The Death of a Feared but Revered Teacher

Sunday night, as my husband and I were having dinner at the Podium, he got a call in his cell and I had a feeling it was bad news. At first I thought I was wrong when his face didn't register any angst when he took the call. Then he said, "OH no." I knew right off that the dad of his co-teacher, who was my husband's teacher in grade school, had passed away. He was stern and many didn't like him for that, but there were a good number who did, despite, or maybe because of the discipline he instilled. He taught math.

The next day, we went to pay our respects to the teacher. He had retired in early 1990, while his wife who also taught in the same school, retired some 10 years later. The funeral parlor was not one of the big names, it was in Marikina. Luckily, the chapel he was in was on the ground floor because the funeral parlor didn't look like it had an elevator.

The coffin was apparently made of wood and painted white. Then it dawned on me how frugal most teachers are, by force of circumstance or by choice. But it actually didn't matter, I thought. The grandness or simplicity of one's coffin does not determine or indicate the quality of one's soul.

At the wake, the wife and I spoke to each other. She recalled to me how they had met, how their romance had blossomed, etc. She also told me about what it was like to be my son's teacher in Grade 4 CLE. According to her, one time she mentioned, "Peter's mother-in-law" and what do you know, my son promptly raised his hand and asked, "why was he married? Priests shouldn't be married." Apparently my son equated an apostle to a priest, so his teacher explained that before Jesus had called his disciples, they were ordinary men.

As my husband and I gassed up after the wake that night, he almost bumped a car in the gasoline station because the station boy was signaling my husband to keep on going. Luckily for us, our angels stopped the occurrence. This afternoon, as we drove to the funeral mass, lo and behold, a thud. My husband cursed and when I looked out, a man in a motorcycle was right beside the door of the car -- he had bumped us. I was worried he was hurt but my husband was angry. Apparently the right turn into the school where cars were wont to slow down was perpetually the site of similar incidents because motorcycle riders take advantage of the situation and overtake from the right. Somehow assured the man was all right, I told my husband to just leave it at that. That we weren't at fault could be attested to by the fact that the rider didn't confront us. So we drove off.

After the mass, a few of the teacher's co-teachers and former students shared some insights/thoughts on the man. One said he had instilled in his students discipline, passion and love. A co-teacher at the end of his tribute called on fellow cub scout heads to give him the cub scout salute. That brought tears to my eyes. I thought it was a fitting goodbye.

At the cemetery, I saw the missus cry for the first time. She would now be without her constant companion since their retirement, she only had her son left.

It made me recall my own family situation: there are just my husband, son and I. I prayed hard to God that by the time we (husband and I) go, my son will have his own family so he won't have to be alone. But I also prayed that he find a good wife to begin with.

Before leaving the cemetery, we drove past Joey's gravesite to say hello.