*432. THE MORALESES OF MABALACAT

DON QUINTIN MORALES, was the first of the Moraleses to hold an important office in Mabalacat. he was elected teniente del barrio of Poblacion. His younger brother, Feliciano, is the great-grandfather of Mayor Marino "Boking" Morales". 

Morales is a top-of-mind name associated with the political history of Mabalacat. And of the Moraleses that have served Mabalacat in different capacities through the years, one name stands out,  not so  much for the quality of leadership but for his longevity of tenure—Mayor Marino "Boking" Morales whose 22 years in office makes him the longest-serving mayor of the Philippines.

But before Mayor Boking, there have been a few Morales forebears who have rendered their services to the municipality of Mabalacat, in different capacities. The Morales clan could trace its beginnings to the patriarch, Mariano Morales who married Agustina Tuazon, possibly in the 1830s. The Morales couple, known members of the town principalia,  begat four children, all boys—Quintin (b.1856/d. 31 Oct. 1928), Feliciano, Valentin and Simeon (b. 4 Jul, 1880/d.24 Oct. 1942).

Quintin, the eldest son, married Paula Guzman y Cosme (b.1851/d. 7 Mar 1943,  and during the Spanish times, became a teniente del barrio (or cabeza de barangay) of Poblacion, where he and his wife settled. Quintin is buried somewhere in the sacristy of the Divine Grace Church. Of the couple’s 5 children, the youngest, Atty. Rafael Morales (b. 24 Oct. 1893/d.1967), would also venture into politics—he was elected as consejal (councilor) for two terms, during the Commonwealth years, under the mayoralties of Dr. Jose T. Garcia (1932-35) and Jose Mendoza (1940-41).

Younger brother Valentin Morales was elected teniente mayor of Sapang Bato, also during the Spanish colonial period; the youngest, Simeon, and his descendants, did not seem to show any political ambitions.

Feliciano’s son with Juana Pantig, Miguel Morales, would bring the Morales political family tradition to a higher, more prominent profile. The U.S.T. medical graduate would rise from being a medico de sanidad (department health head) of Apalit to becoming the first elected mayor of Mabalacat after the Liberation (1948-1951). As chief executive, he was responsible for building the wooden Morales Bridge, which provided the vital link between Sta. Ines and Poblacion. Mayor Morales also organized the first hydroelectric power plant, later operated by the Tiglaos. He was at the forefront of a campaign against the rising Huk movement when he was assassinated in 1951.

But it was his grandson, Marino (son of Ignacio), who would set his name on record books for a much different and unusual accomplishment. First elected mayor in June 1995, Morales began his term while Mabalacat was still reeling from the Pinatubo aftermath. He managed to extend his term through legal technicalities, strange twists of luck and with much help from election law wiz, Atty Romulo Macalintal . Amazingly, Morales would be re-elected in 1998, 2001, 2004, 2007 and 2010 elections.

When Mabalacat became a component city, Morales  filed yet again another certificate of candidacy. He was qualified to run, he said, because the status of Mabalacat had changed from that of a town into a city. Once again, amidst protests, he won the May 2016 elections. But on August 2016,  the disqualification protest filed by losing candidate Pyra Lucas resulted in Comelec First Division’s granting of her petition.  This was finally affirmed on 30 May 2017 by Comelec en banc whch ruled that the First Division’s cancellation of Morales’ certificate of candidacy was valid.

It looks like the incredible political career of Boking Morales---which had withstood charges of corruption, vote-buying and ballot-burning, familial discords, several changes in marital partners, and most recently, inclusion in Duterte’s list of narco-politicians—is finally coming to an end, at least for now. But the pool of Moraleses waiting in the wings to take on his mantle is wide and deep. Possible successors include son Dwight ( a councilor); daughter Marjorie Morales-Sambo (she once declared her bid to unseat her father); and of course, his current wife Nina, whom he initially fielded in the 2016 mayoralty race.

Morales may be down, but not out—not yet. As this article is being written, he can still resort to a few legal remedies--a temporary restraining order is one. Besides, there is still the world-record of Hilmar Moore to beat—the mega-mayor of Richmond, Texas who served his town from 1949 until his death in 2012---an epic run of 63 years! If he does that, Mabalacat may as well be renamed as Morales City, Pampanga. 

*396. A SON'S LETTER TO A DYING FATHER

NOW THERE'S A WAY, AND I KNOW, THAT YOU HAVE TO GO AWAY.
Graduation photo of  Mateo Castro, youngest son of my grandfather, Gerardo. 1957

(Last year, a cousin of mine, knowing my interest in our family history, turned over some documents from my aunt’s possession. Among these were my grandfather’s 1968 medical records from San Juan de Dios Hospital, which revealed a dreadful illness—colon cancer. Also included was this letter from my Ingkung’s  son, Mateo Castro, then 31 years old,  married wth 2 kids and settled in Baguio. 

 “Tatang Matt” was my Ingkung Dando’s youngest of 4 living children, 10 years younger than his next coya. Frail and sickly as a child, he was doted on, favoured if you will, and always had his own way--"panusignan yu ne rugu", my Aou was wont to say when Tatang Matt had his tantrums. After graduation, he left Pampanga and hied off to Baguio to pursue a career as a university professor, and never left. Tatang Matt may have been far away from the crisis happening in our Pampanga home, but far removed—he was not, as this letter to his seriously-sick father shows. 

Learning that his father was scheduled for a critical operation, Tatang Matt sent him this letter, mostly in Kapampangan, expressing his urgent request that he make a confession and receive communion before surgery. His deep concern for his father could be sensed from his firm insistence and implorings to heed his wish. It was to be the last—and most important favour that my Ingkung granted his bunso, for just a month after, he succumbed to complications from his illness.)

*******

62 Bokawkan Road
Baguio City
November 14, 1968

 Dearest Father:

Mig long-distance cami cang atching Elsie uling angga ngeni e cami pa tinanggap call; emi balu nung capilan ca ma-opera ania minaus na cami. Queng ma-opera ca, carin na cami muling maca auto. Queng Lunes, mibuclat na ing clasi mi; pero maniauad cung leave of absence cabang ma-opera ca. 

Pagawa cune ing deed of sale na nitang lote Mabiga; pepacana queng P3,000.00, ban canita ditac mu ing bayaran cu quing registration. Paqui-firma mu niamo ban canita adala nalang Auring ding papeles at apa-register que.

 Bayu ca sana pa-opera buri cu mangumpisal ca at mag-comunion. Sinabi cu cang atching Elsie queng long distance quing panintun nacang pari a buri mung pipagcumpisalan. Masanting ing macasadia ca; talagang macanian at cailangan itamu ngan macasadia tamu nung nanu man ing maliari.

Panusignan mucu sana; iyan mu ing aduan cu queca. Enapa canu sinabing Atching Elsie queca pota eca bisa; ania acu na ing sasabi quening sulat cu. Cabud manaquit lang pari a capad mu, ilabas muna iyan at nung maliari, magcomunion ca aldo-aldo anggang datang ing aldo mung operacion. Siguradung atin lang capilia queng hospital; o caya atdanan dacang communion queng cuarto mu. 

Masalese cami queni. Cabud asigurado yu ing aldo ning quecang operacion, canita nacami datang maca auto.

Yanamu, magpacasican ca bang canita milabas na ing operacion mu.

 Matt

(POSTSCRIPT: Mateo "Tatang Matt" Castro y Razon passed away on 13 May 1997)

*365. LETTER TO LOLA

(In January of 2009, my mother, Estrella del Rosario Castro or simply, "Imang Ecteng" to many people, was diagnosed with a terminal illness. After learning of her sickness, her first-born grandchild, Charisse Diane Hamada wrote this letter to her Lola Ester. Charisse had grown up under her watch in Mabalacat, while waiting to be reunited with her U.S-based parents. Before Ima expired in June, she had the pleasure of seeing her first great-grandchildren-Mia and Ethan-twins of Charisse, who flew them home in March 2009 to see their 'Lola Easter' for the first--and the last time. The picture accompanying this article shows my young Ima with daughter, Celine, mother of Charisse, in 1952)

January 29, 2009
10:14 PM

 My Dear Lola,

As I put Mia and Ethan to bed this evening, we said a prayer for you. We prayed that your illness will not cause you unbearable pain. We are saddened that you are going through this Lola, but we know that you are a very strong person and can face what's to come.

I often wondered how you managed your life with 8 children! Edgar and I have 2 and already we are saying "no more". Reflecting back on the years we lived with you, I want to tell you how forever grateful we are for your love and support (and Lolo's, too).

