Today also marks Labor Day to commemorate the good works that our forefathers have achieved more than 50 years ago in developing and working the plantations in Tarabela. For centuries men of all creeds and races have built their own monuments and leave their stamp like the pyramid of Ghiza, a tomb dedicated to the pharaoh Cheops, which was built in 25 B.C with slave labor; the Hoover Dam in Nevada using new technology that would dry the concrete quickly and the cement used would cover a two lane highway from San Francisco to New York, the Ankor Wat in Cambodia with 70 temples with stone carvings every inch of it, done with earnest labor, the Great wall of China which took 1800 years to build following the contour and topography of deserts and valleys for thousand of miles, a tribute to laborers. It is not the politicians that have earned glory but the laborers. Likewise, I see in you the finished products in terms of education and accomplishments that our forefathers have by their efforts achieve, by dint of hard work and that is their monument of which we are all proud of.

     I am a San Estebanian, having been born in Ansad, San Esteban delivered by a comadrona. I wish I had been born in Apatot for poetic reasons like "napaltotac diay apatot."(I was delivered by home midwives in Apatot.")

     I am proud to be a San Estebanian. When I was appointed in 1993, the community newspapers in Toronto paraded the announcement that I was the First Filipino justice of the peace appointed in 600 years. I am proud to state tonight that I am the first San Estebanian appointed to that position.

     I was then barely 5 years old when I remember my parents preparing us their children for the usual yearly ilocos trip for a visit, usually to have my new siblings christened, attend semana santa and Christmas. I was born in san esteban and so was my late sister Gloria and my late father, rosito.-my mother, marcelina velasquez was from lapog. We regarded san esteban as a veritable bastion or citadel of love--where our sentiments for the town remained like a bank deposit to draw from every year .We felt we never had left it. Instead it seemed it had a controlling stake in our hearts to forever remind us to introduced ourselves as san estebanians wherever we went and where we still had fabulous and residual dreams of belonging. We were always responding to the summons of a subsconscious desire to have san esteban put us back in its loving arms even only in spirit inspite of our move to Nueva Vizcaya.

     We migrated to nueva vizcaya when I was two in 1947 having been invited to come over by my father's uncle, Casiano Mendoza from san esteban who was an official of the rural transit at bayombong . then the Cagayan valley central terminal.

     My father, then awaiting his call to the bar, thought that with his growing brood he had a better chance to make good in Bayombong, so gave it his best shot for the next twenty years and became what they say a lawyer's lawyer.

     The search for greener pastures unleashed a population rush to Nueva Vizcaya by intrepid, bold and enterprising san esteban people, which was then sparsely populated and teeming with virgin lands. They say that my father was a good lawyer but not quite good an investor for he shunned buying real estate when these were still dirt cheap and inspite of my mother's futile importunings to take avail of it, like refusing a very big lot offered for P500but which my father dismissed it with the statement, "pagan-anum"(what for)which was later bought by the st mary's university and a project 4 lot offered to him for P3000 in the early 50's; Ironically, he didn't own the lot where our house stood and it was not until twenty five years after his death that we were able to buy the lot. This was not for lack of trying for the municipal govt did not open the lot for sale until very much later. He was able to own some lands however as lawyers fees because of in civil cases but never had bought any.

     We kids always had looked forward to these journeys 500 kilometers from Bayombong, always enjoying the bumpy ride over rugged roads on hired dilapidated passenger jeeps and later on when he abandoned his proposed candidacy, used the campaign money he saved to buy our battered 1950 ford 2 door sedan crammed with 9 kids.God above must have loved us so much as we got out of it alive and safe and and unscathed. It had become apparent that my father's overpowering desire to visit San esteban on festive occasions blurred the risk of travel and ignored the peril we faced with unsafe vehicles..We have always been drawn to the san esteban orbit where we converged with relatives.

     My father had great faith on the ability of his drivers to navigate the cordillera mountain roads.and he was always proven right.. Our drivers in succession were Zaro, Julio, mateo who had remained faithful to him until their deaths.

     I still could remember hearing my father's admonition to them to "despacio lang ", the Spanish for slow, and he said that they were naal-wad nga agmanejo.

