Home Among The Pines

Abodes

A house is made with walls and beams. 

A home is made with love and dreams. – Unknown

In my early twenties, I had a dream house. 

I wasn't conversant in architectural styles, but I felt certain that I'd like an old-fashioned house with clean lines and an A-style roof nestled among the agoho and various coniferous trees in the wooded pine forest of Baguio City.

The design I had in mind was probably close to a modest and cozy cottage. Or perhaps similar to a log home with wood siding, shingles, or even logs. 

Surely, it would have a large, open concept.

And a rustic interior. Maybe a loft for a study and a library.

The walls would be lined with traditional habi woven Benguet tapestry and on the floor, a buri palm intertwined mat.

I'd have plenty of outsized windows open to every view, unblinking. I would fling them open to the cool breeze perfumed with jasmine, taking in the nice view of the red flowering bottle brush tree and the violet jacaranda trees outside. I'd peek at dwarf cloud mice scurrying on mossy areas and on the ponderosa pine. And gawk at hanging parrots with their bright green body feathers and the brilliant scarlet-orange plumage on their head and tail.

At night, I would have my moon and my stars and a nice silhouette of the trees against the sky.

I said then, One day I’ll live in a place just like this.

It won't look perfect.

It won't look like a showroom.

It won't look like it belonged in a magazine.

Truth?

It will look better.

Because it will be made of love and dreams.

Bahay Kubo

Abodes

If you had asked a Filipino elementary school pupil in the mid-50's to draw a house, I could bet that he or she would come up with a structure that resembled a nipa hut or bahay kubo.

Growing up, I was familiar with this traditional icon of Philippine culture, as it was a common sight in my grandparents' rice plantation in Malinta.

Too lazy to walk back to the main house to cool down after play, I remember sprinting up the stair slats of any one such abode that belonged to the tenant farmers so I could hurriedly drink directly from an earthenware jug's faucet. It was a random dwelling, but as all the structures were similar, it seemed as if there was only one lodging place in the entire farm and that I kept going to the same exact one every time. 

I knew by heart how it looked and felt. 

The entire house was elevated from the ground with stilts. Its roof was an inverted "V" thatched with nipa leaves and the flooring and walls were made of split bamboo.  

Windows with shutters are on the front and on one side was a door that was accessed through rickety stairs.

In the scrutiny of the bright sun, it showed its age. Creaky, like its joints needed exercise.

 

Too small a house for secrets, it was furnished with bare essentials. The inside had a small bed, a cupboard, and a chest of drawers on which the farmer's wife had placed enough effigies and prints of saints and the Virgin Mary to start a holy order.

It was a bit crazy lopsided, but I loved it. 

I used to think that I could easily build one for myself under a towering coconut tree. 

Outside, I'd hang a hammock between the mango trees. 

And I'd live there among the water buffaloes for the rest of my life.

The Scent Of You: Strung Haikus

Scents 

Haiku: Japanese poem that contains 17 syllables,broken up into three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables

lost inside myself,

long after i'd given up,

i still search for you...

longing for your scent

to freshen, fall tenderly

on my barren heart.

thence i simply wait,

neither chasing nor running

but simply breathing;

that I may capture

that quaint, unmistakable,

 precious smell of you.

Old Spice

Scents 

For Little Boy, On Father's Day

Nothing brings to life again a forgotten memory like fragrance. - Christopher Poindexter

Old Spice Cologne, as I've recently learned from an internet search, was originally launched in 1938. It's described as a classic fragrance with a warm, fresh, and musky scent reminiscent of masculine rooms filled with tobacco and new leather. The top opens strong, featuring the scents of aldehydes, orange and lemon blended with the spiciness of nutmeg and star anise, its ad touts.

But all this is incidental to what I'd like to talk about. If anything else, Old Spice reminds me of Little Boy (Intong, in the vernacular), which was how I called my Dad.

It was his go-to fragrance, a yearly gift from his boss at Erlanger and Galinger.

I remember how he would squirt just a tiny bit on his palms, then rub his hands together in a swish-swash movement and ceremoniously dab on his cheeks.

Kaunti lang, just a bit. It was his frugal way to make it last until the next gifted bottle. 

Watching him, I couldn't help giving him a thumbs up, as he had always been my steady rock, my ally. 

He willingly trudged with me to the Araneta Coliseum for a Neil Sedaka concert. He was the one who acquiesced to buy me my most-coveted coin purse from the corner Chinese sari-sari store. He was my Bible Study teacher, my listening ear, the one who solved my word algebra problems. 