 I know you made a lot of sacrifices for my family. I remember that you had to build an extension to Sta. Ines to house our family of 6! I remember you helped us out financially, tirelessly tried to help us get visas to come to the States, raised Charmaine and I while Mom/Pa were in the States. That must have been so taxing on you. You never complained about the responsibility. I also remember giving you so much heartache growing up.

So Lola, I want to take this opportunity to say how sorry I am for ever hurting you. Who I am now is a reflection of how well you and Mom/Pa raised us and I am proud to be your oldest apo. As an adult - a mother like you - it's all very clear to me where my independence, resourcefulness, perseverance, drive and loyalty comes from - it's from you, Lola.

You have set a role model for your children and your apos. I will remember you always as being generous of yourself - so selfless and devoted to your family, always putting your family first before yourself.

You love and you give unconditionally, Lola and this is how I strive to live my own life and hope my children do the same.

Lola, I am honoring you by bringing Ethan and Mia to meet you and know you even for a short time. You are not a stranger to them as you might think. They give me and Edgar laughter and love and that is what I'm hoping they would bring to you during our short visit.

When God calls you, remember those you are leaving behind as we remember and cherish you. Know that WE will be alright. Know that it is okay to let go and be at peace. You will no longer have to feel pain or worry as you've done all your life.

We will all be OK, we have each other no matter the distance. Lola, we love you - we always have and we always will. Thank you for everything you've done for us, from the bottom of our hearts. Give our love to Lolo and Tito Eric and to all our family who have gone before us. May God Bless You and watch over you.

Your apo, Charisse

P.S. Lola, how could I forget to mention? Your cooking! You've shown us love through the food you've fed all us these years. We will never forget you... I just wished I learned (even a little) how to cook like you...

*316. Gotta Travel On: MACARTHUR HIGHWAY

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD. The main road in Dau, circa 1915. By the the Commonwealth years, the Americans had built 220 kms. of concrete roads in Pampanga, ending in Dau., to accommodate Pampanga's motor vehicles, which ranked 5th in number, nationwide.

In the early ‘60s, before NLEX and SCTEX, the only way to travel to Manila from Pampanga was by the old Manila North Road—or MacArthur Highway, as it was more popularly known to motorists. Named after Lieutenant General Arthur MacArthur, Jr, the military Governor-General of the American-occupied Philippines from 1900 to 1901, the long highway stretched from La Union, to the provinces of Central Luzon (Pangasinan, Tarlac, Pampanga, Bulacan) and finally to the city of Manila. Under the American Regime, road-building was at its most brisk, and by 1933, Pampanga had over 220.1 kms. of 1st class roads, ending north in Dau.

As a child, I remember some of those trips so vividly well as they were moments to look forward to. After all, it was not very often that kids like us were taken out for long rides to the big city. So, every time our parents announced that we would be going to Manila, we knew the occasion would be something special—a family reunion, a fiesta in Blumentritt or perhaps, a visit to our cousins in Herran (now Pedro Gil St).

Our trips were always scheduled on weekends, and as early as Friday morning, our parents would already be preparing for the trip. Dad would be checking on and tuning up the Oldsmobile, while Ma would be looking for tin cans that would serve as our emergency “orinola” (urinal) or vomit bag, in case of motion sickness or incontinence. We always left in the early dawn, with most of us still drowsy and asleep--no later than 5 a.m. , as mandated by my ever-punctual Dad. With water bottles and half-a-dozen or so hardboiled eggs, we thus began our 99 km. journey to the capital city.

From our house in Sta. Ines, Mabalacat, my Dad would drive out onto the main highway, towards Dau and Angeles. Past those familiar places, we proceeded to the capital town, San Fernando, with Manila still 57 kms. away. We would just coast along till San Vicente in Apalit, the highway a bit dusty and bumpy at this point. Upon hitting the rickety bridge of Calumpit, I knew we were no longer in Pampanga—we were in the Tagalog province of Bulacan, home of my favourite ensaimada de Malolos. I knew, because we would always stopped in the capital town to buy these pastries, cheese-topped and overloaded with red eggs.

From Malolos, it was off to Guiguinto, a town with an intriguing name for a 6 year old—I had often envisioned it either overrun with salaginto beetles or sparkling with golden lights. I remember the tall electric posts that lined the highway as we approached Bigaa, Tabang, then Bocaue. I once overheared adults talking about the “kabarets”of Bocaue in hushed whispers, but I've never seen girls dancing on the highway! Fixing my gaze on the world outside through the car window, i would see early risers buying bread from bakeries, Mobilgas stations and their lighted signs wishing travellers “Pleasant motoring!, Baliuag buses picking up passengers, ricefields that stretched as far as the eyes can see.

I would already be impatient and bored at this time, even as the features of the bucolic towns of Marilao and Meycauayan (where are the bamboo trees?) loomed clearer with the rising sun. But all this fretting would stop as soon as we got a glimpse of this tall obelisk in the distance—the Monumento—a landmark that told me that, at last, we were in Manila. If we were going to Sta. Cruz, we would veer towards the Monumento, gawking at the sculpted images of the revolucionarios and the doomed Gomburza padres as we made a half-loop towards Manila proper. After some two hours of driving, we did it--the “promdis” have finally arrived!

*292. BROTHERS AND BUDDIES

THE CASTRO BROTHERS RIDE AGAIN. Manuel Morales Castro (age 5) and elder brother Gerardo (age 7) proudly show off their pet horse.  Since childhood, my father and uncle were bosom buddies in Mabalacat-- the town where they were born and raised, settled their families until the end of their lives. Dated 1931.

This is perhaps the earliest picture of my father Gerardo and his younger brother, Manuel, together. My dad, born in 1924, was about 7 years old here, while Tatang Titong--that’s how we called our uncle--was 5.They had two other siblings--the eldest, Imang Elsie and the youngest, Tatang Matt. But it was my father and uncle who gravitated towards each other, and,  in youth and in old age, they would become an inseparable pair. More than brothers by birth, they were also tight, bosom buddies, growing up and going to school together, sharing the same dreams and eventually raising their own families while living as neighbors in Mabalacat.

My Dad was a junior—and the eldest boy in the family, so by virtue of his rank, he pretty much had his own way and got away with most of his shenanigans. He took under his wing his younger brother, who would become a sort of a disciple and sidekick. During the War years, both went to the local elementary school that was Japanese-controlled. My Dad once recounted how his brother, unable to recite properly, was slapped by his impatient Japanese teacher , sending his spectacles flying. My father was enraged, of course, but could do nothing to save his poor brother from his teacher’s torment, the one rare time he could not defend him.

It was only after class that he managed to comfort my uncle, whom he endearingly called Tits, and that incident cemented their brotherly bond even more. High school found my father enrolling at the Ateneo only to be kicked out in his second year for smoking on campus. Tatang Titong, however, would go on to pursue and finish his Fine Arts studies at the University of Sto. Tomas. I remember seeing some of the artworks my uncle created as a student: oil paintings of the Last Supper, the Virgen de Antipolo, and an escayola bust of his mother, Apung Tiri.

My uncle would retain this creative streak in later years, and I would often find him tinkering in his tool room and transforming found objects into decorative items. One time, he even created candle stands for All Saints’ Day using upturned tin saucers as bases, metal tubings as candle holders and ordinary nails as candle pricks. He became a handyman, to whom we would run to repair broken toys, med household items.

When my Dad and Tatang Titong got married, both had quite a rough start in establishing this new chapter in their lives. My Dad had it easier, as he lived in my Ingkung’s place, although at one point he drove jeepneys for a living. Tatang Titong vetoed a suggestion from his parents to go on a buy-and-sell-clothing business, preferring to be a jeepney driver instead, obviously influenced by his elder brother.

For some reason, Tatang Titong ended up running a Shell Gas Station in front of Clark Field, which proved to be a viable business. He and my aunt, Imang Toring moved to Balibago where they kept house just behind the gas station they managed. I remember my many visits to their house, getting to know my first cousins up close and personal, often playing games together, spinning records and trading comic books.

INSEPARABLE AT BIRTH. Brothers Titong and Dong, sharing a drink and having a blast in  Baguio City. Early 1970s.

The oil crisis in the 70s took a toll on the revenues of my uncle’s gas station. Instead of giving it up, my father ended up buying his business, which he operated for just under a year, before he too called it quits. Tatang Titong sold their Balibago house and relocated back to Mabalacat, to the unoccupied ancestral house of his uncle, Ingkung Pepe Morales that was just next-door to our residence. Now neighbors again, happy days were back for my dad and his favorite brother. They would do so many things together—from running their realty estate business from their office in Mabiga to going out for drinks, PX shopping and painting the town red riding their scooters.

