My Father’s routine, lasting impact

By Herman M. Lagon

My childhood was filled with all sorts of off-the-wall adventures, but amidst all the chaos, there was one constant: my father and his rituals.

At the tender age of four, I learned the art of “pikyaw” with my neighbors, earning a two-inch scar on my knee in the process. I was taught to swim after my half-brother tossed me, naked, into our fishpond at five. By the time I was five, I had reluctantly abandoned my “bibirón” at school after being teased by my classmates for still using a baby bottle. And in Grade 1, I penned my first love letter on pink stationery to my crush—who also happened to be my teacher, Ma’am Erdelinda.

As a child, I was terrified of the dark, convinced that the infamous liver-eating aswang, Tenyente Gimo and Maria Labo, would snatch me if I stepped outside after 5 p.m. I believed that demons grew stronger during Semana Santa and Tigkalalag. I was certain the Dinagyang dancers were real Atis, and that swallowing santol seeds would make them sprout in my belly. I even feared looking into any native earthen jar, convinced the “Halimaw sa Banga” was lurking inside, ready to devour me. Just before puberty, I was convinced that a mere five-minute gaze into a girl’s eyes could result in pregnancy.

But while everything else seemed strange and unpredictable, my dad was the epitome of stability and reason.

For my father, every experience had a purpose and everything had a reason. Like the reliable signal of his beloved radio, he followed a routine as regular as the sunrise. Every morning at 6 a.m. sharp, he would turn on the radio to listen to Bombo Radyo’s news broadcast. He would sit in his chair near the Frigidaire, sipping his first cup of coffee while scanning yesterday’s newspapers and magazines. Breakfast, always prepared by my mother, was eaten with the same precision—a spoon and fork in hand. Afterward, he would take a long, ritualized bath and prepare his white uniform and khaki pants for work.

Conversations at the dining table were rare, but when they happened, my father’s inquiries were direct and purposeful: “What have you accomplished lately? How are your grades? How can you improve?” He would always remind me, “Never, ever settle for second best.”

My stern-looking father, known as Papa Saling (his real and complete name was Rosalio Fuentes Lagon), worked as an office accountant and union manager at the now-defunct Panay Railways Incorporated. His office, located just a stone’s throw away from our wooden house in Brgy. Lapuz Norte, Lapuz, Iloilo City, was on the third floor. I often visited, watching him meticulously scan through books and ledgers, sometimes for hours, while I entertained myself by collecting candies from his officemates. His desk was always organized—folders on the right side near his Corona typewriter, journals neatly arranged on a shelf by number, color, or height. Even the slightest deviation in this arrangement would result in a week-long ban from his office.

In his workplace, my father was a force to be reckoned with. Every task was documented with the precision of a well-tuned radio dial, all details carefully outlined for the staff to follow. Failure was simply not an option. As the head of his department, he expected his staff to be present and productive until every task was completed. He was always the last to leave the office, his attaché case filled with ledgers for overnight review.

Upon arriving home, my father would place his case on the sala set, turn on the black-and-white television, and ask either me or my mom to turn on the radio—an echo of his morning routine. This was his life on weekdays.

However, during weekends, my father took on a different role as the long-time barangay captain of our village. In this capacity, he was less the stern executive and more the genial leader. While still strict, he devoted his weekends to organizing barangay activities, mediating disputes, and addressing local concerns. His presence alone was often enough to defuse tense situations. He would bring me along to these community events, not with a specific task in mind, but simply to observe and learn. “Always learn from everything you observe,” he would tell me.

My father’s dedication to public service extended to his relationships with political figures, including then-Senator Rodolfo “Roding” Ganzon, one of his favorite companions in conversation. Though he never drank or smoked, he took politics seriously, having studied pre-law in college and taught himself letters and stenography. A staunch oppositionist to Marcos, my father was prepared to be arrested by the Philippine Constabulary when Martial Law was declared in 1972. He was vocal in his opposition, even against his own employer, crony businessman Roberto Benedicto, leading to near expulsion from the company after being active in the union.

A journalist and poet in his own right, my father used his writing talents to contribute articles to Bombo Radyo editorials and short stories and features in Yuhum Magazine, all in support of his political ideals and advocacies. When the dictator fled the country on February 25, 1986, my father rang the chapel bells in front of our house, tears streaming down his face as he shouted, “Marcos is out. Mabuhay ang Pilipinas.” It was the first and only time I saw my father cry, and yet, with unwavering conviction, he reminded me, “Never, ever forget to serve others.”

After the revolution, my father retired from his job but continued writing as a freelance writer. Three years later, after a two-month battle with heart complications, he passed away in St. Paul’s Hospital. Even in his hospital bed, he never abandoned his routine—waking up to the sound of the radio and the rustling of newspaper pages. I was 12, in my 8th grade, when my father—wise, strong-willed, and fiercely patriotic—died peacefully in his sleep.

But my father’s legacy lives on within me, like the steady hum of a radio broadcasting its signal across the airwaves. The values he instilled have subtly guided my life and career. Through his influence, I have been fortunate to pursue opportunities as a scholar, student leader, journalist, administrator, engineer, counselor, and educator. Today, I continue to strive as a university director, a father of two, and a lifelong learner, always mindful of the lessons he taught me.

The lessons my father imparted—“never settle for second best,” “always learn from everything observable,” and “never forget to serve others”—have become the guiding principles of my life. And, perhaps unconsciously, I have passed these values on to my daughters.

I see my father’s influence in my daughters. Parvane Mae, with her academic resilience, advanced from salutatorian at Ateneo de Iloilo to earning her MD after graduating Cum Laude in Nursing at WVSU. Psyche Mae, with her dedication, went from a service awardee at Ateneo to teaching in the US after earning Cum Laude honors in Special Education and completing her master’s in Guidance and Counseling at WVSU. Both, with God’s grace, have embraced values passed down from my father, and they have taught me to appreciate life, see goodness in all things, and balance the passing on of these values.

Today, with smart TVs, iPads, laptops, and cellphones at my fingertips, I have countless options for news and entertainment. Yet, thanks to my dad, who would have turned 97 this September 4, I still find myself tuning in to the radio via YouTube and Facebook first thing in the morning and before I sleep. This simple, enduring habit continues to resonate with me.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.