My Childhood Memories in the Barrio

I have blogged this in the Asingan Journal not too long ago. I am reprinting it here to give you a glimpse of my life as a barrio lad in Asingan, Pangasinan where I grew up. Life was really difficult then in the humble household of my Lolo and Lola. But difficult times doesn't mean miserable existence or unhappy times. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. Its one of the happiest times of my life...




Growing up in the Barrio
by Sonny S. Espejo

When I was a kid growing up, I just hate to take those afternoon naps and all I wanted to do is go out with my friends and playmates in my barrio neighborhood. "Stay put after lunch and sleep. You need that to grow fast, otherwise you would stay short like Mimay", my Inang would always exhort. Inang is my maternal grandmother with whom I lived. Nana Mimay is, of course, the then famous midget woman who sells peanuts and snacks at the town plaza. Everybody in my town of Asingan knows her.

(Of course, I was never worried about staying short like Nana Mimay. I simply knew it's not true. Fact is, I was growing very fast those days. Too fast that when my Inang buys me shoes for some special times like Recognition Day in school, she would always insists on something one size bigger than my actual size hoping that I could use it again for the next time. She would then stuff the toe-end with Bannawag pages so that it would fit me snugly – never mind that it would look like Goofy's shoes – only to find out that I would have outgrown it again by the next occasion. She would do that every year and never learn.)

"You better sleep, or we will leave you behind on Saturday when we go to the kiskisan", she would then threaten, sensing that I am not sold on her stunted-like-Mimay theory. Now, that would get my attention. On mention of the kiskisan (rice husking mill), I would feel the need to toe the line and pretend to sleep beside her in the papag, waiting for her to fall asleep so that I could tip-toe out later. Fact is, I would never miss the trip to the rice mill for anything. I just love to go to the Poblacion and loiter around the millhouse watching the old machine do its thing. For a young barrio boy who never had close encounters with anything more mechanically complicated than the gripo, the rice mill is rather fascinating and imposingly complex. Of course, buses, trucks and cars pass through our barrio and even helicopters land in the plaza for rescue work during the flood seasons, but I have never been allowed to observe them closely or given the chance to figure out how the different parts fit and work together like I am allowed to do in the ricemill. I also look forward to the treat that comes with the trip to the poblacion: hopia and Royal Tru-Orange – so refreshingly warm - straight from the display shelves as freezers are unheard of in small stores those days.

So on those appointed days, at about three in the afternoon, I would volunteer to unleash my grandfather's carabao from under the kaimito tree where it would be down on all fours, eyes half closed, ruminating and perhaps contemplating on his lovelife. Despite outweighing me, a frail boy of seven or eight, 40 to 1 and notwithstanding his menacingly sharp horns, I would tug effortlessly at his rope to rouse him to stand. I would then lead him by the nose beside the old coconut stump where I could climb on for an easy mount. I would be riding him to the banawang so I could give him a nice refreshing bath prior to taking him to town. Carabaos love nothing more than a cool dip in the middle of a hot day. Kalakian would be so enthusiastic about it that sometimes I am persuaded to join in for a swim in the clear irrigation stream. We would be joined in by a swarm of annoying mosquitoes and pesky flies. They would be hovering above our heads, confused and undecided as to who smells better between me and Kalakian.

By the time we would be back in our backyard, my Tatang (which is how I call my grandfather) would be impatient and fuming mad over what has taken us too long. He would have finished loading the sacks of unhusked rice into the kariton and everything had been readied except for the motive power. The kariton of my Tatang is one of his few precious possessions. It is a two-wheeled cart with a sturdy wooden box for a body and two long pieces of wooden beams on the two sides for a chassis. The beams extend far enough into the front so that they could flank Kalakian and they could be secured to his yoke in front. The wheels are marvelous feats of woodworking – iron ringed wooden rims at the ends of wooden spokes radiating from a wooden hub reinforced also with iron rings. To say it's a primitive contraption is the mother of all understatements. But despite the absence of independent wishbone suspension or a touch of aerodynamic styling, our kariton serves its purposes quite well. At the back, my Tatang attached reflectors discarded from some old jeepney to give it some high-tech character. And some wise guys scrawled the mean warning, " Distancia Amigo" and the meaner "Caution: Air Brake" ala Pantranco. I am mighty proud of our kariton. My Tatang is very selective as to who is allowed to borrow it – only his relatives and drinking buddies, which is to say - the entire barangay!

