My memories are being uprooted

One of the fondest memories I have of childhood adventures is when I was still a grade schooler and travelling alone on a bus going to far away Pangasinan.  Nope, I was not running away from home but out on an errand or on to a short vacation.

My mother is from that province, and  I often tagged along with her as she regularly went home to bring money or some important document to relatives - too often, I guess, that I became familiar with what buses to ride and where to get off to hire short rides, all the way from Fernando Air Base, Lipa to Barangay Amagbagan, Pozzurobio, Pangasinan.  Because I learned my way around I soon volunteered to make the quick trips for my Nanay, whom I reasoned out should just stay and rest at home; reminding her that she deserved a decent rest after working all week.  Of course, I also had my own motives.  I must have been trustworthy and responsible enough that my mother gave me her consent to travel alone.

Mount Arayat

I was not scared travelling all by myself.  In fact, I relished my independence and the trust given me.  I preferred to take the window seat as I can plaster my face on the glass panel and take in every view that fleetingly whizzed by as the bus hurtled forward.  I loved the large rivers and rice fields of Bulacan, the frenetic stops at Dau and the weird shape of Mount Arayat in Pampanga, and the stretch of Mac Arthur Highway from Tarlac all the way to where I get off.

The trees of MacArthur highway

The Mac Arthur Highway -- lined by towering mango, narra and acacia trees on both sides and snaking endlessly in long straight stretches and emptying to occasional gentle loops-- heightened my anticipation of my homecoming because I knew that the road was drawing me closer to my destination, and the warmth and welcome of my Tios and Tias, who treated such visits with joy and eagerness.  I would marvel at how the trees from both sides of the road reached and touched each other's canopy 30 to 40 feet in the air, creating protection for commuters from the harsh sun of central Luzon and a blanket of security to a young child anxious to get home.  When the bus would pass the town of Binalonan, I knew I was only minutes away from getting off at Cablong.   By then, the trees would seem to me a bit bigger in girth and taller in height.

Regardless if my visit to Pangasinan lasted a weekend or an entire summer, my stay was always filled with pleasant memories of eating vegetables and fish and meat at the papag while listening to my elders talk animatedly in their native tongue, watching TV at night as I had my late night snack of bread, peanut butter and a cup of hot Ovaltine, and in the daytime, wandering in the rice fields, catching fish with a worm bait, or simply wading around the clear stream underneath creaking bamboo groves.

My Tia Abe, Tia Amanda, niece Daniele, Tio Ito, Tia Lulu and my nanay

Today, only a few of my mother's siblings are alive.  They are now much older, and so am I.  The food still consist mainly of vegetables and fish, but no longer as tasty because my folks - because of health reasons -  no longer use bagoong to season their food.  Bread and hot choco can still be had at night if I choose to, though I no longer find it appealing.  The stream further back from our house is still there, ever as clear, and ever hidden by towering bamboo poles that creak and sway with every whiff of the breeze.

The stream that runs at the back of our house

A visit at this old place still brings me intense sentiments.  However, this joy is tinged with a pang of longing for the innocent years gone by and the painful reality that all these - the people that I love and this place that nurtured my childhood - will soon pass.  Everything will become a memory someday.

But even my memories are being assailed by reality.  The towering trees, some perhaps a century old already, along Mac Arthur Highway are being  cut down to give way to road widening projects intended to keep traffic moving faster for trade and commerce, for city people out on a road trip to interesting places, and for locals who are quickly beginning to appreciate the  benefits of convenience.

Soon there would no longer be shaded roads that are colored with the fragrant bright yellow-orange flowers of narra, or children whose faces are plastered on the bus or car window imagining ogres perched on the high branches of old mango trees, or elves hiding inside the gnarly recesses of the acacias.  In place of these would be stories of extremely hot but very fast rides under the scorching sun of Central Luzon that would be quenched by a quick stop at a Jollibee for a refreshing soda and sweet spaghetti.

Like progress, memories are made everyday.  And while I wish that mine would go on forever and will be shared by today's generation, there's nothing I can do about it except remember.  Progress is the enemy of sentimentality.  Now, it is uprooting my memories.


I would appreciate it dearly if you can leave a comment or a reaction to this story; more so if you can also share your childhood memories.