There's No Forgetting Them
The radio played the theme song of Voltes V. The familiar tune brought me back to the time when my younger brother and I would watch the Voltes V, Mazinger Z, and Daimos while working on our homework.
Before I knew it, my mind was wandering to a faraway time and place in my heart when life was so much simpler, when life revolved in the small town of Malolos, Bulacan where I was born and raised. As I was travelling through the North Luzon Expressway, my heart was walking down memory lane guided by memories of familiar faces from my childhood years. Families and teachers often stand out during such recollections, the object of either extreme affection or bantering. In yesterday's reminiscence though the limelight fell on people who weren't particularly close to me but without whom my childhood journey wouldn't be complete.
Ka Vito. It was the sound of Voltes V's theme song and remembrance of Ka Vito that triggered the whole recollection. She probably has passed on to the next life by now but who among Catholics in Malolos in the 1970's would not remember Ka Vito? She was that small woman selling different religious articles in what looked like a cave tucked away at the back of one of the old buildings. If my memory serves me right, she was the only supplier of religious articles in Malolos during that time. From rosaries to scapulars to different novena prayer books to statues of saints and different religious medals. She wasn't a particularly warm or engaging person but I vividly remember how she would patiently respond to our requests and look for what we needed in what seemed like a storage room rather than a display store. And I am almost certain that keeping the store was more of a response to a "call" rather than a product of business acumen.
Mang German. He was the guard in our school. Guards didn't wear uniforms and carry firearms back then but there was zero crime rate in our school. The sight of Mang German and the sound of his voice would scare the hell out of me as he often hollered at students hanging around the gate. His serious look and frequent scowls were more of a statement as to who was in charge. During less busy hours, he would show his lighter side. And then we would be convinced that he was indeed the brother of the more amiable Mang Venancio, one of the school's maintenance staff.
Ka Nardo. He ferried us to and from school in his ramshackle mini jeep which was the most unreliable school service there probably was. He wouldn't show up for either of two reasons: his jeep conked out somewhere, or the local transport office was running after vehicles without proper registration of which his jeep was one. This went on for seven years - from grade one to first year high school. I would sometimes wonder why my mother never even considered changing my school service. On hindsight, I think it was because my mother was more concerned about the who than the what. His jeep may be dilapidated but Mang Nardo was very trustworthy. He had such a pleasant and funny demeanor even during times when I, with my strong emotional radar, sensed that he was burdened with something. He made our daily travels to and from school more fun with his jokes. With Mang Nardo, the potholes in our subdivision became moon craters. As we approached potholes and humps, he would warn us, "kapit sa tenga" (hold on to your ears). I finally gained my independence during my second year in high school when my parents finally allowed me to commute on my own. Ka Nardo, however, was like a caring father who would always give me a lift whenever he saw me. Sometimes I think of him and where he might now be. Perhaps, I should look for him and pay him a visit one day.
Jim. We all called her Jim. Jim sold samalamig (cold drink with jelly and tapioca pearls and syrup flavoured with vanilla extract), banana cue, and chips outside the campus. The school authorities warned us about buying from the vendors outside the campus but there probably wasn't a single student who didn't sneak a samalamig or junk food at Jim's stall in her/his entire student life in Immaculata Academy. Like Ka Nardo, she was a funny woman. She was a bit loud but she was an amusing woman. Although financially hard-up, she would never scrimp on her samalamig serving or quell our cravings when our money was short. I knew life was not easy for her as a mother trying to give her children the best education possible but her perseverance and positive outlook were inspiring. I would later find out from her daughter, who was a classmate of ours, that Jim's real name is Erlinda. Why or how she became Jim, no one really knew.
Mrs. Magsakay. She was my first piano teacher. From grade two through grade four, I would spend an hour of my Saturday and Sunday mornings going to her house to take piano lessons. She must have been in her early 60s then but still had very sharp ears when it came to music. What I fondly remember of her was that she was a late sleeper, perhaps insomniac, and would still be in bed when I arrived for my piano lessons at 8:00 in the morning. She would then ask one of her grandchildren to ask either me or my neighbor to begin with the Hanon exercises. We would squabble over who would come first, thinking we could escape her scrutinizing ears while she was still half asleep. To our surprise she would call our attention to our mistakes when she finally got up and went downstairs. I also found it amusing that while she was engrossed in reading Liwayway magazine, she was quick to notice when I tried to skip a page of my piano piece or was playing the piece incorrectly. There was no getting away from her sharp musical ears. I would learn from her that even a non-academic activity deserves dedication. There is no room for mediocrity just because one doesn't get graded for it.
It's strange how we sometimes simply let people go with the passage of time. Leaving Malolos for my college education and later to work and expand my wings, I seemed to have deleted these people from my mind together with the many things I was reactive against during my early 20s. But then the 40s came and perhaps because I am now in the middle of my life journey, I am often moved to pause and look back at my life and at the people who gave a certain rhythm to my ordinary life, people who deepened the sense of rootedness to a certain past. Perhaps, remembering them will bring clarity to how I would want the second half of my life to become.
