In other times and climes, she would be the “aunt in the attic,” someone rarely seen, oft-whispered about, and, if it were only possible, disavowed any relation to.
No one could say exactly what was wrong with Ulang Agus. The conventional description was loca de amor; she was obsessively enamored with a guy we knew only as
“de la Rama.” My brother Rey used to tease her mercilessly about the great love of her life, whispering into her ears, “de la Rama, de la Rama,” which would send her into apoplectic fits and my brother into sadistic glee. As far as we could divine, “de la Rama” existed only in her imagination, although my sister thought he may have been someone she knew or heard of in her younger days when she used to tag along with her more sosyal relatives (like the Puga sisters). She was probably a borderline schizo. Most of the time she would be sitting in the corner, smoking a cigar, or reading her countless novenario, or talking incessantly to unseen spirits, or ghosts, who knew?
We did not know how old Ulang Agus was. The only clue to her age was that she was born in the “reign” (kapanahunan) of Kapitan Colon (or so some older folks thought). When she died in 1977, we figured that she was a hundred years old, maybe more.
My first memory of Ulang Agus was of a short, dark, and weathered spinster aunt living alone in a bamboo house in the corner of Plaza–Nichol–Liboon streets. Her closest living relative was a nephew, Ulang Teo (Mateo), who lived with his wife, Ulang Ason, in Ilawod. It was Ulang Teo, a stocky, grumpy, Philippine Scout vet, who attended to the needs of her Manang; however Ulang Agus would outlive him many years.
Later she moved in with relatives in and around the neighborhood, lugging her binagtong in and out of our house, the Alcudias’s across the street, Nang Rosing’s near the market, and Ulang Marcela’s in Nichol. She neither offered an explanation when she left one house nor asked permission when she arrived in another, and such niceties were not expected of her. We simply took it for granted that she would move in and out of our lives for as long as she lived, and that was perfectly fine with us. When she grew too old to shuttle, she camped permanently with the Alcudias; Maninay Lourdes took care of her until she died.
While Ulang Teo did the marketing for her, Ulang Agus cooked her own food. She went down to the river to bathe and collect a bayong of drinking water. She did her own washing and ironing (using an open circular brass flatiron that was an object of curiosity to us). She did her bodily functions heavens-knew-where (though we had a pretty good idea; both our and the Alcudias’s backyards were “forests” back then).
She belied all mantras on the efficacy of traditional medicine and healthy diet. She hardly ate fruits and vegetables, not once did she see a medical doctor, much less took a pill of any kind. When she did not feel well, she would go out into the yard to pick some leaves of hierba, or raponaya, or manzanilla, which she either decocted into a drink or used as pantapal or poultice to heal wounds or ease headaches.
Generally she carried on quietly with the routine of her life. I was, of course, utterly fascinated with her. I remember being transfixed as I watched her get ready for church on Sunday mornings. She would put on her clothes mostly in sitting position; when she rose, voila, she was ready to go. The whole ritual was a riveting drama of minimalism in physical gestures.
During ordinary days she wore patadyong and kimona; she kept her wardrobe in a woven bamboo bakag that rarely left her side when she was in the house. For church she would put on a brown terno (complete with panuelo) in the habit of the Nuestra Senora del Carmen; on Good Fridays she would don a black version.
She owned a necklace that had a thick gold chain and a pendant, in the shape of the star of David, studded with little brilyantitos. It was the nicest piece of jewelry we had ever laid our eyes on, and if any of us girls had a party, a dance, or any special gig to attend, we had to have Ulang Agus’s kulintas. She loved to be flattered, and so a little unis-unis here and there and we got to borrow the prized accessory of our young fashion life. It was our childhood holy grail; to this day some of us still wonder whatever happened to the necklace after we left Alimodian.
I remember Ulang Agus now as an icon of my childhood. The first liberated woman I had met, I used to tell friends jokingly when describing her. Certainly the most fascinating of the oddball characters I came to know and forever associate with growing up in Alimodian.