Retired Major Elpidio Valete Asuncion

My father, Elpidio, grew up on a household who believed in the core values of Catholic faith, education and personal responsibility. He was born on April 5, 1922, the fifth child among the siblings of eight, in the little town of Gerona, Tarlac, located on the northern island of Luzon. It was not common for the families who lived in the countryside (province) to be able to send their children to the colleges and universities in the metropolis because the cost of education was so prohibitive but his parents did. My father was the fifth child among the eight siblings, attended University of Manila in 1939 and finish his degree as an educator. In 1940, he was sent to his first teaching assignment in Bukidnon, Mindanao.

1n 1941, while in Mindanao, the infamous bombing of Pearl Harbor in Hawaii by the Japanese Imperial Army started World War II for the United States. At this time the Philippines was considered a Commonwealth of the United States and was strategically occupied by her enemy to allow Japan to continue invading the surrounding countries. The US forces drafted my father, who was a teacher then, as 2nd Lieutenant under the United States Forces of the Far East (USAFFE). Ultimately, he was captured along with his fellow American soldiers and became prisoners of war (POW). He was transported to Camp O’Donnell in the northern island close to his hometown and subsequently released to the general population during the war. While incarcerated, he was allowed to work administratively, and came across a document listing his older brother’s name, Amador, who died in the infamous Bataan Death March. He was deeply saddened and after his release became the bearer of this unfortunate event to his parents and siblings. He loved his family so much that he returned to his hometown and helped his parents on tending their tattered livelihood and once again began teaching in the local schools. In 1944, he fell in love with my beautiful mother, Connie, whom he married during the war. His commitment to fight the Japanese invaders once again materialized when two American pilots were shot down and survived their plane crash. My father, with the other town mates, helped the pilots recover from injuries and in return, the Americans helped organize the guerilla units whom my father served. He was assigned to Squadron 42, with a mission to receive and expedite transport of modern submarine landed arms and ammunitions to be used by his unit and other organized guerilla groups in the surrounding areas. He also planned and conducted sabotage and demolition operations of the enemy’s assets. He did this operations, in the cover of being a teacher, until the Philippines was liberated by the American forces in 1945. His unit was disbanded after the war but his contributions to fight the enemy and help win the war was recognized by his Filipino and American commanders.

After the war, my father remained with the military as an officer and he went to the University of Manila to pursue the degree of becoming a Doctor of Dentistry. However, in 1956, with one semester away in finishing his degree, was chosen by the Joint US and Philippine Military to go to St Louis, Missouri to train with the new X-Ray Technology. He spent a year away from his family. He brought this technology back to V. Luna General Hospital in Quezon City and was consequently re-assigned to other medical facilities throughout the country. In 1962, he medically retired in the military after serving 20 years, with a rank of Major. My father went back to Manila to settle as civilian and bought the first family house in Project 4, Quezon City. My father followed in his father’s footsteps, sacrificing a lot to allow all of us children to have our own education, one of the core values of the family. In 1983, my mother and father migrated to United States and started a new life of being grandparents. They were so happy to own their first home in San Diego, California in 1989 where the entire family finally settled. He loved this house so much.

My father was soft spoken, a man of few words and a disciplinarian. Both of them, with my mother, were very active in the senior citizen organizations among the Filipino-American groups. Dancing was another forte of my Dad. He loved to dance and when he danced with my Mom he would always put a smile on our faces, his children and grandchildren. My father was also a “jack-of-all-trades” with his grandchildren. He was a patient and organized baby sitter, avid fan and cheer leader with their sports and other activities, a prudent personal driver going to and from their school, but most of all, a man who loved his grandchildren so much even more than their parents --- which really made us children very jealous in a fun way. His persona was like a rock, able to withstand emotions but not on that one tragic day when my youngest brother, so young at the age of 18, was abruptly taken away from us due to a car accident. I looked at his moist eyes, and I have seen the misery and agony of the father who lost a son and he said, “Parents should not bury their children, rather, children should bury their parents”.

My father’s health declined progressively in the last three years and had asked us children that if possible, he preferred to spend his remaining days in his first house. His body may be weak and deteriorating but his mind was intact. We, the family honored his wish. That faithful day on November 30, 2015, my father received his Catholic Final Rite from the Hospice Priest. My mother bid her goodbye at 3:30pm. My father, who was weak and tired, gathered his last strength, opened his eyes and gave my mother a faint smile then he went back to close his eyes. That smile indicated that his time had come and he is at peace to go to his final journey with my mother’s blessing. At 5:15pm, at the age of 93, my father peacefully passed away, in his home with his family --- his ultimate wish.