I did a search on my grandfather on the internet the other day. I found an article written by a retired colonel from the U.S. military who mentioned my lolo by his nickname. I e-mailed him out of curiousity and am now trading stories with him about my lolo.
My lolo was a very happy guy. Fond of horsing around. Generous - I remember he once gave me a giant plastic Daimos robot - and took special pains to teach me how to correctly pronounce it. He spoke and understood Japanese, you see. He was so good at it that he was apparently present at the negotiations with Japan at the end of WWII as a secret expert.
Anyway, this retired colonel is telling me stories of lolo's younger days, about the time they were saying nasty things about this slow-walking fat white woman who turned around and berated them in Tagalog (she was married to a Filipino and had had YEARS to learn the language), about lolo's brother and their activities during the war.
My lolo died with a smile on his face. I should tell this old buddy of my lolo's that. I don't know if he knows.