Papa hates priests. But Msgr. Bautista who was our parish priest in Bacood was an exception. I think it was because Msgr. Bautista called him “Naning” as if they had been old, old friends. No note of condescension even if Papa rarely went to mass in his church. However, I never found out why he hated priests. Well, he may have hated priests but he loves the Carmelite nuns. After each early morning Sunday mass, the whole family would troop to the receiving parlor of the convent. We would spend the whole morning meeting the nuns of the community. They would open the curtains behind the cloistering bars of the convent. Sr. Mary Louise, their mother superior that time, would also call Papa “Naning” in almost the same manner as Msgr. Bautista, but more like she was family. Sr. Mary Louise and Papa were like siblings who would not mince words yet one notes their mutual trust and respect. She often spoke to me during the visits. I can’t forget the time right after Ninoy’s assassination and she feared a breakdown in social order. They felt that they were vulnerable to assault by Marcos minions as they were identified with Cory. She knew though that Papa worked for Marcos for a time.
Papa would bring his family to the Carmelite convent every Sunday morning at 6 AM. He also made sure that we brought a cavan of rice or sugar to the convent every month. And so I met Sr. Bernard. Papa asked me to teach her to play the violin. Just the basic skills. I tried on weekends but it was tough teaching through the iron grills. Med school was tough enough too. And there was Sr. Catalina who is a favorite for her great cinnamon rolls and puto! And there were the other nuns who were scions either of Philippine gentry or nobility giving up their comfortable worldly life for the quiet and Spartan of the convent.
When my dad died, the nuns volunteered to give him a coffin. Sr. Mary Louise also asked that his body be brought to the altar of their beautiful chapel for his last holy mass and a chance for her and all the other cloistered nuns to say goodbye to their dear friend. Of course, their gesture was welcomed by the whole family. But it was only lately that I gathered the details of how we were able to get the coffin. (It’s another story that made the nuns and, especially, my wife even more endearing to me.)
The nuns kept a collection of donated coffins. They gave Papa their biggest coffin. It was all white. No metal handles. No frills. Joy who had Papa’s height measured earlier thought that this was good enough. Joy volunteered to get it as I made arrangements for the wake and fetched family members flying in from the US. So the nuns brought the coffin out from storage. They also helped Alma, a family friend, and Joy load the box into our Toyota Revo. Joy had all the backrests folded on one side of the van for the box to fit. Alma sat on the second row making sure that the box would remain secure as Joy drove from the Broadway convent to the funeral home on Araneta Ave.
The fit was perfect. There was still a couple of inches of space above his head. And I thought that relatives would be happy to see this. Too much space may be construed as thoughtlessness. I have overheard once, in a wake, while I was still a small boy, my Bulakeña aunts fussing over the perfect fit of a coffin. One should not make room in the coffin for others to follow soon, they muttered. So I took note of the superstition, just to keep the peace.
The peace held until three days later when one of my sisters noticed something disturbing. My father grew taller. His head was now almost hitting the headboard of the coffin! We had to contact the funeral homes services.
It was a simple case of the cadaveric posturing, they said. When we die, we stiffen up. In that process, my father’s heels extended downwards pushing on the footboard. This pushed him up. The funeral homes staff suggested breaking his legs to make my dad shorter. The thought made some members of the family shudder. So we let it stay that way.
My father was 5’7” and his work with huge printing machines had made him a well-muscled man. But he was always a huge figure in my life. I would cower in fear whenever he loses his temper. My eldest brother got the brunt of it actually. But luckily, Papa mellowed. I do remember the few times when I took a whipping from him and for good reason, I am sure. I am not sure what anymore though but I remember him as a father who was highly protective of his family. He was the typical good provider. He was the typical strict disciplinarian. That was how he loved. That was how he was taught how to love. And, the coffin may have cut him down to size but that made me realize how much of a human being he truly was. That’s Papa whom I still love and miss.
