For a petrol head, reformed antique collector, and lover of most things old, I was shocked how anybody could just dump something of great value both in pesos, dollars, and memories.
Once again, I had before me something that clearly cost a lot of hard earned money, that was surely associated with many memories, and continues to be valued and desired by many people who have no access or means to afford such things.
But there it was sitting forlorn, rusted, unappreciated. Kept prisoner by someone who did not care for it but unwilling to sell it. Unknown to the world except for a few insanely dedicated individuals who would pretend to pee on walls just to check to see if there was something on the other side of the wall.
Insane is the word. Why sit on the roof of a van as the driver goes up and down the streets of Forbes Park, Old Malate, etc. spotting out old cars in garages. Or interview every funeral car drivers to find out about old cars or old houses from Ilocos Norte to Basilan.
After several similar encounters, I sadly saw a pattern among the owners of these imprisoned wrecks and junks. The cars normally belonged to the patriarch of the family. Powerful businessmen or Hacienderos of old, who had a passion for cars or needed the flash and dash to impress the ladies and even more the men.
The cars symbolized their attitudes. Loud, arrogant, colorful, and mostly selfish. The cars were also tools of seduction, a vehicle and a location for scandalous passions paraded as fodder for town criers and gossip.
And when the owner arrived at home several scenarios played out. A son would usually welcome the patriarch home, lustily gaze at the chariot of flash and passion. The father would expectedly tell him not to touch "his" car. Or worse tell him to wash it and not scratch it.
The other scenario is the domestic scandal that ensues, since the gossip is even faster than the 8 cylinder gas guzzler. The wife demands to know where Don Juan has been, checks the car for evidence, and goes on a verbal barrage that would shame any Flow Master muffler.
During the life of the car it gets more pampering than the family. The car gets more accessories than the wife gets jewelries. The patriarch spends more time with the guys or the gals in his car than he does with his wife or kids.
In short, lovers and strangers, ultimately got more mileage from the car, eventually have more memories "in" and "on" the car. The wife, the sons, the daughters hate the father and even more they hate the car. They don’t realize it but they do.
For some the memories and pain were so paralyzing that the car sat in the garage long after the owner and all previous occupants had been dead and buried.
For others it was an inexplicable attachment and detachment. They were so attached to the car and its connection to their father, but could not explain why they were letting it ROT in their front yard for everyone to see.
Sadly it’s revenge.
Revenge for all the scandal, revenge for denial of use, revenge for the unpaid labor of cleaning the filthy car, revenge for all the times strangers got more benefits and FUN.
But once in a while there’s an exception to the rule. Someone decides otherwise and is the wiser and the happier for it. His name is Bert Gohu, last known age is 72.
Bert knows his cars, loves his cars. I came to know about this when I started to advise him about the inevitable journey that we all take without need of transportation. We spoke at length about unnecessary baggage and settling accounts.
Actually I was just trying to get my grubby little hands on his Corvette until I learned it belonged to his beautiful car-loving wife. End of discussion.
One day Tito Bert shared with me that his two grandchildren — a tall 16-year old girl and a sharp as a nail grandson — both had a love for his classic cars. None of those COMMON modern cars. Little Miss Missy wanted the convertible 280 SL Mercedes Benz while the grandson showed good taste by eyeing the 1964 convertible Mustang.
Since I have a penchant for giving my unsolicited advise, I TOLD Tito Bert to just go ahead and give the cars to his grandchildren. I know the rest of the clan will never speak to me again but here’s why.
Life is a first-come, first-served affair. As the Lord said, ask and it will be given to you. They asked so they should get first shot. Many times when the patriarch dies, cars, houses and cash become like bones for dogs to fight over. Why leave a problem when you can settle it now.
In many instances, the immediate family determines things, take things, or prevent things we would otherwise have wanted to happen, most specially for grandchildren.
Bert called his apos to the house and gave each of them the car of their dreams. They may not have been old enough to legally own or drive the cars but Bert got the chance to give them while he was still alive. He got the privilege of experiencing the joy of his grandchildren when they received their gift, and the privilege to fulfill a significant dream.
Every week after that fateful day, Bert got updates on the plans and newfound interest of his apos. His grandson now wants to join car clubs and learn the right way.
In his lifetime, Bert enjoyed his toys but he also passed them on, not as toys but as a real life memorial of a grandfather’s love, a grandfather’s generosity.
He was not leaving behind an unwanted memorial of selfishness. He was leaving behind a gift, not a burden.
Look around you, count the watches, the jewelry, the cars. Maybe even houses. Money stashed in some foreign account enriching the banking system of some other country.
Rather than talk about your passion for collecting, your dreams of building and owning . . . what about SHARING, TEACHING and GIVING to the only people who will really be crying for you and hopefully missing you.
Don’t let your passion, your dreams, your joy become things imprisoned by hurt.