The end of an era

Our family lost a beloved member this week. Joaquin Lorenzo Erquiaga Misa was the youngest son of my grandfather, the late Eriberto B. Misa Sr., who was director of prisons from the 1930s through the Japanese Occupation until he passed away in 1949, and Lucia Erquiaga, a school teacher from Bais, Negros Oriental.

There were seven Misa siblings: Guillermo, Ester (Paredes, my mother), Gonzalo, George, Eriberto Jr., Milagros (Nena de Vera), and Joaquin. When their mother died, their father married Cresencia Rey, a widow, from Buenavista, Palawan. They had one daughter, Fe. Among the eight Misa siblings, they had 58 children.

Their father was a Philippine Constabulary officer based in Mindanao before he was drafted into the prison service, which brought him to Palawan where he opened the Iwahig Penal Colony. Their mother, a dusky Basque beauty, was one of the first graduates of Philippine Normal School. When she died of malaria in Iwahig, the eldest, Guillermo was 15, Joaquin was a toddler. 

Theirs was a large, rowdy, opinionated and good-looking clan. When they got together for their family meetings, voices were raised, tempers flared, Spanish expletives filled the air. But they always ended up as friends.  In fact, they were crazy about one another.

As the last unmarried brother of my mother, Tio Joaquin lived with us when we were growing up. I remember him as a lanky, handsome fellow who picked us up from school driving an army jeep. He and my eldest brother Jesse would often get into arguments.  (Did I say the Misas were opinionated? It’s generational.)  And when he married Cora Villanueva, they lived their first months as a couple with us in our apartment on Sta. Mesa Boulevard. He was working and going to law school at the time and I watched Tita Cora prepare his baon every day.

Our family has always been tightly knit. The Misa siblings visited one another frequently, and we, their children, felt at home in all their houses. Some cousins practically grew up in another uncle’s home and that was all right. Among the Misas, family is family. My mother baked a cake for everyone who had a birthday, and in such a large clan, that meant we got together a lot.

Tio Joaquin was a partner in a very successful law firm, handling big clients. But I didn’t know this growing up. To me, he was simply my handsome uncle who I could approach for small favors. Family members with legal problems found comfort in his sympathy and legal advice.  I was proud to see him on television during the impeachment trial of Joseph Estrada, as one of the volunteer lawyers of the prosecution. And I was truly honored that he attended the launch of my only book, Heart and Mind, a collection of 20 years of commentary, over a decade ago.

As his older siblings departed this world, Tio Joaquin took on the role of family patriarch. He looked the part, with his distinguished white mane and his Castilian profile that made him appear quite stern. But he was totally approachable. He always had a joke, a word of advice, or a memory to share with his nephews and nieces. His home was open to relatives who would drop in for a chat, or who needed some kind of help. My mother, who ran the same kind of safe haven when she was alive, would call it refugium pecatorum, or refuge of sinners.

Christmas and his birthdays were always big events in Tio Joaquin’s home. When he started to fall ill around 10 years ago, he would say at every birthday that it would be his last. We saw Tio Joaquin become weaker until his legs couldn’t hold him up and he had to use a wheelchair. Then he could no longer get out of bed. But he was always happy to see his nephews and nieces and our kids and grandkids. His bedroom was a virtual party place where Tita Cora would allow as many as a dozen noisy relatives at a time to congregate so he would always be part of the conversation.

The last time I spoke to Tio Joaquin was Friday last week. Although he could no longer answer, he communicated by raising his eyebrows, indicating that he knew who I was. I whispered my goodbye in his good ear, telling him I loved him, and kissed him on the forehead. 

Tio Joaquin made all of us cousins feel that we were special to him. We all feel the loss of our patriarch who held our family together after our parents passed away. His passing ends the era of their amazing  generation.  He was 89.

Now we are truly orphaned. Our generation of septuagenarians has officially taken over.

Meanwhile, I imagine what a happy, rowdy reunion there must be in heaven as he completes the gang of noisy, opinionated Misa siblings, their parents and spouses who have gone ahead, now together forever in their eternal home.