Song of the Rain (Chapter 2)

FLASHBACK

30 November

The digital clock showed 3:17. The familiar street was lit by the dull yellow glow of street lamps. The neighbourhood was asleep. Beside me, my cousin stirred. The usually locked gate of my family home was open. I eased the car through. Jinni got out and headed to Aunt Julie’s lit up house.

I waited a little before killing the engine. In the distance, an orange lamp was glowing. A tent—now empty—was put up. The little gate near the footbridge connecting my family home to Aunt Julie’s was open. I sighed. Everything was unusual.

Gramps was seated at the foot of Gran’s casket. Aunt Julie was across him. I took Gramps’s hand and touched it on my forehead. Jinni was standing before Gran.

My grandfather’s brown eyes bored into mine like x-rays. “You’re home quite earlier than usual.” The trip normally takes nine hours; we travelled in seven.

“We took the shortcut. I drove carefully, I swear, Gramps.”

Gramps motioned toward Gran. “Go look…. She cared for you, she had bathed you.”

She looked so at peace; she could have been in Pink Elephant Land. My stomach grumbled.

“Feed your cousins,” Gramps turned to Colin, who was strumming a tune in his guitar.

In the kitchen, Colin dug up sandwiches and tea. I smiled at the sight. Gran was an avid tea drinker.

“What’s with the homemade casket?” I asked Colin.

“No purple coffin,” he said simply.

Oh. Of course. Gran’s favourite colour was purple. The casket was painted purple with grey trim, with glass on top. The interior was inlaid with white silk; Gran rested her head on a little fluffy white pillow. It was pretty much like any casket you’d see in a funeral home. The customary list of children and grandchildren were on the cover.

***

10 December

Gran has long been interred. Now, as I sit on my desk, I reflect on what transpired in the four days that I was home. It was a time of mourning. It was a time of gathering. It was a time of learning.

I had been in wakes before, but I never thought about beliefs attached to it.  I know that it should be solemn, not a party. But that was all. Gran’s wake introduced me to different beliefs. The cardinal rule was: comply and never complain. My curiosity, though, is very difficult to repress. I want to know why things are done, but I never got an answer. It was always “because the old folks say so.”

True, it never hurt to just obey to avoid arguments with the elders. But why? Why do we do this-and-that? Is it to repel bad luck? I will never know.

On my arrival, I wore my letter jacket from school: red with black trim and a huge libra in the back. One relative pulled me aside. Change your jacket later, she said. I wondered if I soiled it, but I didn’t. She explained red is an inappropriate colour at wakes. It is a happy colour and we’re supposed to mourn. I ended up borrowing Dad’s purple-and-black jacket embroidered with the IBP seal. It didn’t feel right, but I had to make do.

Uncle Charles and Aunt Leslie brought a white silk cloth. It was folded and put in the casket, at Gran’s feet. It’s supposed to be a blanket. I asked him what’s the point, but he grunted irritably. He nodded at some old folks—relatives—gathered in the tent. Because the old folks said so.

During meals, Gramps would always eat in our house. The custom was that the widower should not partake of the food served to the guests; he is in mourning. A meal is prepared for him at home, a different menu. I’d sit with him and think. The man across me has lost the woman he loved and lived with for decades. Yet when I speak to him, it is all the same. His eyes transform into lasers. His rich baritone is calm, his demeanour composed.

The wake, too, brought together the whole clan. Gran’s sister Aunt Elinore—and her family—live in Baluarte, up north. They travelled a long way, not just to condole, but to lend a hand in the kitchen. It went on smoothly. They and Gran and Gramps’s seven children worked hand-in-hand. A well-oiled machine cranking beautifully. It was teamwork at its best.

On the day of the funeral, Gran’s casket was taken out of the house with the rear end first. My uncles and cousins had to do some manoeuvring to get it right. I never got the chance to ask why. I suppose it’s to mimic the position a person assumes when he walks out—he does not go out of the door backwards. Gran’s favourite knapsack was buried with her. It was filled with the clothes she loved best.