For us, it was also a chance to get even closer with my cousins and there was not a day that we did not drop by each other’s place just to make ‘komusta’. We even attached a line of wire that ran across our two houses which, through a series of pulleys, could be used to exchange written communications with my cousins, when rains made it impossible for us to visit. I remember these years as a happy time for both our families, filled with the animated laughter of Castro kids and relatives.

Unexpectedly, all these came to a sad end when Tatang Titong suffered a stroke while riding his scooter on his way back to the office. He lapsed into a coma and passed away on 17 March 1989, just a few days before his son Ferdie’s wedding. Though my father was not a demonstrative man, I knew he felt the loss of his brother deeply, and I knew his days without him will never be the same again. After all, they were mag-“kapatad”, or ‘kaputul’—cut from the same cloth, born and grown from the same root. More than a “kadaya” (of the same blood), he was a “koyang Dong” to his “waling Tits”, a sibling relationship that had far-reaching influence in the way their lives were lived, creating a strong familial alliance that we, as an over-extended family, continue to uphold today, long after they have left this mortal world.

*263. Casualties of War: INGKONG PEDRO MORALES & HIS FAMILY

A FAMILY TRAGEDY. Ingkung Pedro Morales as a young lawyer. He and most of his family members were killed during the liberation of Manila, saved for Remedios who left war-torn Ermita and fled to Dimasalang with her husband.

The Moraleses, from which my father descended, are not exactly a large family. The patriarch, Quentin Tuazon Morales (b. 1856/d.1928), had five children with Paula Cosme Guzman: Clotilde, Maria, Pedro, Patricia (my father’s mother) and Rafael. I barely knew this side of the family, as my Apung Tiri (Patricia) passed away long before I was born. Saved for Ingkung Paeng (Rafael) whose house we looked after in Mabalacat, I cannot recall ever meeting the rest of my granduncles and grand aunts. But every now and then, when my father and his siblings would reminisce about the years gone by, they would talk about the tragic death of their uncle, Pedro, whose family was nearly wiped out in the second World War.

Pedro Morales or Ingkung Pedro was born on 22 February 1886, a middle child, and the firstborn son of Quintin and Paula after two girls. He grew up in Poblacion, where his father was the teniente mayor, and attended local schools in Mabalacat. When he came of college age, he went to Manila and enrolled at the Escuela de Derecho, then a leading law school of the Philippines favored by many brilliant and patriotic Filipinos who wanted to become legal luminaries (his youngest brother Rafael, would follow in his footsteps and finished Ll.B in the same school too). After passing the bar, the young lawyer went back to his hometown to practice, and became a well-known notary public.

As his father had various business holdings, the dutiful Pedro took charge of the legal requirements of the family enterprises. Upon the death of his father in 1928, he also prepared all the legal documents pertaining to his father’s will that called for the equitable distribution of his parcels of land among his 5 surviving children. There was even a case that he took on for his elder sister Maria Morales-Gutierrez, in which he went in pursuit of two people who had paid his sister with counterfeit money after buying some cigarettes and corned beef from her store. Determined to teach them a lesson, he hauled them to court where they were eventually prosecuted in the Court of the First Instance of Pampanga in December 1933.

Pedro wooed and won the hand of Magdalena “Elena” Hizon of Porac, also a middle child, daughter of Florentino Singian Hizon and Juana Henson. For her bride, he had a house designed and built by by the accomplished Kapampangan architect Fernando Ocampo y Hizon, now known as the “Father of Modern Philippine Architecture” who happened to be Elena’s first cousin. The art deco house was once an imposing presence in Mabiga, Mabalacat and merited a write-up in the Pampanga Social Register of 1936. Here, the couple raise their children: Esmeralda, Eliseo, Felicidad and the youngest, named after his father, Quintin Marcos.

As his legal career, so did his other business ventures. Pedro also became a successful sugar planter and businessman and became a stockholder of the National Life Insurance Company and Provident Insurance Company. All these would come to a tragic end in the dying days of the last world war. Ingkung Pedro and his family had evacuated his family in Manila, where they had a house along Indiana St. The rest of the Moraleses took refuge in Dimasalang.

During the infamous 1945 siege of Ermita, the Japanese went on a killing rampage in the area, while the pursuing Americans strafed the area with bombs. Ingkung Pedro perished along with his family--Elena, Eliseo, Felicidad, Quintin-- when a stray bomb directly hit his house, just another collateral damage of a cruel war. The only survivor was Remedios who was already married and living with her husband, Severino Madlangbayan at that time. She and Bebeng would go on to repopulate the decimated Morales family tree by producing 3 children--Teresita, Lourdes and Jose--who, happily, would have large families themselves.

*221. WITNESS TO THE WEDDING: Castro-Del Rosario Nuptials

WEDDING DAY BLUES. Two Kapampangan families--the Castros of Mabalacat and the Del Rosarios of Angeles--were united in the 1949 wedding of Ecteng del Rosario and Dong Castro--my lovestruck parents. 15 May 1949.

My parents used to keep an album of their 1949 wedding, and I remember poring over the pages many times, enthralled by the pictures, the newspaper write-up and even a feature of their wedding cake, which made it to the page of a magazine. Over the years, the album just crumbled, until all we had left was half of their wedding invitation, and a fragment of their wedding announcement published in the papers. Being the self-appointed ‘family historian’, I had the good sense to save the remaining pictures in a new album, which my Mother, the former Estrella Castro del Rosario, stowed away in my late father’s cabinet.

She had always told me about that special day in her life, albeit, in bits and pieces—and photos of her show her indeed, relishing the moment, her smile full, her face beaming. It was only recently that I had the heart to go through my Mother’s stuff again, over a year since her death, leading me to find more details about that magical 15th day of May, one morning in 1949.

My mother and father had a whirlwind courtship, getting hitched three months after their chance meeting in Angeles. My mother worked at the botica-cum-gift shop owned by her doctor-brother and it was here that my good-looking Dad introduced himself to her, on the pretext of buying a tin of Vicks. To make the long story short, my mother was swept off her feet by this short, Ateneo high school drop-out, and next thing she knew, he was asking her hand in marriage. I still keep their love letters and read them every now and then. I am both amazed and amused at my father’s sugar-sweet notes, parts of which I am sure were copied from a “how to write a love letter" book and which were certainly enough to convince my mother to give her ‘yes’.

The wedding was just a family affair, but it was complete with all the trimmings of a grand wedding. After all, my father was the eldest son, a junior, no less—and a wedding of this magnitude was a privilege of his rank. In reality, however, their wedding cost so little, thanks to wise budget-cutting and planning. The wedding itself was solemnized at the San Miguel Catholic Church (Pro-Cathedral), with Rev. Fr. Pedro N. Bantigue as the officiating priest.

My mother, just 21, was given away by his eldest brother, Dr. Pablo del Rosario, as her father had passed away two years before. She wore a printed ecru satin gown with beautiful butterfly sleeves. On her head, she wore a heart-shaped headdress, which accentuated her trademark widow’s peak. She lived long enough to see her wedding gown and headdress, framed for posterity, now hanging in my living room. My mother was every inch a picture of a radiant bride on her wedding day.

On the other hand, my 25 year-old father was in an all-white Americana sharkskin suit, the style of the day for young grooms. He wore a blue printed silk necktie and a matching hanky. Unlike mother’s gown, my father’s suit did not survive, but his necktie did. I wore his necktie for my high school graduation photo; so did my brothers, who borrowed it for their formal parties. My dashing father had his hair slicked with Brilliantine and I remember him using pomade on his hair right down till the 1990s.

Maid of Honor at their wedding was my mother’s sister, Jesusa or Imang Susing. Her counterpart was Tatang Maning, my father’s younger brother, who acted as the Best Man. Standing as principal sponsors were Pedro M. Lansangan and Paz Dizon de Gomez. Among the secondary sponsors were then my mother’s brother Renato, or Tatang Ato, (Veil), Orlando del Rosario and Nila Tayag (Cord). Sonia del Rosario (my mother’s niece) and Marcelo de la Cruz (my father’s nephew) were the well-behaved Flower Girl and Ring Bearer respectively.

The Breakfast Reception was held at the Riviera, a popular restaurant for social functions. At 4 pesos per plate, the newlyweds managed to save a lot on their reception. They even had a wonderful wedding cake that had a man-and-wife cake topper under a decorated canopy. The official photographer was X’OR Studios, which presented my parents lots of photo proofs of the event for their approval. But when they were shown the bill, my parents almost fainted. They chose not to order a final set of photos but kept the proofs instead. These pictures are what they kept in their album, complete with “Proof Only” marks, stamped on their pristine white dresses.

It is interesting to note that when my mother assumed my father's last name, she just switched her Del Rosario surname with her maiden name --which was also Castro (her mother was Felicisima Castro). Some say it's a coincidence, but to my parents, it's destiny, their meeting written in the stars.

