I grew up watching the Powerpuff girls, Darna and Captain Barbel on T.V. I really love the idea that they have super powers and how they can save other that people using it. When I was a kid that was my definition of a hero: someone who either flies or can lift a bus with one arm, someone who has a show that ends with an ever popular overused line that reminds the viewers that “Once again the day is saved. Thanks to…”
Way back in elementary, studying Philippine History changed my perspective of a hero. I learned that Rizal, Bonifacio and Mabini once lived in this country and did everything they could to win our freedom and independence. I thought of a hero as a selfless person devoting every walking moment of his life trying to fight for the welfare of the people.
Now that I am already old and have changed in many ways my idea of a hero has also changed. I stopped limiting my concept of heroes to cartoon characters fighting evil villains and ancestors who made history by defending our nation from abusive foreign powers. I gave another definition to the word hero. He or she is a person who in one way or another have inspired us, helped us and guided us. I have my own long list of heroes and I am glad to say that they are all still alive, except for one person.
* * *
Alfredo Bundal was his name but I called him Lolo. He was my mother’s father. He was not so tall. I think his height was about 5 feet and 2 inches - two inch taller than I am now. He was handsome. He looked like Vic Sotto, a local host and actor. Only he had wrinkles and a number of white hairs. He had a pointed nose. If only he was not my grandpa I might had mistook him as a Mexican. He also had a dark brown skin. It was because he had spent most of his life on the farm. It was also the reason why he had a strong physique and why at his 60’s to 70’s he could carry a sack of rice.
My Lolo was extremely different from my Lola. Lolo was patient, kind and soft-spoken while Lola easily lost her patience and talks loudly. Even though they are different they loved each other so much and were both good grandparents. They were also both loving person except that they had different ways of showing it. Lolo showed it by displaying kindness to his loved ones, while Lola showed it by reminding her loved ones of what she thought the right thing to do. More often than not, however, she would end up shouting when the one she was talking to did not pay attention. I remember that when I was younger than today, my Lola would always nag at my Lolo. She would use bisaya dialect, which I could not understand during those days because we spoke straight Filipino at home and only Lola used it occasionally, that was why I don’t had an idea what were they arguing about. Whenever Lola did that to him, he seemed not to hear her at all and never got angry with her. It made me asked my mother one day why he was like that. She answered that it was one proof that he loves ‘la very much so that as much as possible he wouldn’t wanted to hurt her. That is one thing that I admired about him - his love for her that never faded until his last breath.
Another thing that I admired about him is that he was a hard-working person and a Spartan. He was always working and always organized with his things. Having been raised in poverty, he knew how to wash clothes, cook and farm. Most of the time, he was making wood-work or repairing broken things that could still be used. He also loved repairing their two old houses – one was built beside our home the other one is in Brgy. Sta. Cruz. Most of all he loved to create chairs and table. That is why when he was still alive their dining room had lots of chairs. Most of those were made of plank, about more than one meter long with one pair of legs on its two ends. Each of those chairs could accommodate two to four persons.
I recall that when I was in grade 6; my classmates and I were grouped by our teacher in Technology Livelihood and Economics subject to make similar kind of chair. What else did I do but asked help from the master bench-maker - my Lolo. I asked for help but he and Papa made it all by themselves because they didn’t want me doing hard work like that. The chair was beautiful, especially when I and my group mates had finished painting it. It was well-built that is why it’s very conspicuous that we did not do it ourselves! My teacher reprimanded us and told us not to ask help from others again it we would had new project. When I got home I ran to my Lolo and told him what my teacher said. He didn’t like what he heard but didn’t get angry. He joked that he would go to school and would tell him that the work was too much for us grade school students. He said he would speak to him in English language so he might not be able to answer him back. He always boasted that he spoke English well.
Indeed, he spoke English well. That is why I had this impression when I was still young that he was well educated and financially privileged. But from time to time, through his stories, I learned that he was not able to earn a bachelor degree or even reached college because of poverty. He only finished 3rd year high school. That was the reason why he kept on telling us to value education and encouraged us to study well. So whenever I had a perfect score on a test I would sometimes tell it to him and he would give me a peso or two and with laughter and pride he would say, “Mana ka talaga sa akin.” With that mere statement a story-telling session would begin. The story of course would be about him - his life as a student. He would tell me how well he performed in school, how he would contradict or questioned his teacher when he saw flaws on what his teacher was teaching to them and how his teachers would be appalled when he spoke English fluently. More often than not, the story would not only about his school life. He would sometimes take a left turn and poof! I would find myself listening to his talks about another memory of him. Sometimes he would talk about his good old days on farm or his 20 years of public service as a barangay captain. At some other time it would about something else – but definitely it would also about him. Obviously, he was fond of talking about himself, of his memories. He seemed to never run out of story.
I loved listening to him, especially when he would act what he was telling. Whenever he did that I felt I was watching a show. There were times however that I wanted to sneak away from him when he was telling the same stories he already told me the last time we talked or when our story session had took long hours. Sometimes I did because I know he wouldn’t get angry. But more often than not I was held back by my sense of respect for him as an older person that I would end enduring the boredom I felt until he stopped speaking.
