The sweetness of summer

When we were children and school would end for summer break, our father allowed us only one week to be lazy. That meant that for seven days, we were allowed to wake up just in time for lunch. We were allowed to laze the day away (but with very strict TV rules) and allowed to sleep in as late as we wanted. At the end of a week, we were expected to go back to our regular time schedules, and "do some important work." To have purpose was highly prized in our home.

What that meant was chores, chores and more chores. We would wake up early and help with breakfast, lunch and dinner. (One particular stretch of childhood, our father would even run us through some physical drills like in an army camp!) We were expected to clean our rooms, water the plants, inventory the kitchen, clean out our closets, discard old books and toys. We helped out in our parents’ office, doing errands such as banking and buying supplies, or filing papers such as bills and contracts. Thinking about this now, it was to me, always a glorious time and I could never resent my father for such a rule my older siblings found autocratic. But I took much comfort in continuing the routine.

I also always took great pleasure in discarding the old. There is something comforting about filing, discarding, replenishing. I must have been merely copying nature’s own rhythm and time. After all, wasn’t this what nature was doing as well? This must have been a lesson in enjoying the feeling of nostalgia. Old books and textbooks would be put in a box and given to the Church, together with old uniforms, socks and shoes. It was perhaps the heat that made the activity of discarding things most appropriate. The oppressiveness of heat made me want to throw away unnecessary things.

I enjoyed food too during the summer! Sometime in April, mangoes from our farm in Zambales would begin to appear. Our entire terrace would be filled with mangoes and methodically we would categorize them by size – small, medium and large. Fruits exude their own heat almost as if they were releasing all that sunlight they absorbed while still attached to the tree. The heat would expel and the terrace would be almost unbearably hot. One couldn’t stay away though because the smell of the sweetness of mangoes would call to us! We would open our doors to the neighborhood and we would spend all day selling mangoes, finding such peace in the routine of sizing, weighing and changing money. In between, we would devour as many mangoes as we could! Never mind the runny tummy at the end of the day!

Our grandfather planted these mangoes and our mother would tell the story of how he rode on a great black horse every day and water each plant religiously. She of course rode behind him. This picture made eating the mangoes even more enjoyable.

Another thing we liked to eat was singkamas – another famous product of Zambales – specifically from San Marcelino. On the way home from San Antonio, we were sure to buy two or three talis. I would refrigerate them as soon we got home. Nothing can beat cold singkamas on a hot summer day! I enjoyed it plain (unlike my sister who would buro it in suka and ground pepper) like a tall glass of water with crunch.

At the back of the house my mother had planted a Bangkok santol tree when we first moved into the house. At around March, a profusion of higad would fill the garden, a sure sign that the santol tree was in bloom! In April or May, the santol tree would yield the sweetest and juiciest of fruit. My grandmother, Lola Paring Magsaysay Baretto, had taught me how to make cordial – a cool drink made from the peelings of santol. The santol buto she would buro and my brothers and sisters and I would sit at the foot of her long stairs in her home in San Narciso and choose our poison – burong santol or cordial santol juice. You can imagine the different expressions on our faces brought about by the combination of asim-tamis!

After awhile, I spent every summer in voice class. After an attempt at learning the piano, the violin and the flute, my mother gave up and started to find me a voice teacher. I was in grade school at this time. In the afternoons, twice a week, my mother brought me to Teacher’s Village to learn about scales and vocalizing from a pretty soprano whose name escapes me now. In her stuffy sala, my mother and I would sit and wait for her to descend the staircase. My teacher was a performer in musical revues and quite beautiful. She would come down in an assortment of caftans, her right hand adorned with a large ring, and her left hand embraced in at least two bracelets. When she played the piano, the bracelet’s beads would caress the black and white keys.

Everyday, we would begin with scales. Her hands would find its way to the middle of the keyboard – Meeee-yoh-ho-ho-ho-ho-o-o-o, bam, bam. After 30 minutes of scales, she taught me short songs in Italian or French. The pieces would have no translations so I would never know what it was I was singing about. But from the key and speed of the piece, I knew the songs were either about love: fast = the good kind, slow = the bad kind.

This summer, with my own children, I have chosen to be more relaxed. There is no seven-day laziness rule, but they do keep to a routine. They help with chores at home, but I’m smarter so I never call them chores. Washing dishes after meals is a race. Watering the plants in the afternoon segues into showering in the garden. Discarding old clothes has become an exercise in seeing how much they’ve grown. We sort pictures with much laughter. The purpose is not purposefulness. The purpose is to have fun.

This summer, I wish for them to go on personal adventures. No summer classes for them, no scheduled activities. They are not enrolled in anything, except life. It’s been difficult for them as they have gotten used to the purposefulness of school. They come to me continually for ideas of what to do. I shoo them away and snicker silently at their cluelessness. The possibility of each day looms, and I enjoy watching them figure out how to attack the day’s promise.

They’ve finally warmed up to this idea of mine though. There is something to be said about being allowed to be shapeless, about being allowed to discover things on their own. They come to meet me at the door without slippers, clothes all tattered and torn, sometimes their teeth not yet brushed. Once in a while, one of them will have a wound or will report a nosebleed. As of last count, my boy has had three major falls resulting in an ill-shaped head. But he has discovered secret passageways in our compound! My daughter has enough artwork to fill a room and my other boy has discovered, believe it or not, Lalo, the composer!

I am always charmed by the spontaneity of summer. In the absence of school, imagination is allowed free rein and the children build amazing worlds I can no longer enter. Childhood and the sweetness of it passes by as quickly as summer. I look at the children and trust in the work of summer – in the simple abandonment to adventure, for the sheer sake of adventure – to bear fruit, sometime in the future.

Here are some summer recipes you might want to try with your children while lazing about.

Mango Float

1 kilo sweet mangoes

1 pack Graham crackers

1 carton cream

Slice the mangoes into pieces. Crush only one third of the pack of Graham crackers. Like lasagna, begin to make layers. In a deep tray, lay out whole Graham crackers, then spread all-purpose cream, then spread a couple of slices of mangoes. Repeat for the second layer. End with a layer of cream. At the very top, spread crushed Graham crackers. Chill and serve!

Santol cordial

Around three to four pieces of santol per glass.

Open santol and remove seeds. With the peeling, use a knife to take off the hardest part of the santol husk. Put soft peelings into a glass of water and allow to sit for a couple of hours until the water eventually absorbs all of the juices of the santol. Remove peel, add sugar and tons of ice and serve!