My parents were together for 49 years, and while many felt a tinge of dismay for not reaching their golden wedding anniversary, I like to believe that it is not only in the number of years that one should count love’s ways. My father was no poet like Elizabeth Browning, but he sure meant it when, just 11 days before their wedding, he wrote my mother: “Remember, my darling, an hour or two with you is just like a minute and a minute without you is like a year. I shall always be loving you, my darling, whether in sickness or in health, till the end of our lives”.

Every time I read this part, I always get "kilig to the bones". Now that's true love!

*213. THE HOUSE ON 151 STA. INES ST., part II

AND THE HOUSE CAME FALLING DOWN. From a two-storey house, our old residence was made smaller for practical reasons: in 2000 we have all flown the coop and by then the house was in total disarray, rented out to various people we hardly knew. It was still sad to see the upper floor go.

Our street, which stretches for just about 250 meters, was actually just a side street and for the longest time, remained unpaved. I hated walking down the dirt road, especially after the rains; a slight downpour would turn the road sticky and muddy. The worse was stepping on moist carabao dung, and many a rubber sandal were lost in the warm smelly trap left behind by these lumbering damulags. The town abattoir faced our street, permeating the air not just with the stench of scalding flesh but also the piercing wails of death-resistant pigs.

The commandment “Love thy Neighbor” was followed to the letter in our street, as our relationships with everyone was cloyingly sweet. Everyone it seemed, looked out for each other. Imang Saning ran the street’s only sari-sari store; her daughter Luz was my classmate. There, we could make “pa-lista” if our budgets were tight but 1 or 5 centavos is enough to buy Texas bubble gum, Senorita Lemon or toothsome belekoy. My favorites were the pink, coconut laced cookies in glass garapons. For the same price, you can take a chance on the “bagutan” , where anything—from a toy balloon or a plastic gun-- can be yours for the picking. On the other hand, my sister loved renting komiks there, and I myself would avidly follow the serialized stories of “Sindak” or “Ngitngit ng Pitong Whistle Bomb” on Tagalog Klasiks.

Tatang Felix Castro and Mang Saning worked for my lolo in managing his agricultural lands for some time. They would either housesit or babysit us whenever my parents or lolo went on overnight trips to Manila. My father became a good buddy of their son-in-law Master Sgt., Arthur Dandridge, who married their daughter, Atching Ester.

I always admired the little house of the Tungol family with its rows of green bushes and flowers. I longed to have a house that organized. Kong Inggo was our resident on-the-go-barber. He would come to our house at a moment’s notice as his house was just a stone’s throw from ours. Many years later, I would be reacquainted with his daughter, Jet, in Bangkok, Thailand, of all places, where he and her American husband were stationed. Within the vicinity was also Atching Zenai’s big compound. She would sometimes send food over and my mother would return the kind gesture with another dish. That’s how it was in those days.

Also close to us are the family of Ingkung Raling and Apung Gayang Morales. Bapang Roxann was my classmate from elementary to high school. Atty. Morales was a respected lawyer who would always handle all our family’s legal cases.

Our other Morales relatives often had caretakers to tend to their large, imposing house. When they were not around, we would go over the fence and play hide and seek or tambubung on the spacious, paved grounds. Whenever we felt more adventurous, we would ascend the azotea stairs or climb up all the way to the second floor, trying to see what lies within. I remember peering through the persiana slats to see an ancient portrait of an old woman with soulful eyes that follow your every move. I was scared stiff! Little did I know that she was my paternal great grandmother, Apung Palu.

To the left of us are the Madlangbayans and directly in front of us, the compound of Tatang Senti de la Cruz. Their children were our playmates and when we were not engaging them with several rounds of siyatung (game played with sticks), we were conducting war games. Tatang Senti had a number of carabaos and we would worry him no end by scaring his herd with firecrackers. Today, his son Sekwat and I are magka-“kumpares”.

The Concepcions, first cousins of my Dad, also were on the same street. I also remember the Macaspac family in that area, as Remedios was my grade school classmate. Sadly, she passed away at a tender age.

The farther I went down the road, the less and less people I knew.
Where our rural street converged with the other, more populated Sta. Ines street, that’s where my little journey ended.

*****

I left our house in Sta. Ines in 1984.
By then it had acquired a new number (No. 179) and the street had been given a new name (Sampaguita St.). In the 1998, the street name was again changed to Vicente de la Cruz St., in honor of Tatang Senti, our front-door neighbor. By then too, my father had passed away and my mother moved out of Sta. Ines to join me in my matchbox-size, SSS-financed house in Casmor. Our big house, now empty and termite-ridden, had become but a store room for our old furniture, aparadors and odds and ends of accumulated junk.

In January of 2001, I decided to have the house remodeled and made smaller for practical reasons. When the whole upper storey where my room used to be was finally demolished, a piece of my past also came crashing down.

*212. THE HOUSE ON 151 STA. INES ST., part I

NO PLACE LIKE HOME. The Castro Family residence, as it looked in the mid 1970s--the place of my childhood. The house was constructed in the late 1950s, expanding in all directions when the family grew to 8 siblings, a set of parents, 1 grandparent and 3 househelps and a driver.

It’s easy to locate the house I grew up in. It sits right next to the stately Morales ancestral mansion built by my paternal grandmother’s brother, Atty. Rafael Morales. There is another old house across this mansion, belonging to another relation, also a Morales, and also an attorney--Regalado Morales or Ingkong Raling. You simply use these two old houses to point to our residence along Sta. Ines. Back in the 60s, there was no name for our street—mails were simply addressed to our house number—No. 151.

Our 2-storey house, built in the 1950s is a study in contrast to the next-door Morales house, with its architectured lay-out and carefully planned rooms. Ours was family-designed, and it can be safely said that it was basically constructed from found objects. Our gate for instance, was recycled from an old aluminum airplane wing, to which a wheel had been fastened so that it could be rolled open or close. The perimeter of our thousand square-plus lot was fenced in by old steel-matting, reinforced with rows of San Francisco, jasmine, sampaguita, karakarikucha, guyabano and coconut trees.

The first floor, as I remember it, had shiny red cement floors that were assiduously scrubbed for hours with a bunot (coconut husk), or polished to a clear smooth finish with a lampaso (rags). The very first sala set of my memory were these woven rattan pieces that left marks on your butt after a few minutes of sitting on them. We had large, slide-open windows that opened to a pasamano. Here, on the wide, wooden ledge, I would often lie down to take my naps.

Our dining table was one of few formal pieces of furniture we had, but it did not have any matching chairs. Instead, we sat on batibots or used a long metal bench with a lawanit top. The kitchen, where my mother reigned supreme, was a soot-covered one-room affair, strewn with firewood, kitchen utensils and lined with old-fashioned kalans.

The upstair structure—where all our bedrooms were-- was all of wood, consisting of 2, maybe 3 rooms. We usually slept on mattresses laid out on the shiny wood-planked floor, falling asleep as we watched Far East Network cartoons on our Westinghouse 1950s TV. For the longest time though, we were infested with suldot (bedbugs) and these pests would lodge themselves in the floor crevices which made sleeping impossible—until we got beds.

It took some time getting used to double-decked beds. I shared mine with my elder brother, Gregg. For practical reasons, I occupied the lower berth—I was a bed wetter until age 11 (my mother used to put a big basin under my bed every night-very embarassing). One time my brother and I had our usual bedtime fight. I yanked at his arms and he came crashing down the upper deck with a bang.

There was one year I shared a room with my Ingkung Dando. This time, I stayed on the upper deck and my younger sister occupied the lower berth. From atop, I had a commanding, if not a funny view of my lolo as he slept soundly. You see, he snored in his sleep and his lips would pucker up , making hilarious noises that gave me unstoppable laughing fits.

When more babies came (we were 8 kids in all), our house grew with more room extensions in all directions, all engineered either by our carpenter or the mason. In the prosperous 70s, my parents had their share of small fortune when, together with their siblings, went into real estate development. True to the spirit of the nouveau riche, we went into a house-remodelling frenzy, applying the latest architectural and interior design craze as our house underwent expansion.

For instance, our walls were embellished with crazy-cut patterns of earth and brown hues. Foundation posts were whitewashed with crushed 7-Up bottles that sparkled in broad daylight. Our cement floors gave way to modern granolithic, in all its speckled glory. The ceilings were framed in scalloped, textured lawanit boards, painted mint green long before pastel shades came into vogue. Faux wood grain panels hid the stairs leading to our bedrooms. And the piece de resistance: flower beds, in the shape of cut-up logs, adorned the front of our house, an appropriate accent to the diamond ceramic façade.