Nevertheless, there was one story that I really loved to hear from him when he was alive. It was the love story of him and Lola. Every time he would tell it to me or to others, he was always as animated as the last time he told it to us. He would tell us how a playboy like him was star stricken by my Lola’s beauty the first time he saw her, how he would walk for several kilometers just to give her fruits and vegetables and chickens or just to had a glance of his sexy legs, how Lola would ran away and hid from him, how he followed and searched her wherever she hid; and how he won her heart at the end. I called his stories clichés or “gasgas” but I preferred this one to call “the classic”.
Indeed Lolo was a caring and sweet person. He was sweet just as much as he loved eating sweet foods, especially sugar. He loved sugar that when he drank coffee he put two table spoons of sugar. When he ate green mangoes, he dipped it into sugar. He did the same with ripe mangoes. And when he would eat his meal, he would look for “Sprite”, a sweet soft drink, which he would not drink but would pour into his rice, instead. “Kakaiba!” I would usually tell him. I found his weirdness funny but not my mama and her siblings because they worried that, because of his weird practice, he would get diabetes which might cause him death.
* * *
That was what they thought but what actually happened was far more different than that. He did not die because of diabetes. Instead, he died because of an accident.
Two days before that accident he was very happy and energetic. He told for the nth time to us, his grandchildren the classic love story of Alfredo and Rosario. He too told us his life as a teen-ager and many more. He had told us the almost all the story about his whole life! The way he had told us those stories were very much different than before. He was very animated, much more animated than before. Even us, his grandchildren who were all present that day, were as animated as him as we listened. We laughed and laughed and laughed. No one got bore and left. We really had a happy time. We didn’t even care if we started at afternoon and stopped when it was dark.
The next morning, he bid us goodbye and went to Sta. Cruz. Before he left, he promised that he would finished as soon as possible the renovation of his house because we had said before we didn’t wanted to go there because it seemed haunted. He also promised that he would make bahay-bahayan - where we could play - beside it. We were happy when he left. We never had an idea that that would be the last time that we would see him in well condition. And never did we think that his farewell would last forever.
Two ordinary days and nights passed after that day. On the third day, when I arrived home from school, I noticed that Mama and Papa weren’t around; even Uncle Boy and Lola were not there. Only Rj was there and my three small sisters. It was very unusual situation that I immediately sensed that there was something wrong. Then, Rj told me the news: Lolo was brought in the hospital by some barrio folks. I was not shocked but I did get worried. I thought it was just a discomfort; you know, the problems of most elderly people. Yet, we still went to the infirmary hurriedly after she I herd the news.
When we arrived at the Cooperative hospital, Papa who was waiting for us on the gate led us to Lolo’s room. On the entrance of the hospital I saw a nativity scene. And I said to myself, I know Jesus would not let bad things happen to my grandpa especially that Christmas was fast approaching. I knew everything were under control and was ok.
When we were in front of the room, we quietly opened the door and entered. The room seemed gloomy even if the lights were turned on. I didn’t know why but it made me felt sad and downcast. Then, I moved my eyes to the bed beside the door and I saw Lolo lying unconsciously. He looked like he was just sleeping soundly and seemed to enjoy his rest. On the bed beside his bed sat my Mama, Uncle and Lola, who were silent. With their somber and teary-eyed looks, I realized that the situation we were facing at that point was serious and huge like a mountain which I thought would be hard to overcome. I walked near to Mama who was holding her tears back firmly. I wanted to ask her what happened. I wanted to know every detail. But I was tamed with my thoughts that if she started to speak she would burst into tears. I wouldn’t want to see such scene and so I asked Papa, instead.
This was what happened as narrated to him by the barrio folks: Lolo had decided to cut the coconut tree beside his house because he wanted to make a garden on that area and also because he would use its lumber for the bahay-bahayan he was building and for his house’s renovation. However, there would be a problem. The tree if cut would fall on the house. So he asked help from some barrio folks and they did help him. They tied the tree with a rope and dragged it towards the opposite direction, away from the house while someone was cutting it. They were successful but the force of the tree was stronger that it also dragged them. They got scratches and wounds. But Lolo got the worse condition. He accidentally hit his head into something hard and has lost his consciousness.
I looked back at my Lolo. He was totally different from the Lolo I used to talk to, who talks a lot and full of zest. He was unanimated…speechless. I wanted to see him talk and tell stories again so I with everybody in the room waited for him to wake up and talk to us. Seconds, minutes and hours passed but he did not. When it was getting late, Papa brought us home. Back home, as we lay empty and sad on our bed, me and Rj remembered the story-telling session we had with him two nights before that night. Perhaps, we thought, the reason why it happened because we wouldn’t hear him telling stories again and that it took that long because it would be the last time we would had quality-time with him.
