Crossings

Long before I’ve picked up the game of golf, I’ve always wondered what’s the inside of a golf hole looks like. Like is there a chance a scorpion lurks in there waiting for a hand? When my brother and my bros-in-law gather, they’d talk seriously about their crazy sport much like cardinals do when electing a new pope. Back then, I didn’t understand why drive a small ball with a long thin stick into a tiny hole hundred yards away under the heat of a scorching sun. No way, Rory. I’ll never play. 

That was then. Now, because I play the crazy game, I understand golfers better. I’ve seen what’s and what’s not inside that hole. And why drive that small ball with a long stick? I’m not telling you!

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Before this K-pop craze and prior to traveling to South Korea, I didn’t like Korean food. I did not approve of the Korean ‘invasion’ of the Philippines -the restos, the students, the music. But after visiting South Korea, I met and befriended some nice Koreans that led to a change of heart… and palate. The travel tamed my own prejudices towards Korea. Now kimchi and ramyeon are a staple food for me. K-drama, too!

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Coffee for me then was piping hot, white and sweet. I didn’t get it when people drink it black. I mean, where’s the fun in a bitter bold brew? Ain’t it supposed to brighten up a sleepy day? But after my son, Andre, brought in his espresso machine, I learned what real coffee is -more than just a simple beverage. The notes. And the aroma. The comfort it brings. The bitterness depreciated slowly until it wasn’t anymore. I am a changed coffee man.

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I could go on with more of these crossing stories: running; having covid; being a father with rowdy little tykes; getting old; losing hair. I’ve jumped from one end of the 38th parallel to the other to learn a lesson.

When you find a connection, you find appreciation and respect.

I raise this cup. Cheers!

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A Birthday Letter to My Unica Hija

Dear Nikkei,

You were probably five or seventeen years old. We were in front of a Mcdonald’s counter ordering food. You wanted a Happy Meal. I said, NO! -with the authority of a military captain waiting for a promotion. You then buried your face into mommy’s side and cried. Mom’s blouse was drenched in a blend of salty tears and sweet mucus. It melted my ice cream cone and ruined the rhythm of my cone-twisting and licking. I never intended to make you cry. If only I knew the hidden effects of a Happy-Meal-Not-Served, I wouldn’t have said No! right away. I may have probably toned down to a “Not again, sweety.” Or, “Maybe tomorrow, princess. Coochie coochie, ya ya.”

This true story never departed from my now-rotten memory bank. It took a while for me to recover from that melted ice cream. It was a waste of food and created an ugly mess in my hands, you must understand. 

That must have been the start of our agree-disagree, approve-disapprove father-daughter clash relationship. I’m sure you won’t agree. So what else is new. We’ve become the definition of far-from-normal healthy father-daughter relationship.

We were always at the opposite ends of the spectrum, side A-side B, micro-macro, black-white, pottatto-potaytow. You want more? Red-blue, left-right. But wait! We’re both left-handed! See, we’ve got something in common.

Maybe that’s not all. Afterall, ve love our bread and ve love our butter. But most of all, ve love each otheur.

And for the cheesy part, that ice cream thing is just my heart. And that captain is just Von Trapp.

Happy birthday, Nikkei! ¡Te quiero mucho, mi querida hija!

I raise this cup to Nikkei index up by one!

Seriously,

Your Dadda.

If you’ve been touched, amused, or entertained by this post, or it put a smile on your face, please favor me with a cup of coffee via GCash or PayPal. I will continue writing.