Jason Delarosa Garcia was, in two separate words, a genius, and a survivor. That's honestly, in my opinion, as his lowly editor for this partial autobiographical anecdote, the best way to describe him.

He was Spanish Born, and adopted by Filipino Rice Farmers, who moved to America when he was 15, leaving him behind to finish his schooling in Manilla, because they didn't want to alienate him with a new school right at the edge of his very successful schooling.

He finished top of his class, and two years ahead of everyone else. He went to college, in Manilla, staying in the place he loved, trading letters with his parents weekly.

After Ten years, he was a successful Engineer-Architect with two masters degrees, in Engineering and Architecture, working out of his own business, and also a Part-Time nurse at a local hospital, all by the tender age of 26.

He enjoyed his life, partying with pretty women, dancing nights away, drinking to everyone around him's health. He truly lived Manilla. And he truly loved it.

Then one day, right before his 27th birthday, in May of 2007, he got the Letter, saying, in no uncertain terms, that his father had died of a heart attack, and his mother had followed the same day, her heart simply giving out in her sleep.

This, I have gleaned from his journal entries, was the single most devastating blow to his psyche that he had ever been Struck with. The Worst Card. The Smoking Barrel.

He went to their funerals, of course. He loved his parents, and they'd converted to Christianity while in their home of Chicago, which meant there were different last rites that were held, but that's about all.

It was on the way back to Manilla that things... took a dive.