A Morning Time Of Remembrances

6:40 AM
In North Beach

One thing nice about coming from a big family is you have a lot of company in terms of growing up. Family time meant playing games with your siblings, meal times with them, cultivating camaraderie, enjoying conviviality, and spending torture times as well when your folks deliver their monologues because one of you has broken "the family law." The worst timing is at dinner time when the food is fabulous and you can't do much but be still because if you make a noise you might be in a far worse scenario than this.

To my family, food is everything. It brings the family together. Dining is a celebration of life. Today, I thought on how much I miss this old family gathering when we conglomerate in the kitchen (or in the dining room) and have our meals together while sharing bits and pieces of anecdotes over a banquet of food we all loved to eat.

UNIQUENESS
I remember growing up fighting for my rights. I had to literally scream out my lungs to be heard as a child. I was short and tiny, the lone little girl in ponytail and skirt, coming from a family where five older brothers controlled everything at playtime. Rough games turned me off because I am not a boy but somehow, I managed to learn how to kick in order to win. Nevertheless, as my brothers entered their teen years, they changed quite a bit and almost overnight, had become considerate of my space and me. They gradually improved and treated me like a “little woman” more than just the “little sister” they knew.

RESULT
Today, looking back at the whole perspective of my life, I realize why I am assertive and confident of my rights. It is because of my desire to be heard even at an early age.



SUMMER ADVENTURE
My brothers loved to go bird hunting. They would leave our house in Cavite at dawn and come back in the early evening with a bunch of dead birds in tow. They were very proud of their produce. The felt manly and grown up when they hardly even have hair in their legs yet.

Fishing is another thing. I do not know what kind of fishing rod they used. Nevertheless, all I remember is, it seemed just to be a homemade rod made of wooden stick or bamboo. They attached nylon string on it, add a hook then presto, a worm is sworn in to attract the fish.

To go fishing, my brothers never realy went elsewhere or farther than our home. All I knew was they would sit on top of the flat galvanized iron connected to our azotea (backyard veranda made of stones) where their feet hanged lose, pointing at the ground down below. There, they would fish at the rice field my maternal grand uncle owned. This happens during the wet season when the rain draws in a lot of water into the rice field making it to look like a man made river. Then, a school of fish from nowhere would emerge. You could see them swim in bird’s eye view. And when they catch something, they make a big fuzz about it.

“We caught some! Hey, everyone- come see! Look! Yipee!”

Then, they would all rush downstairs carrying the small bowl of fish; pass through the cemented stairway as they scream in excitement; go run to the back of the house; slide through the ground floor then finally, dropping off their butts in the nearby garage. There, they'd race again through the laundry room door to get through the kitchen; find the empty bottle of peanut butter resting inside the cupboard. Once they have it, tap water is poured inside this container. After a while, the fish is ready to swim and set free.

At the kitchen, the bottle is placed strategically at the center of the family's 12-seater table. There, we watch it to swim and struggle through suspended animation. In a day or two, the fish dies after seeing our ugly little monstrous faces~ taking our turn to vigil. Soon, it floats aimlessly like moving in circles. Moments later, the fish dies. I feel sorry looking back at this memory. I lament about it for for about an hour when I was about five or six years of age, not quite ripe to understand what it was all about.

I, ME, AND MYSELF
Summer time also meant playing times with my dolls and miniature pans in terra cotta. I liked the "pretend play" of being a wife and a momma at an age where girls attend nursery school. I cuddled my doll gently to sleep. I caressed her face while she opens and closes her deep set of blue eyes. My doll had thick, straight mane and a fringe that was jet black and shoulder length in style. She was beautiful a Caucasian doll. How weird it is today to think that for an Asian child like me, I had an American doll at that time. Times change. Now we most likely are to patronize our own.

To my family's credit, I owned an iron made of tin, one that could open up and accommodate some charcoal to fire it. Even though I knew how to do it, I never did because I was afraid and forbidden to do so. I never broke rules at that age (before my primary years in elementary) and only later did I know I could get what I want if I said so!

My ironing board mimics the real thing although it is a mini in size. It was made of wood and foldable, too. I loved pretending my iron was heated while I ironed a hanky on the ironing board. At that time, I only wanted to iron flat fabrics like it because it was such a complex thing to deal with at an age when struggling to hold a pen is like holding a light post filled with oil.

ICE CREAM MAN

My other thoughts on childhood included those times my brothers would buy Popsicles in strawberry flavor. I thought it was neat to see on how it changes its color from deep strawberry or cherry red to something lighter in shade. And all is dependent on how intense is the way you suckle your Popsicle! In truth, they did not really taste that great to me but during those times, it seemed so. We enjoyed it tremendously when the ice cream man rings his bell in the neighborhood to announce his presence. All is nostalgic to me. He has a trick he played along with all the kids in the neighborhood. We were amused by him. He was smart and friendly, always had a funny look on his face that is just so wholesome. I think his name was Mang Pepe (Mr. Pepe) or may be I am just dreaming. But as I recall it vividly, he was dark, petite and slim, always smiling with black hair that is wavy. With him, he brought several pieces of glasses. Some, may be six ofthem, he would neatly arrange on top of his ice cream box with wheels. The glasses are filled with water. If you shoot a coin in any one of them, you win a price of 5 cents or you get a Popsicle as an option. The gap to shoot your coin is like 1 1/2 meters from the ice cream box made of wood. As kids, hitting to shoot a coin was like winning a lottery! Relatively, one of my brothers was good in this coin play. I remember him handing me over a Popsicle or two as a freebie because he won! And then again one time, he did it once more and won! I felt sorry for the poor ice cream vendor.

BTW, the strawberry Popsicles had sweet black beans as topping. We munched them and smiled with our toothless grin that simply say we loved it!

I am delighted this morning, to look back in time, at a chapter in my life, when all is easy and carefree.

TO BE CONTINUED...

NOTE: The house shown here is the house where I grew up and spent most of my adult life before I moved out to start a career elsewhere.