Ka-Blog!

    I never got to meet my maternal grandfather. He was assassinated–shot in the face–at the
height of the’69 polls campaign period. He was a mayoral candidate in our old, feudal, poor and fractious little
town. Killed by a rival’s goon, my
Lolo’s senseless death was later avenged when his rival’s mother and aunt were
stabbed to death themselves. No, my
family did not have anything to do with their murder.

    All I knew of my grandfather were a few faded sepia
prints. But I often hear old folks tell us
that I look like him. I am dark, like he
was. I am overweight, and he was
too. We have the same facial
features. My Lolo must have been
handsome.

    But I did see him once. When we were about to bury my Ande (his wife, my maternal grandmother
who helped raise me.  Or, more precisely, nagpalaki sa akin.) some years back, we got to see his bones. His cheekbone had a neat little hole where
the fatal bullet punctured it and ended his life.  His teeth were stll intact as were his
close-cropped hair.

    Petty barrio politicians swear during elections that they’d
do everything in their puny powers to bring back the days when my grandfather’s
word was the law in our proud and rambunctious barangay. I heard he could stare down drunks and make
them go home meekly. I heard he loved
being the master of ceremonies during dances and programs and that he would not
allow anyone unshod by shined leather shoes and not wearing barong tagalogs or
suits to enter the dancing saloon. I am
sure some of their stories were a bit exagerrated but how would I know?

    Those were the days and they are no more. True to their reputation, we’ve had a
succession of corrupt barangay officials who live a life of vice and
pettiness. But I should say no more about
them. They are either relations or
friends.

    Lolo was a school teacher. His last public position was division supply officer of the Department
of Education in Isabela. The desks that
are still being used in some classrooms in our province went through his own
desk.

    He graduated from the National University which gave him a huge
diploma that still hangs in our antesala. He was an alumnus of the then Philippine Normal School which became the
Philippine Normal College during my mom’s time and later the Philippine Normal
University during my wife’s abbreviated stay there.

    Ande saved a few of his prized possessions. He had a smoking
pipe, a buffalo ivory backsratcher, two
pairs of boxing gloves (I got my nose broken in a boxing match with those), two suits, a fedora hat, a wonderful wool sweater (I
use this), a trenchcoat, a harmonica and a maracas (he was a musician), an old and
moderately-sized house of hardwood and cement, some wonderful furniture,
several parcels of land, and some other thingamajigs.

    Six of his children survived him. The youngest was his only son. His daughters are all strong-willed and can
raise hell when slightly provoked.

    Why I am suddenly remembering all these I don’t know. I should be fetching my wife now so we could
go home. But I am too tired to go down
the office steps, drive, even eat. I am
parked in front of the computer and this is all I could do at the moment.

    Maybe because all I want at the moment is to have a
haircut. I sport a flattop do, too.
Like he did.