To this day, I could still hear the sound of the iron-rimmed wheels as it rolled ploddingly on the dusty gravel road. The grating sound of pebbles crushing on its heels is matched only by the equally annoying squeak of the un-lubricated bushings rotating grudgingly around their axles. My Tatang would sit in front of the kasko controlling the rein. He would look like Diego Silang with his bistokol ( a helmet-like hat fashioned from the shell of matured tabungaw, a member of the pumpkin family). I would be slumped on top of the sacks of palay, shielded from the afternoon sun by a brimmy pandan hat. I would have to duck every now and then as some low hanging branches and bamboo foliage along the way threaten to brush me off from the top of the heap. My Inang would walk behind us with her labba and biga-o precariously balanced on her head – no hands! She woul not ride with us and just walk intently behind probably to ensure that a wheel would not decide to detach itself from the rest of the kariton unnoticed. It's a slow ride without the excitement of racing, much less overtaking something else that moves. But it was fun and enjoyable nonetheless.

Invariably, we would arrive at the kiskisan situated across the street from the old Tabacalera. It is managed by a kindly old lady who is a close acquaintance of my Inang, judging from the way they would gossip. Tatang would stand inside the carriage of the kariton to shove over the sacks of irik to the shoulders of the kargadors who would effortlessly carry them off into the millhouse. And while tatang would find a suitable place to park his kariton under those giant acacias that used to ring the Tabacalera , I would go straight to the kamarin or millhouse. We go here often enough that the mill operator knows me by nickname and I have befriended him enough that he allows me to go up the wooden stairs to the second level where the sacks of irik are being poured into a big wooden funnel. From that vantage point, I could see the whole operation. The driving engine (possibly a one-cylinder diesel machine judging from the way it chug-chugs) is housed separately inside a small barn at the back. All I could see of it is an iron pipe that spews water into a cooling tank and the drive belt which goes out from a hole in the walls of the machine room and goes into an opening at the back of the main millhouse. The belt loops around the main cog of the mill which in turn drives a series of secondary belts and chains which drive an assortment of gears and cams and levers producing various up and down, to and fro actions and rotations. I would gape at the complicated assembly for a long time and stare from all possible angles trying to figure it out with boyish amusement. As a child I would be fascinated at how a clockwise motion could be turned into counterclockwise or how a slow rotation could be made faster or how a rotary motion is converted into a linear, back and forth action. And I would marvel at these things as I would always do with anything mechanical. Only the frantic exhortations of my grandmother could take me away from my musings. "Come and load the toyo and the pegpeg to the kariton. We have to move on. It’s getting dark now. Hurry!" she would urge.

Later in the night after dinner, I would draw the milling machine from memory. Under the dim light of the sooty lamparaan (kerosene lamp), I would be sketching and doodling and dreaming to make my own machine; and to build roads and bridges and huge buildings. I knew then that I would not be a farmer like my Tatang. I knew I would become an Engineer.

A Tribute for Ma'am Ailyn

SHE IS FREE

Don’t grieve for her, for now she is free
She is following the path God laid for her.
She took His hand when she heard Him call
She turned her back and left it all.
She could not stay another day,
To laugh, to love, to work or play.
Tasks left undone must stay that way,
She found that place at the close of the day.
If her parting has left void,
Then fill it with remembered joy.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss,
Ah yes, these things, She too, will miss.
Be not be burdened with times of sorrows,
She wishes you sunshine of tomorrow.
Her life’s been full, she savoured much,
Good friends, good times, a love’s one touch.
Perhaps her time seemed all too brief,
Don’t lengthen it now with undue grief.
Lift up your heart and share with her,
God wanted HER now, He set HER FREE…

.
.

.

.

*We will miss you ma’am…

Fr:Michelle Mayo-De Sesto
Dubai, U.A.E.*

A Poem for the Friends and Loved Ones of Ailyn

I wrote this poem a year ago during the "babang luksa" for my son, Isagani, Jr. It was my crude attempt to rationalize a bitter loss which at that time is extremely hard for me to accept. It is taking consolation from the thought that my son now communes with the Lord and has become one with His creation. Thus, there is no need to miss him or to look for him because like the Lord, he has become omnipresent.

I have slightly modified the poem for Ailyn. And like me, when I lost my beloved son, may her friends and love ones learn to let go and surrender her to the loving arms of the Lord...


Ako Lahat Sila

Huwag niyo ng tangisan ang aking puntod
Wala ako diyan, di ako natutulog!
Bulong niyong dasal, bulaklak niyong dulot
Salamat… salamat, pawiin niyo ang lungkot!

Huwag niyo akong hanapin, di ako nawawala
Sa maranyang memorial park di niyo ‘ko makikita
Ako’y ang hanging amihang haplos niyo sa umaga
Ako’y ang pagaspas ng mga ibong kumakanta!

Pagmasdan niyo ang bughaw, ningning ng ulap,
Ang luntiang parang, hamog na kumikislap.
Sila ay Ako at ako ay sila, di niyo ba nakikita?
Nandito lang ako, huwag kayong lumuha pa!

