Remembering the Storyteller

My grandfather’s 12th death anniversary passed a few days ago. The nearing approach of this once sad day occurred to me on the last remaining days of January while I was taking pictures in Brgy. Prosperidad in San Carlos City. I noticed the long shadows during the late afternoon’s golden hours. They reminded me of summer.

In honor of this great man, I am sharing an article I wrote six years ago – during summer. It was the first summer that I was not able to go home, and the memories of my grandfather made me more homesick.

sum¢mer (sum ¢¶r) n. & adj. the usually warmest season of the year.

Summer is the time of the year when days are most often than not golden and languid during the afternoons and long shadows are signs of twilight. These scenes never fail in bringing a tinge of nostalgia.

The fondest memories that I often remember of my childhood were during summers. When my family moved from our hometown to a distant city, summer is the most looked forward time of the year. It is probably because before I entered school, I could not distinguish months. In addition, when I went to school, activities reminiscent of those times and our old place usually filled my summers.

Summers are not really summers when we were not at our grandparents’ place. My grandfather is a tall, fair-skinned man. He looked Spanish to me. However, never once I had seen in him famous Spanish temperaments. He was always kind and affectionate. Upon arriving at his house, he would usually give my brother and me a hug. And he would comment on how much we have grown since the last summer. He would stare at us with his light brown eyes – squinting. Everything he saw was in faded silhouettes. He was blind ever since I knew him.

My grandfather was a man of much dexterity. Although he could no longer see, he could still do the things he used to do when he was not blind. He would even make toys for us. My favorite was his ‘bee-sounding’ invention made of coconut leaves. He made them for me as far as I can remember but I never knew how to do them on my own.

Our summer vacations are not complete without my grandfather’s stories. He was one of the best storytellers I ever knew. He would tell us tales about the war, kapres, duwendes, aswangs and a cornucopia of the fables he knew. In all those many summers, he sometimes retells his stories but I never got tired of them. I still wanted to listen. They sounded magical to me. Perhaps the magic was not in the stories but in the storyteller.

One of the times I saw my grandfather cried was on the summer before I entered college. He again commented on how much I have grown since the last time we met. His tears flowed when he said that he is living his life one day at a time and he wants nothing else. He is enjoying each of his remaining days until his Maker calls him home.

I did not see my grandfather the next summer. He went home two months before school ended. From then on, not a summer would pass that I would not remember him. Summertime summons my memories of the great man.

Now, the days are usually golden and languid during the afternoons and long shadows are signs of twilight.

It is summer…