Msgr. Florencio C. Yllana

Recollections of a Sobrina

Maria Andrea Y. Santos-Mendigo

The worst thing he could call a man was infeliz. This, if the man failed to pay a debt, or was uncouth or late for an appointment. One of the best compliments he could pay a man was to call him un pan bendito. This meant the man was good, kind, gentle and sincere.

My uncle, the late Msgr. Florencio C. Yllana, was a man of few words. He prided himself in giving 5-minute sermons during Holy Mass, something most busy parishioners appreciated. These short sermons packed such wit and wisdom that many told me at his wake, "The reason I used to hear Sunday Mass at 11:00 am was to hear his sermons." (He was retired guest priest at the Christ the King Parish in Greenmeadows under his good friend Msgr. Jaime Mora, the parish priest.) Mamo Siching was also something of a male chauvinist, and he would contrast the brevity of his sermons to the long conversations and circuitous ways that women, according to him, took to state their point. He would often phone with, "Anong balita?" but would cut my mother or me short if we got carried away with the details. Being formed in the old mold of Spanish gentility, he had his preferences about where a woman's place should be. But this did not stop him from building lasting friendships with strong-willed women who came to help him in his various projects.

My early memories of Mamo Siching are vibrant vignettes. Mamo biting into a friend chicken neck that, he claimed, only his sister (my mother) could cook just the way he liked it. My mother staring at a decapitated pescado en blanco which she had taken pains to decorate, while Mamo sucked with gusto on the payo he always took whenever fish was served. Music blaring from Mamo's state-of-the-art stereo system on an early summer evening in Sorsogon, Sorsogon as my family alighted from a car in front of his convent. Mamo intently interviewing a teenaged boy who had written a love note to me during my solo summer vacation in Sorsogon. Mamo correcting my pronunciation of "kilometer" (accent on the first and third syllables) as I read him the forecast of a typhoon threatening Sorsogon. In Manila in the 1950s, Mamo allowing me to go through his suitcases to find his "pasalubong" for me among those for his brothers and sisters, in-laws, nieces and nephews, after trips from abroad which were a rarity in those days. Mamo's tears freely falling, without bothering to wipe them, as he greeted relatives when the casket bringing his brother Rafael, who had died in-flight to the USA on a business trip, arrived at the Manila International Airport with the widow. Mamo Siching ... at his strongest, and at his most vulnerable.

He was a wide reader, and could hold his own in conversations at all levels. He was also a tireless letter writer. He knew that he knew. And when he did not know, he did not hesitate to ask questions. From the names he would drop during family visits, I could tell that he did not lack for advisers.

He usually kept us out of his official business. We vaguely knew of his activities, whether they were fund raising for poor seminarians or dilapidated churches, or coordinating pilgrimages for the CBCP. His effort to keep family and business apart is illustrated best by my mother's story of how, in 1940, he tried to nip her budding romance with the archbishop's brother, Ignacio. Mamo was then Secretary to the Archbishop of Nueva Caceres, Pedro P. Santos, and he did not want it said that whatever favorable decisions he obtained from the Archbishop were the result of family relationships rather than merit. But the obstinate Andrea had her way (with her parent's consent), and Ignacio became Mamo's brother-in-law. Mamo was a good sport, and co-officiated at their wedding, later calling Ignacio un pan bendito. Mamo was such a good sport, in fact, and serious about his priestly obligations, that when Andrea was in labor with her first child, he was in the room reading such long prayers that Andrea went into dry labor, waiting in vain for him to finish and leave the room so she could get on with her business!

On the eve of my wedding, Mamo gave me advice that has served me to this day. He said, "Baby, you are marrying a military man. I don't want you to be like others who force their husbands to find other sources of income by their expensive caprichos. Be simple."

Mamo never forgot a birthday or an anniversary. Yet the milestones of his own life were celebrated more with friends than with family. Which was just as well, because as a priest, he belonged to the people.

As he approached the sunset of his life, Mamo became more tolerant, less gruff with people he considered infeliz. He was more forgiving, less exacting. As his health deteriorated, his usual enthusiasm for good food declined. Towards the end, he could hardly eat. In his penultimate confinement at Cardinal Santos, I ordered some sushi which was delivered to his room. He ate a couple and remarked, "You know\\. Baby, this is the first meal I've enjoyed in a long time." He probably meant it, although more than that, I think he graciously wanted to reward my feeble efforts with his appreciation. His friends would tell me that in the few weeks of his life, he had taken the habit of telling them "I love you" on top of "Goodbye".

On December 25, 1993, I had the privilege of closing the eyes of the man who was Priest, Uncle, and Friend in his final sleep. Requiescat in pace.                                                                       

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