     These traits of care by our drivers was necessary in order for us to see once again the place of our dreams, the fiesta of december 26, the semana santa with its parishioners' colourful spine tingling melancholic chant and heart curdling passion songs and the sober but colourful town plaza procession with all the saints in tow, the breathtaking view of, the azure blue baybay, its expanse enthralling us and holding us spellbound, reminding us of god's mercy, his" sea is so wide and we are so small," the pantalan that serves as the breakwater where the sea breeze spent itself and where the youths of our fathers' childhood were spent dreaming or may I speculate, going truant, the sight of the bitaog tree growing among the sandy shores whose fruits we were told by nanang tinang abad, nana caring orpilla now 95 and the matriarch of tarabela and nanang laling madarang europa, were virtual fuel that served as lamps during the last world wars when petroleum products were scarce. the 'agec' to the the venerable statues of san esteban and sto nino, the removing of our shoes and the trek to the altar of apo san esteban on our knees the patience for long winded sermons of I remember father Pascua who we hated to love , or loved to hate, it was good to be in san esteban the mecca of our religious convictions,( also having another meaning like the way that my grandmother laling had summoned us time to time, saying mecca-yo man ditoy annacco.)

     My father had an only brother, Leonardo with wife Tiang sining and family-and my mother had seven of them brothers and sisters, too numerous to mention.. There would be a family reunion. Noisy children clambering chairs, sliding on the stair railings cluttering the place, climbing trees , nights parents singing duets, my father with guitar and violin, kids singing, playing, taunting each other.children eating sobol, padao, ilec, maritangtang, iggat., kids carolling around the neighbourhood.
It was in san esteban that I could have launched a great singing career when in one of the visits I was singing with gusto when my father said I was sounding dis-intonado.
Which I took as gospel truth cramping my style forever. But this was a lesson too, that despite criticism regardless I should have persevered, like priming a horse with blinders on to win the race no matter who were the competitiors.. I remember the love, joy and camaraderie, the sumptuous food, the caring the love that blessed our homes and to thank god they did stay on.

     I remember that my cousin Leo Jr who was always a character -- when we were three almost always refused to lend me his bicycle which I pedalled around nana espi arranzes' house using a small pathway walled by bamboo fences.. and my cousin eddie would later give me the bicycle surreptitiously and if eddie were not there I would appeal to my uncle who graciously would always order nardito to let me have the bicycle.. this was a lesson that henceforth I could get things I desired if only I worked hard enough. That in one's life there must always be opposition to make it worth living for.. I remember lolo copras europa paquing always giving me gifts and money,(haan mo nga ibagbaga ken nardito, which she always warned nardito also(haan mo nga ipacaamo ken delano ) this was what we call sowing intrigue in home politics.. She always remembered me during my elementary and high school graduations and I remember the always smiling lolo iban her husband ready at her beck and call to do bidding.. but kidding aside lola copras made a big impression in my life as one of the kindest persons that ever lived and my deepest regret was that I was not able to attend her funeral when I was already lawyer in the late 70's because of a case I could not leave at the risk of dismissal of the case..i remember my grandmother laling telling stories about kibaan and gurarab, who alternated between staying in bayombong and san esteban ..Ive never before saw the kind of respect and compassion ever shown by the brothers rosito and Leonardo.for their mother. I remember nana dalen europa peddling her daily fare of seafood she would sell early in the morning fresh and direct from apatot sea where I nearly drowned when manong rudy europa and I road on a rakit(raft) and for some reason I leaped not knowing the depth of the water and I was lucky to be alive because of manong rudy's prowess as a diver. And the delectable food was a treat to all of us.. I remember my ninang Sejong Ramirez(the mother of Dr. Florence Ramirez) always dressed dignifiedly in patajong coming always to visit us, in our humble home of lolo Feliciano europa in san esteban and I was proud to be her godson, and saying, "every year I raise a piglet for you. And here is the money that I sold for it, I am now going to give it to you..And she did that every year.. It was my first outside lesson in kindness, caring and self sacrifice, and budgeted gift giving.and what I called my piggy bank ..she cared enough for me to hold on to that piglet for a year and raise it for me.. I remember lola gonda europa the mother of tiang pinang carmen, lumen, Lourdes europa and the grandmother of manang adoring cardenas..i remember before the early fifties when my grandmother laling still had that nipa hut adjoining nana simang's. kubo we would go to the common bangsal and drink from the burnay using the unggot..we didn't need ice during the late 40's because unggot water was always called not tepid .lola gonda was already bedridden and blinded by age I think she was ninety… giving me the sweetest hug and smile to welcome me, flattered that I was treasured by her.. and she would say, emil caano iti sasangpet mo..and again when I said I was not emil but Delano she would still ask, saankadi nga sika ni emil.. think of identity theft.. Even now I consider myself to be a dual citizen, a san estebanian and vizcayano, not necessarily in that order

     My late mother paid the finest tribute when she said that the people of San Esteban were the most friendly and most caring people on earth. And I validated that throughout the years.

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