Thoughts on an Old Photo

Thoughts on an Old Photo

While cleaning up some of the things my departed parents left behind, I found an old framed photo of a man whom I was told to be my grandfather. His name is Faustino Junio Odon.

The photo is faded and looks more like a watercolor painting in the most delicate pastel shades. And glass cover and wooden frame could use some serious cleanup and repair. The paper has been marred by what they call foxing, the "age-related process of deterioration that causes spots and browning on paper and textiles." The dust, yellowing, and insect bite marks are all shouting, "Throw me away."

Wearing a coat and bow tie, my grandfather looks like he's from a more genteel time and "of the manor born," indicating the photo was taken at perhaps a studio during the American era. But I was told that he was a kutsero (horse-drawn cart driver) and sold meat for a living, while his brothers Telesforo, Evaristo, and Angel chose to finish high school and "intermediate school" to become teachers.

Apart from being the husband of my grandmother on my father's side, I know almost nothing about him.

It's true what they say. When you die, you will no longer be remembered by anyone after just a few generations, even just a few decades or a mere number of years.

Indeed, no one alive today can reliably talk about Faustino as personal eyewitness. The most that can be had are dubious secondhand accounts.

We, his descendants, only remember this man whom everyone around us called either 'Tio Nonoy' or 'Amang,' during All Saints Day and All Souls Day, whenever we troop to the cemetery to search for his tomb, light candles, offer flowers and 'atang' (ritual food offering), and a prayer for the repose of his soul.

When my father died and we had to bury him at the new burial place called Hands of Heaven, my family made it a point to transfer Amang's remains (and those of Inang's, lola's, and Uncle Felipe's) from the decrepit, overcrowded, 'condominium-ized' public cemetery, thanks largely to the financial assistance we had received from our relatives abroad.

My grandfather, they say, died of colon cancer or something like that long before I was born, before mysterious illnesses previously attributed to the supposedly envious 'evil eye' and witchcraft had scientific explanations and pharmaceutical cure. I once checked his birth certificate at the Local Civil Registrar, but I was told that prewar documents have been destroyed.

I hate the idea of no one ever remembering you someday, but it is a truth, a reality of life. So I am writing this, I guess, to defy that thought. I pray that Faustino Junio Odon, though he is an insignificant name to the rest of the world, is in a good place.

Think about how you would no longer be remembered by anyone anymore sooner than you expect.

The only thing that consoles me is the thought that it doesn't matter if no one remembers you as long as God does remember you when your time comes.

Still, it is better to look back and re-examine the value of anyone in our family tree who has left behind any kind of legacy to us, the living, and appreciate what they have contributed in their own little way, no matter how small. Then again, their legacy of love and devotion to family, sense of discipline, craft, character--these are never small.

I am glad that I grew up praying that "Fatima ej@culation" (how awful that this religious word became warped, sexualized, and dirtied)--"Deliver all souls especially those who need most of thine mercy." I understand "all souls" here to mean anyone and everyone who has departed, so this means that, even though ordinary people who have been long dead are largely forgotten, they are never forgotten in the little, unsung prayers of the faithful.

May Faustino requiescat in pace--rest in eternal peace, but I am keeping this memento anyway, the only one we, his descendants, have left of him.