The Livin' Is Easy

Summertime

I was in graduate school when I decided I wanted to learn how to play the guitar. Way back in the late 60's. 

So I used my Rockefeller grad school book allowance and got myself a Lumanog.

Lumanog is synonymous with Philippine-made acoustic guitars. When someone wants an acoustic guitar, the advice is always, Get a Lumanog. It's the best.

I did.

The guitar I got had nylon strings. It had a spruce top and rosewood fingerboard. I strummed a tuneless chord when I first cradled it in my arms and thought, Hmmm, not bad. Not bad at all.  

But I had to learn chords. The first song I learned?

Summertime.

It was a random choice. The song is an aria composed by George Gershwin for the 1935 opera Porgy and Bess. I didn't know then about its social implications. I just loved it for its slightly melancholy feel and the fact that it had only five chords.

Am

   Summertime,

E7                   Am

   And the livin' is easy

Dm

   Fish are jumpin'

F                    E7

   And the cotton is high

 Am

   Oh, Your daddy's rich

E7                        Am

   And your mamma's good lookin'

C

   So hush little baby

E7            Am

   Don't you cry.

A winner for me.

I must confess that it felt weird learning to play and your fingers were constantly messed up a handful.

Yet I persevered, practicing every night.

I loved my guitar's resonance. It wasn't twangy. I thought the tone was quite balanced.

And I played and sang to myself, Summertime, and the livin' is easy.

The fish had been jumping for a long time and the cotton was high before I really mastered my chords. 

Really.

But soon, I was crooning, rising up, singing in the mornings.

Celebrating the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.

 

Patintero In The Moonlight

Summertime

If you NEVER did, you SHOULD. These things are FUN. And FUN is good. - Dr. Seuss

We ran barefoot, jumped in puddles, and hunted for bugs. But the most fun we did in the summer?

As soon as dinner was over, we would run outside, our bare feet like white moths in the darkness, as if to meet the moon.

I would holler toward the neighbor's window, Leby, laro na tayo. Let's go play.

On a night when the moon was high above the acacia tree, bathing the world in an ethereal glow, our most-favorite game to play was patintero. It always seemed to go together with a moonlit night. 

The term is derived from the Spanish word tinte ("tint" or "ink") in reference to the lines for the court that are drawn with water. I remember how we would take a big watering can, fill it with water, and trace the lines on the ground with the drizzle. 

On either side was a team of players who tried to get past all the lines and back again without being tagged by players of the opposite team.

We would dart back-and-forth under the full moon shining down from high above, crossing the sky, erasing the stars in its path. Our shadows were awash in a hazy light.

We would run fast, a bunch of wiggling children, shrieking in competition against the cicada that were in full jungle pulse.

Perhaps patintero was a favorite because it was so simple. No bats, no balls, no counters, no nets, no strings, no poles.

All we needed was the bewitching power of the moon. 

Sitting together on the ground after several rounds of play, we would laugh and stare at the moon through sprinkled nighttime stardust. It was bright and shadows danced around us.

Someone said that the moon was the first milestone on the road to the stars. We didn't know that, nor did we understand the gift of magic that it brought.

All we knew was that nights, when the moon was full, were simply made for playing.

 

Sorbetes

Summertime 

Life is like an ice cream cone; you have to lick it one day at a time. - Charles Schulz

Summer takes me back to my childhood days when my brothers and I waited for the sorbetero.

Because the house windows were always open to let the fresh air in, we could hear the world outside - a tree branch grazing the walls, the distant cries of the city alive at all hours. But our ears were cranked toward only one specific sound.

The familiar pealing of a small hand-held bell from the street vendor that peddled our favorite summer treat.

Sorbetes.

At the first ring, we would head for the street, swarming like bees disturbed in their hive, toward the sorbetero's colorful wooden pushcart. 

We stood around. Just staring in anticipation. Our pockets full of optimism, jingling five centavo coins.

Whistling like someone who hadn't a care in the world, the sorbetero would open the lids of the frozen confection. There were options of one flavor or, for no extra charge, a mixture of available flavors served in a wafer cone or as a pandesal ice cream sandwich.

Personally, I liked to mix and match.

