Namuccayan---The Way Things Were
Namuccayan---The Way Things Were
After
a harrowing fifteen-hour travel from my base in Quezon City, I was finally in Namuccayan,
the small village I grew up in. I knew that my mother was inside our old
battered house waiting for me, but I did not enter our humble abode right away.
Instead, I looked around and noticed the many changes that took place during my
long absence. It’s both funny and bittersweet how the memories of yesteryears
came flooding to me in a split-second. I leisurely walked around. Each step
took me back to the distant past, when life in my beloved farming village was
simple and laid back.
I
recalled with deep nostalgia that long time ago, when the school year would be over and when the scorching heat would make
the ground powdery white, the mahogany trees lining the old school fence would
shed their leaves, making a yellow and brown carpet on the ground. The tall
kalachuchi trees in the rural school compound would be in full bloom, the scent
of their pink and white flowers filling the summer air. On the ground, the
yellow and orange santan flowers would display their own spectacular loveliness.
Because of its calming beauty, the school compound was the official meeting
place of the village people in the afternoons when it was time to relax. There
was no verbal agreement to this; it just happened naturally. Children, teens, and adults alike would
gather and simply have wholesome fun. Some young adults would play volleyball, some
would play basketball. Some of the young ladies would just sit at a corner and
giggle at their own stories, santan flowers in their hands.
In
the evenings, after a hard day’s work in the fields, the men would gather in front
of Auntie Mely’s sari-sari store and drink Ginebra San Miguel---talking about
the weather, their carabaos, and the crops.
On
humid Sunday afternoons, when cicadas let out their lonely cries, Auntie Juling
Medrano, Auntie Juling Sabben, Auntie Selidon Maddagan, and Auntie Angeling
Bruno-- four of the lovely senior ladies who were active churchgoers, would leisurely
pass by our house on their way to their prayer meetings. While playing with my
improvised toys, I would often hear them talk about their recent trip to the poblacion. Their faces would reflect
pure happiness brought by a simple village life.
In
December when mornings were chilly, I would wake up early and wander in the
backyard looking for mushrooms and wild berries. Occasionally, my wicked little
hands would snatch a tiny spider from its newly-spun web. I would then stop and stare at the little,
pink, dew-drenched mimosa flowers growing abundantly under the banana plants.
During those mornings, I would often hear my father’s cousin, Uncle Vic Pacion,
pass by our house and say, “Lumabasak
pay, Manong!” which is the Iloco way of saying,” Excuse me Brother, May I
pass?” to my father while the latter was
busy chopping firewood with his bellang
axe. My father would then acknowledge him by asking him to drop by for a cup of
coffee, which he would politely decline. After breakfast, I would eagerly wait for Auntie Cora Ramos,
the village midwife/nurse, to pass by our small house on her way to the village
clinic. She was always a lovely sight in her crisp white blouse and navy blue
slacks. I would feel proud that the lovely lady worked in the village clinic
which my father and his friends built.
Fast
forward 2018.
Electric
posts now line the paved roads. When I was a little girl, there was no electricity
in our village, and our source of light during those nights was the flickering
kerosene lamp. And in the evenings when there was full moon, my parents and my
siblings would sit down by the big shutter-less windows and enjoy the early
evening breeze. I vividly remember how the leaves of the avocado and duhat trees would sway in the breezy,
moonlit night. In those evenings, the
only sounds that we would hear were the songs of the crickets and the rustling
leaves. Sometimes a dog would bark in the distance, probably barking at the
strange shadows in the night. That would signal us to go to our sleeping
quarters. That’s the biggest portion of the small house—a big room where
everybody would sleep. We were kids and during my time, it was normal for kids
to sleep together in one place, right next to the parents.
After
making sure that the door and all windows were latched, my father would turn on
the transistor radio and we would listen to the radio dramas. It could be the
hilarious Domeng Domeng, or the horror Leonora Luna. We would gather around the
transistor radio, around the flickering kerosene lamp, forming long shadows on
our bamboo walls. For some reasons only he knew, my father always had his long
flashlight and a pointed iron that looked like a long skewer by his side.
I
walked around some more, hoping to see familiar sights.
Well,
some things didn’t change after all. There, to the north and south were the seemingly
endless fields that are green during the rainy season and golden in early
summer. To the east were the rolling hills which turn soft yellow during
sunrise and soft orange when kissed by the last rays of the sun. To the west
flows the mighty emerald-colored Chico River with the Sierra Madre as its
backdrop.
I
heard my mother call my name. I walked back to our battered house and she was
right there at the entrance, smiling. As I sat on our antique bench with a cup
of coffee in my hand, I felt thankful that Namuccayan has been modernized a
lot. The Namuccayan I grew up in, however, will always hold a special place in
my heart.
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