It being Christmas, I am reminded again of the old man who lived beside our old school many years ago and the strange story about him.
When I was in the primary grades, our small schoolhouse was located beside a small pond. There was a vegetable garden behind the schoolhouse that we cultivated as part of our school lessons. While the girls learned home economics, each boy was required to tend a vegetable plot. We watered the plants with water from the pond. Talisay trees leaned over the pond so that the water was cool even on the hottest of days. We planted pechay, lettuce, radish, mustard, mongo, eggplants, tomatoes and string beans. We fertilized them with horse manure, of which there was plenty in the neighborhood because many families owned horses to pull their carretelas. The plants grew big and robust and healthy.
At the other side of the pond, an old man lived alone in a nipa hut. They said he had a wife and son, but the wife died and we never saw the son.
A sandbar across the pond connected our school to his hut. During recess and after school, we would cross this sandbar to visit him because he made toys for us: slingshots, tops, yoyos and kites. He also taught us how to make bird traps and fishing rods.
In return, we shared with him our recess snacks, and when we harvested our vegetables, we gave him some.
He also caught mudfish in the pond. He always had several fish poles, baited with live frogs, stuck into the bank of the pond. The little frogs swam at the end of the fishing lines. The movement attracted the mudfish and when one swallowed the bait, it was caught by the hook. From the window of his hut, the old man could see when a fish was tugging at his fish pole. Oh yes, he was pretty well provided with vegetables and fish.
He also made Christmas lanterns—plenty of them. They came in different colors, sizes and shapes, but mostly the five-pointed star.
He would have made a lot of money had he sold them, but he gave them away to his neighbors for free. He imposed only one condition: that they keep the lanterns lighted the whole night—and this is where the strange part begins.
During the Christmas season, the old man sat by a window of his hut, waiting, now and then peering into the night. Whenever a person appeared in the light of the lanterns, he would leave his hut to meet him. Then when he recognized who it was, he would turn around and slowly and sadly return to his hut.
The neighbors were mystified by his strange behavior and asked us about it because we were the ones who had contact with him. So we peppered him with questions, but he evaded answering them. When we asked him where his son was, he would merely answer: “Oh, he is away somewhere. He will be back this Christmas.”
But Christmas came and went, and there was no son. The next Christmas came, and the next and the next, and still there was no son. Then he began making his Christmas lanterns and giving them away.
Again and again we asked him about his son, and he would answer: “He is a fine boy. When he comes home this Christmas I will introduce him to you. He’ll be home this Christmas, you’ll see.”
But there was no son every Christmas and we kept pestering him about it, and little by little we got the story out of him piece by piece.
It seems his boy was a university student who supported himself through school. At the university, he took classes under some militant professors and slowly he came under their influence. He joined protest marches and rallies, waved red banners and shouted slogans against the government “that exploited the poor.”
He was away from home for days and weeks, and when he came home, he would tell the old man: “Don’t worry, Tatay, things will soon be better for us. After we succeed, the poor will be freed from their suffering. Things will soon be better, you’ll see.”
Then one night he came home excited. He hurriedly put some clothes in a bag and told his father: “Tatay, I will have to go away for a while. They are after me. But don’t worry, I will be home this Christmas.” And he was gone.
That was the last time the old man saw his son. The old man is dead now. He died without seeing the son he had been waiting for.
The old man’s hut is gone, the pond has been covered with dirt and houses have been built on it. The schoolhouse has been torn down and transferred to another place. But the old man’s boy was gone.
What happened to him? Did they finally get him? Is he lying dead in an unmarked grave somewhere?
If he is still alive and reads this, his father lies in a grave at the Tugatog cemetery at the boundary of Caloocan and Malabon. He must be still waiting for him.
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TODAY’S JOKE:
After that sad story, read this advice for Christmas texted by a journalist-friend:
This Christmas season, send the one you love flowers and a box of chocolate and tell her you love her very much. Then do the same thing to your wife so you won’t have any problem.