Two weeks ago, a man whom I’ve never seen before came to my farmhouse in Sitio Bulakbulak. He was ushered in by Puring, our caretaker. The man came in barefoot and must have left his slippers on the stairs, a habit of barrio folk afraid to soil the shiny floor of a big, nice house in town.
He wore faded knee-length maong pants and an old, red shirt emblazoned with “I Love NY.” He had a dazzled look, and his curious eyes took furtive glances at me, typical of barrio folk ill at ease in a big, nice house in town.
Puring broke the ice. “Sir, siya po ’yong sa palay.”
With that introduction, I knew right away why the man came to see me. He’s my late Inay Aurea’s kasama in her rice harvest at barrio Bayucain. He had been remiss in turning over our share of the harvest last year, which served as the rice supply for the people at the farm. Puring asked him to come and settle his debt to me personally.
Finally, the man spoke respectfully, “Sir, si Winsi po ako.”
“Winsi? Anong tunay mong pangalan?” I asked.
“Wenceslao po, anak ng Fermina Patron po.”
“Ahh! Kilala ko si Fermina, kababata ko ’yon.”
“Opo, sabi nga po ni nanay.” Then slowly, Winsi fished out from his shirt pocket some cash in P1,000 denominations.
‘Kulang pa’
“Sir, kulang pa siya ng tatlong libo,” Puring butted in. Obviously, she counted mentally the thousand peso bills Winsi held.
“Mang Minyong, pasensya na po kayo. Ari po yung ibabayad ko sa kulang ko.”
As he held on to his money tightly, I began to see Winsi more clearly. He must be in his 50s, his face was weather-beaten, his eyes sharp and his curly hair unruly, his skin darkened by the sun while working in the rice field. As he held on to his money tightly, his hands trembled a bit.
“Mang Minyong, ito po, anim na libo lang po muna ang kaya kong isudlong.” After Winsi said that, his face began to look tragic and pitiful. Tears quickly appeared in his eyes, which he tried to wipe with his bare hands. Still clutching his money he broke into a sob.
“Namatay po ang aking anak, kelan lang po. Sakay po ng motor at nabangga ng jeep… diyan po sa Nagcarlan.” He sobbed and his body trembled, I watched him transfixed, unable to say a word.
“Binata pa po siya, beinte anyos… Siya po ang aking inaasahang tumulong sa akin. Dalawa lang po ang anak ko… May palsy po yung isa.” He dried his tears and became composed again. He took out a small señorita notebook from his hip pocket and said, “Hindi ko po tatakbuhan ang kulang ko. Eto po nakalista!” he said, waiving his notebook at me. “Nagipit lang po pero babayaran ko.”
At this point, I told him to give the money to Puring, the caretaker. He looked at his money before letting it go.
Hoping to ease Winsi’s parting with his, I presumed, hard-earned money, I opened a new topic. “Kumusta si Fermina, ang nanay mo?”
“Nasa bukid po, matanda na.”
Suddenly, the memories of my childhood days in the mid 1940s became alive. Fermina, Winsi’s mother, belonged to the Patron clan, the daughter of Mang Nardo Patron, a dark and curly-haired mag-aararo.
There were four Patron brothers who migrated from Batangas in the 1920s to settle down with their families in barrio Bayucain. The Patron brothers became my Lola Genia’s kasama in her rice and coconut farms. As a young boy, I always tagged along with Lola Genia to Bayucain during rice and coconut harvest time.
Riding carabaos
I spent many happy hours in the farm with the Patron children. I remember the thrill of riding carabaos along the trails and eating rice with our hands and ginataang kohol on banana leaves.
I knew all the Patron patriarchs. Mang Tano, the tall, thin and gangling man with a toothy smile, was the best magkakawit ng niyog. Mang Nardo, the grandfather of Winsi, dark and curly haired, was the best mag-aararo. Mang Henyo was a swarthy man who toiled regularly in the coprahan shack, and Mang Sano, the youngest of the Patrons, was a part-time farmer and a part-time kubrador ng jueteng.
I have not visited barrio Bayucain since I was a kid 70 years ago. I know that the first generation of the Patrons all passed away. Most of them died under the watch of the village albularyo, “kasi na-engkanto raw.” If someone died in barrio Bayucain, “Hindi man lang po nadala sa doktor” was the expression of ultimate grief.
I felt sad upon realizing that the Patron clan I knew were all gone.
To me, the barrio folks of my youth lived simple and happy lives, the men were strong and muscular and hardworking. The women were lean and were efficient helpers in the tending and harvesting of rice and coconuts.
“Salamat, Winsi at dumating ka,” I said. He stood up ready to leave. I stopped him from leaving and went into my room to get P500 from my wallet.
“Eto, Winsi, pang merienda at pamasahe mo.”
Winsi took the money. Suddenly he hugged me tight. He was in tears again. The hug and the tears caught me by surprise. He smelled of old clothes and unwashed body and his breath had the strong, sour hint of lambanog moonshine.
After the hug, I felt like The Godfather (played by Marlon Brando) in the film by Francis Fred Coppola.
Me? Don Vito Corleone?
E-mail the author at hgordonez@gmail.com.