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Showing posts with the label the daddy

My Name is Death

This is my rough sketch for the cartoon that I want the Husband to draw for my future obituary. Death is sporting a Hawaiian shirt. Me, a flouncy skirt. "Hello. What's your name?" asked the young man. "Death," said 18-year-old me. It was a late afternoon nearly 50 years ago. My answer, of course, gave him a start. To this day, I have no idea why he even walked over to the swings where I was sitting, the only person in the park until he and his friends drove in and parked near the bathroom.  Our paths crossed once before when I was in first grade and he in second. In high school, I perceived him as being one of the "wild and tumble" guys. And, wouldn't you know it, he eventually would become a pastor. Instead of making a quick getaway, the future pastor sat on the other swing next to me. Not really what I wanted. He seemed sincerely concerned that I had called myself Death . He probably thought I was suicidal or maybe psychotic. Far from

Making My First Filipino Dish

The parents liked fresh meat and they believed it was cheaper to purchase a pig (or cow or chicken), slaughter and butcher the animal,  and freeze the parts for when you wanted to cook. Because the cost of purchasing a pig was high, the parents often bought it with one or more friends. They didn't bring the pig to the butcher though, as part of the pig-buying event was the camaraderie among the men as they slaughtered and butchered the pig in our backyard. A bottle, or two, of whiskey also figured into the festivity. Every part of the pig was used. Everything. For instance, the blood was directly drained from the pig into a pot. The right amount of vinegar was added to the blood and it was beat with a hand mixer until it coagulated into a thick pudding. The blood was used for a pork dish known as dinardaraan, which the Filipinos would call Chocolate Meat as they served it to children or non-Filipinos. Along with the whiskey, Daddy always  served his compadres a meal of the fres

Hippie, I'm Not.

This was originally published in November, 2010 at my experimental "Don't Be a Hippie" at Wordpress.com. The one and only post. Today's version has been slightly revised. I don't know why you need to know. About 40 years ago, on a particular day, I was getting myself ready to go hang out at school. Not high school. But, community college. I was 18 or 19 and living at home. The daddy was retired. He happened to be home on this certain day. He may have been getting ready to go out to hang out with his retired buddies. I was in my bedroom doing whatever, when the daddy stopped at my door.  I looked over at him, and he said, "Don't be a hippie." Before I could respond, he walked away. I had no idea he knew there were such things as hippies. Most of all, I didn't think I had it in me to be a hippie.  I was not very good at being part of a group that had a moniker to it. Still.  I wonder what may have caused my dad to reach the conclusi

29 Years Ago

The Daddy, mid-1970s. My favorite photo of him. Twenty-nine years ago on this day, the Daddy died from a heart attack. He was 76 years old. Maybe he didn't pick how or where he died, but I think he was happy it wasn't at home where the Mama would've come home to find him after a long, tiring day at work. He was always protective of her. That day the Daddy decided to go to lunch at the senior center with his good friend Danny, one of the godfathers of mine. The Daddy hadn't been there for quite a long while. He hadn't been feeling well, but those last three days, I was told, he'd been going strong, visiting, babysitting, doing so many of the things he liked to do. So, there he was sitting at the lunch table. He was bending down for a spoon on the floor, I was told. He was there longer than he should have been.  "Hey, 'Pare (short for compadre), what you doing down there?" called a friend. Then, a scramble to get help for the Daddy. That was it. Whil