Nothing complicated, just chill

Growing up in Ormoc, I remember how Daddy would come home, either from his rounds on the farm or from his tennis match, a blind man plus his young companion/guide in tow. Daddy would gather us around and, like a jukebox, the blind man — Mang Carding is his name — would sing good stuff, the standards, like I Left My Heart in San Francisco or Misty; music from the past that stands on its own against the newer ones, replete as they are with beautiful melodies and with no poverty of thoughts. He would sing and sing, as he strummed his very old guitar, and we would listen. At the end of his set, Daddy would give the blind man through his companion some money, plus some clothes.

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