Cecil Afable goes home

LETTERS FROM THE AGNO

March L. Fianza

BAGUIO CITY -- Cecil Carino Okubo Afable, Editor of Baguio Midland Courier; left for Kabunian’s newsroom June 12, 2012 while people were dismantling the stage decorations of their recently finished Philippine Independence Day celebrations somewhere.

           

She was 94, according to Manong Andy, her eldest son. Auntie Cecil, as younger generations of newspersons fondly call her, did not only die on Independence Day, she died for Independence – having spent almost all the years of her journalism life writing for freedom in her column “In and Out of Baguio,” probably the longest-running column since it came out every Sunday in the longest-running community paper in the Cordillera.

            

Tuesday last week, many were confused on the status of the Editor, with many texting and writing on social internet their good wishes and goodbyes. To be sure, I texted Etot Tamayo and inquired, hence I was told that she was breathing and surviving in her ICU bedroom. On doctor’s advice, we had to wait until her intravenous medicines were finished. She breathed her last at 10:40pm and was brought home to be with her kin.    

I have been seeing Auntie Cecil in many occasions in my youth. I saw her cross the longest hanging bamboo bridge in Bokod to attend a canyao in the small village of my mother’s parents in Binaldian, Bangao.

I heard her as the guest speaker in many assemblies in Baguio and Benguet. In college, our paths crossed again when she would gladly open their house at P. Burgos St. as the venue for a meeting with motorcycle buffs and musicians that compose the circle of friends of Bembo, her second son, to organize the first-ever motorcycle mountain cross races (motocross) in the country.

Auntie Cecil wrote a straightforward opinion column, not minding much about what or who may be hurt by her words, much like a“bato-bato sa langit, ang tamaan hwag magalit” type. I know this for a fact because once upon a time, she asked me to work with her and she gave me the opportunity to read her article before it got print.

I have fond memories of Auntie Cecil as well as listened to her stories of her funny and tragic experiences as a young writer and civic worker then. One time, we were in the newsroom when she noticed the atmosphere to be quieter than the Baguio cemetery, because not a single typewriter was clicking. So she came behind my chair, touched my shoulders and asked “apay haan ka maka-concentrate?  Apay na hangover ka manen?” (Why can’t you concentrate? Do you have hangover again?)

I can only say “yes ma’am” and cannot deny otherwise, because the mother instinct tells her exactly what boys have been to last night. But at the same time, she restores confidence by telling me “it’s alright, sometimes the best time to write is when you cannot think of what to write about.”

Maybe, that explains why most often, her articles in a single column talk about sketches of life, beautiful gardens, ill-mannered politicians, department heads that are unbecoming and unsolicited advice on what city hall should do about the city’s problems.

Auntie Cecil related to me a story that sometime in the late 50s or early 60s she had an attempt to run for councilor in the city. Their political party line-up scheduled campaign sorties in all corners of the city, and their first schedule was to go through the alleyways of City Camp, the more populated spots in the city that time.

While walking under the houses, through dark and narrow pathways in between shanties at City Camp, the window in one of the houses opened then something that resembled what looked like a white arinola was held out by someone’s arm. It happened so fast she said, and there was no time to run. So, all the politicians were drenched with the container’s contents that looked and smelled a lot like you know what. Of course, they all scampered for dear life.

She said, the next day, she no longer joined the campaign trail and that was the last of her attempt at politics. She told me“nangabakak kuma nu pinalpas ko ti campaign,” but she lost by default.   

Auntie Cecil knows our weaknesses. Sometimes she brings a half-emptied bottle of Tennessee whiskey in his big bag for the boys but warns them to finish their articles first before touching the bottle. I think she also knows that a writer concentrates better with a lighted cigarette in his mouth or on his table.

So she buys one pack of Marlboro cigarettes for each of us smokers in the newsroom. But even so, you will notice that she keeps coming to your table and each time she comes, she lights one of your stick and goes back to her table. In just over an hour, you will find that the Marlboro pack she gave you was emptied by her just the same.

That also explains why the edges around the typewriter tables in the newsroom have burn scars. It’s because once the writer has started concentrating, he forgets all about his lighted cigarette on the edge of his table and by the time he remembers it, the cigarette has already consumed itself. Blame it on the stubbornness inherent in man, that scenario is repeated again and again.

I remember well the rainy weather in September 1987 when Bembo, author of the “Rhyme and Reason” column wrote “40.” It was the same weather when Auntie Cecil left. The world was crying. Cecile C. Afable, Editor; has gone home and is awaited by her siblings and sons in a bigger press room up in the blue, the final destination of all newsmen. The loss of Baguio, Benguet and this earthly plain is heaven’s gain.