At the wake of his father Luis San Miguel Espiritu Sr., I asked his son Luis what he would remember most about his father.
Luis thought for a while, then said with conviction: “I remember how important it was to him to have a good name, so he would always remind us to take care of our name.”
In his eulogy for his father, Luis would say, “Papa was our pillar of strength, and the strength of our pillar.”
For in truth, a good name is worth more than a cache of gold bullions. It cannot be insured, for once damaged, you have to pay the price for it. You may redeem it, but at great cost.
To be held in high esteem by people who know you and know of you is priceless. It is your reward for living a life of significance. My life coach Oprah Winfrey (I have unilaterally made her my life coach) says that in one’s life, significance is more important than success. Come to think of it, to be significant is to be successful.
A good name is the one treasure I want to leave to my son. A good education would only be second, though I, by no means, want to diminish the significance of a solid education. You share the credit for your offspring’s good education with his teachers and classmates and all the other mentors he has met on the way. But a good name you build on your own.
A good name outlives you. For instance, I can’t forget my mom Sonia’s story of her Tio Cenon Reyes, the oldest of her father Igmedio’s siblings.
My mom’s Tio Cenon and his brothers and sister lost their father early, and he had to be, to borrow from Luis’ words, his family’s “pillar of strength and strength of their pillar.” Many years later, when it was time to subdivide the vast tracts of land they inherited from their father, Tio Cenon sat down with his siblings and told them: “You choose what you want and I will take whatever is left over.”
My mom says that as a result of Tio Cenon’s generosity, he got the least arable land. He got the hilly fields instead of the ricelands that would make money. But Tio Cenon died with this wealth in his name: The knowledge that there were no squabbles in his family, no court cases due to inheritance disputes. Up to this day, his children and their cousins are close to each other.
I don’t remember Lolo Cenon much but his legacy is indelibly written in stone as far as I am concerned. It has outlived him and it will outlive everyone in the Reyes clan who believes that the lion’s share is not always the best share, and that strong family ties, unlike a time deposit, don’t expire.
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The importance of a good name came to the fore when I read the following stories passed on to me via e-mail by my sister Valerie. The story may have taken the proportions of an urban legend, but it is substantially true. Here it is.
Story Number One
Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago. Capone wasn’t famous for anything heroic. He was notorious for enmeshing the Windy City in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.
Capone had a lawyer nicknamed “Easy Eddie.” He was his lawyer for a good reason. Eddie was very good! In fact, Eddie’s skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time.
To show his appreciation, Capone paid him very well. Not only was the money big, but also, Eddie got special dividends. For instance, he and his family occupied a fenced-in mansion with live-in help and all of the conveniences of the day. The estate was so large that it filled an entire Chicago city block.
Eddie lived the high life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocities that went on around him. Eddie did have one soft spot, however. He had a son that he loved dearly. Eddie saw to it that his young son had clothes, cars and a good education. Nothing was withheld. Price was no object. And, despite his involvement with organized crime, Eddie even tried to teach him right from wrong. Eddie wanted his son to be a better man than he was. Yet, with all his wealth and influence, there were two things he couldn’t give his son: he couldn’t pass on a good name or a good example. One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision. Easy Eddie wanted to rectify wrongs he had done. He decided he would go to the authorities and tell the truth about Al Capone, clean up his tarnished name, and offer his son some semblance of integrity. To do this, he would have to testify against the mob, and he knew that the cost would be great.
So he testified. Within the year, Easy Eddie’s life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely Chicago street. But in his eyes, he had given his son the greatest gift he had to offer, at the greatest price he could ever pay. Police removed from his pockets a rosary, a crucifix, a religious medallion and a poem clipped from a magazine. The poem read:
The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.
Now is the only time you own.
Live, love, toil with a will.
Place no faith in time.
For the clock may soon be still.
Story Number Two
World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Lieutenant Commander Butch O’Hare. He was a fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier USS Lexington in the South Pacific. One day, his entire squadron was sent on a mission. After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gauge and realized that someone had forgotten to top off his fuel tank. He would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship. His flight leader told him to return to the carrier. Reluctantly, he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet.
As he was returning to the mother ship, he saw something that turned his blood cold: a squadron of Japanese aircraft was speeding its way toward the American fleet. The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless. He couldn’t reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save the fleet. Nor could he warn the fleet of the approaching danger.
There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet. Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes. Wing-mounted 50-caliber guns blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plane after another.
Butch wove in and out of the now-broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until all his ammunition was finally spent.
Undaunted, he continued the assault. He dove at the planes, trying to clip a wing or tail in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible and rendering them unfit to fly.
Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction.
Deeply relieved, Butch O’Hare and his tattered fighter limped back to the carrier. Upon arrival, he reported in and related the event surrounding his return. The film from the gun-camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed the extent of Butch’s daring attempt to protect his fleet.
He had, in fact, destroyed five enemy aircraft.
This took place on February 20, 1942, and for that action Butch became the Navy’s first Ace of WWII, and the first Naval Aviator to win the Congressional Medal of Honor.
A year later, Butch was killed in aerial combat at the age of 29.
His hometown would not allow the memory of this WWII hero to fade, and today, O’Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man.
So, the next time you find yourself at O’Hare International, give some thought to visiting Butch’s memorial displaying his statue and his Medal of Honor. It’s located between Terminals 1 and 2.
So what do these two stories have to do with each other?
Butch O’Hare was Easy Eddie’s son.
(You may e-mail me at joanneraeramirez@yahoo.com)