I’m one crazy, sentimental kind of person. And among the few of my sweetest sentiments were my growing years with my grandparents. I was seven years old then when I lived with them. Ah! That was more than a decade ago, 16 years to be exact. Once when I asked my mother why the arrangement was like that, she said it was an impulse that I chose to move to my grand sires’ place.
Between the two oldies, it is my granddad I describe as lenient. Too lenient, actually. He is so different from my grandmom who’s a bit strict and melancholic. One time, I came home from my neighboring classmate’s house as darkness was pitting in. It was typical of a playful child to bond with other children with the same toys and stories. I used the kitchen door hoping no one would notice my entry, but I found lola facing the entrance and seemed to have been waiting for me. She greeted me with raining questions of where had I been, who were my companions, what did we do, and every question she could ever think of. But lolo, who came from somewhere, tried to meddle in an attempt of saving me from tears. Glad was the innocent me when lola stopped talking. Peacefully, I walked to the TV area and enjoyed my night time telenovela. That was the beginning of how I became the granddad’s girl.
During those years, there was this lone bread man in the barangay who hopped from house to house with his crate of breads – cinnamon, Spanish, monay, and my favorite San Nicolas. Yum-yum! I remember the familiar scent of my sugary San Nicolas in every bite.
Sometimes the breadman came when lolo was already gone to toil the fields or drive maya. I stood by the door and would look at the breadman and his crate moved away. How oh-so-poor did I look. But glee, a handful of wild guavas from lolo by late afternoon made me forget what San Nicolas was all about.
I remember those ground demonstrations every pupil had to participate. My teacher asked me to have a pair of dumbbells and two foot-long sticks for props. To whom would I tell my problem? To my granddad of course. The old lady of lolo was too busy tending to her pigs at the backyard. The next day, my dumbbells and sticks were out rightly done. In that house, it was a common scene to see a threesome – my grandfather, my grandmother, and their granddaughter, had meals every morning and evening. There were two similar things on the table except lola’s dinengdeng (a mixture of young corn, camote/saluyot tops, squash flowers, sometimes with malunggay or whatever edible leafy stuff lola could find in the fields). Lolo and I had these platefuls of red rice and cupfuls of steaming drink made out of toasted rice grains. We sprinkled powdered milk and poured our rice coffee over the rice. Such savor with my favorite lolo!
School was soon coming to a close and honor pupils were listed. It was lola whom I approached first. She said lolo should be the one to be told first on such matters. Later in my grown-up years, I was thinking lola was one of those afflicted of the fathers-should-be-the-frontliners mentality. And that women were bound to hide in their skirts. Lolo, under many circumstances, became my partner on-stage receiving whatever award my school gave. Until I finished high school, lolo was my closest family who witnessed my graduation. I still feel the guinness of love brought by his embrace that last day of my high school days.
My grandfather is now 81 years old, and he is the very first person I ask about everytime my mother visits them in the province. I rejoice when I hear he did not even catch a flu.
During semestral breaks, I never fail to visit them who both still enjoy the feel of earth while toiling the ricefields.
As I get older, the more I treasure memories of my lolo as I tell and retell them to my siblings and friends and even to my mother.
I can’t get enough of my stories of him, saying he was one of the individuals who’d never ever spoil your happiness.
The art of it is earned by a non-degree holder like my beloved grandfather.
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