As we made our choices, he would lean forward and tap his chin, then proceed with dramatic flair to dive into each gallon container, make full and rounded spoonfuls, first of the vanilla, followed by the chocolate, and topped off with the strawberry - and plop each with concise and deliberate movement into the cone that was on his other hand. 

I used to think, If I could ever afford all the ice cream I want to eat, that’s as rich as I ever want to be.

I remember how sitting under the star apple tree just outside our home, I would draw the cone forward, then slowly lick each savory drop. 

The best part? 

After I'd eaten most of the ice cream. That was when I held the cone up higher and tilted my head to bite its pointy end off, and suck the tad ice milk that trickled down.

Ice cream is honestly my favorite all-time dessert. I can never in a hundred summers get tired of it. It makes me  feel like a kid again. It never fails to make me smile. When everyone has let you down, you still have ice cream.

Seriously, have you ever seen a kid eating ice cream who is not happy? 

You can't buy happiness, but you can buy ice cream.

For me, that's kind of the same thing.

Untitled

Bedtime Stories 

I've saved this story for last, untitled to this day.

It has exasperated me through the years because it's unfinished and yet, it's one that makes it impossible for me to stop smiling every time I think of it.

The seasons pass, I get older, and the hours tick away. But I remember.

*****

Once upon a time... 

A chorus of frogs croaked around, but all I heard that night as the stars hung suspended above us was Dadee's voice. Measured and quiet. 

Our ears perked. We waited with bated breath for what he would say next.

... there lived a colony of ants in a mound under the acacia tree. They were busy at work.

An ant was carrying a grain of rice much bigger than himself. With this load the ant tried to climb up the mound wall.  

Waving his hands hurriedly, as if trying to chase an invisible fly, he continued.

The grain fell down. The ant came down and lifted the grain once again.

He started to climb once more. Again the grain fell down, and again the ant went down to try. 

Dad reflected, with his eyes on the dark square that the capiz window framed in the sky.

The ant did not lose courage. He tried again and again - 33 times until he succeeded in taking the grain up the wall. 

What happened next, Dadee? I recall how I would eagerly urge him on.

He said nothing, letting out only a shallow, puzzled sigh. 

Wala pa. (Nothing yet.) There was still much to be done.

You see, there was this kamalig (rice granary) beyond the field. That was where the ants needed to go back to and each carry a grain back home before the rainy season began.

Then he continued. 

So the ants marched back through the field to the granary. Lined up like soldiers, they climbed up the granary teak post. And climbed up and up. And marched on to a sack. 

He had this low, intense, monotonous way of talking which was almost mesmerizing.

With great care, one ant took a grain and carried it on his back. He proceeded down the sack, and out to the field, toward the mound.

Dalian mo na, Dadee. (Hurry up already.) What happens next? I was getting impatient.

At first, he spread his hands as if that question was beyond his understanding, but he did concede later by doing the bobblehead nod. 

Yes, yes, I understand. Pero wala pa nga (nothing yet). Lot of cavans of rice in that one single sack, you know.

My eyelids had gotten heavier. I slowly slumped down my pillow and onto the mat. For a moment, a magical moment, I could see in my mind's eye...

... ants marching back through the field to the granary. Lined up like soldiers, they climbed up the granary teak post. And climbed up and up. And marched on to a sack. 

Soon, there was nothing but the scent of the sampaguita in the air and the buzzing of night insects as Dad went on. He was sculpting his sentences neatly, measuring them out with a cadence that seemed to promise an ultimate moral that never emerged.

Myths and legends do not happen all at once. They do not spring forth whole into the world. 

And so I like to think that Dadee is still forming this tale slowly, rolling it between the hands of time.

Until its edges become smooth.

Until the saying of the story gives enough weight to the words, to the memories, to keep it rolling on its own.

Dadee's favorite vantage point from where he said he could see the end of Fountain Street to the mile-away boulevard. Manila

Why Does The Firefly Light Up?

Bedtime Stories

Fireflies, those tiny creatures whose light flickers at night shining upon the grassland and trees, have always fascinated me. 

When asked why they lit up, my Dad said that these bugs used to do chores even during the dark of night, so Bathala (Filipino God) rewarded them with a light to carry around. 

A slightly different variation is offered in this poem, The Light of the Fly.

