It took Tito Ching’s cremation for me to see Tito Juan again. And I found that odd, considering that when I was growing up, I saw him practically every day.
Tito Juan is the brother of my paternal grandmother. I always thought he was the youngest of eight kids, but I was wrong. Tito Ching was the family’s baby and I realized this only last week, when he passed away and people said how odd it was for the bunso to be the first to go.
But you couldn’t blame me for thinking that Tito Juan was the youngest. He was, after all, always youthful.
He was the kind of adult kids loved hanging out with. He was fun. He was funny. He was a little crazy (I mean that in the best possible way). My brother and I had a blast with him.
Arm wrestling
In my childhood years, he lived near our house. As a child, I wasn’t sure exactly what he did for a living. I knew he worked for the sweepstakes and being the naïve kid I was, I wondered if he could make us win.
He was also into horse racing and every time he told me he was going to the karera, I thought he was actually riding horses. Why not? Tito Juan was cool enough to be a jockey.
After he retired, we saw more of him. We would always find him on the second floor of the duplex we shared with our grandparents, sitting on his favorite seat by the window, reading the newspaper, or working on crossword puzzles, or immersed in yet another book or watching TV.
We never had to tiptoe around Tito Juan. There was no such thing as having to be quiet because he was there. Not only did he not mind our presence, he even embraced it. He would always put down his newspaper and challenge me and my brother to arm wrestling.
Those matches always left me puzzled. I always beat my brother. Tito Juan always beat me. But my brother always beat Tito Juan. It took me a while to realize that Tito Juan was letting him win.
Tito Juan started the tradition of marking my brother’s and my height on our dining room wall. He’d remove the painting hanging there, have me and my brother stand against the wall and use the pen that was always in his shirt pocket to mark our growth.
No centimeter was insignificant—Tito Juan, in his booming voice, would always remark about how fast we were growing. Years after, long after I stopped growing, I would still occasionally move that frame to see those scratches Tito Juan made. They always triggered great memories.
Generous
Tito Juan’s way of working out was unconventional. He liked walking briskly around the cemetery near our house in the mornings. I used to ask if he got scared and he would just laugh at me.
He didn’t have a lot but he was always generous. Tito Juan’s pockets were always full of Chocnut which he’d share with us. On birthdays and Christmas, he’d hand us P500 bills.
Tito Juan is the king of weird nicknames. His siblings call him Swapog and he gave my brother Patrick his own weird nickname—Badong.
Eventually, Tito Juan moved into our house. This was when my cousins and I had regular band practice at home into the wee hours. I used to worry that we were disrupting his sleep. But each morning, he’d greet me with a smile and say he was enjoying the music.
He liked hearing me sing and marveled at the fact that we knew old songs, songs he loved.
White Flower
Meals were extra-fun with Tito Juan around. He can always be counted on for lively conversation. He’d express disdain at the simplicity of Jose Mari Chan’s songs; he’d rave about Cindy’s burgers and fries (There was a branch a couple of blocks away from the house. “The best!” he’d exclaim over and over.); and when he didn’t like something, he would always say, “Panis ’yun!” It didn’t matter if he was talking about food, a person or a TV show—if it was bad, it was panis.
Tito Juan was obsessed with White Flower, he always had those little bottles of eucalyptus oil in his pocket. “This is my medicine,” he’d say, before sniffing.
Chocnut
But things changed. My brother and I grew up, my grandma moved to the family apartment, that beautiful house we lived in was sold and torn down, and Tito Juan moved to Laguna to live with two of his other siblings Tita Andre and Tito Rogie.
Before last Friday’s cremation, I hadn’t seen Tito Juan in years. I came prepared. I had five packs of Chocnut and bottles and bottles of White Flower.
When I saw him, I gave him a big hug and a kiss and handed him his goodies. His eyes widened and he flashed me a huge smile. For years, while I was growing up, Tito Juan showered me with generosity. It’s my turn now.
We spent some time talking and I realized that while he’s older now (he’s 78) and has lost a bit of weight, he’s still the same Tito Juan my brother and I adore. He still rocks his killer boots. He still loves Chocnut and is attached to his bottles of White Flower.
He’s still fun, funny and a little crazy. He still loves kids—only this time it’s no longer me and my brother, it’s the neighborhood kids in his home in Laguna. I hear he gathers them around and tells them stories, he gives them Chocnut and money, he treats them to Jollibee. I wish they realize how lucky they are to be able to see him every day.
Tito Juan never got married, he didn’t have any kids. But I want him to know he has left a lasting mark on me and my brother and that he will always be one of our childhood heroes and one of our favorite people in the world.
And one of these days, I’m going to pick him up from his home in Laguna and take him out for that huge porterhouse steak that I promised him.
