Memories of May

The month of May touches a sensitive place in my heart. It holds some of the more memorable events in my checkered life from my youth as well as from my early adult years.

Rite of Passage

How can I forget the summer rite of passage that every boy in my youth takes so much pride to have bravely hurdled? I remember waking up very early that May morning as a seven-year-old and walking to the river in barrio Sibut in our town with the local “manunuli”. I was with four or five other boys of my age -- my playmates and neighbors. At the river we were all told to soak ourselves in the shallow but icy water. After some half hour or so, we were called one by one to kneel, shivering in all our naked glory, before the “manunuli” who instructed us to close our eyes while we munch on a handful of young guava leaves. The circumcision rite was swift and the cut was almost bloodlessly clean. We spat out the guava leaves on the wound, dressed it and soon we were on our way home walking bowlegged but with pride and smiles in our faces!

Pulilan Vacation

As young lad, the month of May also meant for me a vacation in Pulilan, Bulacan, the birthplace of my Inang Paz and my brother Renato. The long trip from San Jose (Nueva Ecija) to Pulilan was an experience in itself for a boy from the province like me. Our usual mode of transportation then was the Luzon Bus Line (LBL) where my uncle Virgilio was a Driver who would occasionally give us a pass for a free ride. I remember looking forward to the bus stop in San Miguel, Bulacan where I would join my Uncle and share his free merienda of their famous small pandesal, arroz caldo, and soft drinks.

My Pulilan vacation was usually with my Ateng Elena because we were almost of the same age. Our first cousins in Pulilan like Ate Mely, Kuya Guding, Kuya Freddie, and Numer would then line up the summer vacation activities for us. A trip to the “tumana” (local orchard) was first on the agenda. There we would pick fruits in season – santol, caimito, sineguelas, guavas, and mangoes then bring these to the nearby river where we ate, played and frolicked in the clear waters till we all became tanned from the heat of the sun. A trip to the “bukid” was also indispensable especially for us boys. The trip was primarily to pasture Kuya Numer’s carabao and prepare him for the fiesta, but we would also go wading barefoot afterwards in the shallow creek to catch fish and then broil them for lunch under the mango trees.

The highlights of our Pulilan vacation, of course, were the two fiestas: that of Sta. Cruz on May 3 and the town Fiesta on May 15. The Sta. Cruz fiesta in the barrio where my grandparents reside is the minor one of the two. It was significant mainly because it was also the birthday of my Ateng Elena. She was named Elena after St. Helena, the mother of Emperor Constantine, who according to legend found the true cross of the Lord’s crucifixion. The “Santacruzan” where there is a “Reyna Elena” is the traditional rite connected to the feast of Santa Cruz... The big one, of course, was the town fiesta in honor of St. Isidore the Farmer. The nine days of novena before the fiesta were the most enjoyable for us cousins. Every night we would brave the dark streets of Pulilan and troop to the town plaza for the nightly program that would consist either of a variety show from Manila, a basketball game, an amateur contest, or a festival of combos (bands today) from nearby towns. After the entertainment some of us would then hie off to the “pondahan” (tiendas) in the church plaza for a glass of yummy halo-halo or a bowl of hot “goto”, while the others would try their luck in a round of "beto-beto". On the day of the fiesta itself, we boys would help Kuya Numer prepare his prized animal for the afternoon procession of kneeling carabaos in honor of Pulilan’s patron saint/farmer.

Leaving Home

Another May scene that is etched deep in my memory is one that I did not know then would change my life forever -- my leaving home to enter the seminary one May day in 1958 when I was only 16. When it was time to go, my teary-eyed Inang (my mother) embraced and held me tightly while whispering, “Mag-papakabait ka at mag-aaral kang mabuti, anak”. I could not say anything then. I just know now that I felt so ambivalent at that moment. I felt truly loved for the first time, maybe. Perhaps even then I was already doubting whether I was doing the right thing or not. But the die was cast. I had to go… If Inang was expressive of her emotions, Tatang (my Father) was not. I don’t remember now his expression then. I don’t even remember anything he said that affected me. He probably did not say anything and he was just being his usual self. I wonder now what he was thinking and feeling then. Was he sad? Or was he glad that I was going? Was it difficult for him to let me go just as I do now in letting go of my own children? I have resolved long time ago that I would ask him these questions when I meet him again in the next life…

Kidapawan, Cotabato

And how can I forget the early years of my priesthood after my ordination and after completing my seminary studies? My very first assignment as a priest was in the town of Kidapawan, Cotabato in Mindanao. Although Kidapawan is a large parish in a progressive town, most of its barrios (barangays today) at that time were so remote that it took a priest almost a day’s travel by foot or on horseback to reach them.

I remember arriving in Kidapawan one May day in 1969. May is the busiest month of the year in the parish for fiestas. Immediately, my parish priest assigned me to a barrio fiesta mass the next day. I don’t remember the place anymore, but I remember that it was so far out in the mountains. I recall also that our parish jeep conked out while traversing a river and it took a carabao to pull it out into dry land. We left the parish convento early that day but reached the barrio almost at noon already. I immediately said mass and officiated at a wedding followed by baptism of babies newly-born and older ones too… Lunch was a culture shock for me. Our hosts served me chicken “tinola”, fried chicken and sautéed chicken while telling me to please bear with them because they could only offer chicken and not canned goods! I learned later from my sacristan that for the barrio folks chicken is ordinary while canned goods obtained from the city are special treats… My day did not end then, after lunch a guide led me to the barrio cemetery where I blessed the dead who died during the year. I realized then that a priest visited only once a year during the fiesta and that explained the mass baptism and the wedding. I was also told later that sometimes a visit to the sick for the last rites was also part of the schedule... Alone in my room that evening, I felt tired but truly fulfilled after having been initiated to missionary work that one day in May.

The journey, not the destination

Today, as I grow older, look back, and recall these scenes in the past Mays of my life, I realize how truly precious they are as parts of my journey. They make up what I am now.

As I move on, I shall always remember that it is not the destination but the journey itself that matters most after all.