Nemecio was an inherited driver. First he was the driver of my grandfather. Then, he came to work for us in Pampanga, where we lived off of Clark Air Base in Balibago. My parents were still young. We have some old home movies of that era and you can see a bunch of small children (running around like crazy, and yayas (nannies) in uniforms chasing after us. I was about six years old in this memory.
I was very fond of Nemecio. He had tuberculosis which I understood to be TV. We were forbidden to go near him because we might catch TV. I didn’t understand and the grownups didn’t take a moment to explain. So there was some fear and trepidation about breathing around Nemecio. Nevertheless, I enjoyed being around Nemecio. He was very brown and wiry and smoked local cigarettes – the ones with the very pretty lady with abundant curly black hair on the wrapper. He smelled like a mix of tobacco and rum. He slept in a room on the outside of the house that opened to our back porch.
One day Nemecio made us kites. He used newspapers and bamboo and made a tail of torn newspapers. Then we went to the empty lot adjacent to our yard and we flew the kites. He was an expert kite flyer and he knew just how to tug on the string. That was the first time I had ever flown a kite and I was so very pleased. He whistled for the wind. I asked him what he was doing and he said “I am calling the wind.” I can remember watching the kite rise and sail on the wind. When it was independently flying Nemecio put the string in my hands and let me fly it until was nearly out of sight. I remember the feel of the kite string, taking on a life and strength of its own as it moved quickly out of my small hand.
Ever since, I like to think that I can fly kites because of Nemecio, and now still the mother of small children at the end of my forties, I still whistle for the wind.
God Rest your soul, Nemecio. May we meet again in heaven one day.
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