Farewell to Jerry and to Emy

We continue to condole with our buddy, fellow STAR writer and compadre Juaniyo Arcellana, for the demise of his mom Emerenciana Yuvienco Arcellana on Dec. 21.

The equally esteemed widow of National Artist for Literature Francisco “Franz” Arcellana, “Emy” had been ailing for weeks, allowing all her children, including those living abroad, to see her on her hospital bed. We grieve with Frank, Elizabeth, Joey, Mayi and Meren as well. Joey had to come home from San Fran, while Mayi and Meren both came from Calgary.

When Franz was still alive and we’d visit their place in UP Village, a still ebullient Emy would chat with us as she minded the kitchen. And when Franz passed away in 1998, we’d still drop in, to catch a visiting Juaning, or simply to see her. We talked about recipes and plants, common friends and UP matters.

We had always wondered how some people in Diliman had regarded Emy with much fear. We learned later from some of her students in Poli Sci that she wasn’t really a “terror” in the classes she handled. Strict, yes, but fair.

Maybe it was her legendary status as the lone summa cum laude graduate of UP (then still in Manila) in 1948, when her 1.018 weighted grade average (WGA) made the front pages and even earned her an invite from then President Manuel Roxas to take on any job in Malacañang.

More’s the wonder that when she gained that summa, she already had her first two kids. Eventually, with Emy and Franz moving on to Diliman, she received fellowships for post-grad studies in the US. But both her M.A. in Political Science at the University of Michigan and Ph.D. in Political Science at the State University of Iowa were completed in UP, as her field of focus was Philippine politics.

Emy authored and edited a number of books, from The Social and Political Thought of Claro M. Recto to Favorite Arcellana Stories (2009, UP Press). And she had been at work on a book on our country’s indigenous peoples. She was 88 when she left us.

A couple of days after attending Emy’s wake, the second piece of bad news reached us as Christmas Day drew near. Jerusalino Araos, genius of a wood sculptor and master gardener, had also passed away.

Jerry had also been sick, of diabetes, when a near-fatal accident while personally building their family house aggravated his condition a year ago. But the staunch fighter that he was, he recovered, and we could almost hear him spouting invectives again, as was his playful (or we suspect) wont.

Many are divided in their regard for Jerry, whose feisty manner and strong “arrive” would have art aficionados, even those who admired his excellent works, shaking their heads. But the bottom line was that this unique, one-of-a-kind individual worked on his passion with terrific determination and merit.

He prided himself in having been an ardent political activist, and of having become a Communist and gone on to the mountains to join the NPA. Interestingly, it was in the jungles where he familiarized himself with flora, rocks, and cooking — such pursuits that would serve him in good stead when he started out on a family with Doktora Meren.

Jerry also fancied himself as a philosopher, with his strong opinions and advocacies finding a common fountainhead of ethics and aesthetics that might have “suited” him up well had he started a religious cult as a forceful tent barker or televangelist.

He had a booming whisper. Boy, was he loud, and a chatterbox at that. It became amusing only when one realized that the elfin twinkle never left his eyes, or that his grin betrayed perhaps an impish wish to discombobulate everyone in his presence. But there were many of us who loved him, apart from being awestruck at his many talents.

He authored a curious book, very readable and well-designed, on the process he undertook in crafting what he called “The Garden of Two Dragons F**king.” The book had that as a title. (Sorry, I can’t even tone that down to “Ef*ing,” as this is a family paper.)

We reviewed the book positively, and he was happy. It also gave us the cachet, while experiencing that actual wondrous garden in Antipolo with our young family then, to tell him to his face: “Ang ingay mo!” Those eyes twinkled deeper. “Nai-ingayan ka sakin? Eh ganun ako, eh.” 

A plant lover in our own irredeemable right, we marveled at his knowledge of species and how to position each one among the ponds and stone mandalas in his magical garden. Our kids found the mazes challenging, the basalt outcrops a temptation to leap from or over. It was dangerous turf, but there was strong magic and power spots all over the place.

Much later, we’d run into him and listen bemused as he recounted his travails with commissioned gardens in Manila Hotel and at the back of the Twin Towers at The Fort. Cycads were a favorite of his, while torch gingers always served as accent pieces.

Last Thursday, Dec. 27, his family welcomed over 500 friends at what is now called the Araos Garden for a celebration and thanksgiving for Jerry’s spiced-up life of utter creativity. He had said he didn’t want a wake. His ashes were to be deposited or broadcast all over that garden.

After a moving ceremony of testimonials and songs, with everyone gathered reverentially around the main lotus pond, we all trooped in a winding line down the stone paths Jerry Araos had created, to go around the wells and mandalas and lay flowers at the ultimate circle.

It turned out to be a helluva reunion too among many old friends in the arts community. We all gathered as one, we who loved and admired the man — as if to sit around a mighty table of hardwood he had chiseled. We behaved like all the undulating wooden torsos that were his signature, and cavorted if metaphorically with all the whimsical furniture and playtime pieces that were his mesmerizing utilitarian art. And we inhaled the exudations of his splendorous garden.

Before taking our leave at noon, we sat with dear friend Alma Miclat on a stone bench at curbside. Red, pink and yellow torch ginger bloomed behind us, by the property wall. An attendant approached with an offer of more food. We told him we’d rather have a few suckers pulled up from the clumps of torch ginger. He said he could do it, disappeared to get a knife, came back quickly to grant our request for a souvenir from our friend Jerry’s legacy.

Alma just happened to have a plastic bag in her purse, or as we suspect, she’s also into the habit of culling flora from wherever she found herself — at friends’ or public places. 

We came away with four suckers, but three of them had been snapped off without the essential culm or root base. We may get lucky and manage to grow the one that looks promising. We think Jerry Araos will allow that. And we’d both be very happy.