Taking memories to the future

There’s this album that was jumping out of the shelf.  It was a keepsake not for a newborn baby or a radiant bride, but dedicated to the second woman in one’s life who was known to lavish attention, love, and that unceasing faith and confidence on what one could scale and accomplish.

She’s the trusted friend, the ego booster, and the staunch defender of our freedom.  She’s our lola, the grandmother, nonna, abuela, oma and grosmami, sometimes mamita, mooti, abu, mamou, or nani.

I grabbed the last copy.  I was going to fill it with pictures and anecdotes that my granddaughter will read, someday.  Would she be able to form a near or true-to-life impression of what her nonna was like in the different stages of her life?

Maybe, when she’s done reading, she’d latch on to the rich, vibrant, and amazing legacy her foremothers had laid out for her.

Who knows?  In an odd, atypical way, she may even solve the enigma behind why she thinks, acts, and moves in a certain way (that spooks her parents and friends alike).

I began by dusting and airing out faded photos, torn tickets, plaques, and even pressed flowers and grosgrain bows.  “Easy now,” I thought.  This album shouldn’t look like something put together by a lovestruck teener, but hey!  That rarefied time was a significant part of my memory, living, dressing and playing the role.   (Note:  Being lovestruck has been viewed as a short-lived mental illness brought on by the intense changes associated with romantic love.)

When I leafed through the pages, I frowned.  This journal is supposed to record six generations of the family when I could barely reconstruct our family tree to the fourth generation.  Quickly, I rang my Ate because jeepers, the branches of our tree are steadily dwindling.  If I don’t act now, there’d be no one left for the remaining generation who could still piece our genealogy together or simply remember.

For example, an old photo had me half-kneeling and holding down a balloon, in front of my father.  My hair was curly like Shirley Temple’s.  How old was I?  One brother had an adhesive tape on his head. Did he fall?  Even then, boys were so malikot and roguish that they ate imbroglios all day long.  Mother must have bolted for the door, rushing him to the doctor, patching him like new, with time left to get us all into the car and to the grand celebration.

 What were some stories that my siblings and our faithful kasambahay remember?

In the morning, we’d wait at the foot of the stairs for Father.  He’d immediately reach into his wallet for crisp 20-centavo bills and distribute them to his bandido kids, the last of his offspring packed with mega joules of boundless energy.

I was the quiet and calm one, never a whimper of protest, when a junior maid took a fancy to my smooth legs and shaved them.  Our housekeeper was horrified, but too late to undo the damage.

In the 1950s, the dollar exchange was $1 to P2.  A Chevy top down coupe cost P5k.  Petrol was 18 centavos per liter.  Bread cost five centavos, half a centavo was called isang cusing while isang pera was one centavo.  Rental for a corner apartment was P120 per month while a one-door unit was P80.  Cinemas had three sections with tickets priced accordingly (P1.20 orchestra, P1.80 balcony, and P2.20 for premium loge).  Smoking was allowed as well as SRO (standing room only).   

In Grade 2, there was this noisy rascal who kept pulling my hair because I was pale-faced.  I slugged him, but he laughed harder, “I will marry you, too!”

At five, my siblings poked fun at my full bangs that resembled the hairdo of French actress Leslie Caron.  They’d sing “Hi-Lily, Hi-Lo,” making me pikon or ill-humored.       

Growing up was filled with family excursions abroad and round robin parties.  There was this extravagant celebration that I distinctly remember because the celebrant’s father owned a film projector and showed Disney’s full-length animation films like Bambi and Pinocchio.

 In high school, friends dominated the scene, including escapades during typhoon-disrupted classes.  Riding the horse-drawn calesa to brave the flooded streets, collecting vinyl records, and nearly flunking Home Economics left me in a heap of giggles. 

Into adulthood, more friends and romantic memories were forged that lasted past leaving school.  There were 9-to-5 jobs, travel and promotions, before the onslaught of true love and marriage. 

Several pages focused on how I met her lolo, married him, our honeymoon, our first home, and raising a family of our own.  There was pregnancy and the birth of my son who became her daddy. 

The next stage is riveting and captivating:  Children leaving home, heart-rending, but gaining for us the freedom to indulge in pastime and pursuits that were never given importance before. 

The journal ends with how my life has changed.  Here, I’d insert the bitter pills I swallowed and the bridges I burned.  If anything, may she learn from my failures and be strong to dust them off and begin anew.        

Recalling the past is no small feat.  If my spunky, intuitive granddaughter is anything like me, she’d already know that her daddy may know a lot, but only Nonna knows everything.

 Shh, it’s our secret.