A simple man
My phone alerted me to a text message from my father. As I read it, I imagined him waiting for my reply, his thumb resting on his phone’s well-worn keypad. Now that I’m working miles away from home, it amused me that he still owned the same phone he used to bug me when I was a teen, spamming me with reminders to take care and not stay out too late.
For the past 11 years, newer and fancier models have come and gone, but my father favored the basic, no-frills features of his first phone—an ancient Nokia 2300 that survived many accidental drops. Simple and dependable, his choice of gadget was a reflection of the man who has breathed simplicity all his life.
When I was a student, my father’s modest government salary could only be stretched so far despite his sacrifices and his yearning to give his family more. My small allowance was just enough to cover transport, meals and school requirements. While some of my affluent classmates flashed their latest toys and enjoyed their daily frappes, I had to count my coins first before buying anything.
But I neither felt deprived nor was left wanting, because my father gave me the most precious gift—his time.
He rose early to make breakfast and heat bath water (otherwise, I would freeze in Benguet’s chilly climate). He made sure I had dinner waiting for me, paired with coffee, to keep me awake as I studied into the night. He even helped with my laundry when I had no time to spare from my classes. The soft-hearted man who nearly cried when I suffered severe toothache as a little girl was the same jester who consoled me when I received a low grade in college, saying my lowest mark was the average of all his grades in school.
He supported me through and through, letting me freely choose what I want in life, never imposing his dreams on me or blinking when I changed my college course out of the blue or when I announced that I would move to the big city to work.
My father would not pass an audition to play James Bond; wearing pomade is his singular attempt to look sophisticated and suave. In fact, he didn’t own a suit or a tie and the only time I was able to coax him into wearing something formal was on my college graduation.
Yet he encouraged my passion for reading and brought me all sorts of materials—from comics to magazines and novels. He kept me company as I scoured secondhand bookshops and updated me on neighbors with good collections from whom I could borrow. We seldom bought new books but we had a wealth of literature in the house that made for wonderful reading.
My father is also a huge movie fan. I cannot recall going as a family to the theater, but we have spent plenty of time watching rented videos at home. He let me pick contemporary titles when I felt we were nearly overdosing on Western flicks. We never went golfing or sailing together, but he showed me that good entertainment can be had in many inexpensive ways.
Shortly after my father turned 60, his Nokia 2300 decided to retire, too. Unlike before, now we have the means to buy him a replacement. It still has a keypad but it has a good music player so he can listen to his country music, as well as a clear camera with which to take shots of our cats in between texting me on how I’m doing.
His old phone is carefully tucked in a cabinet at home. I consider it a family treasure—a reminder that happiness comes not from the most extravagant presents but is crystallized in simple moments and efforts, which seem not a big deal but are what truly matter in the long run.
Grellyn A. Paoad, 25, is an IT graduate of Saint Louis University-Baguio City. She works at Accenture Philippines where she started as a software developer and is now a proposal author/growth enablement specialist.
