Homecoming
Going inside my grandparents’ house was like taking a trip back in time to the days of my childhood. I went into my lolo’s room, looking for the stool where he used to do the polishing of his shoes every weekend. That same stool was where I used to sit when he would teach me how to read. “Dick, Jane and Sally, where is the firebird going?” I recall reading my elementary textbook. “ Run spot, run!” I turned around, half expecting my grandfather to be bustling in with his cheerful whistle of “I love my own my native land…” he never really got beyond that line, and it was only when he passed away that I found out that was the song he was whistling all the time when he was in cheer.
Every summer after college, when I would go home, he would be waiting at the window, smiling at me as I would trudge on to our house, which was a few meters away from their house to put my backpack down before I would climb the stairs to their house to greet my grandparents and herald them with what I was doing in Cebu.
I noticed the old dining table where we used to have our special meals. The old wood looked forlorn in its unpolished state. The small table in the kitchen, where we ate most of our meals as I was growing up, was reduced to a small table, half the size of what it was then. Termites gobbled half of it so it was reduced to that size I suppose.
The old plates, that we used that were adorned with gold edges still had the rose-centers clear against the porcelain. I seem to recall these were just exchanged for box tops of Drive detergent soap, or Tide and Breeze. Now these items fetched a good sum in the antique shops.
I ran my fingers over the old typewriter whose typeface I could no longer decipher. The keys felt familiar and alien at the same time. This was lola’s machine where she made her test papers and reports. It was gnarled with some of its keys bent with age. How I wish my lola outlived the equipment but sadly our organic selves decompose faster than that of metal and steel.
I searched for my lolo’s portable version of lola’s typewriter. I made my first short stories there. Of course, I could no longer find it. I just hoped in my heart my aunt kept it. Even just as a memento if it could no longer work.
The cabinets were the same antique pieces with carvings on top and mirrors that stretched in most of its face. My reflection was no longer discernable as the looking glass held patches of its own melasma that distorted the image that reflected there.
I saw my mom’s beloved dresser. No longer occupying the center of my parents’ room but stored in two pieces in lola’s house. I used to watch my mom do her make-up in front of the mirror and how I wished I would grow up to be as pretty as she was but we all took after our Dad. Good enough I think since Dad’s disposition was utterly fun.
Diamond glasses, free from Nescafe. Blue, yellow and red planganitas or small basins still hung in the kitchen, free from Tide or Breeze. Enamel pitchers, duralex glasses and plates, silver spoons and forks. All showed how we lived our life before. Food was utterly important and I seemed to have an indefatigable appetite with a bottomless pit as a reservoir. And these are similar things I see in ancestral homes and museums.
For those who have made their home public, I appreciate the gesture to share and preserve part of history. Although I can almost hear my folks say NO if we convert the “old house” of my grandparents into one of those homes. They dearly loved their privacy.
The Absin Residence is one place worth visiting in Dumaguete City. Although most of it is ancestral domain continues to stand stately, a new wing has been converted to a castle which is lovely and refreshing.
During Christmas the whole compound is lit and dear old “Rudolf” is hoisted over some space to lead the reindeers in their procession to distribute to children. Dr. Rico Absin who is a good friend of my uncle used to tell me, they would put up the reindeers and Santa every Christmas also as a memento of their own high school fun. Now it is part of the family’s tradition to set-up a Christmas Village that is open to the public every year.
Many of the old homes in my hometown have been converted into restaurants. The mysterious Sagarbarria residence near the boulevard is now the home of their family business, Sans Rival. The bistro which is just beside the pastry shop prides itself of meals with handed down recipes. The Flores residence down Piapi Road, also houses a business and the same goes with the Perdices residence, which used to be a place my sisters and I would play hide and seek in with the nieces and grandchildren of our grandmother’s friends.
Some of the structures I used to see have now been replaced by buildings. The old Medina residence is now Honeycomb Hotel. The hotel is rustic and comfortable, its homey atmosphere is further supplemented by hospitable staff and amiable personnel. The modern edifices that are slowly rising in the city continue to rise. Nevertheless, the true character of the city still has not changed. Its people, have remained gentle. Even with the influx of tourists and businessmen alike that have somehow corrupted the laid-back innocence of the place, Dumaguete City still remains a beautiful place to live in and I pray the local government and those who live there, will keep it that way.
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