Once upon a Christmas time
When I was small December meant a burst of gifts and parties. Dec. 1 was my mother’s birthday; Dec. 2, my cousin Pato’s. Dec. 4 was my grandmother’s real birthday. It was the feast of St. Barbara. Who was St. Barbara? Sometime in the 1950s she was declared by the Church as, not a saint, but a mythical woman considered by people who worked with explosives as their patroness. The sacred event that was close to my grandmother’s birthday was the Immaculate Conception on Dec. 8. So she was called “Concepcion Barbara.” I was named after her. She celebrated her unofficial birthday every year on Dec. 8.
Dec. 9 was the birthday of Pato’s older brother; Dec. 15, their mother’s, who was my mother’s oldest sister. After Dec. 15 the Baguio pine Christmas tree was set up. You sniffed its marvelous fragrance slightly as you trimmed it with balls accumulated over years and multi-colored lights that looked like frozen flames.
Christmas was the time for castañas. I loved castañas. I remember being punished once because Mommy had told me to buy half a kilo of castañas and our driver and I bought one kilo. “Did I not tell you to buy half a kilo? Why did you buy one?” She made me stand at the corner at the top of the stairs, a corner that turned from ivory to gray from tears I shed for being disobedient.
Christmas then was simple. No carols until December. Then the cumbancheros came with their tin cans and tansan or soft drink caps strung and shaken. I couldn’t breathe waiting for Christmas morning and seeing what Santa Claus had brought me. My most memorable gift was plastic balloons: six tubes of Blo-a-Glo, my favorite brand, received when I was 10 years old.
I always had a new dress for Christmas. My mother and aunt had a dress shop so our clothes were free. We went to Mass either on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Then there was lunch with the entire family. It was always my grandmother’s delicious cocido plus Chinese ham and pan de sal, fruitcake and leche flan, queso de bola and, of course, castañas. Those were the Christmases of my childhood; those were the days when fruitcakes were real and delicious, enjoyed and not ridiculed as they are today.
After Christmas the scent of pine would fill the house as the Christmas tree began to wilt. On Dec. 30, I would be awakened in the dark, dressed then brought to the Luneta for the wreath laying at the Jose Rizal Shrine. Someone, usually a driver or a yaya, would tell me it was because we were related. My mother would shush me if I asked a question or moved too much. It was not an occasion I enjoyed.
Nothing happened at home on New Year’s Eve, except I remember our pet dogs shivered with fear over the sound of the firecrackers. On New Year’s Day we would always have lunch at Lolo Bindo’s place. Lolo Bindo was Bienvenido Gonzalez, Sr., once UP president. He was my father’s uncle, the one he grew up with after his parents died. We went to visit them three to four times a year and until now, I see their family as my father’s family.
Jan. 3 was the birthday of Nicanor Tomas, my surrogate father whom I called Daddy Toot. Every year he had a birthday party, always big and festive with wonderful food. Once it was Chinese lugaw served with a million delicious little dishes. Daddy Toot was a celebrity in our family. He worked in the Central Bank as the Superintendent of Banks or something like that. His birthday, for me, was double-edged. It was always a lot of fun, yes, but it also signaled the approach of the Feast of the Three Kings. That would mark the end of the holiday season.
On the night of Jan. 5, I would put three pairs of shoes on our windowsill and the next morning I would find them filled with gifts from the Three Kings. I remember once Mommy told me that she had awakened in the middle of the night and found the Three Kings and their camels lounging in the garden. One of the camels was standing and nibbling on the leaves of our star apple tree. Two of the camels were settled on the grass chewing while the Three Kings stood looking at the sky, wondering where they would deliver next. I loved that story, a testimony to my mother’s imagination.
Then it was all over. The Christmas tree, now mostly brown needles but still smelling wonderful was dismantled, the trimmings packed in cardboard boxes and kept I never knew where. Classes began again. To this little girl, reality was back and all was quiet and odorless once again and it would remain that way until Easter.
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