this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on July 8, 2000.
Summer has arrived in Connecticut. I turn off my computer and roll up the blinds. Looking out the window with cigarette in hand, I see the distant clumps of oak, birch and maple trees native to this New England town. A sudden feeling of elation fills me. Maybe it’s just the usual morning nicotine rush. Or maybe not. There is something distinct about this summer day, surrounding me with a warmth that brings back memories of a tropical home. The smell of freshly cut grass. The sting of smoke in my eyes. The wind, with her soft touch. The sun, with his smile.
I see myself sitting on the branches of a guava tree, my rubber sandals dangling on my feet. The tree stands on our front lawn, right outside the little nipa hut that my friends and I made out of dead coconut leaves, lumber scraps from the unfinished pig pen my grandfather was building in our backyard and empty plastic sacks used for hog feed.
From as early as I can remember, our front lawn has always been my playground, my little haven of innocence. Within this square patch of Bermuda grass I meet Toto, June, Lisa (my neighbors and friends) every day after the morning cartoons and we live our vicarious childhood fancies through endless frolicking, fueled by a few pieces of pan de sal and the chocolate formula drink we had for breakfast.
On this particular day, Toto is climbing the duhat tree, gathering the little sour berries using his shirt. I think to myself, his mother’s going to pinch his ears and drag him home when she sees his shirt stained with the purple duhat! I watch and wait for him to fall as our neighbor’s dog (her name escapes my memory) barks at him.
Meanwhile, June is doing her homework inside our hut, pencil tapping on her notebook and legs extended out on to the banig that her mother gave to us.
Lisa is nearby, chasing after dragonflies.
The summer days are relaxed, usually spent wandering around our little barangay. For hours we meander through the eskinitas and the dirt roads, passing by the public school where all the housewives (including the disgrasyadas), mostly living by the railroad tracks, would lounge around and gossip about everything and everyone, stopping at the basketball court where Aling Nene sells her famous inihaw na mais and ending up in the rice fields. Ah, the rice fields, where endless vines of ampalaya, patola and upo crawl across the brittle earth during summer, where mayas flirt with each other, flying from nearby trees to nests that jut out of the adobe walls separating the fields from our backyard. We cross the fields by walking on the narrow strips of dirt that divide the paddies, sometimes finding carabaos bathing in a puddle of mud. They wag their tails as flies swarm over them.
We head back home usually around mid-day to find my grandfather raking the dead leaves into one corner of our lawn and setting fire to them, letting the smoke “fertilize” several mango trees he planted himself. I bring my friends to the kitchen, where we find a tall pitcher of freshly squeezed calamansi juice and a basket full of my grandfather’s special pan de sal. Tatay, as everyone fondly calls him, has his own way of preparing leftover bread. He takes a skillet, heats it up while he butters and sprinkles the half-pieces with cane sugar, and then fries the pan de sal until the sugar caramelizes and the butter turns golden brown.
At sunset, when the wind blows strongest, Toto and I fly kites. We make them out of old newspapers, barbecue sticks from Aling Nene’s corn stand, and thread from Toto’s mother’s sewing machine. On rare occasions, we get into trouble when we get careless and Aling Nita discovers the trail of white thread leading from her machine to their porch.
As we build the standard backbone for our kites, I am suddenly aware that I am sitting on a bench with this short dark-skinned boy. Toto, despite his silly crewcut, dirty fingernails and perpetual swearing, is my best friend. He knows a lot of other boys in our neighborhood, while I only know three: him and the two malnourished twins who live across the street.
Going back to my mini-project, I use my teeth to cut the thread and tighten loose knots. My kite is ready to fly…
The grass outside is wet from a brief afternoon rain shower. I scan the room and notice how littered it is with bland markers of American materialism: the necessary desktop computer complete with an Internet connection, subwoofers and a DVD player; the just-as-necessary TV/VCR combo connected to the 5-CD stereo system for that surround-sound effect; the stack of Rolling Stone and Entertainment magazines covering the piles of unreturned Art History books; the shot-glass collection proudly displayed along with the half-empty Absolut bottles I must have consumed during those it’s-a-Saturday-evening-and-I-feel-bored nights…
Amid the obvious signs of whitewashing, I take a moment for recollection. Then I realize the simplicity in those things that beguiled the naive and callow child who, 12 years ago, ran around a little green patch all day, took pleasure in buttered bread and was perfectly happy.
I take a last puff, and like smoke, regret stifles sentimentality. Menthol makes me woozy.
