Our Grandfather, Eutiquio Bigcas Salces (1918-2017)

by Alan S. Cajes

Our late grandfather was named Eutiquio, which means “Fortunate” in the Old Greek language. We remember his fourth death anniversary on March 1, 2021.

Bigcas, which is the surname of our grandfather’s mother, Gregoria, is Visayan term for “string or rope to snap apart”. It is not found in the list of surnames given by the Spanish Government in the Philippines in the Catalogo Alfabetico de Apellidos published in 1849. Salces is also not included in that catalogue. This could mean that Bigcas and Salces were already used as surnames by our forefathers in the Philippines before 1849. It could also mean that the people who carried those surnames came to the Philippines after 1849.

It is not easy to trace the lineage of our Bigcas ancestors. The only information we have is that they came from Loboc, Bohol. How they end up in Batuan, Bohol is anybody’s guess. The same can be said about our Salces ancestors.

We fondly call our grandfather as Lolo or Tatay Tikyo. He was a veteran of the Second World War. He helped carry the food for the guerilla forces of Bohol, he once told me. The Bohol Area Command had its headquarters then in Barangay Behind the Clouds, a few kilometers away from Cantigdas, his home barangay.

I was five years old when I stayed with him and our Lola Alejandra (who deserves a separate article). He was the barangay captain at that time. I had the privilege of accompanying him as he performed some of his functions, such as conducting barangay hall meetings or just being present during activities like operation tuli, bayle, repair of classrooms, canvassing of votes during election days, as well as attending weddings and funerals.

Our old grandparents' house was near two streams that meet several meters away from the back of the house. During rainy season, the streams have constantly flowing clear water. Even during the dry season, the streams would not run out of flowing water. We used to swim every now and then in those streams. In the evening, the sound of the flowing water would serve as an apt background to lull us into sleep.

The stream at the right side of the house is where we had a large species of bamboo. He once harvested bamboo as fence (sasa) for my school garden. This stream is my favorite place for playing because the water is not too deep. It is where we could catch freshwater fish (hawan) and mudfish, as well as snails and crabs that our lola could cook to near perfection using a mixture of coconut meat and herbs that grow near the house. The stream at the left side of the house was the favorite swimming place of our uncles and aunties. The water was deep and its current was strong for my age then. This side of the house had a log that served as a bridge and link to a small farm or limbajan. This is also the side where we had a purple colored star apple (kaimito) tree, tambis, and a small coconut tree. I used to climb these trees until I was in college.

At the back portion of the house, about thirty meters away from our kitchen, the two streams meet in a circular pool. This part of the yard has a cave, a canal that is carved from stone to provide water to nearby rice fields, a small waterfall, and a mini forest. After lunch or when it is off season for school, I used to rest in a branch of a large guava tree directly under the cool shade of a large kaimito tree. Both trees have abundant fruits almost throughout the year. I used to invite my friends during the kaimito season. Some of the ripe fruits would just fall on the ground. Most of the time, I need not climb. I just choose the fruits that recently fell from the branches.

A natural phenomenon that made me fall in love with the beauty of the planet is the interplay of the two streams near our grandparents’ house and the subsequent creation of a whirlpool, in which water is somehow sucked underground. Several meters away from the whirlpool, the underground water gushes out, similar to a freshwater spring. When I was young, the whirlpool (huphupan) was so strong during the rainy season. I could see different debris being swallowed and taken underground, perhaps a crude version of a black hole. The bugwak or the other end of the whirlpool is a different story. Since the water gushes out from down under, it was a safe swimming pool.

In our grandparents’ house where I spent part of my childhood, everything was manually done – from planting crops like rice to cooking food like the delicious hinalang (chicken meat cooked with coconut milk). Planting and harvesting were a family enterprise. Most of the time, we had meals and snacks together. Because there was no television yet, we spent the evening singing, playing or sharing jokes and stories under the moonlight or while manually separating corn from cob.

Those were the days when I could tell the time by the radio dramas or programs; when our Lolo Tikyo helped in bringing water and electricity to homes; when fireflies were abundant and some native trees glow (amag) at night; when we share food with the household of Iyo Loloy and Inse Nanie, our close neighbors and relatives; when Nong Porin would share with us freshly collected tuba from the coconut tree near the house; when the mention of Santilmo and tiaw could trigger fear in our hearts; when Manok ni San Pedro was a favorite source of entertainment after dinner; when rice pounding was one of the household chores; when we go to Church every Sunday walking for about two kilometers wearing tsinelas and then wash our soiled feet in a stream near the Poblacion so we could put on our shoes; when our uncles and aunties had to leave to complete their studies, or work in other places.

How our grandparents managed to support their children is a good topic for discussion. But one thing that Lolo Tikyo cared about, other than Lola and the kids, was his faith. He respected the faith of his relatives and friends. Yet he was a devout Catholic. We were once classmates in a course that trained Catholic Faith Defenders. When discussions about the Bible happened in the house, he would explain his positions on the selected topics and I would reinforce him with the verses.

When we met during the ordination of Father Dante in Tagaytay City, after more than ten years of not seeing each other in person, he could no longer hear me. His sense of hearing already failed him. Yet we managed to have a conversation — he would read the text that I would compose on a cell phone and then he would say in a loud voice his response. As the eldest of the grandchildren, it would have been painful if he would no longer recognize me in his old age, as some of you may have experienced. I am glad that his memory did not fail him yet. The last time I saw him, I glimpsed the familiar twinkle in his eyes and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon just sitting around with him while enjoying tuba and the company of our uncles and relatives.

Yes, I learned a trick or two on how to put a smile on the face of our grand old man. Vaya con dios Tay Tikyo. Thank you for the memories of ricefields and simple rural living.