'Ligawan' in the time of shoulder pads

MANILA, Philippines - Made in Baguio ka, anak,” my dad told me one Sunday.

It turns out my parents did conceive me in February of ’86 — all the way up in Baguio. I didn’t feel the need to soak more details up, believe me, but having revealed the fact that all this little Ralph-making occurred right on the cusp of the EDSA revolution, I had to know more about their story.

My dad, Ramon, met my mom, Thraine, through a Christian worship group called Buklod in ’85. He would attend sessions in the Blue Ridge area of Katipunan extension, upon the request of his friend Jeng, who later on admitted to liking my dad.

“But I saw your mom singing in the choir and her melodious voice struck me,” said my dad. So my dad, pencil ‘stache intact, quietly asked Jeng to introduce him to my mom that very day. My mom, however, secure in the much-bragged–about fact that she had a line of suitors, had only wanted to match-make Jeng with my dad.

With his eyes and most organs set on my future mother, my father determined to attend every prayer meeting just to see my mom. “It really wasn’t for the worship, anak,” admits my dad, who was eventually disappointed by the fact that he was assigned to a different prayer group within the prayer group. But his resolve was firm, as he simply set out to crash my mom’s group, tagging along to merienda after merienda, just to talk to her.

“But I didn’t really mind him,” says my mother. My dad would invite my mother out to a spot in Little Quiapo (“LQ,” as the say) to grab some palabok and halo-halo. But to his disappointment yet again, his mother brought her whole prayer group down to the joint.

With no SMS to confront my mom with, my dad relied on either straight-up sit-down conversations or telegrams. “I had to shell out five pesos per sentence using the RCPI Telegram so I thought why not just write a love letter instead?” says my dad with a wink.

Not so smooth: Wanting to impress my mom, my dad once tried to clean a chicken -- with Ajax detergent.

Bouquets of roses and “imported” bars of chocolate after, my mother got the hint and they hit it off quickly via what my dad calls a “harmless sleepover.” “Malaking bagay dati ‘pag imported ‘yung chocolate kasi,” says my mom. Jeng, meanwhile, unreciprocated in her advances, got the hint as well and respected the chemistry between my future dad and mom. She would later on become my ninang — I guess I now know why I seldom got any gifts from her.

My dad was a civil engineer so his work brought him to places like Tacloban City in Leyte, where he oversaw various establishments. He would write my mom letters sprayed with his cologne, taking about three to five days before it reached her. My mom hardly replied, though, blaming her hours taking care of the sick (palusot?) during her residency at UP Philippine General Hospital (UP PGH). “But I started getting attracted to him,” says my mom. “Because kitang kita how he was such a sincere man with pure intentions.”

My dad would follow my mom during her duty at UP PGH, delivering “special pasalubong” while getting lost in the building. “One day, though, I sent your mom another letter,” narrates my dad. “And anak, sobrang tinik ko lang because I said ‘I love you.’”

I recall asking my dad how they officially became an item and all my dad could say was it was “mutual,” despite my mom’s perplexed facial expression. A few movie dates and hand-holding sessions down the line, my dad — somewhere, some night — knelt down in front of my mom and cheesed it up to highest possible degree, as he asked, “Would you like to be the mother of my children?”

Neither my mom nor dad remembers where or when this epic kneeling took place, or what my mom’s reply was, but they were married eight months after being introduced — at the same prayer center house in Blue Ridge.

I mean, who gets married inside a house these days anyway? Who does that after only eight months of knowing each other?

“Whirlwind marriage yun,” clarifies my dad, who, as it turns out, was afraid the war that time would derail their plans of marriage.

But that’s okay. If they hadn’t gotten married that February and gone up to Baguio for a honeymoon, I wouldn’t have entered the world November that year. No more Ralph stories. No more Laneway. No more realization that a love story such as theirs could somehow be replicated by anyone with a more modern yet equally pure, whirlwind-rich twist.