It made me think of King Tutankhamen. 

***

Before I could say my first words, Gran taught me something. Then, as she said good-bye, she taught me something as well.

Not a bad way to go, do you think?

Song of the Rain (Chapter 1)

Gran and I at the fastfood after a visit to the doctor

Doting But Firm

I have read account after account of moms being problematic about the relationship of their children and the grandparents. In most magazines, moms complain of Grandma doting too much—to the point of spoiling the kids and undermining the rules set forth by Mom and Dad.

I’m the youngest of 20 grandchildren. My cousins call me Kid. We never went through that stage, and our mothers and fathers never had the dilemma of how to politely tell Gramps and Gran to back off a little. Our grandparents doted on us—Gran especially—but we never grew up spoiled.

And I will tell you how.

***

Before anything else, I have to point out that Gran was not like any grandmother you’d meet. She had her own way of nursing and nurturing us grandkids—and her children as well.

We all have legal names, but she christened us all, with new ones, once we were introduced to her, as babies. Isan (pron: ay-san), is Hatda. My cousin Colin is re-christened Koodit. I know. It’s miles away from Isan and Colin. Like I said, Gran is unique.

Uncle Mark explained the reason behind our unique names. The war between the Philippines and Japan was raging when Gran was a child. She was unfortunately hit by shrapnel. She was hard of hearing since then, and deciphers what people tell her through lip reading.  However, some names she can pronounce right. Like Mick (short for Michael) or Ann.

She looked after me as a baby. Mom, of course, could not write down the ratio of my formula milk or the feeding schedule, since Gran couldn’t read. That didn’t stop her from being the best babysitter ever. Dad said she would look down on me in my cradle and ask, “Do you want milk?” In reply, I’d look at the counter where my bottles and milk were. That would tell Gran that yes, I want some milk please.

The first memory I have of Gran was that she was always humming. All the time. There is one song she sang to me, though. I don’t know the title, but let’s call it the Song of the Rain. When I was around two, we’d sit under the tree waiting for my parents to come home from work. That would be the time she’d point to the clear blue sky and sing.

She stayed with us even when I started school. In my early years, there were times my parents had to come home late. Gran would always be there for back-up. She prepared my meals—and made sure I drank my milk—got me ready for school, and made sure I took a noontime nap. The nap is a routine started by Dad. She followed that naptime schedule to the dot. Whenever I tried to talk her out of it, she’d only smile and pat the bed. Her blue-grey eyes would smile. “Lie back down. Let’s take a nap.”

My parents had also forbidden me to eat candy. Whenever Gramps would give money and my cousins would return from the store with assorted candies, Gran would automatically tell them not to give me any. They knew, of course. But having our grandmother remind them would crush any plea before it comes out of me.

In magazines I have read, one candy would be all right for other grandmothers. If Mommy says no, Grandma would say, “Let him have one, he’s had dinner anyway. Just one.”

With my grandmother, a no from my parents would be an absolute no. To Gran, it was very simple: Mom and Dad said we should do this, so this we shall do. The reason I understood before was that she was doing it because my parents said so.

Looking back on it today, she did what she did because she respected the authority my parents have over me. She knew that Mom and Dad had their own way of raising a kid, and she didn’t interfere with it. Whenever Gran and I were left alone, she reinforced the authority of my parents. We did the established routine. There was no argument.

As early as pre-school, she told me she would not play Court of Appeals to whatever my parents tell me. In so doing, she made sure I never grew up spoiled.

***

As I write this, I could no longer hear Gran humming, or singing the Song of the Rain. The Great Conductor had given her a place at the Eternal Choir. I smile at the thought of her, up there, singing with the angelic bands. She sure is singing to her heart’s content.

 Just one question: would Gran be singing soprano or alto?