Ako’y ang sanlibo’t sanlaksang mga bituin
Ang liwanag ng buwan sa gabing matulain
Mga himig at kanta, tugtuging indakin
Ako lahat sila, lagi niyo sanang iisipin.

Nandito lang ako, alaala ko’y lagi ng kapiling!

Dubai's Creek Park is SLC campus, too.

It was an idea that was long in coming. Once in a while, in my over three years of stay in Dubai, I would cross paths with colleagues and former student in malls and public places. From this accidental bump-ons, we got to know who are here in Dubai or in Abu Dhabi or in some other emirates of the UAE. O, you will never know how exciting it was to meet them here, until you are a stranger in a far away place yourself! With the warm exchange of pleasantries, the small talk would always lead to a suggestion for a gathering with fellow Louisians. Maybe it’s the homesickness, or the need to belong. Maybe it’s the need to anchor our identity with familiar friends and people who share our own roots. Maybe we need a venue to compare notes and jobs and salaries and gadgets. Maybe we just plainly missed everyone. But for whatever reason, thirty-seven products and by-products of Saint Louis College of Engineering decided to gather, a day after Christmas, in the relaxing landscape and waterscape of the Creek Park in Dubai.

It is hardly what you would call an organized activity. In fact, it was a spur-of-the-moment, an impromptu. I was calling the handful of numbers stored in my phonebook to break the sad news of Engr. Ailyn Apilado’s passing and each one of our former students volunteered to send a token amount. However, sending it individually would be too prohibitive because of the disproportionate cost of remittance. If I collect from each of them, we will need to pay only once for the remittance fee. And so we decided to meet at some designated places. And then it clicked on my mind! Why don’t we just take the opportunity to gather in one place at the same time? It will be for a worthy cause and it will be fun!

So I started calling them back and instructed everyone to call their network of Louisians and announce about a Christmas Picnic in the UAE. They soon give me more names and numbers to call. Before I realized it, Engr. Raul Nones and I were swamped with calls and text messages. We never realized how responsive and how alive the SLC community spirit in the UAE until then. I counted up to 60 names and then I simply stopped counting- I lost count! The rest, as they say, is history. We raised more than the expected amount and so, as a group, we decided to turn over the amount to the SLC-PICE c/o the adviser, Engr. Rubia D. Nones so that it could be shared with the other SLC employees who are in sick bay. That made everybody feel good. We felt good for reuniting and rebonding with everyone. And we felt good for being able to share something with fellow Louisians to whom we owe much and who are now in need.

The pictures that accompany this need no captions. Years and years of separation had been compressed into a few hours of catch-up talk and vivid recollections. Same old familiar faces only a little bit more matured (don’t want to use the word “older”). Two Engineers came from the first batch ('84) and the youngest one came from batch 2004. The rest came from all the school years in between. We will definitely do it again perhaps in a bigger, more organized manner. We wish you will all be able to join us next time.

Special thanks goes to the following people: For Engr. Michelle Mayo and Engr. Norilyn Castillo for rounding up their batchmates and providing the photos. For Engr Ed Blancas, (Ex-B.F. of Dean Carisa Blancas, hehehe.) for informing and herding the group in Abu Dhabi. For Engr. Andrew Mifa for his "resourcefulness". For Engr Flor Doctolero for coordinating the potluck; For Engr. Theody Raul Nones for calling up his old students and intimidating them to come (hehehe ) and for his culinary talents. Most of all, our thanks goes to the better halves of Engr Mariano Espenilla and Engr. Jeffrey Jaramillo who were very supportive with their sumptous and mouth-watering recipes.

Here's the list of those who attended:

Ancheta, Edwin
Angala, Christopher
Aquino, Ludy
Bautista, Winston
Blancas, Erodolfo
Borja, Eduardo
Britos, Jesus
Canedo, Angelo
Carpina, Eric
Castillo, Norilyn
Ceralde, Reynold
Delmendo, Crisanto
Doctolero, Flordeliza
Dumo, Rogelio
Espejo, Isagani
Espenilla, Mariano
Flores, Richie
Flores, Jermaine
Fontanos, Wendell
Gaceta, Aries
Gagtan, Melecio
Gapasin, Jose
Guerra, Marlon
Hernandez, William
Jaramillo, Jeffrey
Juganas, Samuel
Loma, Hezron
Marzan, Mario
Mayo, Michelle
Menguita, Hector
Mifa, Andrew
Nisperos, Gilbert
Nones, Theody Raul
Quipotla, Rodel
Sualog, Michael
Tabios, Neil Chester
Zamoranos, Ariel

Thank you, everyone.

... more photos to come in your e-mails.

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