Monday, April 30, 2007 Dacawi: For Jackson By Ramon Dacawi Benchwarmer
HE KNEW it was time to move on to the great barangay hall, yet his thoughts remained focused on unfinished business on this mortal plane. To the end, Jackson Paclayan dreamt for Gonogon, that small village at the Bontoc foot of Mt. Calauitan he left as a young orphan and returned to as barangay leader during his last years.
"Even while he was already going, he told us the barangay hall which he started must be finished; he made us promise to help protect the territorial integrity of Gonogon," his daughter Jenelyn told me during the wake.
I felt lucky being away when his relatives gathered around his hospital bed one evening in July 2002. It would have been difficult to be there. I would have committed to help in the completion of the five-floor structure.
I shudder over the thought of a hollow promise to one so determined to finish whatever business he pursued. It hounds each time I pass by or visit Gonogon.
Still, he would have forgiven me with a ribbing, for humor, as much as persistence was also his disarming strength.
To this day, the project remains mostly a skeleton of concrete beams and posts standing on top of a big, solid rock before the hanging bridge connecting the village to the rest of the world. It's there because he wanted to make a difference.
He envisioned it for a community market where Gonogonians can sell their farm produce, a barangay hall, a clinic, a daycare center and resting quarters for health and government workers caring to do service in the community.
"Kasano nga makumbinsar dagiti empleyado ti gobyerno nga umay agserbi ditoy no awan pay pagturugan da?" he asked when he broke ground.
Until the end, he was grateful to Senator Franklin Drilon who kindly allotted from his Priority Development Assistance Fund some amount to start the project. He also could not forget former Baguio prosecutor Erdolfo Balajadia for the endorsement that helped convince Senator Drilon to seed his dream for the project.
Mountain Province Representative Roy Pilando, to whom Jackson aligned himself long before the lawmaker made it to Congress, was himself awed by Jackson's persistence.
"He was in the midst of his reelection bid when he called me up seeking a little funding for the continuation of the barangay hall," Pilando said. "I told him he should concentrate first on his campaign. Amazed by his sense of urgency, I vowed support."
I cherish Jackson's friendship, as much as lawyer Rene Cortes, his counsel and friend, does.
Sometime in 1998, we were on our way to Metro Manila to follow up the funding and attend broadcast journalist Kiko Calado's wedding. When we hit North Luzon Expressway, a speeding Feroza struck the rear of our borrowed van. The impact sent our vehicle shooting like a billiard ball a good 30 meters before it stopped.
All the seats were flattened backwards. I was moaning in pain, having stupidly and selfishly thought sitting at the rear was safer. Hearing my groans, Jackson, who was at the front seat, hastily jumped out to attack the erring driver.
"Apay nga disgrasyaem daytoy kabsat ko?," he shouted in anger. His rage vanished when he saw how seriously hurt the occupants of the other car were.
In no time, he left and returned with a bottle of Carlos Primero brandy. He opened the cap and started pouring on the accident site and murmuring a prayer.
I reminded him a gin bottle would have been as effective and far less hazardous to his wallet. "New life tayo ngarud," he retorted, grinning as he handed me the cup.
Even after his passing, Jackson continued to give and rib. He had left behind at the mountaintop of Gonogon a traditional pine coffin carved out of a whole log.
He had it reserved and ready should he kick the bucket in the village.
But he died here and was buried in La Trinidad. At the wake, Atty. Cortes, offered to keep the unused "furniture". It was an unusual gesture, yet it was his way of paying tribute to a friend who must have eavesdropped and smiled from up there.
I took on the drift and offered to transport and deliver the item to the lawyer's house. I came back empty handed, as the villagers said the log would be brought down only when there was need for it.
Jackson lived a full life, perhaps because he did not keep pace with the rest. He stepped to a different beat understood only by those whose lives he had touched.
(Note: This reprint of a tribute was stirred by a recent memorial visit to Gonogon where trees, planted by kids in 1999 under Jackson's guidance, are growing on the Ticacong mountainside.)
