While growing-up as a little boy, happiness was going with my father to Davao City. Yes, going to the big city and away from my small town of Bansalan. Call me shallow but back then my measure of happiness was not quite complex. Something in the big city fascinated me. They almost have everything: big shopping districts and bazaars (no malls back then), lots of moviehouses, access to television, glittering neon lights and yes, traffic. Traffic is annoying to city folks but for a probinsiyano kid, it was a sight to behold. I just loved watching lots of vehicles in different shapes and sizes.

Unlike my sleepy town, the city is a vibrant place where there are lots of places to go and things to do. Growing-up in a farm just outside of town means missing the comforts of city living. We didn't even have electricity in our area back then although the poblacion was supplied with power by a generator, but only from dusk till morning. That means no TV or fridge, just radio and a phonograph to spin those vinyl records. Remember those 45 rpm singles and 78 albums? Some teen-agers carry them around to look "cool". And cool they were while listening to the crooners of the time like our very own Victor Wood or imports like Engelbert Humperdinck, Matt Monroe, Cat Stevens or groups like Bread and Chicago. But some of us grew-up to the hilarious songs of Yoyoy Villame and Max Surban.

Living in the farm was more work than play. I didn't even like farm chores that much. Pasturing goats was like training for decathlon. Skills that were honed by pasturing were: chasing goats, tugging the herd, hurdling fences, and the occasional dashing to safety when I stepped on those creepy and slippery cobras. Feeding pigs was not fun either. You should have heard my scream of pain when that heavy mother swine stepped on my unprotected foot.

Every Filipino student probaly has learned the song “Planting Rice is Never Fun”. I'm here to swear to its truth. It's a backbreaking endeavour even made harder by the punishing sun. I have high respects for farmers but on that day I promised myself, I'll finish college and work in an airconditioned environment.

So it came to pass. I finished high school from dear old Holy Cross of Bansalan. I had my sights set on college and it has to be in Davao City. Cebu or Manila are inviting too but Davao City is good enough, for the moment. It's the largest city in the world anyway in terms of area. Manila would be the ultimate city destination on my wish list.

Odd twists of events brought me way beyond Manila and into the foreign shores of California. Los Angeles is one big city beyond my wildest dreams. This must be the pinnacle of city living with its modern lifestyle and diverse culture.

I'm now thousands of miles away from my town. And an irony happened. Despite achieving my dream of living in a big city with its comforts and amenities, the memories of that small town I called home kept on creeping back. I have roots to that place and I cannot seem to cut the cord that binds me to that town… even wherever I go.

Let me share some of my adventures in old Miral.

I was 6 years old when I started my first grade in the elementary school. On my first day, I had a new leather handbag loaded with newly purchased school supplies. To top it off, I had 10 cents as my baon courtesy of grandma. I was told that I can buy a stick of banana cue and my favorite ice drop with that money. So I went my merry way thinking of recess all the time.

I met my Grade 1 teacher, a strict but caring lady, Mrs. Sarah Casimero. One thing that I noticed right away in the class was that some of my classmates were already reading the notes that were written in the blackboard. Bunch of showoffs, I thought. Me, I had no clue what they were reading. The reason was I cannot read nor write. It's scary to be illiterate. Now, I'm really intimidated. Nobody told me about pre-school. Some of my classmates were children of school teachers so I guess they have learned something better beforehand that beat my skills in feeding the chickens.

Mrs. Casimero had this pinky-sized rattan stick all the time. She told us, “If you class behave, you will not feel the pain from this stick”. Now, there were 50 of us in that class. When the teacher stepped-out somewhere, the class suddenly plunged into chaos. One time, the whole class was in full riot mood that we didn't notice that Mrs. Casimero was back. She caught us all redhanded. We rushed to our chairs and pretended to be little angels. She gave us a little lecture on proper behavior then proceded in whacking our clasped hands with that little stick. Amazing how that little stick gave us this pulsating pain that seems to never go away for a few minutes. I let a few tears cascade on my cheeks otherwise I'd pee in my pants. Liquids have a way of finding an exit, you know.

From then on, I was the most behaved student in that class. But, Mrs. Casimero, bless her soul, didn't award me the “Most Behave” ribbon at the end of the school year. That was disappointing. But disappointment turned into joy when she awarded me the “First Honor” ribbon. Who would have thunk it. This illiterate boy who excelled in tigso (a tagging game) and lastikohanay (rubber band game) got the top award. My parents and grandma were so happy and proud of my first achievement, two chickens actually lost their lives that night as we had adobo and tinolang manok for dinner.

Then one more goat was slaughtered that weekend and converted to papaitan and kaldereta. I'd swear that our animals prayed to the anitos (pagan gods) that I would flunk the rest of the way to save their lives.

Somehow I got big-headed. I beat all those kids who were showing-off the first day of class. So I thought I would breeze my way through elementary school while playing more and studying less. I don't know if it's a good defense but it's hard to study at night using kerosene lamp. Remember, no electricity.

I did have pretty good teachers; Ms. Eden Capacio in Grade 2, Mrs. Encarnacion Santiago in Grade 3, Mrs. Panes in Grade 4, Ms. Blanco in Grade 5, and Mrs. Perla Barrios in Grade 6 and Mrs. Antonia Bertulfo in the Grade 6 pilot class. As for my next academic achievement? I guess the anitos heard the prayers of the animals. My father's rule was: No First Honor means no execution of animals. Well, except for birthdays and major holidays ... and if we're running short of pulutan.

Scouting was fun under Mr. Edulan with our mini-camporees. In cub scouts, it took me a while to differentiate between “left face” and “right face” commands. But I was excellent with “about face” and “forward march”. Mr. Edulan was impressed with my knot-tying skills. He didn't know that I've been doing 8-knots and square knots while pasturing goats.

