ON THE MANGO TREE AND MY CHILDHOOD IN PLARIDEL, BULACAN

I am very sentimental when it comes to icons and items that I associate my childhood with. Contrary to my city life many know, I love going to the farms in my hometown Plaridel, Bulacan to enjoy the country breeze while the sun takes a peak among the clouds during afternoons. (I still hope I could walk beside the flowing river while I see carabaos afar bathe in its cool waters.) I will not forget our childhood mischiefs like silently spotting droppings while waiting for my cousins to unknowingly step on them! It was silly, but it brought out the innocent (or is it?) laughter from us.

But a few moments back, I was saddened when I browsed through an online photo album that featured one of our bayan fiestas in Sipat. The old big lot seemed to be missing something. The old mango tree was missing! The old mango tree that stood there for a long long time was missing! The many childhood memories I had in that place (and perhaps what my father had too) has something to do with the mango tree. During the mid of January’s, it had been a tradition for me to climb that tree. Somehow, it became my goal to reach higher and higher up as years go by. The tree allowed enough space for a big bunch of kids to climb and stay on its ever prominent roots while those who got up first enjoyed a better spot at the bark and sturdier branches. Years go by, but the same kids, though a bit older every year, still managed to claim their respective posts in that tree. Yes, that included me.

A photo of us on the tree in January 2010 (with

me at the peak of the formation.) The photo

was from an album by my cousin Charlene Elio.

By four o’ clock in the afternoon, people start to gather along the narrow street. This marks the start of a fireworks-filled march that accompanies the Santiago Apostol statue to its destination – a small chapel situated at the end of the street. Lots and lots of people fall in an attempted line behind, and the marching band does its best to battle the noise by the fireworks. Despite being bordered by the yard, we are able to catch a glimpse of the whole march by staying on the mango tree. One of the highlights of the march is the lighting of the sinturon ni Hudas (belt of Judas) on an empty lot across the street. It is a very loud belt of firecrackers stretching meters long. The bams and kablams will last for a couple of minutes, and everyone around will smell like gunpowder. After the street festivities have ended, we climb down the old mango tree and grab our last bite on what is left of the lechon.

Such were the days when the farm still had that mango tree. Now, the lot is still filled with grass and some barren soil that marks the spot where the old, majestic mango tree once stood. The farm where we pulled off our pranks is now walled and gated as an airport. Though these things now gone, thinking of them now takes me back to those pleasurable moments I enjoyed during my childhood. 

These memories will continue to live within me.