When I asked or proposed an idea, his ready answer was, Let's go and do it. There was never anything impossible that he didn't try to tackle. Having just moved to our new home on Fountain Street, I asked him why we didn't have a church. He gave my hand a small squeeze, then simply said, Then we'll go look for one tomorrow. Your choice. 

He didn't wear a cape and hide in phone booths. Neither did he shoot webs and climb walls. Instead at nights, he sat contentedly at home, sipping his favorite after-dinner yucky tepid tea with milk and later annoyed us with his muffled but unmistakable sound of deep snoring.

He didn't venture toward lands unknown. Rather, he preferred to spend weekends at home over-watering the plants and scolding Voltaire for nipping his mayana plants.

Left: Dad during his heyday as manager of Erlanger and Galinger. Right: Escorting a VIP during an office tour. Escolta, Manila

But growing up, in my eyes, he was somewhat of a superhero.

I loved watching him get ready on weekdays, crooning softly as he smoothed an invisible wrinkle from his pant leg. As he strode out the door, I couldn't help thinking that perhaps he'd meet up with Batman and Robin.

Then fly off to fight crime in the city.

Leaving in his trail the pungent whiff of Old Spice.

My Embrace

Scents

And just as you think I'm out of my tirelessly repetitious childhood stories, here's one that has thus far not been told.

It's about My Embrace.

In case you're wondering what the heck this is, here's a hint. 

You know how kids have favorite stuffed toys, like First Daughter's Toto and Jenny?

Toto was named after Dorothy's pup in The Wizard of Oz. Jenny had to be a girl and thus embellished with eyelashes and red lips for a feminine look.

Or Second Daughter's Froggie and Brown Bear?

Froggie was a godfather's baptismal gift. Brown Bear was a gift from Santa.

 

I didn't have any of that, but I had a pillow that I called My Embrace. Yup, in English, because Mum spoke to me in English when I was a child.

Not sure how that term came about. But that was what I would call for as I lay down to sleep at night on the woven mat.

Although the pillows looked identical, I somehow knew which one it was. There was just something about it that was impossible to explain. So soft, so comforting. When I held it in my arms, I got a whiff of love and security. 

I remember when I would say, My Embrace can’t sleep without me. Well, truth was, I couldn't sleep without My Embrace. I can swear that it knew all my secrets, and that it kept them.

When creaky starapple branches and lizards slithering through the window slat kept me awake at nights, I would shrink down into the creases of my special pillow. When I awoke in the deepest dark of night and heard the rumbling thunder, I would cling to my pillow's delectable softness. I would whisper silly stories into it in the darkness until I finally succumbed to sleep.

For me, My Embrace was a delectable amulet that brought forth repose.

And snugness.

And the warm scent of home.

Go Gently Into The Night

For Meeka

God’s finger touched her.

                                                      

And she slept. 

For in that sleep what dreams may come.

Dreams.

Of basking in the sun.

Running wild with the wind.

Maruya

 Scents

I woke up this morning to the smell of summer. At no other time, it seemed, did the earth let itself be inhaled in a single whiff. 

All at once, there was the co-mingled scent of lazy days and green grass and blooming purple irises. Peonies bowing down in a spirit of mockery to the newly-sprouted blue lobelia underneath their bough were bursting with a dizzying fragrance.

And ah, the aroma of summer food.

Watermelon redolent of the sun, the lemony tang of rhubarb pie, the aniseedy bouquet of frosty root beer, the perfume of ooey-gooey mac and cheese. But most specially, I would never get tired of the vibrant resin-like essence of a favorite childhood snack.

Maruya.

Maruya or fried plantain bananas is a sweet melt-in-your-mouth local dessert.  

I remember watching Aling Nena at her corner stand. She would first peel the bananas, slicing them into one-inch pieces. After generously coating each piece with fluffy batter, she would deep-fry them to golden perfection in an iron skillet. 

Within minutes, as the sizzling crescendoed, she would scoot the pieces around, letting the fat pop over.

Then, as a dramatic finale to the gourmet concoction, she would smother each intoxicating piece in sugar.

I recall closing my eyes as I breathed in the smell of the fried dessert. I  couldn't wait to pick one up, gulp a bite of its crispy coating, then lick my sticky fingers one by one to savor its caramelized lusciousness.

Step aside, funnel cake and bubble gum cotton candy. For me, here was the only promise of the afternoon: fragrant happiness right there, wedged awkwardly in the skillet. 

Fried maruya.

A sublime snack infused with the balm of an invincible summer day.