It was still dark outside on that April morning but from our bedroom window I could see, just a few feet away, the leaves of the mango tree giving contrast to the lighter shade of darkness. My deep slumber must have been interrupted by the silent trees trying to capture the sporadic noise from the distant roosters’ crow. Ten after four, as I glanced at the clock.
By the time I pedaled my mountain bike outside the gate, through the long driveway towards the narrow road, weak sunlight had permeated the horizon intimating the break of dawn. Against this backdrop I could barely see what remained of the rice stalks from the recent harvest. And, oh, the ever so pleasant smell spawned by the gleanings bathed in early morning dew was unmistakable. Some things are priceless.
Eighteen months prior I grabbed the opportunity knocking on the door. A friend was selling this property in Cabarasan, a small farming village just outside my home town of Barugo on the north coast of Leyte province. I saw an island in a glimmering sea of green. Six months later we started to build a small octagon-shaped, three-bedroom house with yard space aplenty. Rice fields all around. Maybe in five years or so we would permanently call it home. This time is supposed to be a trial balloon. Four months, April to August this year.
It was early October the year before in “the land of milk and honey.” The splendor of fall was becoming evident, autumn leaves changing color to shades of yellow, red and purple as the days started to get cooler. I noticed the white oak tree in my front yard just beginning the process as I drove away. Just shy of eight o’clock, I’m in the midst of morning rush-hour traffic in suburban northern Virginia. In my car on the way to work, with the radio tuned to the traffic station, I can only listen to my own thoughts.
Eleven years now in the corporate world. Twenty-one years in the service of my adopted country as a hard-charging Naval Officer. I enlisted in Subic Bay as a seaman recruit; a young man lost, perhaps in a hurry but unsure of where to go. Seven years later, I was commissioned an Ensign. In Navy lingo, I was a “mustang” – the moniker for those who jump from enlisted rank to commissioned officer.
I had made it to Lieutenant Commander before l’affaires de coeur cut it short. A few more years and I could have stitched four gold stripes on the sleeves of a Navy Captain’s uniform. It was not to be. Cliché or not, they say things happen for a reason. But that is another story.
So I pick up the pieces and before long, I find relative success. In one company, I became vice-president for government services. Director of Program Control is the label I have now, whatever that means; and I do independent consulting work on the side. My two children are on their own, college education and stable employment under their belt. There is also this bundle of joy from my son, a lovely granddaughter – Colombian-Filipino by blood, American by birth. Simone Kyra is her given name.
My thoughts incessantly hounded me as I inched along heavy, nerve-racking traffic. Why am I doing this? When do I stop this madness? How big a house and how expensive a car? How much more money to make, to save, to pay the bills? Save for the grave or spend to live for the day? Someone said wisely that money imparts value only in parting. I adjusted the rear-view mirror, looked into my own eyes and asked myself: What makes you happy? Methinks this is a simple question with no simple answer.
I figured four months would help me find the answer, enough to savor the good along with the bad. In five years or so, we would be ready. Proper planning always helps, so I thought with a tinge of pride. Thus the trial balloon would be suitable this year as house construction was finished. We had just missed the rice harvest by the time we arrived in mid-April.
So here I am. From the grass and gravel driveway I turn left and start the uphill ride towards the junction a half kilometer away, where the barangay road meets the highway. I then turn right towards the town proper. Maybe I’ll visit mother when I get to town. She lives in the same house she and my father built. Father died six years ago.
I see friends and familiar faces every day. I wake up early in the morning because I want to, not because I have to. Vegetable plants in the garden are plentiful and fish comes fresh every day. A thirty-minute leisurely walk leads me to the seashore. Fruit trees, including mangoes and dwarf coconuts, provide shade and nourishment. All around me is green and the air that comes in a breeze is cool and pure. It seems like I am in the middle of nowhere, far enough for solitude yet close enough for solace.
When the days of August came, I had this indescribable feeling. I cannot say that it was loneliness, fear or despair. Maybe it was all of those, and more. I will not attempt to describe what it feels like to face imminent death, but if I were to venture a guess, the very thought of having to leave so soon was pretty close to it. I desperately wanted to stay put in the same place I so eagerly left 33 years ago.
“Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to.” Pulitzer Prize winning journalist John Ed Pearce captured it so well. Now I know what he meant, precisely.
We left for Virginia in late August not long after rice planting. I continued searching for what was really in my heart. I may have found the answer to my question. I was right, there is no simple answer. I cannot find the exact words to express it. But I know it. And I feel it. After four months, yes, the answer was not that simple but the choice was rather easy.
At 54 I’ve decided not to wait five more years. The decision was made swiftly. Trade my pseudo-comfort zone for the price of happiness. The best healthcare system will be beyond my reach. But if I were to use my mother as benchmark, she has been properly cared for by local doctors, mind still alert and body in relatively good health. She moves rather slowly now but that is par for her 88 years.
So we decided to sell the house in Virginia. We lost money on the deal but that’s quite all right. Too, I’ll be giving up a sizeable chunk of income. But it is never only about money. Money may be a factor but not the be-all and end-all of living life to the fullest. It is but a minor element. I refuse to be held prisoner of lifestyle convenience. And when November comes, we will be home for good.
The Waray dialect has no exact equivalent for the English word retirement. Perhaps the concept is alien. Maybe I will become a farmer instead. Gentleman Farmer has a nice ring to it.
My conscience gave me a choice, die young happy in my motherland or grow old comfortably in some foreign land.
I chose to go to where I am. And I may yet get lucky and grow old happy. 
