Tigkaralag is around the corner

I just realized last night that next weekend is already All Saints Day and I haven't yet gone to the cemetery to do some cleaning. Well, of course, we don't need to have a big clean-up operation. But sometimes, other cleaners will just dump their garbage beside the tomb of a relative. And that is quite unsightly.

So, early this morning I went to the cemetery, with some helpers in tow, to clean the tombs of my father, grandparents, and an assortment of relatives. In a small town like ours, families are extended. And many of those dearly departed had in a way helped to raise me up as an upright, respectful, and very family-oriented person. (These adjectives are my creation to console myself - my way of commiserating with the fact I discovered today that I was the only son, only grandchild, only nephew among the so many who took time to go to the cemetery to clean the messy resting places and to prepare them for the visits of our relatives come Sunday. I also console myself thinking that it could be that this is my time or my turn to spruce up the graves as I was never bothered during the years I lived abroad. During those years my other siblings or cousins could have arrogated themselves the lowly task of tomb cleaners - the task I just found out was entrusted to me.)

Well, I've got helpers. We bought some matches and candles at the entrance of the cemetery before entering. I gave the helpers instructions on what to do and went around the four hectares Catholic cemetery and read the names of the dead inscribed on the lapida before the tombs. This is a small town alright. I would like to know who among the dead I knew, and who among those I know are now dead.

Repainting the tombs and retouching the names are a yearly obligation of the living.

I saw a few of my teachers. They are dead, alright. And I reminisce how they were too strict inside the classroom as they threw erasers or chalks to our classmates who were too naughty or too dumb to answer their questions. One dead teacher slammed the head of a classmate against the blackboard because she could not solve a simple multiplication. Of course, these teacher acts are no longer tolerated by the Department of Education and will never be overlooked by the parents. But many of our teachers I dearly missed. They were patient, softspoken, and really made us, their students, feel we were worth their time and effort. Too bad they died without us telling them how grateful we were of their sacrifices.

In this public cemetery, resting places could be as elaborate as the ones in private memorial parks.

I've always been intrigued by what lies inside this contraption. I thought before this was a bird cage, possibly to entertain the mourners during the burial. Today, I have a chance to peer into the cage. It is actually a burial plot for two - one side was used as a grave, the other side was like a kitchen top where relatives can serve food during their visits. Nice, but not nice to the eyes.

This is the old perimeter wall of the cemetery, which also serves as tombs. Because the tombs are on top of another, they are referred to as apartments. Now they are seldom used because the tombs are too small for even the cheapest coffins. Our kasambahay who is already old and without a known relative, told us that when she dies, we will just wrap her body with a banig, and insert it into one of these apartments. Rental could be free.

Among the graves I saw was that of a spinster who had a nice office job, who walked with her chin up, who wore stockings and high heeled shoes even when she visited their farm to collect her share of the produce. She thought she was near perfect that she looked down upon a disheveled neighbor who had a drunkard as a husband, and who had to scavenge for whatever to send her children to school. The spinster and the disheveled neighbor had only their lapidas to remind me of them. And of course the contrasting tombs - the spinster in a disheveled grave, seemingly forgotten, but perhaps will be visited by the nieces and nephews this Sunday; and the disheveled neighbor in a tiled grave with borders freshly painted courtesy of the children who are now working abroad.

And of course, the grave of Iyay Quirin. She never had any ailment when she was still alive. And until she died of old age, she was walking on our street peddling her home-made tablea chocolates which I usually bought as pasalubong to friends abroad. Each time I visited my mother, I noticed that the street where I lived before was no longer the same. In fact it looked different from the street where I grew up, I could hardly recognize it. But when I saw Iyay Quirin walking on the street, suddenly the street became familiar. Only Iyay Quirin could put a connection between the present street and the street of my childhood, because she was the only person of my growing up years who was still living. Too bad she is dead now. Our street is no longer as it used to be.

And many yet familiar names. Or could it be that names are no longer exclusive?

I went back to the tomb of my father. The helpers were already resting. They had finished cleaning the surroundings. I asked them if they had cleaned the other tombs farther away of my other relatives. They nodded their heads. I asked whether they had seen any of my cousins or their children. They answered in the negative. Well, anyway today is Wednesday. Everybody could be in their offices. But it's semestral break. And the students are not in school. Oh well, it is too hot today. Could get cancer from too much sun. Spare the young students.

I told the helpers to get back to the car. I also hoped that the busy office workers and students will have time to visit their dead relatives this Sunday, rain or shine. For sure, there will be no work nor class that day.

There is a stairway going up the apartments which I knew since I was a kid. Back then, we used to climb to the top of the apartments and throw dirt at the other kids below. I heard that this location is now a dating place for lovers. This is the view from atop the apartments, facing the highway. The building near the center of the photo is the campo santo.


Another discovery I had atop the apartments is this rusting metal casket. I think I know who owns this. A few months back, the mother of a townmate died. They were planning to bury her in the same tomb where they buried their father years ago. Their problem was what to do with the metal casket of the father. Their father used to occupy an important position in the town when he was alive. So, when he died, the family decided to give him a pompous funeral and an expensive-looking coffin to wow the whole town. And that meant a metal casket which so far had not been seen in our town. So, a metal coffin it was. After sometime, everything turned to dust, as from dust they came, but the metal coffin. And so my townmate had a problem of what to do with the coffin, as even the scrap yards were superstitiously against taking it even for free. Nothing was heard about it though as the funeral of the mother proceeded without a hitch. Now I think I have the answer. Moral of the story: Up to the end, think GREEN. Just be a fertilizer, period.


These are burial niches carved on the inside walls of the campo santo. I was informed that the niches contain bones and remains of departed priests.


Boys play 'taksi' using coins, after cleaning the tombs of their elders.


A cherubim resting in peace. This old sculpture is found in one of the apartments. @