Que Horror!

My grade school and high school years were spent studying in what used to be a burying ground that became a place where prisoners of war were tortured, killed or left to die.

And nothing could be more horrific for a girl blessed (or cursed?) with a wild imagination. According to old townsfolk, my school was a cemetery during Spanish times and later used as a garrison during the Japanese Occupation. Its main building was a very old structure, maybe almost as old as the Immaculate Conception Parish Church to which it was adjacent.

Like any old building, the mere sight of the school's aging adobe walls would tell you there was something there, something weird, something... In this 1950's photo that belonged to my mother, the walls looked even spookier back then without any trappings of modernity such as paint. Beyond those windows was my classroom when I was in 1st Grade. And on the floor directly above was part of the convent used as living quarters by the Sisters who run the school. Legend had it that at night when everything was quiet, the sound of heavy chains being dragged on the floor could be heard. It was said that those chains were attached to the feet of a headless nun bearing a candle in each of her hands who did the rounds as soon as the whole convent fell asleep.

When I was a lot younger, I couldn't bring myself to raise my eyes higher than where this photo was cropped. I was afraid the headless nun would peer out the window and my friends and I won't be able to run in time. This was like a movie sequence that would replay itself again and again in my little head. Poor me. (Picture courtesy of an aunt, Tia Nene, who was a college student in the 1950s.)

The thick adobe walls that belonged to the Church seemed like a good choice for a background in this 1950's class picture. It also looked even more perfect as a backdrop for a horror flick. I remember when I was in 3rd Grade, our classroom was just across this wall. There were a tall ancient-looking tree standing close by and its branches would cast eerie shadows on the ground even in broad daylight. The window was home to a large group of bats that I would always see hanging creepily upside down from the grills. There seemed to be too many of them and their number was good enough for a scene from the Dark Knight.

This was a gated grotto to the right of the wall in the previous photo. I was actually surprised to find this picture and see my young mom, who was now a college professor in her alma mater after graduating from a university in the city, posing in this scary corner of the school yard. During our time, nobody went to this place. Only the Sisters—who believed, as their faith dictated, that God would protect them from whatever evil lurking in that place—had the guts to go past the gates. Many of my classmates insisted there was a kapre who lived there. Others said there were duwendes. Whatever it was, I never ventured anywhere near the grotto.

This covered walk that connected the old school grounds to the new college building was the setting of one of the creepiest legends in town. The utility boys who used to spend their nights nearby were said to have witnessed the galloping of a knight on horseback right on the walk's roof. Like the chained nun, it was also said that the ghost knight was dismembered, without a head on its body.

As I write this, chills are running down my spine. And I'm seeing flashes of the headless nun sequence again. Gotta run!

Let's Volt In!

The year was 1978. There should have been rallies and protest marches staged by the Philippines' diminutive citizens. There should have been widespread display of contempt for the blatant oppression of our human right to watch Voltes V and, yes, to see it to its very end. It was the cruelest thing any President could do to any underaged constituent. (Of course, we were not aware at the time that each of us young children already owed the World Bank some millions for some luxuries we never enjoyed and never will. And what could be worse?)

But we were powerless against Marcos and the group of parents who pushed for the ouster of our favorite robot-hero from national TV. Powerless to go out in the streets and let our little voices be heard—"Let's volt in!"


They thought children would quickly forget. We didn't. We never forgave Marcos for his transgression. By 1986, some of those kids of 1978 were old enough to flock to EDSA and fight back. Along with the multitudes of People Power heroes, they succeeded in ousting Marcos from a position that he had no intention of letting go of. It was revenge at its sweetest.

The Piano

As I said many times before, my family was very traditional. There were certain things that we children had to do and one of them was learning how to play the piano. My mother’s family, which had more influence on our growing years, was never the musical kind. Very few could carry a tune. Almost none could play an instrument. And most were tone deaf. The turntable in the living room was used only during weekends when my father, who at least had an appreciation for music and who could sing well enough, was home from the city where he worked. But I’m digressing.

Anyway, our piano teacher was the wife of a great-uncle (who was long dead before we kids were born) from my mother’s side of the family. Everything was sort of informal; there were no such things as Grades 1 or 2 or any higher level for that matter. Classes were held in Lola Pepang’s living room where her antique piano proudly stood. There were kids around my and Pie’s age from our neighborhood who went with us to piano school. There were older girls and very young ones and I think my sister Odie, who was about 5 at the time, was the youngest of them.

My heart wasn’t into it but I had to admit the solfeggios were fun. Plus, the fact that we went to class with groups of friends made leccions always enjoyable. I went from John Thompson to “The Harebell” to Edna’s colored booklets to American classics.
But before long, our friends dropped out one by one, followed by Ate Margie, then Pie, then Odie. By 1981, I was the only one left in my batch. But I didn’t mind going solo because by then, I already had hopes of becoming a virtuoso. Despite my lack of musicality, Lola Pepang seemed to believe in me too. I had mechanical hands and they could hit keys with an agility I never knew they had. My mentor must have noticed it too so she made me learn nifty finger exercises from a book called Duvernoy.
I was a high school freshman and into my next concerto by the time I stopped going to Lola Pepang’s. I knew I’d never be good anyway. Besides I had grown into a teenager who couldn’t squeeze piano lessons into her increasingly hectic “social” life. But at least I found time to do some self-study. I had my cousin Ate Chona teach me how to read notes. I tried to play pop, which my teacher never approved of and some other pieces like “Fur Elise” and a few more till my interest waned.
I haven’t touched any piano since I was in my mid-20s. Then one day, I fell in love with an antique Schmoller & Mueller in a shop selling pre-loved furniture from the US. It had a very handsome case that was quite imposing. I sat on the bench and run my rusty hands on its keys and before I knew it, I was playing “The Harebell”, my very first piece which I learned many years ago and still knew by heart. And oh, it made this beautiful grand music that could only come from old pianos of its kind.

Pray my husband gets it for me!