A Tale of a Grandfather and a Boy

My Grandfather’s Hammock: A Memoir of Shared Secrets and Afternoon Dramas
by: A Boy Who Never Outgrew His Lolo

I remember the nights most vividly.

Not the birthdays, not the summer outings, not even the first time I held a medal from school. No, those memories are soft, blurred at the edges like old film. But the nights I spent sleeping beside my grandfather, my Amang Itong—those were sharp and clear, etched deep into the woodgrain of my childhood.

His bed, a creaky wooden frame softened by years of body weight and woven mats, was our sacred space. I’d wedge myself beside his sun-wrinkled body, feeling his chest rise and fall like a small hill. I constantly hear his deep sigh as if he was tired of being old. And even in sleep, he would sometimes laugh softly, as if remembering a joke from 1980.

We had a secret pact, Amang and I, and it involved food—of course.

Whenever he got pancit or fruits from my Inang Inggaw, my lolo and I would glance at each other, and in that glance was the entire plan. “Let’s hide this,” his eyes said. And mine answered, “I know just the spot.”

We’d squirrel away the goods—beneath his wooden Lakasa, in the basket just hanged up, or even inside the rice container (he claimed no one ever thought to look there). Then, in the late afternoon when the house fell into a lull, we’d sneak into our hiding place like thieves (his room), our laughter stifled by the sweetness of guilt and banana. Sometimes, my grandmother would find the sticky remnants and scold us. But Amang would just shrug, saying, “Eh, the boy was hungry.” And I, ever the loyal accomplice, would nod solemnly.

But the food was only part of the feast. The real banquet was his stories.

Every evening, after our illegal merienda and before the twilight drama on the radio, I would sit on the floor while he leaned back like a king on his monobloc throne. With the sun melting behind him and his silhouette cast across the wall, he would begin.

“When I was your age,” he’d start, though I never quite believed he was ever my age, “we didn’t have toys. But I only have one big holen.”

He spoke of Toyang, the carabao he raised from calf to a hulking water buffalo. Then Ollang, his carabao who once trampled my helicopter toy. He told me about how he hid his notebooks in dirt clods. And he’d talk about Inang (his wife)—how she smoke La Campana  and described that if a piece of her tobacco was connected after the other, it would’ve reached Mindanao. He never missed to retell how my Inang often brought in cavans of rice in stock that somehow hit his heart.

I would listen with my legs crossed, heart uncrossed and wide open. My eyes devoured every word, my imagination painting whole worlds from the way his voice shifted—gruff and amused, then low and wistful. And we’d still sit together, two shadows in the amber light, holding on to each word like it was our last.

Then came our nightly ritual: “Ang Pinagpapalang Sambahayan,” the radio drama by the Iglesia ni Cristo that ruled our dusk.

We’d lay down close, the small transistor radio perched like a crown before the headboard of the bed. It crackled and hissed as if it had secrets to share. The story was always some melodramatic tale of families torn and reunited, cursed but blessed in finding solace inside the local of INCs, and stories of hope of an old man (which I suspected was my grandfather in disguise).

When the characters cried, we’d sniffle too. When they laughed, we’d chuckle in unison. Once, when the father in the drama forgave his rebellious son, I swear I saw my lolo brush something from his eye. He claimed it was dust. I didn’t argue. I just reached for his hand and held it, small fingers in wrinkled ones, like roots seeking older soil.

Time passed, as it always does. We’d received a message. A sharp bolo struck the head of my Tatay Atring (my other lolo in Villaflores). Blood stains cover the floor of their humble home. Our family becomes unruly. We don’t know where to head to or what to do. It’s April 20, and yes, this salty and tasty liquid drops from my eyes. My heart pumps fast and my chest tightened. My mind is full of his faces as if all of our memories together is flashing at fast pace. Tatay Atring died in head trauma.

In instant, I left my Amang.

My smiles gradually fade. My Amang always asking, waiting for my return. He missed me, the stories we’ve shared together, our moments together while reciting our favorite “All Things Bright and Beautiful”. But he never waits for few more days at least. He bids goodbye without me sighting his last breath.

Then I returned. But now, he’s gone.

The bed is empty, the hiding spots dusty, the stories fading like fog in morning light. But I still remember.

I remember the laugh he tried to hide when I got caught feasting in milk powders. I remember the warmth of his hand, the rumble of his voice, the way he said, “You listen well, boy. Because when I’m gone, you’ll be the one telling these stories.”

So here I am, telling it.

About the nights beside my lolo, the food we hide, the stories we shared, the nursery rhyme we often recite, and the radio drama that made us cry and laugh like fools.

This is our story—his and mine.
A story not just remembered. But lived.

And now, passed on.