"My Lolo"
Nova Genesis

There was a time through brightly coloured glasses when work used to be irrelevant. Where problems lay cast aside in light of play and laughter, where it was much easier to pretend and roll around the grass and hide behind tall acacia trees and closed classrooms.

Times when we were children with fond memories to look back in under the warm sun that didn't burn.

I still remember when my Lolo was still in the living world, with his thin white hair and his sickly complexion. His raspy and age-wisened voice that had a little slur due to the stroke he suffered when I was at the tender age of six. He recovered quite quickly though and was back and kicking in no time.

Lolo used to take me to the tabok just ahead of the wooden bridge that was suspended over the rushing river by too thick wires that were used for electricity and tied by measly cabellas.

“Lolo! Uban ko sa tabok nimo! Babaha ko, beh!”

“Oo, apo. Uban ka karon, kuhaon sa nako akoa sundang, ha?”

"Okay, Lolo! Mogamit ta sa pumpboat o mo agi ta sa tulay?”

No one knows for sure what the wood is made of, some may say it must be narra or lawaan. A type of hardwood that's used for building solid structure that could last for years.

The ground was firm and dark underneath our foot when the waters didn't overflow but soft and slimy when waters gushed and blubbered as we went to Lolo's fishponds situated within the nipa forest. He dug them up himself using a bareta and his hands, securing a net fence around the acre of land he owned. He had owned it for years after his parents divided the land amongst four of his siblings, him included.

“Lolo! Pwede ko mamasol palihug? Damo lage og fish!”

“Karon na, apo. Akoa pa ni bungkalon ang yuta anhi para matarong ni ang atoa fishpond.”

Sometimes, I wondered if he was a superhero, with his gnarled and calloused hands and thin, sickly body, he could lift heavy things and traverse and grab mud like it were uncooked rice.

“Unsa ni sya na isda?”

“Buwan-buwan na sya, apo. Atoa na sugba-on para sa atoa pani-udto.”

“Atoa dal-an sila lola, nanay, og mama, nuh?”

There are times he would catch me fishes for our lunch; we would make a small fire and toss our catch for the day over it, allowing it to cook. Then we savored the food that he had caught for us. One time, my Lola, mama, nanay, and my cousin went out with us to clean out the ponds of invasive fish and pufferfishes. It was breeding season for such fishes around the months of May and April.

I still clearly recall when my Lola threw a small pufferfish at my direction and it slapped me right on the stomach. The weird texture of it had my brain short circuiting.

They couldn't stop laughing as I screamed up a storm and leapt out of the water like I was a beheaded chicken. Lolo had laughed at that too and I couldn't quite be mad with my beloved family, they were much too good for me and was only teasing me.

Ah, to be a child again. Lolo used to also take me swimming all on my own
in the Brgy. Lao river with its rich yellow-green color akin to algae.

“Lolo, maligo ko sa dagat.” I used to beg to him as a child when Mama and Lola couldn't be there for me because of their tight schedule.

“O, pero pag banda sa alas dos humana Ka ha? Magta-ob naman gud. Delikado para sa imoha.”

He watched over me by the riverbank while I paddled round the salty waters, letting my heart brim with joy and my mind filter with colorful fishes that would swim beside me. There was also a time when he took me out on a little green banca to go out and toss nets so we could catch fish for lunch or just cross the river when we felt too lazy in traversing the bridge.

Did you know that the barrio of Lao is a fishing community composed of many fishermen, traditional nipa weavers, and walis tambo makers? Every corner of the barrio had work stations used for net weaving and silhig combers. More so, you could see how the crafters expertly weaved and sewed up their products and how fishermen operated their boats; you could even catch a ride for a piso or two while you dipped your hand or feet on the lip of the oar stirred banca amongst machine powered ones.

There are only two buildings that stand stark in the little barrio and that is the school and Holy Trinity church amongst the traditional single and two story houses made from nipa roofs, bamboo floors, and abaca walls. A narrow cemented road crossed round the barrio ending on another side where it was all abaca and other ominous trees that looked like an enchanted forest filled with creatures that you wouldn't want to know. Modern considered amongst a barrio that is at a stand still like a painting. Our family never really did go to that blue turtle shell shaped church since our two storey traditional house was near it; we were just at our wooden balcony listening in on the mass and the chismis of the neighbours.

Of course, that isn't all. There are many pandays in the barrio. My Lolo included, he could make guryons as big as a five year old child and repair roofs and houses when it was necessary, just like most of the people in the barrio. He weaved tangled and broken neats using a big wooden needle, hanging them up on nylon strings to repair them.

My little hands couldn't do such labors then, but I kept Lolo company and asked him to make me kites and toys because I found it comforting and fascinating. In a way, it was to show my appreciation and fondness of him and his crafts.

“Lo', himo-e kog tabanog, beh. Nya kanang dako, ha? Kanang molupad gyud!”

Lolo didn't complain with my childish whims, instead, he laughed in his wheezing and coughing type of way as he sat down and got to work. His gnarled, wrinkly, and veiny hands produced things that my young mind couldn't quite learn and fathom. It stirred my curiosity like the waters as I watched the skillful dedication put into practice.

“Lo, tudlo-i ko kung unsaon ni pag himo, ha?”

And when I didn't ask my Lolo for a guryon or a carving of the liha on the plywood that he had shaved, I walked with him on top of the wooden bridge hanging above the river or rode in the little banca that he owned while he rowed us to the other side of the shore and into the direction of the fishponds within the nipa forest.

“Lo, adto ta sa tabok. Bisita sad tag balik sa fishpond.”

“Sige, apo.”

Where innocence lay and fond memories buried within the mud holes of the mud-crabs and the splashing of the fish in the little ponds when river waters rushed in, filling the space in times of the rising tides.

