Tales from My Childhood - Episode 2

Oscar's Yellow Hen

Not every incident has to do with the Japanese rampaging in the city or provinces killing people at random. This episode, though, is still connected to their presence. It is about Oscar's yellow hen.

If you’re from the Philippines, your childhood will be incomplete without an episode, no matter how inconsequential, involving chicken. It could be that unlucky rooster Tatay (Father) brought home from the tupada (place where cockfights are held) with the appropriate downcast look as he mutters “stupid rooster didn’t see that slash coming…” or, it could be the pet you kept in a big bamboo cage tucked away beneath the bamboo stairs… until it disappeared under mysterious circumstances during observance of Todos los Santos (All Saints Day).

This is a different chicken story. Pull up your chair and pay attention as the narrative unfolds. The man character is Hector, Mother’s youngest brother. When the war started, he ran away from home and lived with his cousins (the Magsalin family). I won’t test your patience with a long background why he left home. Meanwhile, by the end of two years our extended family had dwindled to just Fernando, my uncle, Mother and me. Mother was very ill and although no one spoke about it, we knew her days on earth wouldn’t be many. Because Fernando’s work involved traveling to far places buying scrap metal, he was seldom home and, as a consequence, the pantry was frequently empty save for a big chunk of panocha (raw sugar) that gave rice gruel some flavor (a hard to describe kind of sweetness) and a bit of color. Thinking of the fare we had on the table before WWII  made me yearn for the creamed spinach, broiled milkfish, estofados, etc. we normally feasted on. But alas, the neighbors’ gardens were planted only to sweet potatoes, taro and papayas. A steady diet of these veggies became torture rather than a source of sustenance. Don’t ask me how I came to know. Just listen.And, additionally, the neighbors started to notice their plants seemed to have stopped growing! I echoed their incredulity at the sight of papayas that disappeared as soon as they became larger than my fist and of the sweet potato plants mysteriously shriveling in a leafless stage. It was a challenge indeed even for Sherlock Holmes.

Mother never complained, though. She always exuded confidence our privation wouldn’t last long as she whispered “I heard from your father that the Americans are already on the way back… they’re in Guadalcanal now… he was here?... he visited yesterday while you were out… he left some money, here.”

Then, one day, Hector returned. His bones were almost falling out of his pale skin as he leaned on the door frame. I looked at him, feeling no elation. He was only 15 when he left two years ago. Briefly, I remembered the times he played with me… I was only 6 then. I found myself wishing he hadn’t returned. With Hector rejoining the family, the frequently empty pantry will have to serve the needs of 4 people (if Fernando happened to be present). But I said nothing as I surrendered the divan where I used to sleep six feet away from Mother. I moved my beddings upstairs and resigned myself to my new duties: caring for 2 very sick people.

But ever the resourceful one, I made sure Hector and Mother would have something warm (if just barely nourishing) in their bellies at least two times a day. For bread, I’d walk all the way to Azcarraga Street from our apartment in Pepin Street to the bakery where Segundo (a family friend) worked for a handout of stale bread or whatever was availble.  On the way home I clutched a big bag of machacao (toasted recycled bread) my two patients would dip in warm sugared water (coffee was only for the rich collaborators) for breakfast! That, plus the mysteries happening in the neighbors’ gardens that also occurred in the veggie gardens at Alejandro Albert Elementary School in Dapitan guaranteed not one of my patients would sleep very hungry. As for me, I was assured free soup and one meal at the Chinese restaurant on Trabajo Street as payment for my services (e.g. taking out the trash, cleaning the toilet and making sure the tableware didn’t vanish with the departing customers).

An event almost biblical in nature (I mean, something like what happened to the people of Moses) occurred one day. I was nibbling on my share of machacao when a fat yellow hen appeared by the gate – attracted by the crumbs around my feet! I didn’t know anything about high IQ’s but that day is proof I have no less than a 150 IQ for I slowly stood up and crumbled what was left of my precious machacao to make a tempting trail leading to our living room as I slowly concealed myself behind the front door!

The only sound I made was quickly slamming the door shut! Then in one split second my hands were around the yellow hen’s neck. Hector, too, must have had a high IQ plus the sight of the limp hen in my hand pumped loads of adrenaline into my skeletal uncle as he headed for the kitchen to start boiling water!

Dressed, quartered and gutted, the yellow hen’s soul was reposing in paradise as the broth came to a boil. Hector dropped ginger into the soup, adding the little bite of spiciness a tinola (chicken/vegetable soup dish) requires! Hector added the sliced green papaya and kamote leaves when we were sure the meat was tender enough. I swear we’ve never had a dinner more memorable than what we feasted on that evening. My patients shared the liver, gizzard and immature eggs. Me? I gave myself a bonus – one whole drumstick! That night, I left the apartment with a mysterious package containing feathers, talons and intestines and threw the bag on the railroad tracks in Dapitan. Ha! The next train will take care of the evidence!

The following morning, there was a knock on the door. It was Oscar, a neighbor 5 doors away. He was looking for his hen. “Have you-you-you s-s-s-een my he-hen?” he stuttered. Of course, my face reflected the best angelic look I could muster as I denied seeing his hen. That night, I served my patients the remaining tinola which I kept heating every 3-4 hours so it won’t spoil. This time, I abstained as I watched Hector mash the papaya slices into his brown rice. Mother asked me to crack open the leg bones so she could get to the morrow. The night passed quietly. Almost, that is, for Mother snored now and then. For his part, Hector was peacefully asleep. For the first time he didn’t wake up to cough and spit blood into his tin can.

When morning came, I went down to check on my patients. Mother was already sitting up but Hector was still asleep, his right knee leaning against the wall. I approached the divan and touched his knee. He didn’t move. I knew he had gone to join the soul of Oscar’s hen in heaven.

Without looking at Mother, I said “Hector’s dead, Inay.”

(Chris and Rommel, my 4-year old twin grandsons, missed the tragedy and concentrated their attention to the lines of Oscar. At this point, their mother, Lucy, gave them a verbal lecture on political correctness. The twins are 20 years old now and well-mannered  young men.  When I reminded them of this tale, I barely elicited a smile.)