To furnish the house, we ordered oh-so-moderne brown sofas and chairs with stiletto legs. Vinyl-covered, they made gentle hissing sounds when you sunk into them. These were matched with slightly-used red and white chairs, generously donated by our American tenants. And, for the first time, we had lamps for the side tables—one in green and one in cream!

Separating the living room from the dining area is a custom-made display cabinet that contained my Dad’s precious collection of Jim Beam bottles and decanters in all shapes and sizes, carefully amassed through the years from the neighborhood “magbobote’t dyaryo” (used bottle and newspaper dealer).The only artworks we kept were two framed watercolors of weeping willows (I think!) rendered on green cartolinas.

Finally, we could afford having our own bedrooms. Recognizing our individuality, our parents gave us leeway in room design and color selection. My father though, insisted that the rooms should have transoms for better air circulation, which weren’t at all to my liking as these did not make the rooms very private. I chose to have my room painted in avocado green but the painter messed up and the final outcome was more like the color of kamias.

Oh, how I loved that house on 151 Sta. Ines St.
It had multiple personalities not unlike those of the dozen or so residents that inhabit the place. It had much space—to hide in, thrive in. Around it, more space for fun and play, for youthful imaginations to run wild. I was around 7 or 8 when my brother and cousin connived to form a club—3 M, we called ourselves (Magnificent 3!). The karakarikucha tree in the front yard became our outpost, while the backyard, hidden from adult’s prying eyes, became the site of our private headquarters which we built from stone blocks, one stone at a time.

Directly across our house was a cavernous kamalig owned by my Morales relatives, unused for years and left to decay. Nightly, only the incessant calls of the “tuko” would be heard from this dark, dingy dungeon-like structure. My lolo’s idea of discipline was to lock up erring grandchildren here. The unspeakable terror that lurked behind the massive doors was very much real, as my younger brother Momel once proved it when he annoyed my Ingkung with his endless crying. Until now, I have not the courage to step inside this kamalig, the chamber of horrors of our childhood.

My father’s old yaya, Ati Bo and her family, were rewarded by my Ingkung with a house of their own behind our residence. Made of nipa, sawali and bamboo, their house looked like a bigger version of my sister Celynne’s “bale-balayan” which she got as a birthday present from Ingkung. When she grew up, her “bale-balayan” (play house) became our favorite playhouse where we would play kurang-kurangan (play kitchen) and practiced our housekeeping duties like buffing the bamboo floors with banana leaves. The coming of more househelps signalled the end of our private happy moments as they took residence in our little nipa house.

Behind Ati Bo’s house, past a little rear gate lies another forbidden land—a gently sloping ravine that leads to the sapa (creek). Overgrown with bamboo, cogon, ferns and giant gabi plants, we would do our Tarzan yells as we rappeled down the slope. In this mosquito-infested area, amidst the thorny brambles and thickets and the nuno sa punso, we once built a tree house, affording a quiet vantage point where one could listen for hours to the sounds of creaking, rustling bamboo. Past the barbed wire fence, one comes finally to the white sand sapa (stream). Here, we washed our feet, caught tadpoles, collected butterflies and ate dagis-pakwan (edible wild fruits). Here too, directly opposite us, you can see the goings-on in the houses along the street: people walking to and fro, tricycles coming and going, children like us, playing. It’s a virtual wonderland out there, serene, relaxing, uncomplicated, and the only thing that could wake us up from our youthful reverie would be a call, or more precisely, a threatening scream from those adults in our house.

That would send us rushing home in a minute.

*206. FARMVILLE, REVISITED.

MUNTA TAMU MARANGLE. A typical daily scene in agricultural Pampanga shows hard-working Kapampangan farmers driving their native bullcart to the rice (or sugarcane) fields. The majestic Mount Arayat looms in the background. Dated 1934.

Just like many Kapampangans, my father’s side of the family earned their living from their agricultural lands which they accumulated through the years. Local history cites the Tiglaos, Dizons, Dominguezes, De La Cruzes, Moraleses and Castros as Mabalacat’s leading post-war landowners. Indeed, my earliest memories of my grandfather, Ingkung Dandu, were his weekly meetings with his tenant-farmers or casamacs, where, from my regular eavesdropping, they discussed anything and everything about farming—from fertilizers, molasses yields to pricing strategies, crop rotation and unforeseen problems like ‘silab a atbu’ (burned sugarcane) and delayed ‘cabio’ season.

Our casamacs and their families lived and worked in the same farmlands that my Ingkung owned. Annually, at least twice a year, my grandfather would check on his farms personally, and on these special instances, we—his ‘apos’—would be asked to tag along just for a change of place and atmosphere. “Munta tamu marangle!”, my Ingkung would announce, and, in no time at all, my brothers and I would be all dressed and ready for our farmville adventure.

In the 60s, our agricultural land in Bundagul was a dusty and bumpy 15 minute car ride away from the unpaved Sta. Ines Road (now Sta. Ines NLEX exit). Upon arrival in our trusty Oldsmobile, our casamacs and their families would surround the car and wait for us to alight. From the start, we would get star treatment, given cool drinks and offered kakanins like kalame, (rice cakes) preserved fruits, inuyat (sticky molasses)—all prepared and homecooked by the casamac's wives.

Then, while my Ingkung and my parents were escorted for his ocular inspection of the planted fields that were almost ready for harvesting, we, kids, would be entertained by the farmers’ families through exciting carabao (damulag) and gareta (cart) joyrides. Insect-catching was another fun thing to do while there. Sampaloc trees would yield salagubang, salaguintu, papaltuk (click beetle) and the rare uwang (rhinoceros beetle) which we tied to an ‘atbu’ (sugarcane) stalk and kept as a sort of a pet. By nightfall, the noisy kuligligs (cicadas) would take over.

Under stones, we would uncover mole crickets (kamaru) and field crickets (lipaktung) which we collected in softdrink bottles. In shallow streams, we would find butiti (tadpoles) and frogs whose tummies we rubbed till they ballooned. We would trace the pilapils with our feet, walking between thick rows of sugarcane stalk without fear of getting lost.

When not in use, our smaller farmland in Mabiga would be overgrown with tall, cogon grass—an ideal ground for dragonflies or tulang which came in three varieties: the plain, green tulang, the rarer orange 'tulang dapu' and the slender-as-pins ‘tulang karayum’ (dragonfly needles). These, we would catch and subject to various torture, which included either trimming or reducing the number of wings, and in extreme cases, removing their legs and letting them fly!

During end of summer days, when the winds were stronger, we would fly kites out in the field—from our paper karang-karang tied with plain thread to the high-flying gurion made of sturdier kwayan (bamboo) sticks and papel de japon. Sometimes, we would accessorize our buraruls (kites) with colored wing flaps and long tails. We would also wage kite dogfights or compete for the title of who could keep his kite airborne for the longest time.

We knew it was time to go when the kuligligs make their presence felt and fireflies start lighting up the groves of trees in the marangle. Packed again in our Oldsmobile, our casamacs and their gracious families would send us off with gifts—from fresh gatas damulag (carabao milk), more ‘kakanins’ (homecooked native delicacies) to bunches of bananas freshly picked from their own backyard.

Today, our ‘marangles’ are no more. Our Bundagul farmland has been reduced by more than half its size, with many lots titled and given away to our casamacs for their years of loyal service. They deserve them. Only four hectares remain, with squatter families slowly encroaching and nibbling away its perimeter. A lone tenant rents it from us, using the field to plant corn and fruits. It’s up for sale as it is simply too big for us to manage; besides, no one has any intention of being a gentleman farmer—we just don’t have the knack for it.

In the early 70s, our farm in Mabiga was subdivided and converted into a real estate development—Casmor Subdivision (from Castro-Morales). This is where I live now, at least on weekends, in a small SSS house, on a lot turned over my father to me way back in 1983. I could hardly find salagubangs, salaguinto and tulang in Casmor these days, but on some nights, when you close your eyes in deep reverie, you will be able to hear again the hum of kuligligs, the bellowing of carabaos and the rustle of sugarcane stalks, just like we did when we went to visit the good old place of our childhood called ‘marangle’.

*186. WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE CLASS OF '69?

.HEADS OF THE CLASS. The Class of 1969, Grade VI, Section 1, of Mabalacat Elementary School. Friends, playmates and classmates all. Class Adviser: Mrs. Eleuteria Paquia. Dated 1969.

This month, April ushers in the end of another schoolyear, marked with the usual graduations, commencement exercises, mandatory class photo sessions and farewell parties. I am reminded of my own elementary graduation back in 1969, 41 years ago to be exact, from the town’s biggest public school, Mabalacat Elementary School. I found myself leafing through my old albums where I managed to dig up this official graduation picture of the Class of ’69, my very own batch.

