Saturday afternoons in the Tuazon household were a lazy affair for most, but the scene of a years-long ritual for its patriarch.
“Jaaaaaaaahn!” he bellowed in order to reach my attention from any part of the house. Papa always used my middle name whenever he was making a request. I reciprocated accordingly.
“What?”
“Ice Water!”
Almost always it was ice water. In later years we thought we solved the problem by stocking a mini-fridge in his room to hold bottles of water and other snacks; even then he’d call me over to hand him a bottle, rather than get out of bed to get one himself.
A tall, cool glass in hand, I went to his room to drop off his order, right on the ironing board, which was Valentino’s workspace for the entire Saturday afternoon. At his feet were hampers of laundry from the dryer, on the ottoman were crisply folded tees, and from the shutters, bedposts, and anywhere he could manage hung freshly pressed polos and dress shirts. My dad would grab his glass of ice water, whose condensation formed a fat ring on the ironing board, took a sip, and went back to work like a machine. Grab a shirt. Ring it out. Sweep it flat. Smooth out folds. Make passes of the iron. Flip the shirt around. Make passes again. Iron hissing with steam. Fold it if it’s a T-shirt. Hang it if it’s nicer. Grab another shirt.