***

The King of the Air was in terrible rage,

For someone had stolen his ring;

And every one wondered whoever could dare

To do such a terrible thing.

He called all his subjects together and said,

To him that shall find it I'll give

Whatever he asks, and this bounty of mine

Shall last while his family lives.

Away went his good loyal subjects to search,

And no one remained but a fly.

Be off! said the King. Go and join in the search;

Would you slight such a ruler as I?

Then up spoke the fly with his little wee voice:

The ring is not stolen, he said.

It stuck to your crown when you put it away,

And now it's on top of your head.

The King in surprise took the crown from his head,

And there, sure enough, was the ring.

No wonder you saw it, with so many eyes;

But what is your wish? said the King.

O King, said the fly, I work hard all the day,

And I never can go out at night.

I should like to go then and be happy with my friends,

So all that I wish is a light.

You shall have it at once, said the grateful King,

And he fastened a light to the fly,

Who straightway returned to his home with the prize

That was worth more than money could buy.

So now you can see him at night with his light

And from him this lesson may learn:

To keep your eyes open and see the least thing,

And good fortune will come in its turn.

The end

 

Why Do The Moon And Stars Appear Only At Night?

Bedtime Stories

A long time ago, when the world was young, the sun and moon were married to each other.

One day, the moon asked her husband, the sun, to watch their sleeping children since she had to gather food for the family.

But don't go near the young ones, she told him, for they would get burned by your intense noonday heat.

The sun, however, couldn’t keep from bending over to kiss the little ones. As his wife had feared, the children slowly started to melt. 

Because of this, his wife, the moon, became cold to him and endlessly blamed him for deforming their children.

She often harped about his self-centeredness, just because the entire universe revolved around him.

Until one day, the sun’s fiery temper got the better of him. He struck his wife’s face to stop her endless nagging and left the moon with scars and pockmarks on her face.

That incident caused the moon and sun to become estranged. 

The moon took her children with her as far as she could to get away from the sun. 

She and the children showed up only during the night when everyone was asleep so they wouldn’t notice the pockmarks on her surface or the imperfection of her children, the little twinkling stars.

The end

Why The Pineapple Has Many Eyes

Bedtime Stories

The bedtime story is a genius invention. A tiny gift of wonder before you fall asleep. - Carolyn Dubisch 

Today, kids Google or ask Alexa for answers about anything and every thing. I dare say that they seldom have had the experience of hearing quaint and fascinating explanations about the why and how of things in the form of folklore.

Me? I learned from stories that my Dad told. 

About the origins of many things that can be seen, heard, felt, smelled, and tasted. 

Accounts of heroism and love.

The tales I had been told as a child undoubtedly marked me for life. Although some of them were dark and terrible and usually told just before the lights were turned out and I was left alone, I loved them. 

I loved them when I first heard them. Even as a grown up, thinking I'd forgotten them entirely, they have never lost their power over me.

So I fondly remember them and my Dad, as well, as I share some of my favorites on this Father's Month. 

***

Once upon a time, there was a pretty little girl called Piña. 

She was loved dearly and spoiled by her mother.

But as Piña grew older, she became lazy and inconsiderate.

One day, the mother got sick, so Piña had to do the cooking.

Grumbling and resentful, she half-heartedly set out to make some rice porridge.

While in the kitchen, Piña kept asking where her mother kept the things she needed.

Mother, where is the rice bin? 

The mother had to shout her answer several times over because Piña took ages before she could find whatever it was she was looking for.

Mother, where is the firewood for the stove?

Where’s the soup ladle?

Mother, where’s the salt?

Feeling weak and exasperated with Piña’s unending questions, the mother finally lost her temper and let out a curse. 

Heaven forbid child! But I call on all the gods to put eyes all over your face so you can see the things you’re looking for.

Tired and weak, the mother fell asleep.

When she woke up, the house was dark and quiet. She called Piña but there was no answer. 

On the kitchen floor, she tripped on a strange-looking object. It was shaped like a human head with tufts of leaves atop its crown.

The brown circles scattered all over the object reminded her of Piña’s beautiful brown eyes.

Horrified, the mother remembered that she let out a terrible curse on her daughter.

Alas, the curse came to pass.

The gods had put eyes all over Piña’s face. 

And that is why the pinya or pineapple has many eyes.

The end