"My Lolo"
Nova Genesis

There was a time through brightly coloured glasses when work used to be irrelevant. Where problems lay cast aside in light of play and laughter, where it was much easier to pretend and roll around the grass and hide behind tall acacia trees and closed classrooms.

Times when we were children with fond memories to look back in under the warm sun that didn't burn.

I still remember when my Lolo was still in the living world, with his thin white hair and his sickly complexion. His raspy and age-wisened voice that had a little slur due to the stroke he suffered when I was at the tender age of six. He recovered quite quickly though and was back and kicking in no time.

Lolo used to take me to the tabok just ahead of the wooden bridge that was suspended over the rushing river by too thick wires that were used for electricity and tied by measly cabellas.

“Lolo! Uban ko sa tabok nimo! Babaha ko, beh!”

“Oo, apo. Uban ka karon, kuhaon sa nako akoa sundang, ha?”

"Okay, Lolo! Mogamit ta sa pambot o mo agi ta sa tulay?”

No one knows for sure what the wood is made of, some may say it must be narra or lawaan. A type of hardwood that's used for building solid structure that could last for years.

The ground was firm and dark underneath our foot when the waters didn't overflow but soft and slimy when waters gushed and blubbered as we went to Lolo's fishponds situated within the nipa forest. He dug them up himself using a bareta and his hands, securing a net fence around the acre of land he owned. He had owned it for years after his parents divided the land amongst four of his siblings, him included.

“Lolo! Pwede ko mamasol palihug? Damo lage og fish!”

“Karon na, apo. Akoa pa ni bungkalon ang yuta anhi para matarong ni ang atoa fishpond.”

Sometimes, I wondered if he was a superhero, with his gnarled and calloused hands and thin, sickly body, he could lift heavy things and traverse and grab mud like it were uncooked rice.

“Unsa ni sya na isda?”

“Buwan-buwan na sya, apo. Atoa na sugba-on para sa atoa pani-udto.”

“Atoa dal-an sila lola, nanay, og mama, nuh?”

There are times he would catch me fishes for our lunch; we would make a small fire and toss our catch for the day over it, allowing it to cook. Then we savored the food that he had caught for us. One time, my Lola, mama, nanay, and my cousin went out with us to clean out the ponds of invasive fish and pufferfishes. It was breeding season for such fishes around the months of May and April.

I still clearly recall when my Lola threw a small pufferfish at my direction and it slapped me right on the stomach. The weird texture of it had my brain short circuiting.

They couldn't stop laughing as I screamed up a storm and leapt out of the water like I was a beheaded chicken. Lolo had laughed at that too and I couldn't quite be mad with my beloved family, they were much too good for me and was only teasing me.

Ah, to be a child again. Lolo used to also take me swimming all on my own
in the Brgy. Lao river with its rich yellow-green color akin to algae.

“Lolo, maligo ko sa dagat.” I used to beg to him as a child when Mama and Lola couldn't be there for me because of their tight schedule.

“O, pero pag banda sa alas dos humana Ka ha? Magta-ob naman gud. Delikado para sa imoha.”

He watched over me by the riverbank while I paddled round the salty waters, letting my heart brim with joy and my mind filter with colorful fishes that would swim beside me. There was also a time when he took me out on a little green banca to go out and toss nets so we could catch fish for lunch or just cross the river when we felt too lazy in traversing the bridge.

Did you know that the barrio of Lao is a fishing community composed of many fishermen, traditional nipa weavers, and walis tambo makers? Every corner of the barrio had work stations used for net weaving and silhig combers. More so, you could see how the crafters expertly weaved and sewed up their products and how fishermen operated their boats; you could even catch a ride for a piso or two while you dipped your hand or feet on the lip of the oar stirred banca amongst machine powered ones.

There are only two buildings that stand stark in the little barrio and that is the school and Holy Trinity church amongst the traditional single and two story houses made from nipa roofs, bamboo floors, and abaca walls. A narrow cemented road crossed round the barrio ending on another side where it was all abaca and other ominous trees that looked like an enchanted forest filled with creatures that you wouldn't want to know. Modern considered amongst a barrio that is at a stand still like a painting. Our family never really did go to that blue turtle shell shaped church since our two storey traditional house was near it; we were just at our wooden balcony listening in on the mass and the chismis of the neighbours.

Of course, that isn't all. There are many pandays in the barrio. My Lolo included, he could make guryons as big as a five year old child and repair roofs and houses when it was necessary, just like most of the people in the barrio. He weaved tangled and broken neats using a big wooden needle, hanging them up on nylon strings to repair them.

My little hands couldn't do such labors then, but I kept Lolo company and asked him to make me kites and toys because I found it comforting and fascinating. In a way, it was to show my appreciation and fondness of him and his crafts.

“Lo', himo-e kog tabanog, beh. Nya kanang dako, ha? Kanang molupad gyud!”

Lolo didn't complain with my childish whims, instead, he laughed in his wheezing and coughing type of way as he sat down and got to work. His gnarled, wrinkly, and veiny hands produced things that my young mind couldn't quite learn and fathom. It stirred my curiosity like the waters as I watched the skillful dedication put into practice.

“Lo, tudlo-i ko kung unsaon ni pag himo, ha?”

And when I didn't ask my Lolo for a guryon or a carving of the liha on the plywood that he had shaved, I walked with him on top of the wooden bridge hanging above the river or rode in the little banca that he owned while he rowed us to the other side of the shore and into the direction of the fishponds within the nipa forest.

“Lo, adto ta sa tabok. Bisita sad tag balik sa fishpond.”

“Sige, apo.”

Where innocence lay and fond memories buried within the mud holes of the mud-crabs and the splashing of the fish in the little ponds when river waters rushed in, filling the space in times of the rising tides.