By
Kim Jardeleza
Imagine this: Boisterous laughter
from children running in a dusty unpaved provincial road on a hot summer day. A
cornucopia of art; colours, tradition and culture in one scene. Staged from the
road outside your front window, you almost imagine having the best seat in the
opera house. What was once an irritating singing of antics (’’Morion, bu-bungi.
May *** sa binti...Hinabol ng pari…” C’mon, you know how it goes.) whose lyrics
have never really been credited to anyone, now a living tradition; a piece of
the olden days.
I always remember how it was back
then, those were the scenes. Those are the memories that trigger a nostalgic
day dream. The summer days spent in a happy little island almost unknown to any
other person living a few regions away; my sleepy little home town.
I was not aware of how lucky I am
to be born and raised in a place where tradition, religion, culture and beauty
exist in almost everything in harmony. It is my realization that the things
that make me go back reminiscing my childhood days are the dog days of rustic
summers where every child is free to roam the streets until six in the evening.
Where bruises and knee cuts are signs that you have enjoyed the dirt and bike.
Where the ringing of church bells cues the praying of Angelus, taking the hands
of the elders saying “mano po” and the fetching of parents for their children
lost in the middle of a feisty game of ‘piko’. And arriving home with the scent
of the day’s sun in one’s hair. Those were the days.
Every local child’s summer would
not be complete without seeing a “Morion”[1] during lent. This is
the best of the best days of summer that I have etched in my memory. Folks
coming home from the city and my cousins staying for a week driving the whole
household mad with all the simultaneous sound of shouting, laughing, giggles
and baby cries. I remember my first real glimpse of a Morion as a child. I must
be three or four. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I confess that I did not grow out
of my fear of the legendary morions until I was ten. Then, the beach. Of
course. There’s this place we call “isla” where the whole family goes to as a
tradition. It is not really an island but a cove, just looks like one. I can’t
remember the first time I got there but photographs show I was months old when
my parents introduced me to the place. Must be why I love the island life.
In the island, there were times
when clean water was scarce and a flock of town people would go down the river
to do their laundry, which was a thrill to their children. This means pure
unadulterated fun and a good excuse to make a picnic out of a house chore. Then
detours to the park and the rice field, as “armoseco” seeds cling to the lining
of my shorts means I have evidence clinging in my clothes pointing to where
I’ve been.
The simple charm, the humility of
the people and their big hearts these are what I grew up to. The home made fish
balls ni Tagle and Mang Ben’s dirty ice cream in the afternoon or bananaque[2],
kalamay[3] at ‘snobol’ ni Ate Germa sa silong.Oh! and the "pinaltok" at "tutong" ni Nanang Ogie. I miss those now. How could I forget my
skill of climbing trees: mango, aratiles and that guava tree where I practiced
my flying powers (in the latter years to come I also enjoyed climbing gates and
our veranda). And one of the best things that I ever owned, my tire swing Papa
made with his bare hands (I appreciate that now). Where I made fights and
friends---of course they’d make up with me to use my swing. Then the picnics in
the park. Bike lessons in the tennis court (I didn’t learn from that). Kite
flying (or watching the big boys) in the field, thereafter nagging Papa to make
me a kite too (he did, out of pad paper which he tied to a sewing thread and we
tried to fly it while riding the bike in the school grounds). And when I have
been bad, there’s the thrill of sneaking through the window to the adjacent
bedroom window of a friend when I am grounded. Then on a quiet passive night
would subconsciously find myself gazing through the night sky imagining what
would be in the future (yeah, I was a sappy child) wishing time would take me
there fast. But then again, I shouldn’t have.
As the last days of childhood
never presented itself with a farewell party. It was gone and I never knew when
exactly and how it left. Little fragments of memories when there was no guilt
in letting yourself get drenched in the rain. Then somebody telling you “para
kang bata”, when all you thought you are still. The late nights you stayed out
with your friends just to admire the beautiful sky and wait for falling stars,
you unconsciously trying to figure out the constellations but all you ever got
was Orion’s belt. And yes, a few falling stars brushed the horizon that
night.
