A LONG AND LASTING LOVE

(Memories on January 24, 2014)

I think I’ve had mentioned in passing somewhere in here a story about her, many happy and sad posts ago which you did also endure, using for her another pseudonym even I could not recall anymore. I just remember her once more when Big Boss-A, not knowing I knew her for sure or that her path and mine crossed too in the not-so-distant past, nonchalantly talked about her sudden departure.

Let me liberally refer her here as Pretty Girl-C. Well, if I give someone a name I do make sure I give appropriately.

Big Boss-A, Cutie Boy-B, and Pretty Girl-C were classmates in a certain academic level one time or another but the last two were romantically closer. Long before Big Boss-A became a big boss even of an executioner, Cutie Boy-B and I were close roommates as only a thin pillow served as our divider. I came to know him only when I first arrived at our boarding house where I was assigned by our host in the same room with him where there were no open windows. In the beginning, I frowned upon his being too much in love with himself like Narcissus, but his enviable beauty and amiable attitude later made us no more strange bedfellows.

Cutie Boy-B was a bright boy but also a literal philosopher, or to be rude in a local dialect, “Pilosopo,” for the accurate term. Yet, to his antics, I would not squirm especially after learning that when it comes to love we’re both uncompromising and firm. Most of the time during the day he talked mostly nonsense or something hazardous to eardrum as we were both sorting morning chores while we would cram. But during the night, when the topic shifted to love, we’d always love to jam, seriously talking together at the same time as if tomorrow would never come.

And that was when I met Pretty Girl-C in his bedtime stories and in repeated emotional spins. Until her name in mind didn’t just ring a bell but it exploded well like “Goodbye Philippines.” Who would never know a girl totally inside out, when as you sleep and wake up it’s her life you keep hearing about? No wonder, long before I met Pretty Girl-C up close and personal, it felt like we were weaned together and grew up in time equal.

Albeit Cutie Boy-B didn’t reveal it to me in bed during the early stages of his tell-all tale and other fascinating gabs, I knew it right away in his first few words that his and Pretty Girl-C’s was just another story of the rise and fall of love. I did not bother to ask him anymore who was to blame between them for their bitter break-up, all I knew until he and I parted ways later too that Cutie Boy-B would be the one to suffer a long and lasting love.

And one Valentine’s day, when he requested me once and for all to deliver for him a bouquet of roses to Pretty Girl-C at her place of work in the city, I obliged with all my heart and saddled up to meet her in the flesh finally, knowing the loving feeling of a man who thought of nothing but one woman only. However, she didn’t accept herself the flowers which only on her table I placed. Maybe, some peace offering would not be acceptable in war even if they are roses. Maybe, some people believe some love lasts a lifetime, I just don’t know if hatred does too sometimes.

I felt sad of course when Big Boss-A did break the news Pretty Girl-C became another casualty of the Big C. I only hope Cutie Boy-B, who’s said to be based now in the duplicate land of milk and honey would find peace too finally.

As one song puts it, “A long and lasting love, not many people find it….” Unlike God’s love that never fails (I Cor. 13:8), a man’s love is always incomplete.

MY “MANINOY”

[January 7, 2013 at 9:58am]

A long time ago, The Preacher preached with these words so loudly which still hold true as they are being preached in the wilderness till today: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. . . . A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-6).

Truly, no event in a man’s life gives around so much pain than the one moment in time when there must be parting.

After faithfully serving the government for about three decades with all his best, last January 1st, effective immediately, my one and only known “Maninoy” in life finally called it quits.

Last Friday, I witnessed one if not the most heart-rending testimonial lunch program ever in sole honor of him, launched privately by his peers, wherein everybody in a sea of tears did swim. And it cemented my belief that all eloquence and mastery of prose and poetry would be poorly no match to the plain words coming out freely from the heart of the simple and the ordinary.

Had it not for “Maninoy” and his insistence to convince me to become a modern-day Philippines who’d do nothing but run and run, I’d end up probably in Erap’s allegory as someone who’d be “pupulutin na lang sa kangkungan.” When I imposed self-exile in Metro Manila more than two years after the first people power show, I vowed to myself never to return unless I’d be with me that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

But with his soft approach with the voice of an angel and gentle persuasion, I knew I had then to make once and for all a lifetime decision. Thus, “Maninoy” plucked me out of the planet of the unemployed, where wallets and pockets were like a newborn Earth: dark, without form and void. Of course, my Auntie Yet was reliable as ever and supportive of me together with T’yoy Nilo, but sometimes a man has got to do what a man has got to do.

Sometimes I wonder either, if comes the time of my turn to retire from service and retreat to my own sick bed, will there be tears too to shed by colleagues or they show festive mood and great revelry instead?

No words from me won’t be enough to thank you, yet, so long, “Maninoy,” farewell. May I’d be your living legacy in the service so well, someone who’ll retrace your blazing trail…

IT IS WELL

[Memories on January 10, 2013 at 5:52pm]

Last Sunday morning at the beach which is, from home, only twenty-five meters away plus a little more, while sitting on the pebbles along the shore, I enjoyed watching my little kids frolicking in the waters, in the sand, like we did exactly in the days of yore.

