Country Roads

“Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze.”  

Lyrics from John Denver’s hit were the first words that I jotted down from a song whilst alternating stopping the vinyl player, which my Papa probably bought from his stint in Saudi Arabia. I assume my young self that time did the exercise because of the heartfelt effect of the song—my first time to experience a muse as what qualified writers call it. That was after I came back from my two-month sojourn in my grandfather’s town.

I never knew my Lolo (grandpa) up close and personal, but I felt that he loved me even if I did not carry his last name.

Lolo’s house wasn’t exactly a mansion: it was a huge bungalow house that conveys a mansion-like impression given the massive projections of its facade whilst the plants in his garden created an enchanted forest. My father, smitten by the wits of a beautiful teacher from that town, together with his architect buddy designed that house Pro Bono: ah, the effect of young and misguided love.

“Dark and dusty, painted on the sky. Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye.” 

The province did not have much concrete roads yet, and it was dusty as the path to my Lolo’s town comprised a network of rough roads—probably graded once a year by a rented ramshackle grader and compacted by the erratic scheduled trips of jeepneys from Pola to the island capital’s solitary port that time.

I knew my Lolo loved me as his apo (grandson). That he taught me how to take a leak in our apartment’s kitchen sink in Prudencio was an initial proof and much to the annoyance of my mother–my Lolo made me feel like I was one of the angelic cherubs on those ancient fountains in UST. I will never forget that time when he had my remote control car fixed by the only engineer with the electronics know-how in that town after my toy got busted after I deliberately spilled talc powder on it to create a replica of the dusty roads to my Lolo’s town. I always felt protected when Lolo was around especially if the horrifically masked Moriones would pass by his house during Lent.

“And driving down the road I get a feeling that I should have been home yesterday, yesterday.” 

The last time I saw my Lolo’s house was almost three years ago—before the new owners had it demolished. Strangers were renting it that time so I couldn’t go inside my Lolo’s mansion again to at least take a leak. Whilst driving around town, the majestic palaces of relatives from the land of the maple leaf amazed me. The old disgruntled me demanded from the heavens why my grandfather had to die on that awful day in the 80s: his intimidating presence alone would have kept order in my family’s affairs—I could have been someone else who celebrates birthdays with his family instead of years of indulging in fast-food outlets in the desert. There would have been no need to worry during those past years when my efforts fell short—inadequate—and late: I could have kept his legacy intact; and not someone else’s. There would have been no need for me to—fervently—feed the fire of hate towards others who were just minding their own business: there was no need to justify that anger as if it were a cerebral form of collateral damage.

I don’t know about reincarnation, but I believe in restart buttons—just like when I operated my Papa’s turntable a long time ago. Birthdays do that. Yes, they do. Other than its periodic function of reminding you that the clock is ticking, birthdays also serve as milestones to be thankful: to reconsider happiness and decide it’s high time to throw away all the excess baggage and move forward.

For my birthday, I wish to bury the hatchet—and forgive myself. This note is my personal eulogy to my old self.

My Lolo would have been proud that I became a working-class hero—just like him. I can envisage his smile right now in heaven knowing I assimilated the virtues of the knight I imagined as a child whilst playing in his garden. That I have pursued my dreams to walk and toil on foreign lands—yeah, my Lolo would have been proud. My Lola would have prepared me serbesa and bopis to celebrate.

I am no poet—not even close; a lifetime more practice to do and musings to grow into a writer I wished I was—I am a quantity surveyor, for goodness’ sake!

I may never set foot on that place again—except in case, my mother or my aunt so wishes otherwise. However, if the time comes, I am granted one wish before passing into the next life, I would request to experience that humid surround, breathe the salty air of the sea, and if I can push my luck a little further, sit on a rickety wooden rocking chair like that of my Lolo Simeon’s whilst setting it on my favourite spot of that town which separates the zones between Everlasting and Calanog: on top of the concrete levee’s crown, facing the shallow waters of the sea so I can see the sunset one last time.

“Country roads, take me home to the place I belong…” 

https://youtu.be/3VdIfIZHJ_M

Pandora's Box

I first read about the myth of Pandora when I accidentally discovered my mother’s old high school literature textbook during one of those enforced summer exiles in her hometown.
 
Compared to our textbooks, my mother’s books were hardbound: a seven-year-old’s imagination can entice curiosity. My grandfather’s house was like a mansion to the eyes of a kid who only has a 5 x 10-meter apartment space for a home in Sampaloc.

I discovered the said book in a wooden chest in one room of my Lolo’s mansion. The endeavor reminded me of that 80s film “The Goonies” and it made the discovery, not to mention the secret misdemeanor, more heartfelt—memorable.

Leafing through the pages, I learned of Pandora’s naivety. I cursed Pandora—the world would have been better if she restrained her curiosity. I remember taking a break, running to my Lolo’s garden and splashing my face with cold-stored water aged through time in a clay jar: the myth (story) was too much to take for a kid caught in transitioning from childhood to early puberty.

Having calmed myself, I felt a new feeling—of yearning something that I could not yet describe—to read the climax of the story. After opening the said box, Pandora apparently tried to close it back, but it was too late. From the narratives of that book, it told me that after all evil from the box escaped, there was one entity left, my first symbolic thought was of a dove as in like Noah’s ark, and it came in the form of hope.

Fast forward to a modern desk life and mid-life crisis stage, leafing through the cost data of our prelims, payroll and salaries included, I feel like I have just exposed myself to a new form of Pandora’s box. The information, which also requires the same splashing of cold water in the face, now unleashes a reality bound by prejudice as one will see the petty injustices of a compensation system that resulted in the same naivety or stupidity that Pandora did.

However, I could not ignore the fact that the little people: the hardworking ones, the ones who go on leave every two years, the ones who still work on Fridays, the people who endure their managers’ anger and frustrations, the ones out in the heat, the long nights, embody the same culmination mentioned in that story: hope.