The summer of my childhood

Memories are a balm to the soul. When you are too weak to fly, your beautiful memories will guide you to reach your destination. When you are strong enough to run, they will swiftly carry you to wherever you want to be.

Just by thinking about the summer of my childhood makes me soar. Those were the days when, while growing up in Gulod, a sleepy barrio in the town of Cabuyao in Laguna, the sun would scorch the earth that even the gentlest footstep on the dirt road would have a cloud of smoke in its wake. Those were the days when the simple pleasures of life – like playing trumpo (tops) or patintero under the sun or taguan (hide-and-seek) and tumbang preso on a moonlit night – were enough to bring joy to our lithe and lissome bodies and immature and innocent minds. Those were the simple pleasures of life that I don’t see anymore in the summer of today.

When I was a kid, the flower-bearing ipil-ipil trees in my Lolo’s backyard were tell-tale signs that summer beckoned. The season of sun was at its peak when the green, plump and coiled camachile fruits turned red violet to the point that they burst out of the stalks. Using a long and slender stick with a wooden hook crossed at the tip of it, my playmates and I would pick them. The epicurean in us was not born yet so even the tangy taste of camachile seemed the most delectable snack there was on earth.

My first lesson about the art of perfection was culled from the black seeds of camachile in the midst of summer. With its seeds, my playmates and I would compete by peeling them down to their cotyledon without scratching the brown covering. Each perfectly peeled seed would give us high. We even believed that by putting them in a tapayan (big earthen jar), each seed would turn into a diyes na babae, our term for a 10-centavo coin. Such foolishness. But in those simple times, it didn’t matter whether it was done out of silliness or sheer bliss. When you were young and carefree, who could tell the difference?

Because we would always be out in the sun, expect that we would catch fever from time to time. Medicol or Cortal was the fast relief to any bodily discomfort. But my mother would always turn to herbal medicine like boiled sambong or oregano leaves. The smell of this drink was repulsive and the taste awful but my brothers and I would drink it anyway because Nanay said the concoction had magical effects. We would believe her, of course.

Magic was part and parcel of my childhood. Once, I was running a high fever and was not drinking enough water. Nanay put two glasses of water beside me and said: "Abrakadabra, may magic ang tubig na ito. Inumin mo at gagaling ka." I simply did not know if it was just mind over matter but I would get healed every time my mother put a "magic spell" in my drinking water. When I was well enough to play, I would go to the house of my cousins and play bahay-bahayan where I would end up either a "Kuya" or a "Lola." Weird. But in those days of simple pleasures, playing a role in the game of bahay-bahayan taught us about responsibility in the house.

Though only few had TV sets, we still managed to watch our favorite shows – Gulong Ng Palad and Kaluskos Musmos were tops on our list. It was a big no-no, however, to watch TV all day long. Parents did not permit their children to spend long hours in front of the boob tube. But they would allow them to play luksong-tinik, luksong-baka, taguang-bato, piko, Chinese garter or laglag-panyo.

We would only be allowed to swim in Laguna de Bay, which was still pristine during those days, when our older siblings were with us. Long before night dropped its cloak, we would be seen in the bukid picking watermelons in our field. Sharing was almost the order of the day for any kid in my village. Those who did not find a single watermelon would still end up bringing home one or two because their playmates would give them.

Always, always after lunch time – where fares like pesang dalag, sinigang sa bayabas na ayungin, adwas, ginatang hipon were served – Gulod was a picture of serenity, as if everything came to a standstill. This was the scenario because children would take their summer siesta, a requisite of parents to their sons and daughters so they could play again upon waking up. Fresh from a boon of sleep, my childhood playmates and I would gather in the kamalig (makeshift storage for palay) where we would have our teacher-teacheran. It was an older girl friend who taught me about the capitals of USA, Indonesia, the Philippines and Thailand. She was also the one who taught me about the parts of the eyes and flowers while we were munching on Chocnuts or chewing Tarzan or Texas bubble gums.

Since summer time also meant long break from school, we would be allowed to sleep late. We would join our mothers on the streets carving their own happiness while biking around the barrio under the full moon on rented bikes. Fifteen minutes before 10 p.m. – to follow the imposed curfew – they would all return the bicycles; they would all go home, of course with their kids in tow. PC then stood for Philippine Constabulary and not personal computer. Oh, that was the height of martial law.

"Maghugas ng paa at kamay bago matulog. Magpunas din ng hita at braso. (Wash your feet and hands before sleeping. Clean your legs and arms, too.)" These were the cardinal orders of Nanay when we came home from playing in the streets. And yes, going to sleep was not complete unless our mother showered us first with Johnson’s baby powder.

In our sleep, we would dream happily. At the crack of dawn, we would wake up to the crowing of roosters. Happiness would be written again on our faces as we fix our room. We were ready again to paint the world in all the childhood colors imaginable.

Ahh... such was the summer of my childhood – the summer that was filled with simple pleasures that made us more grateful about life.

(I wish to find the summer of my childhood again in the world of the young ones today. For your new beginnings, please e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com. Have a blessed Sunday.)