The next day, when our classes were finished, we went back on the hospital. We are hopeful he would gain consciousness and would talk. He did wake up but he did not talk. We waited for him to talk. We waited for him to call our names and to tell stories. This time we said that we were going to listen attentively. However, we know he wouldn’t. He was too weak and frail that he could not even move his pale lips. He couldn’t even eat. The Milk that was prescribed by his doctor served as his daily food and drink. Though that was his condition we had hope. But as days, weeks and months passed our flame of home got weak. Yet, we still waited patiently..
He grew weak and paler and thinner day after day until Christmas season came. I and Rj completed the Simbang Gabi. We wished to Baby Jesus to stop his sufferings so the pain his loved ones felt would cease, too. We said that may His will be done “immediately”. We said that if He wanted to make him better, make him better as soon as possible. And if he was not meant to be better then may He made him laid to rest. Apparently, our prayers did not reach Him because nothing happened. The line, I thought, might be very busy because there were too many wishes that He needed to grant, especially because Christmas was fast approaching. Children, I guessed, were the prioritized by Santa Claus and by Him.
Christmas day came. We heard no progress about his condition. We received no gift from Heaven. Our Christmas had been like a strand of bright color Christmas lights. With my Lolo unwell and struggling for his life at the hospital; it seems one bulb is ripped out and the entire strands of lights went black. At home, no one waited for the clock to strike 12, except me. When it was already 12, I woke everybody at home up. No one responded, except Papa. Both of us knew that mama and Rj was awake and was crying but we pretended that we did not know and ate the foods that we had prepared. After we had eaten quietly, Papa went to sleep as I remained awake to wash our dishes. While I did, I looked up at the sky to look at the fireworks. I cried and for the first and last time I could not see the essence of the celebration.
Another day passed. He continued to be speechless and not moving. He still could not call our names. But at least he already could recognize every one of us. We knew because his eyes showed it. It would spark whenever Lola or someone of his siblings or grandchildren went near him. We were glad to know that but still we thought we would be happier if he would talk and be able to move.
New Year’s Day came and passed without any news of progress about him. Then came the birthday of my father, the Valentines Day, Rj’s birthday and Holy Week, still he did not improve. Mama and her siblings had brought him home because we hadn’t enough money to pay the hospital bills anymore. Mama even had to run to our city Mayor to ask financial help. Though that was the case, we continued to hope. We continued to pray. On holy Friday - the day Jesus died on holy Cross on Catholic calendar - our house had been filled with cheers and laughter. Our spark of hope glowed in our hearts. Lolo talked again. He asked for a coffee, one of his favorites. Uncle made the drink for him. He drank it. And for the first time, after his accident we felt somehow at eased. After noon, I with my sisters rested in Mama and Papa’s bedroom. We were at peace and glad. When it was about two or three o’ clock, everybody in the house was panicking and were saying, “Patay na yata si Lolo.”(It seems Lolo was already dead.).Rj ran to Lolo’s house to know what was happening. She went back crying. I knew what she was going to say but I didn’t want to hear it. She looked at me with teary eyes and said with a tone of tidal wave that he was gone forever. I was sad but I did not cry. It is because I knew he was already in heaven where kindhearted people went when they die, with God and with the angels. I was so sure that he was going to be happy there.
For three days we waked on that house (My grandparents’ house built beside ours.). Then, we brought his corpse to Sta. Cruz.
On our arrival, we saw the house that he promised to renovate. It was already painted colorfully and beautifully. It was so much different from the haunted house us children feared before. Then we noticed the smaller house beside it. It was the bahay-bahayan! It was still unfinished. It only had posts and roof.
That was my Lolo. He was always true to his promise.
During the wake the family thought that God worked in mysterious way because he let Lolo renovate the house for He knew people would gather there in the future. He also made him made the bahay-bahayan because He knew lots of people would come and there would be a need for extra space.
After nine days of waking, at last came the funeral. I said to myself I wouldn’t cry. I know he wouldn’t want to see us sad. But reality crept in me: that that would be the last time I would saw him. It made my heart ache. I suppressed the emotion that I felt creeping in and held my tears back firmly. I saw my mom crying so loud and I felt more pain in my heart. It was the most painful I had ever felt. When I could no longer hold the tears, it streamed down my face. And when I took a last glance on him, I cried harder.
With that, the story of my hero ends. But the lessons he taught me and his memories remained in my mind and in my heart. I would never forget him and I promised myself that I’ll tell his stories to other people (which I already did). I also promised myself that as much as possible I would be patient, humorous, happy and positive like him. That I would inspire other people just like the way he has inspired me. He was my hero, still my hero and will be my hero forever. His death taught me lessons that not all heroes has super powers or a warrior; that they are not only those whose name were printed in History books; That those who have noble hearts and have inspired and helped even only one person could also be called heroes; that not all of them are famous but some are unsung; that not all of them died on a battle field but all of them died for a reason; and most importantly, that it is not true that they have long-lasting strength but they all grow tired, too. They also need to rest…
