Thank you.
That Staunton story came to me by an odd accident: I lived in Sagada for 3 years, renting one of the buildings that Staunton built. One rainy season, with little else to do, I poked around in the mission archives, and dug up a musty box full of old report, news clippings, letters, and other period documents. I wonder how many other stories are similarly buried.
A little later, travelling in the really wild country in northern Kalinga, I stayed in a mission building in Balbalasang, which was one of the remotest Episcopal outstations, and is still a very remote place today. In the bottom of the closet lay some accounting ledgers dating back to the '30's. Fascinating documents: few accounts tell as much of ordinary life as the day to day records of how people spent their money. The handwriting reminded me of my grandmother's: flawless, strong, but unmistakeably feminine. I could only wonder how this American ended up in that remote corner, what she thought of her life there; who, if anyone, she told.
The world was a strange place. Still is, I guess. |
