Heredity

I’d just found my comfortable spot in the hammock when my grandfather summoned me to his flower garden. “Halika dito, ipapakita ko sa ‘yo ang gumamelang mestizo” (Come here, I will show you a hybrid hibiscus), he said.

I thought to myself: when was I ever interested in hybrid ornamentals, or in floriculture, for that matter? I could barely distinguish between a grass and a weed.

Still, I reluctantly got up and followed him to the garden to behold his prized plant. He was my favorite grandparent after all, but don’t tell my other grandparents I said that.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m his favorite grandchild too, much like paboritong apo Gina Karen in that classic McDonald’s Philippines commercial. I was never among the popular, adored nephews/grandchildren in the clan (not that I had to be) but I always knew I was this grandfather’s favorite. For instance, why — of all people — would he care to showcase this flower to me?

I don’t know if it’s nature or nurture but I get a lot of things from my grandfather. He was my third parent when I was growing up as a kid in Australia. I didn’t have a lot of regular friends but here was this golden ager who accompanied me every day to school (and sometimes back home), who knew how to comb my hair to its slickest, who read books with me and watched TV with me when my parents weren’t home, who was familiar, easy company for this kid suddenly transplanted into foreign land. The day he flew back to the Philippines, I bawled like crazy in the airport. My dad captured this sobbing incident on film but I’m too embarrassed to post it here.  

I guess my love for writing (and words) comes from my grandfather. He’s always been a serious diarist, never failing to document the littlest of details in his experiences and encounters. I remember one time we were at a restaurant and he pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote down the family members in attendance, as well as the venue, date, time, etc. I wouldn’t be surprised if he also took note of the dish each person ordered. This is also something I get from him. I love to (or at least can’t help but) keep note of things, which is both a boon and a bane. On the former, I can say that I’ve done a fair job documenting my life from adolescence to adulthood. On the latter, I almost never forget, which is why I tend to hold grudges. This specific quality I probably get from an aunt, but that requires another blog entry.

I’m a music lover, and I probably also owe this to my grandfather, who’s a musician. Back in the 70s he joined a Christmas carol-writing contest on a noontime variety show, and won first prize — a top-of-the-line piano that still plays beautiful music in our ancestral home in Sta. Cruz, Laguna. I must add that this old place has been transformed into a modern, colorful, Asian-inspired residence, courtesy of my uncle who’s an architect-slash-interior designer. I probably get my general design sensibilities from him.

Anyway, a year or two after I graduated from high school, my alma mater’s school hymn was revised by no less than my grandfather. My best friend JB, not knowing the composer was he, easily slammed the new anthem in my presence, saying it sounded like a nursery rhyme and that it paled in comparison with the original school hymn. JB lived literally next door to our high school and thus heard it every Monday during flag ceremony. At the time, I hadn’t heard it yet, but I knew I would find it beautiful no matter what because it was my grandfather who wrote the words and arranged the music. (And now I must lovingly remind JB of his honest yet offensive remark.)

My grandfather also has amazing memory for someone aged 85. Many times he would remind me of certain incidents that happened two decades ago, ones that I no longer have a recollection of. In our family gathering last week, he made a public remark that left me feeling slightly embarrassed. My grandfather has poor eyesight and hearing, which is why 1) it takes a while for him to recognize people, and 2) he tends to speak loudly. Unfortunately for me, he ended up announcing to the entire party that my hair was thinning and my hairline, receding (which, yes, I am aware of). Naturally, the entire group burst in laughter, but then my grandfather added that the hair loss was catching up to me rather fast being that I was only born in 1985.

“In 1985.”

I was stunned that he knew my birth year because what people usually remember is the birth day. And just like that, from slightly embarrassed I felt… touched.

That trait I know I get from my dad. The hair loss, that is.