As a grade school student, I've been looking forward to the day that I will be in high school at Holy Cross. The major reason: the marching band. If there's a parade or procession in town especially during Holy Week you can always find me walking behind the marching band. I loved listening to their music. John Philip Sousa was my favorite composer. If there's such a thing as a groupie for marching bands, that's me.

This is an embarrassing story but I'd tell it anyway. I was in Grade V and we were gardening infront of the school. One prominent person in town died and so here comes this funeral procession with the band following the hearse. They were headed towards the public cemetery. I got excited upon hearing the booming sound of the bass drum and the clashing of cymbals. When the band started playing that sad funeral march as they were passing infront of us onlookers, I just lost it. Seconds later, I found myself merging with the crowd of mourners and followed the band all the way to the cemetery. That must be a good 3-kilometer walk. I just did my first cutting of classes, but it was worth every minute of it. And I didn't even know the person who died.

A couple of years later, I was in high school. My freshman year adviser was Mrs. Maraasin, then Ms. Grace Gasang, Mrs. Aguanta, then Ms. Gasang again in our senior year. High school was a fun time. I joined several school clubs and activities. And if somebody's paying attention to this piece, you would expect me to try out for the band. Yes, I did and by my sophomore year I was already one of the trumpeters of the regular band while most of my batchmates became a regular on their junior year. I got a trumpet from my aunt in the US and I'd play it every night after supper till late in the evening in our farm. All the farm animals were complaining of lack of sleep from then on.

Music is fine but there's this thing about being a “well-rounded person”. And so I tried other stuff like, dramatics and yes I joined the Altar Boys club or as they euphemistically call it, “the Knights of the Altar”. Well this knight had his share of drinking leftover Mompo too. For the uninitiated, Mompo is the Catholic mass wine which tastes pretty good. But we didn't want the priest to know that we did a really fantastic job of cleaning those wine bottles. The Canadian priests in our parish have an impressive collection of wines and liquors in the convent. Since I befriended them, I have access to the convent. I must have tasted some of those collections but I decided to have a vague memory on this one. I have a selective memory on matters that would incriminate me.

Catholics back home must have heard of the Latin phrase “Pax te cum” or “Peace be with you”. Well paxtecum for the altar boys was bringing this porcelain image of the child Jesus around town and even to the barrios. This happens after Christmas day till probably before New Year's day. Catholics would kiss the image then we wipe it with a perfumed hanky after each kiss. Hygiene issues you know and we didn't want a stinky Jesus. Some would give donations and we'd turn over the money to the sacristan. Sometimes we walked from morning till evening in a group of three.

One time we did paxtecum to barrio Mabunga which is quite remote. Unlike the 3 Magis who were guided by a star, we 3 altar boys were lost. We sought the help of the barrio folks who pointed us the way to the highway. We walked for miles and witnessed the sunset on our way to Managa, Matanao. We landed right smacked into the Seventh-Day Adventist School. That was the longest walk I've done in my life. We must have covered 30 kilometers of hills and mountains. All the while wearing our abito or altar boy attire. We took the baby bus from Managa back to Bansalan. The bus passengers who were mostly Bansalenos were surprised to see us “little priests” in the middle of Adventist territory. “What are you guys doing here?” one asked. “Ummm, we're here to convert the Adventists back to Catholicism” was my smart reply.

One time we did paxtecum from barrio Rizal to Bala and somehow we ended up in Kinuskusan with muddy shoes because it rained that afternoon. We were tired but we had this inner joy. I never knew the reason why. Was it because we were carrying the baby Jesus and spreading His love? Or maybe because some people kept on feeding us along the way. Sometimes we just operate on pure adrenalin. I can still remember how we outran those chasing dogs who thought that our attire were a little bit weird.

I have visited most barrios of Bansalan by accompanying Fr. Pellitier or Fr. Villieux as they said mass to most of the barrio fiestas. The parish driver of Evil Knievel breed was the late Peping Codilla. One time we went to Tinongtongan for their fiesta. Packed like sardines in the parish old reliable Willy's jeep was the Rondalla and Choir headed by Espiratu Gonzales with their instruments. I'm still confused how we fit in that small jeep. As we approached the hilly barrio, we hit a dead-end. No more road. Infront of us were tall grasses with a small path walk. Out came the barrio folks with their bolos and they started cutting the grasses as our jeep followed them all the way to the kapilya or barrio chapel. We made our own road.

During those days, visiting the remote barrios was not a scary proposition. We did not have to worry about being caught in the crossfire when the NPAs and the military have their skirmishes. So much peace and innocence we taken out by their little wars. I lost some friends on both sides.

Before the disco era, the baylehan (barrio dance) under the coconut grooves on Saturday nights provided the entertainment in our purok. Single ladies were seated in the bench and men whether single or married paid their way to dance with their selected lady. As young boys, we watched with amusement who dances who and who were left out. Varying dancing styles were also in display like those worm-like moves which must be the pre-cursor of the “Moonwalk”. Since the dance floor is the actual ground, we have to cover our noses when the announcer called for “hot music” because of the anticipated cloud of dust created by those stumping feet. For some young men, they labor in the farm for the whole week only to spend most of their earnings on that Saturday evening, all dressed-up and smelling good with "Tancho" pomade.

It was a fun time and life was good. All these came to a halt when Martial Law was declared and curfew hours were enforced.

So many memories and some of them pass to oblivion. But in restrospect, I didn't really regret living in Bansalan. In fact, I love it there. Like a tree whose roots are deeply entrenched in that old town, my travels were like branching out to reach new heights. To see more of the world. But it seems like I never left. I am always home.

ooOoo