A happy childhood
I was a happy child. And I had a happy childhood. I played with marbles and sticks and stones, I was very happy with my two hand-me-down Barbie dolls and the miniature furniture in real wood hand-made for me by Manong Susing. They were crude, painted a drab forest green (because that was the available color in the shop, remnant of the paint used on the trucks to haul sugar cane). I had my hula-hoop and Chinese garter, and I could watch The Sound of Music anytime on Betamax, over and over again.
To cap off that happiness, and because ignorance is bliss, I ate red hotdogs and Spam and Maling egg rolls guiltlessly (I cannot do that anymore now). Life was simple, real and perfect — in the way that perfect can be defined in a child’s world.
The best part of every afternoon was playing with my childhood friends. Daddy had a couple of favorite and most trusted drivers, Manoy Delfin among them. Sadly, he has since passed. Manoy Delfin was married to Manang Virgie and their children were about the same age as me and my siblings. They were named Ginaly and Jeffrey, nicknamed Dayday and Boyboy. (She is now a teacher and a barangay captain.) Daddy built a house for them somewhere in our backyard, near the mini-tennis court. Basically, we all lived in the same compound, went to the same school although in different sections, were tutored at the same time daily. As such, because of proximity, we never lacked playmates. The mother of Manang Virgie was Manang Kessin, and she was Daddy’s cook even as a bachelor.
Anyway, after lunch would be the requisite siesta because 1) the sun was still too hot and 2) so that we would grow tall. As an adult now, a siesta sounds like a dream, a luxury I can seldom afford, but back then it felt more like a punishment. I remember thinking countless times, why oh why must I close my eyes to sleep even if I am not sleepy to begin with?
Our yayas were not indulgent in that department; they watched us with hawk’s eyes, not allowing us to escape from our room and run to the playground under the bright yellow sun, where our playmates were already in the thick of play. Oh, it was painful to listen to the happy sounds they made while my siblings and I had to close our eyes and try to sleep, or at least pretend to. I would entertain myself by listening to our yayas babble on, about their pen pals, the right way to cook a dish, the telegram they had just sent back home.
When we would finally be allowed out after at least an hour’s worth of shut-eye, we would hurry outside to fly a kite if the wind was good or play siomoy using our marbles. Otherwise it would be waring-waring or biko-biko (known also as patintero and piko). In hindsight, I think those games train one to think and play smart, and are a child’s most basic introduction into what adults now know as The Art of War because basically, you have to outsmart the enemy. The only rule of Mommy was that we played outdoors with long pants on (so that we would not have scars should we fall and skin our knees, and so no insect would bite us). By late afternoon, during that time when the sun is no longer out but the moon is not yet up either, we would already be all sweaty and tired, and quite hungry. I would be sad that we would have to go back indoors, to be scrubbed and cleaned and presentable for dinner. But not before we would stop by the plantsahan, a roofed area adjacent to the house of Manoy Delfin, where Manang Petring, the labandera, was queen. She was this very nice but stern-looking lady, gray hair slicked back and perpetually tied into a bun, with the bearing of Miss Minchin even before Miss Minchin was created for Princess Sara. I was fond of Manang Petring because she would allow me to iron a handkerchief. It fascinated me so — how a piece of crumpled but clean something could be smoothened out by this angry-looking thing; black metal that looked like half a boat hull, hot coals inside it. I never saw her use an electric iron, back then I do not remember even knowing it was perhaps something that already existed somewhere out there. That was all I knew because that was all I saw.
Manang Petring always had gawgaw and a water sprayer. I would iron carefully, as she endlessly cautioned me to be careful not to hurt or burn myself, otherwise I would never be allowed to hold an iron again. I loved the smell and feel of newly ironed anything, and one day when I am old and my bones hurt, having the bedsheets not only starched but ironed right before I slip into bed is a luxury I would want to have regularly.
After my foray into Manang Petring’s little kingdom, I would walk the few steps to Manoy Delfin’s house to find Manang Virgie cooking their dinner. They had delicious meals. Always simple, but always delicious. That is where I learned to eat vegetables — ginisang batong with bits of pork, malunggay soup with squash (that you mash into the rice), piniritong hasa-hasa. That was where I learned to make sawsawan — native vinegar mixed with rock salt, toyo married with vinegar or calamansi and then intensified with sili, the ever-present patis and all its awesomeness. It was in their home that I realized pork seasoned with nothing but salt was nothing short of wonderful. I also learned that art need not be expensive to be beautiful. I distinctly remember Manang Virgie tearing out from the pages of an old glossy magazine a photograph of potted roses.
There were actually two of those, the roses centered on each page. She cut the pages to size, made a border out of strips of red Carolina, mounted them on cardboard, covered them with plastic. She hung them on the wall by their dining area. She beautified their home with what she had. I found that to be so beautiful. It made me look at magazine pages differently. And to this day, when I remember, I still think all that to be so beautiful. Like empty plastic milk jugs repurposed as vases for wildflowers, or old tin cans used as treasure boxes that hold letters and old coins and all sorts of odds and ends, there is a charm to it all its own.
At night, as Daddy watched the news after a full day’s work managing the farm and an afternoon of playing a game or two of tennis, my sister and I would be bathed. There was no heater yet but because I absolutely abhorred cold water in a bath, the yaya would always heat water in a takuri. The hot water from the takuri would be poured into a balde of tap water, and I would bathe, scooping water with a tabo. If we ever had cuts and scrapes or insect bites from playing outdoors, the water would have to be boiled with bayabas leaves. It was an antiseptic, we were told, not that we questioned or resisted it. It was just the norm back then, as regular as taking vitamins or dusting our chest and back with an absurd amount of Johnson’s Baby Powder after splashing on baby cologne. Dinner was always my favorite meal, and before it ended, we would collectively come up with an entire menu for the next day. My sister Caren would be tasked to write down for the cook the menu per meal, alongside specific instructions if any (for specific kind of fish for Daddy, or to reheat this much of this dish or that, chicken for our youngest brother Jules who, for years, ate nothing more than just chicken, chicken, chicken every day). All the cook had to do was follow it. Meals were always big that way, and that is probably why, to this day, I enjoy eating so much. There just are so many wonderful memories attached to it, and I continue to make new ones now that I have a home of my own. Mommy made sure the helpers attended cooking class, so nine out of 10 times whatever came out of our kitchen was always good. Yaya Juling could make delicious fruit pies and siopao and cure her own hams, tapa and tocino, while Yaya Hilda made excellent inununan (paksiw) and adobo. At night, we would all pray the rosary as a family before retreating into our own rooms. Always, a bedtime story would be in order.
In the here and now, with a busy 2016 just around the corner and all the troubles and challenges in a day’s work, if I close my eyes long enough, I can be that little girl again, I can smell the afternoon sun, see the happy faces of Dayday and Boyboy, Jerry and Jessy and Yanni (the latter three are their siblings and the playmates of our younger brothers Matt and Jules). I remember the faces of my two Barbie dolls, I remember the feel of my hula-hoop even if I have since forgotten how to do it. I am grateful for the tight bond of our family, and that we grew up in such a loving and nurturing environment.
Many, many moments in time, I thank God I was a happy child. And that I had a simple, beautiful and very happy childhood.
