Remembrance of
Things Past
I have always been fascinated with themes about the end of things whether traditions or way of life. Perhaps because they confirm some inner understanding we all have that nothing lasts forever. It’s as if there is something comforting, restful even, in an ineluctable march toward a fated end.
I have been a silent witness to the demise of many wonderful traditions and of the simple way of life especially in the remote barrio and town of my youth in Zambales where I spent most of my childhood summers growing up with my cousins and slowly learning about the facts of life.
My earliest and fondest recollection was of the daily observance of praying the Angelus at the stroke of six o’clock in the evenings. There was always a local radio broadcast of the Angelus that we follow. It commences with chiming chapel bells beckoning one and all to pause from their day’s work and give thanks to God for another day’s end.
All of us were expected to be home at this time and kneeling in front of the altar where the image of Jesus illuminated by candles along with the statue of Santo Niņo kept us from being distracted if only momentarily from the occasional ribbing or teasing with each other.
Memories are also awakened of lazy afternoons trying to catch a siesta underneath the tall mabolo tree where we’ve built a tree house. Right beside it was a deep well, the only source of clean drinking water back then during the time when bottled spring water was unheard of. This was also what we used for watering the plants surrounding the house on hot afternoons.
Gone were the days when all we have for entertainment was listening to the lowly radio especially in the mornings when we’ll tune in or be awakened by the familiar voice of the Rafael Yabut and Rod Navarro over DZMM and Radyo Veritas. The most anticipated part of listening to the radio was tuning in to our favorite programs which included “Mga Payo ni Tita Dely,” “Simatar,” Tanikalang Ginto,” and the evening program of Kuya Cesar with his trademark baritone voice. The golden age of radio had long been eclipsed by newer forms of entertainment like satellite television, karaoke /videoke, computer games and cell phones.
Another tradition that has all but disappeared is the showing of respect for elders. The most fascinating and ritualistic custom of showing respect to elders is of the greeting or salutation, the Mano. The Philippines is the only country in Asia that holds this specific tradition and its origins evolved from the mixture of western and eastern tradition. One of the most influential origins of the Mano began when the Spanish friars who occupied, colonized, and converted many insisted that the Indios [the native people] kiss their hand, as a sign of power over them. As a result the Filipinos appropriated this tradition as a means to show respect to one's elders by way of the Mano when one slightly bows to one's elder as they take the back of an elder's hand and respectfully place it to one's own forehead.
Some of the childhood games of my youth that by today’s standards can be considered as vintage and slowly disappearing are pitik-bulag, tumbang preso, piko, patintero, sungka, sipa, taguan, teks, trumpo, tatsing, tansan, etc. I can still recall nights when the moon was bright enough to play outdoors. This was how we grew up and not always in front of the idiot box that became today’s baby-sitter.
Of the many other things I remember about the past, nothing is more poignant than the faces of those people who touched my life and made an indelible mark on my character. Some of them were simply acquaintances who happened to pass through at crucial stages of my awakening and has gifted me with valuable life lessons that oftentimes were unspoken and even took me much later in life to grasp its fullness and realization. The old familiar roads we have traveled frequently have now been relegated to the confines of the imagination.
"The places we have known do not only belong to the world of space in which we situate them for the sake of simplicity. They were but a thin slice between contiguous impression which formed our lives back then; the memory of a certain image is but the regret of a certain instant; and the houses, the roads, the avenues are fleeting, alas, as the years." -- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)