In September 2011, to commemorate the 20th death anniversary of Felix B. Bautista, Cherie's dad, the family published an anthology of his writings. A special section was reserved for tributes from his children. Following is Cherie's contribution: I will never forget Daddy’s Underwood manual typewriter. It was part of the décor of our house in Zamboanga St. Other people’s houses had a flower vase or glossy magazines or, maybe, framed pictures on the coffee table of their sala set. We had Daddy’s typewriter as the centerpiece. This monster was black and heavy and gobbled up little children’s fingers that mis-hit its keys. All the Bautista children learned to type on it. In fact, we got so used to typing with just our index fingers (the only digits we had with enough strength to push those Underwood keys!) that to this day, some of us still can’t touch-type! The Underwood didn’t always have pride of place at the sala. Sometimes it would be at the kabisera of the dining table. And when it was there, Mommy was happy—it meant that Daddy was ready to write. She always knew what Daddy’s nearest deadline was. A few days before, she would remind him about it and he would nod in acknowledgment. The day before a speech was due, she would nudge him again, “Felix, bukas na ang deadline mo.” Again, he would nod or say, “Alam ko.” Finally, when there was no more time to spare, Mommy would say, usually while we were having breakfast, “Felix, the driver is coming at 11 today to pick up the speech.” After the breakfast dishes were cleared, the Underwood would be moved to the dining table. Daddy would set his cigarettes and lighter, an ashtray, and a stack of bond paper beside it, and he would pull up a chair. And then nothing! He would just sit there and (literally) twiddle his thumbs, hands resting on his tummy, and puff on a cigarette. Mommy would re-appear and ask him, “Felix, are you working?” He would nod yet again and continue twiddling. (I remember asking him once how he could say he was working when he was obviously just sitting and not doing anything. He told me, “Hija, I’m thinking. Thinking is working.”) At the point when it seemed that Mommy would be in full panic mode, the clickety-clack of the typewriter would commence, punctuated by the “bing” of the bell signaling the end of a line. It was amazing to behold—using just his index fingers, Daddy would type furiously, pounding that Underwood into submission and producing page after page of perfect text, without benefit of notes or books. Even more amazing, the first draft was the final version. And most amazing of all, he would do this amidst the chaos of a household with twelve children—we didn’t have to tiptoe around him while he wrote; he didn’t ask us to be quiet. His concentration was total. Finally, he would ask the nearest child available to fetch him the stapler—and we knew another speech was finished. I remember at some point that a Corona electric typewriter appeared in our house. Daddy tried it for a few days but went back to his trusty Underwood manual typewriter. As far as I know, he never replaced it. The last letter that he wrote me was on my birthday in 1990 (a year before he passed away); he wrote it on that beautiful, valuable gem of a machine.