Initially, there were only the three of us, for it was already around seven or way past. Most of the regular strollers probably had left the beach early or still yet to dash. Suddenly my eyes darted again to the lone structure in a certain part of the sand area. To the unlearned, he would say it certainly is the Middle Earth’s version of a Straightened Tower of Pisa.

In troth and in fact, it is not. It is well, a condemned well. Not preserved by men but by time so well. The well looks as it is today because a big bulk of earth around it had been washed out to the sea. One could mistake it for a mini-lighthouse tower, a beacon for a seafarer, but it’s just a silent reminder for many unforgettable stories in our barrio in the past worth retelling over and over.

Back in the 60’s or much earlier, depending on whom you’re talking to, whether to a grossly exaggerated sentimentalist or a not sober gringo, that well was the lone source of water of residents in that part of Kirayan Norte now known as Zone Two.

I couldn’t imagine the many thirsts it quenched before it gave its final and last drop of water, the many bamboo poles and native jars it filled which the natives once used as a water container. But above it all, personally, to someone who still exists, the heart of the matter concerning the well is the matter of the heart it heard despite its deafness.

When I made a sign we’d go home by waving a hand, the kids were teasing each other and sprinting as they would come. I almost told them they must be thankful for some love that which had gone, else, they probably could be here in this world still but with a different mom.

So learn too to smile with the stories of life with memories of joy and the pain of past trials that anytime would come in part, in droves, in full. But you must be grateful more than ever to the Great Comforter who, whatever the tide, has taught you to say, “It is well with my soul.”

THE DRIVER

[Memories on January 11, 2013]

At the front seat of a city-bound bus with wide open doors, I was all alone there Thursday morning except its driver of course, when as we approached Baroc-Cabanbanan’s blind curve, the driver would still insist to overtake a jeepney thus steering us on collision course. I instantly expected an instant clash head-on, with anything on-rushing from the town of Oton. I was correct because as I gripped my seat’s backrest and paused, a private vehicle in front tiptoed along the left side of the road, and to sigh later on, “that was close!” 

From now on I promise I will firmly believe that most of the so-called vehicular “accidents” are definitely man-made. And I’m more convinced not only drugs and cigarettes kill, most fatally speaking, stupidity will.

I used to prefer a bus over PUJ’s in choosing my mode of transportation to and from the city daily because the latter, especially the “Sanwakinhin” or San Joaquin-route plyers, are most likely composed of Formula 1 winners and ambulance or firetruck drivers. Yeah, I’m scared of PUJ’s, that’s why. Riding on them I couldn’t have peace of mind. I couldn’t take either their words to live by: “Why go slow when you can fly.”

Everytime I meet drivers like the one in that bus who obviously knew nothing about responsibility, the more I heap praises and respect to my own father who drove PUJ for more than a third of a century. During my freshman year, when I skipped classes in my secondary course, after my mother’s signature in an excuse letter was forged, I couldn’t stay any longer in Tay Eking’s “bilyaran” with those gambling (“pusoy-bahig”) lords as someone would notice me and say, “Ay, dya bata ni George!”

It took me about two years or more in the town proper to be called by my name, as I was spontaneously referred to as “Bata Ni George” more often. Perhaps that identity crisis in life drove me to tread on the naughty road to “popularity,” since the academic excellence’s way was so overcrowded by the usual suspects from the celebrated and cerebral clans in our municipality.

However, I did it discreetly and within the ambit of minimum tolerance only. I didn’t mess around everywhere in the town openly for fear that bad reports would reach Tatay any time of day. Why not? Miagao jeepney drivers were known by and knew everybody then, besides, he was driving for the public eversince. He steered them all with the same diligence, from Armak to Cimarron which he both ran like a Benz, even all the way from the buses Master Mariner Express by Lolo Jose Nim’s and Tay Kasyâ Noviza’s Miagao Student Prince. 

My only goal at the time was to get out of the shadow of that tag, “Bata Ni George” with burning desire and strong will as if it was my ultimate dream in life to fulfill. As time went by, the more I realized I could never overshadow my father still, regardless of any achievement, even when he was later known as, “Tatay Ni Ramil.”

A BETTER LOVE

January 23, 2017 at 7:01am

Watching my mother in the emergency room as she slept, it was obvious her body was desperate to claim its much-needed rest. Perhaps the long years of toil and hard work were starting to send the bill, demanding swift payment from her, just like the rest.

As I continued to look at her pale face, I tried to re-trace the old beauteous image that impressed me through the years. I recalled too her particular photo from high school I failed to preserve, along with her other memes of joy and tears.

And still reverberated were the usual verbal comment of my friends and enemies, if any, too. From elementary to high school to college, the words were the same, “Gwapa Nanay mo ‘no?”

My palm on her forehead, I asked myself while sitting on a monoblock chair beside her bed: from the day I was born until I got married, how many times did she watch me when I was sick?

