be so tired, my skin layered with a thin coat of mud—mud created by my own sweat that mixed with the dust.

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