This was taken just hours before the graduation rites, so you could just imagine the stress of coming to the school early in your crisp, white trubenized shirt, waiting for your turn to be shot, being extra careful not to crumple your fine graduation outfit. This was taken in an old wooden wing at the back of our school, which was not exactly photogenic as one can see—but it had a series of steps on which we could conveniently stand in rows, pose for the photographer and say cheese.

We were all herded to this site by our class adviser, Mrs. Eleuteria Paquia (+), one of my favorite teachers, and our Science teacher, Mrs. Lourdes Espanta. The Top Ten graduates of the premiere Grade 6 Section 1 class had the honor of sitting in front. I could no longer remember the exact placements of my honor classmates which included, from left to right—Alice Angeles, Rosalinda Feliciano, Perpetua Romero, me (I ranked 7th), Paul Candelaria (Salutatorian), Elvira Almazar (Valedictorian), Danilo Soliman (4th), Redentor Galura (5th), Elizabeth Tuazon, and the last, Annabelle Dayrit.

I scanned the faces on this photo and I could make out one of our sergeant-at-arms Loida Dizon (second row, 3rd girl from the left). Next to Loida is Nida Castro, the girl with a mod coiffed hair. On the same row, I see Thelma Manalang (8th girl from left) who amazed me with her perfect self-taught American diction. Aurora Tulabut, the 10th girl from left, I know quite well, as she was the daughter of our tenant, Tatang Ano, who doubled as our barber.

The tiny girl on the 3rd row is Remedios Macaspac, who lived at the end of our street in Sta. Ines. Fate decreed that she was to have a short life, as she died not long after 1969, of leukemia.

On the 4th row, I see Rene Tiongquico standing at extreme right. The tallest boy on this row, fourth from right is our other sergeant-at-arms, Erie Ong, the son of the town’s chief of police. I see a lot of familiar faces in the last row; my neighbor and my uncle, Roxann Morales stands 2nd from left, while Lowell Sanguyu ( one of my rowdier classmates; his mother taught in the same school), Maurino Datu, Rodolfo Ramos and Ramon Atencion are the 4 boys right smack in the middle. Danilo Palo is the last kid on this row, one of the bigger, but soft-spoken boys in class.

The details of our graduation ceremony itself are kind of sketchy. I do remember that the overused graduation music, “Triumphal March” was played again and again till kingdom come. And I also recall you had exactly less than five minutes onstage to receive your bond paper diploma from the principal, get a handshake and smile again for the cameras. You got more stage time (like I did) if you were an honor student as it meant getting a ribbon with a handwritten (or typewritten) notation of your rank.

I would cross paths again with some of my male classmates soon after our 1969 graduation. Bapang Roxann, Danny Soliman, Rudy Ramos and Reddy Galura became my high schoolmates at Sacred Heart Seminary in Angeles City. We even attempted to do a reunion party of some sorts, a few years into high school—I think we held it at Lowell’s place—but eventually, time and distance would blur and sever our once-close relationships.

But I always had my ear on the ground for any news about my band of school friends. Forty one years down the road, with some help from technology and social networking, I have gotten news from some of them, a lot now scattered abroad with their families, children and grandchildren, living generally quiet, happy lives.

I know Reddy Galura became a successful trader in the Philippines but gave it all up to start anew in America for the sake of his bright children, continuing his business there and seeing it flourish again. “Rock” Datu left early for the U.S. and is settled in South California, an active member of a Mabalaqueño community association there. I was also told that our salutatorian, Paul Candelaria worked in Japan for years and is now also settled in the U.S. of A.—just like Alice Angeles, Annabelle Dayrit and Erie Ong.

Like me, there are those who stayed on in the Philippines like Bapang Roxann, a longtime banker and now a director of Don Teodoro V. Santos Institute, the former Mabalacat Institute. Also a banker based in Pangasinan is Dan Palo. Lowell joined the U.S. Navy, but chose to go back to the Philippines after his U.S. stint and is now into real estate brokerage.

Our other honor graduate and one of my good friends, Danny Soliman, also lives here and I last met him and his wonderful family in the funeral of a common family friend just a few years ago—of all places. In another recent funeral wake, Nida Castro re-introduced herself to me, and I was surprised to know we were common relatives of the person lying in state. On the other hand, Froilan Galang chose to enter politics and is running as a re-electionist councilor of the town this May.

Every All Saints Day, I would sit by our family plot which was strategically located next to the cemetery gate—and here, I would scan the incoming crowd for familiar faces. This way, I have managed to renew my acquaintance with a few classmates from the past like Aurora Tulabut and Ramon Atencion, whose brother Regal, is also a friend to my other younger brothers. Through facebook, a social networking site, Loida Dizon (now Luna) managed to track me down, telling me she now lives in the U.S. with her children. We promised to meet up when she comes home this 2nd week of April 2010.

But whatever became of the rest? Where is Rene Tiongquico? Eleanor Dizon? Teresa Quiambao? Arnold Castro? Boy Pineda? Alejandro? Edgar Bondoc? Marilou? I may have forgotten their names, but not their faces. After all, in the not-so-distant past, we were more than just classmates—we were kindred souls in search of a dream yet to be fully defined--which, vaguely, was to learn, to earn our wings and fly. Together, we drew encouragement, support and inspiration from each other in that little elementary school that we walked to next to the municipio, every day, for six long years. That’s a long time to just forget and throw away.

This April, I will be seeing you again, my dear classmates, in the faces of today's fresh graduates whose aspirations and attitudes mirror our own, brimming with optimism, yet not sure exactly as to how we will reach our goals. But hopefully, just like many of us, they too shall arrive at their destination safe and sound. In the kingdom of children and in an age of innocence, the future never looked so good.

(UPDATES: Eleanor Dizon (now Perlman) found me on facebook recently and is based in TX. Rey Tolentino is in California. I met Rene Tiongquico finally in a relative's wake this August 24, 2010. Arnold Castro and Paulino "Boy" Pineda have passed away and are sadly missed. )

*178. SMITTEN BY THE SMITHS

THE SMITHS GO TO ANGELES. Mr. & Mrs. Buford and Billie Smith, of Texas, with son, Eugene, on assignment at Clark Air Base. Longtime friends and tenants of our duplex apartment in Malabanias, Balibago in the 60s.

From the mid 1960s to the early 70s, Angeles, particularly Balibago, enjoyed a boom period as American servicemen poured into Clark Field by the hundreds. The Vietnam War was in full rage at that time, and the base housing facilities simply could not accommodate the overflow of incoming Americans and their families. To cash in on this growing market, many entrepreneurs went on a construction spree, developing whole subdivisions (like Severina Subdivision, Marisol Manor, Marlim Mansions, etc.), apartment complexes and houses for rent to Americans who opted to live off-base.

By chance, my father had a 650 sq. meter lot in Balibago, strategically located in Plaridel, very close to Clark. My mother, on the other hand, had another lot in Abacan, close to her brother’s large property, which had been successfully converted into a compound of apartments rented out to Americans on assignment in Clark. So, my parents joined the bandwagon of builders and had a duplex house made to American specifications on their prime properties.

The picture-perfect duplex in Plaridel was a small neat package with 2 wood floor rooms, a living room, a compact kitchen and a small front yard with flower boxes, ideal for a young family. As soon as the “For Rent” sign was put up, my father was besieged with inquiries from American servicemen—and that’s how we came to have the Smiths and their children, as tenants and eventually, as close family friends.

At home, my Kapampangan father always referred to them at home as “Ismits”, and that’s how we also knew them. From the Christmas cards they regularly sent, I learned that Mr. Smith was named “Buford”, or simply “Chuck” . Mr. Smith and wife Billie, were a tall, strapping pair, quick to smile and blessed with happy dispositions. My mother told me that Mrs. Smith had American Indian blood which accounted for her darker complexion. They were from a place in Texas called Burkburnett, which I always had trouble pronouncing. The Smiths were always invited by my parents to our family parties, and in one particular visit, I met their son, Eugene "Gene" Smith, who was about my age .

I remember that particular visit—I was about 10 or 11—because my father had asked me to keep him company and play with him while he and Ima entertained their friends. Gene was such a hyperactive child; he struck up a chat with me in rapid-fire English which I could hardly comprehend. I took out my second-hand bike and led him to my uncle’s house next door, which had a big cemented yard perfect for biking. As soon as Eugene sat on the bike, he started pedaling away like crazy, making dangerous loops and showing off some stunts. We soon attracted the attention of neighborhood kids who gawked at this boisterous American boy and his chaperone. Of course, Eugene became a sort of a trophy I could show off, and I made sure the local kids knew that, by conversing with him in my best Kapampangan English, within their hearing range. Eugene’s rowdy play came to a stop when he took the bike up a cemented incline and started to careen down at great speed, causing him to fall. Mr. Smith heard our commotion and called his scratched-up son home.

