Ano Ang Balangkas Ng Kwento
THE TALE OF TONYO THE BRAVE by Maria Aleah G. Taboclaon
COME here, mga apo. You want me to tell you a story? Then you must come nearer, and sit at my feet. Don’t interrupt me, as my memory is as fleeting as the summer breeze, and you may find that an interrupted story is worse than no story at all.
I had been telling you war stories before, of things that happened to your father and to your father’s father, who was my brother. Now, what I am going to tell you is a little different, but something that you will hopefully remember when you find the need for this memory. I WAS the third son of Francisco, a town hall clerk, and Carmencita, a housewife, in a small town called Canda, somewhere south in Bukidnon. It is far from here, very far. To go there, you have to travel by ship or airplane, and by bus for more than twelve hours.
We lived in a small house, made smaller by the fact that there were three sons, all not far apart in age. Fernando was the oldest, Alejandro, your grandfather, followed after a year, then, me, barely a year later as well. After that, Nanay just declared she would not get pregnant again, and indeed she didn’t.
We were boisterous as all boys are, and it was all that Nanay could do to keep us in place. We had no household help, and aside from our three cats, five kittens, two dogs, a flock of chickens and two pigs, we only had Apo, Nanay’s father.
Apo was eighty-four, but he was still spry and lively. He would wake up early every morning, rouse us out of bed, nag us to do our chores—scrubbing the floor, watering the plants, feeding the animals, among other things—and would then sit in the verandah the whole day, puffing on a rolled betel leaf, spitting out the red goo into a small can beside him.
Often, I would sit with Apo and he would tell me stuff about the war and the times that his family had to leave their home in the middle of the night, as the shelling and the bombing started in their town.
COME here, mga apo. You want me to tell you a story? Then you must come nearer, and sit at my feet. Don’t interrupt me, as my memory is as fleeting as the summer breeze, and you may find that an interrupted story is worse than no story at all.
I had been telling you war stories before, of things that happened to your father and to your father’s father, who was my brother. Now, what I am going to tell you is a little different, but something that you will hopefully remember when you find the need for this memory. I WAS the third son of Francisco, a town hall clerk, and Carmencita, a housewife, in a small town called Canda, somewhere south in Bukidnon. It is far from here, very far. To go there, you have to travel by ship or airplane, and by bus for more than twelve hours.
We lived in a small house, made smaller by the fact that there were three sons, all not far apart in age. Fernando was the oldest, Alejandro, your grandfather, followed after a year, then, me, barely a year later as well. After that, Nanay just declared she would not get pregnant again, and indeed she didn’t.
We were boisterous as all boys are, and it was all that Nanay could do to keep us in place. We had no household help, and aside from our three cats, five kittens, two dogs, a flock of chickens and two pigs, we only had Apo, Nanay’s father.
Apo was eighty-four, but he was still spry and lively. He would wake up early every morning, rouse us out of bed, nag us to do our chores—scrubbing the floor, watering the plants, feeding the animals, among other things—and would then sit in the verandah the whole day, puffing on a rolled betel leaf, spitting out the red goo into a small can beside him.
Often, I would sit with Apo and he would tell me stuff about the war and the times that his family had to leave their home in the middle of the night, as the shelling and the bombing started in their town.