Precious Memories

I was sitting on the rocking chair facing the hedge that separates my property from that of my neighbour. As it is autumn now, the hedge is starting to bear orange flowers. I took pleasure watching a lorikeet hop from one flower to another to savour the flower's nectar. I would be listening to some music shortly. I was just catching my breath after doing a bit of gardening despite my sore right hand. I know I must be crazy to be abusing my hand. In the morning, I played on my mother's antique phonograph the records of Perry Como, ie after I asked 'her which record would she like to listen to this time. Hearing Perry Como's I Love You and Don't You Forget It set my mood to do a bit of aerobic exercises. I told my mother sitting on the swing chair by the time Perry Como's record finished, my blood sugar must have gone down. As the sun was on the verge of hiding itself, I opted as always to listen to classical music. I find this quieting the soul and calming the storms of life. I listened this time to the first of the vinyl record in 5 record set of 125 Musical Selections. I felt great satisfaction listening to Handel's Pomposo, Wagner's Lohengrin, Beethoven's Sonata No. 14, Haydn's Toy Symphony... at the same time thanking God for the peace and quiet. As I stared deeply outside through the glass, I was amazed at the pretty sight before me: the harmony and synchrony of the music I was playing with nature --ie the sun filtered through leaves of the hedge, the whooshing wind causing the millions of them dance rhythmically. Even if I could not physically feel the gentle wind as I was enclosed in a glass, I could feel nevertheless the mirth of my surroundings. WoW!!!! As the record spun on the turntable, i dwelt into a deeper meditative state....then I felt an immense sadness within me. Images of our house back in Manila which held precious memories flashed back in my head. Yes, i remember the records we had back home--Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, Mantovani's instrumental music, Mario Lanza and our own Kundiman. The memory of my father came back once more. He was also fond of this kind of music. Funny, I was feeling great satisfaction but sadness at the same time. I wish my father was still around to see the near completion of my building project. I was sad because I could not share with him the sense of fulfilment of having improved the little cottage I bought from my savings a little over a decade ago. At the early stage of my planning to build in 2009, I could see in my father's eyes the same enthusiasm as I had. He was still around when the framework of my project was put up. He even involved himself in clearing and levelling the pathway along the enclosure to the side gate of my house. But then, he got terribly sick, being in and out of the hospital. Nevertheless, he continuously aired his interest in the progress of my project over the phone. The project dragged on and on, not because I ran out of funds then as I had saved for this over the years. Rather, I found it difficult closing a deal with the tradesmen. More so, the contour of their faces scared me. Amazingly, at the beginning of 2011, God led me to good tradespeople and the project came into good shape... Sadly, however, my father was gone to see this. 10 May 2011, it will be my father's first death anniversary. Time flies quickly--i have not even noticed it. It is almost a year since he left this planet earth. I have not felt him gone forever. How could I? My house and my garden hold heaps of his precious memories. As I am aiming my garden to be low in maintenance, I'd say it has to undergo a major overhaul--including the dismantling of the old shed. However, before the tradesmen do this, I thought I better visit it first. I hadn't technically went inside this shed for ages. Surprisingly, I found my father's toolbox in here. Inside this box were his tools--old and rusty. I could have thrown these away as I could not sand the rust away anymore as I did with his chisel, ie with my injured right hand. However, I would not do such a thing even for a million dollar. My father brought all these stuff from the Philippines when he first arrived in Australia. Furthermore, if any single artefact, so to speak, in Jose Rizal's life has been preserved, I would want by the same token, preserve my father's ones. My father was not a national hero, but to us his children, he definitely is---in his own small, unique and detailed ways. I could go on listing the ways he had been a hero in my life, but I'm afraid I do not have a rich English vocabulary to described these.... When he passed away, I have always said and written as well, he lives forever in my and my siblings hearts... Yes, it is true, not only in our hearts but in my house. I put on top of my keyboard his small photo. When I could not fall asleep or else I could not go back to sleep when I wake at 1.30 or 2.00 am, I walk to my study to play my keyboard. My heart bleeds as i play Silver Threads Among the Gold. When I was just learning to play this, he sang along with my poor playing of the piece. He continuously sang till the last stanza even if I was hitting the wrong notes and then chuckled in the end before pat my head. As Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake came to an end, I realised I was now staring at the hedge which was progressively blackening with the shadows of the night. I remained on the chair for a further ten minutes or so. There was perfect stillness around me. From a distance, I could hear my father's happy singing of the song, You Are my Sunshine while playing on the guitar. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...he repeatedly sang this song to us. Such precious memories.... Before I dwell deeply into this nostalgic state, I walked towards my mother lying down on the swing chair. I told her, Mum, it is time to go inside the house before it gets totally black outside. Im going to check your sugar, inject you with insulin and then we'll have our dinner''

Below is a video memoir I made to remember those days gone by...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NY9klFpLbQ