The Smiths lived in that duplex apartment for over 2 years, and every year, after Christmas, my father would help in their annual ‘spring cleaning’. All their usable discards were put in a big cardboard box and taken home. It was always exciting to open that box that held unimaginable second-hand surprises inside and us, siblings, would fight over the contents like mad. I didn’t care much for the American size clothing (my mother went agog over the knitted sweaters), but I went wild over the half-used coloring books, the slightly used toys (I remember a pair of tin wind-up motor cars), the Disney comics and the Mickey Mouse storybook that my elder brother coveted.

On special occasions like Christmas, we would get gifts—everything from American milk brands that came in waxed cartons to gift stockings stuffed with Brach’s candies, caramels plastic toys and licorice sticks. When my father had an extra dollar or two, he would ask his friend to buy a couple of items from the Clark commissary, if at all possible. Of course, he was never refused. We would get chocolates like M&Ms and Kisses, barbecue sauces, Revlon shampoo, cereals and shoestring potatos, never before seen in local stores. In one year, I got a giant box of 64 crayons that came with a built-in sharpener. Wow! I never even imagined that crayon colors such as periwinkle, sea green and gold existed, thinking at that time that this could only be possible in the U.S. of A. For while, I was smitten by the American dream.

So for a couple of years, while the Smiths stayed for their tour of duty, we had a peek of the American life, transplanted in a little duplex apartment along an unpaved road in Balibago. The Smiths even had a second son, Steven, born while on vacation in the States, but brought to the Philippines as an infant. I think Steven’s birth hastened the Smiths’ decision not to extend their stay in Clark. They flew back to the U.S. and shortly, we found another American family as tenants, the Kentalas and their six daughters.

The Smiths, resettled back in Texas, but they kept in touch every Christmas with cards, chatty letters filled with the latest family updates and pictures of the growing family, including the boys, Eugene and Steven. They kept this up without fail every year, until Mr. Smith’s retirement. One of the last letters we received was in the mid 80s, to tell us of Eugene’s forthcoming marriage to a local girl, complete with a newspaper clipping. The letters stopped coming altogether until we completely lost track of them.

But for a few short years in the turbulent ‘60s, we, the Castros and the Smiths, bridged the gaps of race, culture and creed to become true friends—Filipinos and Americans together-- with a genuine sincerity that knew no bounds.

*174. A 1956 Reunion; THE DEL ROSARIOS OF ANGELES CITY

THE GATHERING. The Del Rosario siblings, children of Emilio del Rosario and Josefa Valdez, Felicisima Castro and Florentina Torres, pose with their families in the 1956 Del Rosario event of the year.

This picture of the large Del Rosario clan used to hang in the living room of our old Mabalacat home before it was torn down and the contents packed and stored away. My mother was sure proud of this picture as she had it framed, a reminder that she was once a genuine Angeleña, born and raised in Kuliat, until circumstances led her to live for a few years in Zaragoza, Nueva Ecija (as a companion to her priest-brother) and in Hermosa, Bataan (as a nanny to an American couple). But it was to Angeles that she would always return, comfortable around his many brothers and sisters and always proud of her Del Rosario roots.

The earliest Del Rosario in our family tree is one Anacleto del Rosario (fl. late 1790s) , who became the second husband of Maria Arcadia Henson. Maria Arcadia was the youngest child of Severino Henson, a Chinese mestizo, and Placida Paras of San Fernando; an elder brother was Mariano, the first Filipino lay Doctor of Laws and a husband of Juana Ildefonso de Miranda, daughter of the founders of Culiat, the future Angeles.

Anacleto and Maria Arcadia had 6 children, and the eldest, Pablo del Rosario married Luisa de Ocampo. From this union, seven children were born, and the fourth son, Cornelio, married a relative, Juana Henson de Ocampo. Cornelio and Juana would populate the family tree with 10 children, one of whom was Emilio del Rosario (b. 2 Sept. 1878/ d. 7 Sept. 1947), my maternal grandfather.

My Ingkung Milyu married not once, but three times, siring a family that totaled to about 20 children, including those who died in infancy. The Del Rosario kids were thus identified as products of pregnancies from the “mumunang atyan” (Josefa Valdes), “pangadwang atyan” (Felicisima Samia Castro) and “pangatlung atyan” (Florentina Torres).

Fifteen survived to adulthood and raising all of them was a supreme challenge for my Ingkung Milyu whose only source of income in the 1930s was a parcel of land in Sapa Libutad, which he tilled and planted with rice and sugar. The early deaths of his two wives (Apung Sepa and Apung Simang) further complicated matters as the children were left motherless at a young age.

My Ima only has haze memories of her mother, Apung Simang, who died of a heart ailment. She was just about 3 or 4 years old then, so she and her siblings were “loaned” to kind relatives who took care of them as if they were their own. But it is to my Ingkung’s credit that all his children grew up with a strong sense of family; when the eldest brood finished their studies and became professionals, they took over in supporting their younger half-siblings, treating them no differently, and always with love and affection. Even as adults, and with their own families, the Del Rosario siblings were always ready to lend a hand to a brother or a sister in need, be it in the form of financial help, moral guidance or a a piece of wise advice.

This particular picture, taken possibly in mid 1956, shows the Del Rosarios gathering in full force for a grand family reunion, although I remember my Ima saying that it also coincided with her older brother’s birthday-- I can’t recall who that was. In any case, here we see the Del Rosario siblings almost complete, many in their prime with careers flourishing and families established.

My five uncles, children of my Ingkung’s first marriage with Josefa Valdez are seated in the middle row, starting with the third bespectacled man from the left, Tatang Dadong, followed by Tatang Curing and a brother -in-law, Patrocinio Feliciano. Tatang Maning, Tatang Pabling and Tatang Anding complete the eldest set.

Second wife Felicisima Castro gave my Ingkung the following children: eldest son Tatang Carling (seated after T. Anding) and next to him, Tatang Ato, the youngest. Their sisters are standing on the back row. Ninth from left is Mang Susing, Mang Maring and Mang Glo. My mother, Mang Ester (or Ecteng, as she was fondly called), stands rightmost, flashing a big smile.

The final set of offsprings with Florentina Torres are likewise here, Tatang Andy, the 2nd man seated from the left, and Mang Baby, the young lady standing leftmost of the picture. Tatang Norli and Redentor are not in the picture.

Sadly, the original Del Rosario brood has diminished in number over time. The first children of the first marriage have all gone to the Great Beyond, with Tatang Maning’s passing in 1987. All missed too are the children of the second marriage—my Ima joined his siblings only this year (2009) in June. The third and last set of children remains intact, with four Del Rosarios left as keepers of the flame.

As I stare at the familiar smiling faces of my Del Rosario uncles and aunts, mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters, and cousins at this reunion 53 years ago, I am struck with a realization that what I have is more than just a souvenir photo; in my hands, I am holding tangible memories of several Del Rosario generations, some dead, some living, bound by blood and history. Each face remembered and recognized triggers a rush of fond and pleasant recollections, in a time when our cares and fears seemed a world away, when all that mattered was being one big and complete family. Long live and prosper, Del Rosarios!

*172. NANNY STORIES

SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME. A Kapampngan yaya holds one of the newborn twins of an American military wife stationed at Camp Stotsenburg, ca. 1924. From a private album.

Our family was a big one; we were eight in all—six boys and two girls. My paternal grandfather too, lived with us in a big house with a big yard that demanded regular cleaning and upkeep. My stay-at-home mother was an excellent cook and a thorough house cleaner, so in those departments, she was pretty much self-sufficient. But in hushing crybabies and running after unruly kids, my harassed mother needed obvious help, and so the family decided to hire ‘yayas’ for high maintenance babies, that included me.

As a baby, I had delicate health and was very fussy, and that’s how Atching Daling came into my life—my own personal nanny or simply, my “maningat”. I still have a couple of pictures of me and Atching Daling, although I can’t recall our first meeting. In one taken in Baguio, I was a 10 month old baby in her arms, looking very much like a hyperactive child who can’t keep still. I was told by my late Ima that I was a sensitive child, prone to tantrums and crying fits, and I could only imagine the stress and torture I subjected my Atsing Daling to. I must have tried her patience to the bones, for she left right after I learned to walk. But she would come back periodically to our old Mabalacat house and check on me, until grade school.

Then, as now, househelps with specialized “children” skills were sought after by large families of means. Chinese ‘amahs’ offered their services to take care of infants and toddlers, and some even worked as nursemaids. Expatriated American families stationed in Camp Stotsenburg employed not just local ‘yayas’, but also live-in Japanese and Chinese maids who traveled with them wherever they were assigned.

