My grandfather, the fisherman.

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Cosme Ibanez Leyva. That's my grandfather's name. We called him Lolo Omeng, The picture appeared in my album of memories. Staring at the blurry old photograph of my grandfather in a suit doesn't really jibe in my recollection of a simple old man in white shirt and loose pyjamas always quiet in a corner, smiling upon us children noisy and loud. Lolo Omeng was a fisherman. That meant he didn't have education. No read, no write. As all in the fisher village were in a province by the sea. But tales has it my grandpa built the boats and the barrio roads with his own improvised measuring stick. He was a natural mathematician. A natural weather forecaster also, for he knew when to fish. No read, no write. But his children became lawyers, the eldest was even an Ambassador to the Middle East. The rest became businesswomen successful in marketing what else"? - fish, of course. The grandchildren became musicians, like the ones in my own family. My grandpa was chief amongst serenading the lovely ladies of the barrio. He could sing and play the guitar. But the most heartbreaking story of my grandpa was right after the war when he searched for my father from one hospital to another, walking the length of provinces all the way to far away Pampanga where he found my father in an iron bed with a bullet still on a leg. My father was a guerilla. On finding his beloved son, my Lolo Omeng hired a calesa, a horse-drawn carriage, that transported my father back home. And the father cared for his son till he was well again.