Accents
Super Lola
Every second Sunday of September is Grandparents' Day, and what I have from the archives is a retrieval, to use computer lingo. A favorite columnist in the San Francisco Chronicle has a name for the columns he retrieves: he calls them a classic. What I'm retrieving may not be in league with what he calls a classic, but my subject is one super Lola whose one living son is a retired Colonel, a hero of the Bata-an Death March. Lola had sprung descendants who turned out to be activists—enemies of oppressors and exploiters and instilled in her conviction to treat everyone fair and square. As for my grandfather, of the little I can remember of him (he passed away when I was a tyke in Grade III), Lola could out-talk him any time of night and day. Read about this "stuff of legend" in my own private world:
This is about a grandmother of some 30-odd grandchildren gifted by her three daughters and four sons. Gifts, she calls them, her word of preference. She died at age 86 and must be well over a hundred years old were she alive today. Dolores Calantas Rivera was my grandmother lovingly remembered by this granddaughter every Grandparents' Day.
I myself am a grandmother of 4 grandkids — 2 in native terra firma and 2 on the other side of the globe. I'm not writing about me as a grandmother. I leave the scorecard—the pluses and minuses—for the grandkids to fill up as I journey on to my own grandmotherhood. It is but right.
What I am to a large degree, I owe to Lola Loling, some of whose habits, beliefs, likes and dislikes I imbibed via my mother. First page in my book of remembrances was that Lola was not a believer of superstitions. I've always believed that Lola was born ahead of her time. In that age when other grandmothers won't allow using the broomstick at night, she would tell us to sweep clean the mess under the meal table. The belief then was that whatever fortune you possess will be swept away in the dark when you use the broomstick at night.
While others will have to wait for the morning before separating from their pesos to pay out debts, Lola was the type to make good her money obligations any hour of the night. "Magbayad ka sang utang mo para maka-tulog sang ma-ayo." (Pay your debts in order to have a sound sleep). The same readiness to pay debts she expected from some poor folks in the community who came to her for financial emergencies.
Talking about debts and debtors, I remember Lola to have a bad word for usurers — money lenders "nga naga-puga sang balhas sang mamumugon" (squeezing the perspiration out of the workingman). Lola understood micro-finance as early as in the 1940s and '50s. She would have been happy today to know how micro-financing benefits the little man without having to run to "5-6" bloodsuckers.
Lola had her way of going against traditions. At the day and age when the practice was to wear black for one whole year to mourn the passing away of a close relative, Lola defied the custom. Not in outward appearance do you show your grief over the death of a loved one; what counts is what is in the heart. I could almost hear Lola asserting that in crisp Ilonggo. I lost my mother ahead of Lola. Nanay died of breast cancer at age 56. Before the one-year mourning was over, I was pregnant with my second child and wearing black was very inconvenient as the black outfit absorbed much heat. Lola said to stop wearing black if doing so was uncomfortable. Wear what's convenient was the advice. Yes, dear Grandma, it's not the outward appearance that matters; what counts is what one feels in the heart.
Where's the chink in the armor of this formidable woman? Others may not consider this a weakness, but I consider it a flaw in her person: being a habitual smoker of the dobla (rolled tobacco). The strong tobacco leaves must have contributed to bouts of asthma that finally did her in. All her three daughters didn't take after her smoking. Neither did us, her granddaughters, except one residing in Manila.
I deplore the fact that Lola was a "pangging-gi" (card game) addict. After every lunch, she would prepare the pang-ginggi table for her friends. Only one of her three daughters followed her footstep on this aspect of her life. But she didn't go nuts over the popular game of chance—the "daily double" or jueteng that was rampant in the whole town. Lola must have realized how jueteng siphons off money from the townspeople.
Lola was a wide reader. Using a "kingki" (gaslight in a recycled bottle), she would read late into the night the Hiligaynon and Yuhum, the two popular vernacular magazines of her time. She made clippings of her favorite novels. Voracious reading was one aspect of her life I inherited, and which I abused. How? I would readily pick up a book to avoid household chores. Lola would tell Nanay, "Pabay-i ang bata kay nagatu-on." (Leave the child alone because she is studying.) Lola must have seen through the ploy, but she left well enough alone.
The nicest thing about Lola was that she was not a nagger, not your typical grand matriarch on the ready to spill out grandmotherhood statements over and over. I could never remember having been nagged by my grandmother. Credit that to the one writing here being a good grandchild (conceited?), or just knowing when to stay away from creeping sermon time.
One memorable picture clearly etched in my mind was the picture of Lola, misty-eyed, as she looked at the gracefully curved, concrete staircase — the one remaining structure of her and Lolo's house — being eased out of its foundation to give way to the construction of a grandson's house. With a teardrop, Lola accepted how the old passeth away to give way to the next generation.
Being a columnist of this paper has given me a chance to sing paeans to my grandmother. Send me your own best memories and we'll see about getting them into print.
(E-mail: lagoc@hargray.com)