My father himself, had his own ‘maningat’, a thin, dark but feisty old woman he called Atsing Buru (short for Ambrosia), who looked like Aling Otik, but whom we addressed as Ati Bo. My father’s family recognized the invaluable years of service Ati Bo rendered and so she was rewarded with a home of her own at the back of our house when she got married. Even with her own two daughters to care for, Ati Bo would always be on-call, ready to assist the household in whatever capacity. When our parents had to go to Manila, Ati Bo would be asked to look after us in their absence. She would also be tasked to help in the cooking and preparation of fiesta food—stirring inuyat (molasses), wrapping bobotu (local tamales) and serving guests.

On the other hand, my Ima also had a short stint as a nanny of an American toddler, a child of a military couple based in Bataan. She hardly spoke of this phase in her life, but I am sure it prepared her for her life ahead as a mother, equipping her with skills to care for a brood of whiny children. But then, a super busy mother could only take so much.

And so, the nannies continued to come. We had Belen, our chubby yaya from Tarlac whom we sincerely loved; she was not just an excellent all-around help, but was also a nice playmate, always willing to take on the role of a captive hostage while us Cowboys roped and terrorized her. We also had a male nanny, Boy by name, the son of another househelp from my mother’s side of the family. His basic duties were to bring and fetch us from school, feed our meals and look after our toilet needs. Come playtime, he was expected to play with us, and I remember him gathering spiders and insects for our amusement. Poor Boy was also in charge of rocking our hammock to make us sleep, but more often than not, he would slumber first.

When you are young and self-absorbed, you can never fully realize how cruel life could be for some people, ‘yayas’ included. Looking back now, our ‘yayas’ led difficult lives, victims of circumstances, of poverty, trapped in an eternal cycle of debt and servitude. Boy’s three siblings for instance, were dumped in our house by their mother, forced to work for us to pay for her debt. They were only kids just like us, but instead of enjoying their childhood, they ran errands and worked odd jobs for long, lonely hours. In the case of Belen, she was uprooted from her family at a young age, out of a desperate desire to help her parents. Transplanted in Pampanga, she worked for us while battling homesickness.

It’s not too far a stretch, but somehow, my ‘yaya’ stories remind me of the same personal sacrifices that modern-day OFW domestics go through in their search for greener pastures. Each day, thousands of would be-yayas leave their own children behind to care for somebody else’s babies in strange, distant lands, sometimes, under a punishing work culture that can drive anyone to the edge.

Looking back, if only I had that kind of heightened awareness then, I would have been kinder to our house helps. I would have cried a little less, curbed my tongue and made fewer “sumbongs” (telling on adults) to my father, who was rather severe with them . But then I was just a little, bratty kid, who believed that the world should be designed me and me alone. Every now and then, I often wonder what had become of Atsing Daling, Belen and Boy and all the other househelps who spent a good part of their lives in our family’s service. I hope it’s not too late for me to say “Dakal a salamat kekongan” (Many thanks to you all) and I sincerely wish that you found the good future you have all been searching and woking hard for.

*171. Where The Treetop Glistens: A HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

O CHRISTMAS TREE. O CHRISTMAS TREE. This native home is spruced up for the holidays with Christmas symbols like the ornamented Christmas tree and a Santa Claus cut-out, introduced by America, which in turn, were adapted from Europe. ca. 1920s.

One of the holiday traditions we observe is decorating the house to give it a festive look and liven up the merry season. We only started getting serious in the late 60s, when our mostly wooden house underwent a major facelift. While our house was still a far cry from those featured on the pages of Country Living, we felt it deserved a better “interior decoration”, especially for Christmas.

Before that, our holiday décor were all home-made—the lopsided parol hanging in our front window was just my brother’s industrial arts project, while I did the wall treatment. One year, I fashioned anahaw fans into the Three Kings, following the instructions from a craft magazine, to deck our living room wall. My eldest sister took care of the Christmas tree, which she always made from found objects—chicken wire, tree branches, crochet strings.

Christmas of ’71 was truly special to me because for the first time, we finally had a tinsel Christmas tree bought from Clark Field. It was a 4-foot tree with silver metal branches that you stick into a central pole. It came with a plastic angel tree topper and assorted ornaments, but the piece de resistance was the string of lights that my Father arranged around the tree, blinking , twinkling and dazzling the branches with rainbow colors. The only drawback was that the metal tree conducted electricity and once in a while, you get jolted by mild electric shocks. I think that tree lasted for years!

The many symbols of Christmas that we use to decorate our home are mostly of Western origin. The decorated tree for example, originated in Germany, where evergreens were used. This tradition found its way to America and the practice was cascaded down to its colonies and our Islands. Baguio had the advantage of having evergreen trees, but lowland Filipinos improvised by making do with what was available, oftentimes resulting in unique, reinvented trees.

I remember my sister fashioning a Christmas tree from twigs on which soapsuds were applied and allowed to dry to give it a fake “snowy” look. I also remember a year when “walis tingting” tree became the rage. Spray-painted and put in a pot, the “tree” was stringed with paper chains and decorated with old Christmas cards and palara stars. On the other hand, to make string Christmas tree, one had to trace a circle on a piece of plywood, the outline of which was marked with thumb tacks. A white gantsilyo (crochet) thread was tied to one tack, looped around a hook on the ceiling, then pulled taut to be tied on the next tack, until a conical shape was formed. Usually, before the process is completed, a paper belen (the pop-out variety available from a commercial bookstore) was set inside the circle as a centerpiece.

Jolly Old Saint Nicholas—or Santa Claus—had his beginnings in Europe. The Dutch speak of a hoary, thin man in red and white named Sinte Klass. Washington Irving create the image of the chubby, pipe-smoking gift-giver, but he gave it the size of an elf. In 1822, Dr. Clement C. Moore wrote the poem, “A Visit from Saint Nicholas” which further bolstered the popularity of this Christmas figure. It took the cartoonist Thomas Nast to define the look of Santa that we all recognize today: roly-poly, rosy-cheeked, with a long, white beard, in a costume trimmed with fur, topped by a red hat and with a bell in hand.

The figure of Santa Claus easily captivated Filipinos and eventually became part of our pop culture. I remember the Christmas motorcades that originated from Clark Field, which were always highlighted by a candy-throwing Santa Claus—actually, a fat military man dressed in a red and white costume. There have been attempts to make a Pinoy version of Santa, but the idea never took off. Santa’s European alter ego, however—Kris Kringle—gave its name to the practice of secret gift-giving, popular in many schools, also known as “manito-manito”.

In the West, the Star of Bethlehem as a design motif was used on early greeting cards as well as on trees as tree toppers. But it is here in the Philippines that the star was successfully translated into native décor that has become Pampanga’s signature: the parol. Parols for the home were simple enough—five pointed stars made from bamboo sticks wrapped in papel de japon and trimmed with palara (metallic paper). The characteristic tails were made from the same, thin strips of fine Japanese paper. When one didn’t have the time or the budget, a paper lantern from colored cartolina would do. Cartolina circles were stapled together to form a simple, boxy parol which was accented by a single tail that rustled in the wind.

The most complex and spectacular parols however are the legendary star lanterns of San Fernando—virtual psychedelia in motion. The ingenious lantern makers also introduced the innovative “dinukit a parol”—in which cardboard layers were designed to give the illusion of an ornately carved lantern. In Angeles, expert kite makers dabbled also in lantern-making, creating therare and quaint fish-shaped lanterns with movable fin and tails to captivate the crowd during a procession.

The Christmas belen tradition in the country dates back to the Spanish times. St. Francis is credited with making the first manger scene in 1224. The idea spread to other European countries, and French became instant fans, creating wooden ‘creches’ for their homes. Back here, Filipino families had little Nino Dormidos carved, sleeping infant Jesus either of wood or precious ivory. The Nino was brought out from its altar and laid on a straw-lined manger to mark the days of the Nativity. In churches nationwide, the figure of Baby Jesus is held out by the priest, to be kissed by devotees right after the Christmas Midnight Mass.

Despite trying times, people continue to go on decorating sprees during the holidays, perpetuating a tradition that goes back ages. I need only to peek out from my 14th floor office window to see sculpted belens gracing building facades. The NLEX exits are once again bursting with the kaleidoscope colors of parols for sale. Christmas trees of twigs, Santa’s lighted silhouettes, wreaths and poinsettias, tinsels and tassels—all scream “Pasku na, pasku na…nananu ko pa?”. My heart sings. The sights fill me with the joyful spirit of the Season.

MASAYANG PASKU AT MASAPLALANG BAYUNG BANWA KEKONGAN!