On February 22, my grandfather would have been 91, of course, had he lived long enough to reach this milestone. He died when he was 81, just a few weeks shy of his 82nd birthday. He had lived a relatively robust and healthy life, surviving the horrors of World War II, as well as accidents, and health scares. He lost his appendix and a kidney, nearly receiving an invasive procedure because of undigested cow’s innards. He fell off a cliff many times in the name of duty as a heavy equipment operator. The worst forms of death simply eluded him because he was to die in the peace of his home.
Every time I hear the song The Leader of the Band sung by Dan Fogelberg, I remember my grandfather, not because it was his favorite song. “The leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old…” that line simply reminds me of him. Mat Monroe and Nat King Cole, by the way, were his favorite singers; Mona Lisa by the latter, his favorite song. That is why at a young age, I already memorized a number of 50s and 60s classics, not because they’re my favourites, but because they were repetitively played almost every day, more frequently when he, my father, and uncle were on drinking binge, which I hated a lot.
My grandfather taught me to hate drinking at a young age (more about that in next stories), not because he was a teetotaller, but because he would drink his problems – and joys – away. And the quarrels and small accidents that would happen afterwards would always terrify me. My father beat him at that; he is a serial drinker. I am their total opposite. For that, I thank both of them for setting the examples.
Lolo told me the most wonderful stories from his childhood adventures and misadventures. He loved to drive and my love for road trips to faraway places I attribute to him. When he retired he bought a Pinoy Owner-type jeep and he would take me to the beach, to the countryside, and elsewhere. Compared to my grandmother who had the difficulty of parting with her pesos, my grandfather was reasonably generous. When he thought I deserved a reward after getting a prize at school, he would buy me a book or a toy. I have to credit him for nurturing my interest for reading and books.
He lived a full life. I admire his boldness and courage to pursue what catches his attention. He was an artisan. Bored with retirement, he bought a welding machine and metal rods. He made bed frames, plant stands, knives, and everything that his imagination told him. There was a time when he was crazy about raising marcotted fruiting plants, too.
Alas, he was never good at handling his finances. He invested the retirement lump sum on motorcycles, which, he rented out to tricycle drivers for a daily arkela. He also bought a passenger jeepney for the same reason. For the next three or so years, we were financially OK. But the upkeep and annual dues, taxes, etc., coupled with daily household expenses him and my grandmother. The motorcycle failed one by one, you get reckless drivers who did not care about the vehicle. Some would even run away without paying the rent. He died without any savings. The only financial incentive my grandmother ever received was the burial benefit that the government paid her as his survivor.
He was 81 when he deteriorated. It was quick. CA of the liver. His lifelong affair with the booze had finally caught up with him. He was diagnosed in August of 2013. There were days when he felt weak and it worried me; on days when he felt his old, usual self, those were moments when I sighed with relief. In late October he finally weakened. By December he could no longer walk and was bedridden until he finally passed on in January 2014.
The morning after my grandmother died six months later, I awoke after a dream. We were inside the church, they were walking together towards the huge door, the light coming through was so bright it hurt my eyes. I was standing in the middle of the church, while they kept walking slowly, together, towards the door, towards the light. When I woke up, that’s how I knew that they were finally together.
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