I could not forget those repeated nights when I had a high fever and “nagdediliryo,” and I saw a great ball of fire coming in through the window. How I trembled and yelled “Nanaayy!” on the bed made of bamboo, and only after she touched, caressed and embraced me that my fear would let go.

Truly in this world, no other human love could perfectly match, much less surpass, a mother’s love. No, not even the love of those women who swore to you theirs were the best you could ever have.

As what Agatha Christie wrote eloquently: “A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.”

In any occasion, a mother’s love would rise above. Nothing’s better than that, save for our Savior’s love.

A ROAD STORY

[January 23, 2014 ]

For the first time in a long time, I have traversed on official trip the widened highway leading to Central Panay last Monday, and so I got the chance once again to pass by and glanced at the long and winding road that led to her door yesterday. It was the road so familiar I knew I could still walk on even in closed eyes. It was the path in more than a couple of years I’d fearlessly trodden upon day and night.

I could still see from the distance the door that had been so kind because it would never close on me. The door which I swear still bears the marks of my nightly knocking knuckles even until today. I asked myself what if I would care to decide to knock and enter in that same door once more for her to visit, would I still see that old angelic beauty and divine-like grace in her then sun-starved face? Would I still be entertained like an ordinary friend, just for old time’s sake, and talk to her again in private while taking all the liberty at once staring at the countenance that swept me off my feet?

Everyone undisputedly believes all things change, I know, but for me some things remain the same just for the sake of tomorrow. That when souls parted would be reunited later and met for a brief or long talk, both of them would totally agree that life is short but at the same time a long walk. That’s why I get it when some say wisdom is learned only when everything is way too late already. For in life, every lesson we learn from every mistake, would not be for us anymore but for our children to correct.

However, expect that out of a hundred children to whom you would share a story of your life and the lessons that go with it, only a handful would take it seriously like the way we listened to our World War Two surviving folks when they told it in the street. The next time therefore someone a lot older than thou wants to share a story, learn to listen and absorb every word he’d say as knowledge is not limited to school premises only.

Some are learned in the caves even in the uttermost part of the Earth, the way wars were fought in the mountains and beaches regardless of who gets hurt. If the warring people of the olden times were not telling their stories, how ignorant we could be today because we will never hear about peace. Every nation in the world is defined and sustained by her story, her road story from its conception, to its struggles, redemption and glory. I was told somewhere in Baghdad there is this inscription of something like, “Sown by the seed of a tale, thus the world knew Baghdad and fascinated by her stories in the city and in the vale.

It’s her story too that makes Israel rich and famous then and now universally especially when we speak about power, survival and bravery. It’s her story that did spread and heard all the way to an Eastern country and prodded wise men to go see the birth of the King Who came down from His glory. They were real wise men because they did fearlessly tread upon an unknown path, certain they’d never get lost because what they were seeking for was the One and True God.

Life in this Earth may be short but also a continuous journey. Go find that life’s Way that leads you through all eternity…

LIVING LIVES

[January 16, 2016 at 2:38pm]

A priest and a pastor stood near a sharp curve on a busy road holding signs on a big square plate. “The end is near!” read the priest’s sign, while the pastor’s warned, “Turn around before it’s too late!”

As he passed by, a jerk in a sports car yelled “Idiots!” and shook his head, blasted his horn, raised one finger and stomped on the gas. Moments later the clerics suddenly heard the sound of screeching tires, followed by a Tarzan-like bellow and then a loud big splash.

The priest turned to the pastor and said, “Maybe we should change our signs to ‘Bridge Out’.”

Just recently, there were two prominent persons in their field of expertise and skill that people have seen how much they were endeared so well when both for whom did finally toll the bell. One was Mr. German Moreno, a.k.a. Kuya Germs or Mr. Showman, depending on your preference of showbiz spiel, and the other was Ms. Letty Jimenez Magsanoc, journalist nonpareil.

Kuya Germs was said to be so kindhearted to those aspiring newbies in showbiz dreaming to make it big, so generous to the point that even in the bottomest part of his pocket he would not hesitate to dig. I smiled when I heard he’d a secret crush too on Ms. Dawn Zulueta, my teenage crush when I still love shindig along with Marianne Dela Riva, both are listed in my personal archive of local beauties’ league.

LJM? Well, each time she would be mentioned by her colleagues in her profession in some write-ups I read, I could always sense their awe and respect to the woman who, to me, everything in journalism had she perfected. At a time when so many men hid their tails between their legs at a mere mention of the word Marcos, to be buckled down too she did refuse, and she bucked the system with balance news and fearless views.

It’s really different when you live life driven by a specific purpose. You’d not regret a thing as you continue living it, win or lose. It’s truly feels different when you live life touching lives. No matter what happens, the passion, the joy, thrives.

Just like Jesus Christ Who came into this world neither for men’s praises nor for any world’s precious prize. He came not to call the righteous but sinners for repentance (Mat. 9:13; Mk. 2:17). He lived touching hearts. And saving lives.