Both my parents are from Catanduanes, the favorite entry way of typhoons, that island off the seas of the Bicol region. The Bicol Region.
Last night I was glued to the TV set for the recap of the day's big news about the discovery of the body of the late Department of Interior and Local Government Secretary Jesse Robredo's from the plane's wreckage about 180 feet under the Masbate seas.
His former constituents in Naga City which he served as mayor for six sterling terms beginning in 1988, were interviewed, all speaking in Bicolano, a dialect I can understand but cannot use to communicate. At that moment, I wished I had taken my parents' constant advice to learn it.
Fifty-four is such a young age to die. Think Steve Jobs (55). Think Michael Jackson (50). And if faith would have it, Robredo, Jobs and Jackson were all born in the 50's. What were they eating in the 50's to have produced these men?
Heck, what are they eating in the Bicol region to produce great men the likes of Raul Roco, Jesse Robredo, Sonny Escudero? Red hot chillies. Laing. Coconut milk.
Perhaps the place and time where one is born are simply incidental. The way one lives, what one leaves behind are purely one's own.