Before I knew it, my mind was wandering to a faraway time and place in my heart when life was so much simpler, when life revolved in the small town of Malolos, Bulacan where I was born and raised. As I was travelling through the North Luzon Expressway, my heart was walking down memory lane guided by memories of familiar faces from my childhood years. Families and teachers often stand out during such recollections, the object of either extreme affection or bantering. In yesterday's reminiscence though the limelight fell on people who weren't particularly close to me but without whom my childhood journey wouldn't be complete.
Ka Vito. It was the sound of Voltes V's theme song and remembrance of Ka Vito that triggered the whole recollection. She probably has passed on to the next life by now but who among Catholics in Malolos in the 1970's would not remember Ka Vito? She was that small woman selling different religious articles in what looked like a cave tucked away at the back of one of the old buildings. If my memory serves me right, she was the only supplier of religious articles in Malolos during that time. From rosaries to scapulars to different novena prayer books to statues of saints and different religious medals. She wasn't a particularly warm or engaging person but I vividly remember how she would patiently respond to our requests and look for what we needed in what seemed like a storage room rather than a display store. And I am almost certain that keeping the store was more of a response to a "call" rather than a product of business acumen.
Mang German. He was the guard in our school. Guards didn't wear uniforms and carry firearms back then but there was zero crime rate in our school. The sight of Mang German and the sound of his voice would scare the hell out of me as he often hollered at students hanging around the gate. His serious look and frequent scowls were more of a statement as to who was in charge. During less busy hours, he would show his lighter side. And then we would be convinced that he was indeed the brother of the more amiable Mang Venancio, one of the school's maintenance staff.
Ka Nardo. He ferried us to and from school in his ramshackle mini jeep which was the most unreliable school service there probably was. He wouldn't show up for either of two reasons: his jeep conked out somewhere, or the local transport office was running after vehicles without proper registration of which his jeep was one. This went on for seven years - from grade one to first year high school. I would sometimes wonder why my mother never even considered changing my school service. On hindsight, I think it was because my mother was more concerned about the who than the what. His jeep may be dilapidated but Mang Nardo was very trustworthy. He had such a pleasant and funny demeanor even during times when I, with my strong emotional radar, sensed that he was burdened with something. He made our daily travels to and from school more fun with his jokes. With Mang Nardo, the potholes in our subdivision became moon craters. As we approached potholes and humps, he would warn us, "kapit sa tenga" (hold on to your ears). I finally gained my independence during my second year in high school when my parents finally allowed me to commute on my own. Ka Nardo, however, was like a caring father who would always give me a lift whenever he saw me. Sometimes I think of him and where he might now be. Perhaps, I should look for him and pay him a visit one day.
Jim. We all called her Jim. Jim sold samalamig (cold drink with jelly and tapioca pearls and syrup flavoured with vanilla extract), banana cue, and chips outside the campus. The school authorities warned us about buying from the vendors outside the campus but there probably wasn't a single student who didn't sneak a samalamig or junk food at Jim's stall in her/his entire student life in Immaculata Academy. Like Ka Nardo, she was a funny woman. She was a bit loud but she was an amusing woman. Although financially hard-up, she would never scrimp on her samalamig serving or quell our cravings when our money was short. I knew life was not easy for her as a mother trying to give her children the best education possible but her perseverance and positive outlook were inspiring. I would later find out from her daughter, who was a classmate of ours, that Jim's real name is Erlinda. Why or how she became Jim, no one really knew.
Mrs. Magsakay. She was my first piano teacher. From grade two through grade four, I would spend an hour of my Saturday and Sunday mornings going to her house to take piano lessons. She must have been in her early 60s then but still had very sharp ears when it came to music. What I fondly remember of her was that she was a late sleeper, perhaps insomniac, and would still be in bed when I arrived for my piano lessons at 8:00 in the morning. She would then ask one of her grandchildren to ask either me or my neighbor to begin with the Hanon exercises. We would squabble over who would come first, thinking we could escape her scrutinizing ears while she was still half asleep. To our surprise she would call our attention to our mistakes when she finally got up and went downstairs. I also found it amusing that while she was engrossed in reading Liwayway magazine, she was quick to notice when I tried to skip a page of my piano piece or was playing the piece incorrectly. There was no getting away from her sharp musical ears. I would learn from her that even a non-academic activity deserves dedication. There is no room for mediocrity just because one doesn't get graded for it.
It's strange how we sometimes simply let people go with the passage of time. Leaving Malolos for my college education and later to work and expand my wings, I seemed to have deleted these people from my mind together with the many things I was reactive against during my early 20s. But then the 40s came and perhaps because I am now in the middle of my life journey, I am often moved to pause and look back at my life and at the people who gave a certain rhythm to my ordinary life, people who deepened the sense of rootedness to a certain past. Perhaps, remembering them will bring clarity to how I would want the second half of my life to become.
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