Summer Days of Yore

Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a faraway land, there were summers to remember. Not that I don’t remember my summers now. But now, I am the activities director. In my childhood, I was beneficiary of the grownups’ ideas.

Lucky for me, they had great ideas, like sending our cousins up from Manila for long, long visits. They also thought it necessary to pack us off to the beach for long visits where we lost track of time, but not of mealtimes.

This is what would happen. My mother didn’t believe in giving us lead time to expect our cousins, as oftentimes plans would change. We would just know that, “The Panchitos are coming!” or “Desa is coming!”.

Then, the Panchitos would arrive with their yaya, Irene, or Desa would appear with her parents who would wave goodbye after merienda.

There we would be, the grandchildren of Paquito and Mercy, or Frank and Mercy Joaquin. I gathered memories in Casa Blanca, the house they built and raised their children in. The house had somehow managed to survive World War II and the carpet bombing of Baguio. But the story goes that it was just a shell at war’s end. In a classic story about Lola, she was approached by the top brass at Camp John Hay with a request to use the house, as it was right across Loakan Road from the Main Gate of Camp John Hay. She agreed, on the condition that they repair it.

At Cresta Ola, the beach resort they built, we lived a childrens’ dream. What a thrill to wake up at Cresta and have the run of the place, and people to watch, and cousins to talk to. We could play in the miniature golf, that had a little castle and a little bridge, or run around the flagpole circle, or run down the long driveway, under the acacia trees. I could read in a narra wood reclining chair in the hotel lobby and watch the guests check out. There was a lovely crunch of gravel as their cars would leave. It  made me feel good to know that their children had fun.

We could be as noisy as we wanted if there were no guests for lunch or dinner, but had to behave when there were guests. We could go up the stairs to the penthouse, that was at one time Lolo and Lola’s special flat, or go even higher into the Crow’s Nest and behold the world.

Or we could sleep the afternoon away after a big lunch. My favorite was when we were occasionally billeted in the hotel, and we could take naps with the double lullaby of overhead fan and ocean waves.

One day, one year, I woke up early and went onto the beach. I saw a vinta, a boat in the Moro style, with colored sail up on the beach. It took my breath away. Were they fishing so far north? Why not?

In Baguio, we would eat long meals at the long table, awash with giggles, while the sunset blazed across the blue mountains outside the dining room window.

Late in the evening they would embark on Monopoly marathons and drink coffee to copy the grownups. Did we even know we were drinking Benguet coffee the stuff of future memories? In the morning there would be pan de sal, and longaniza, eggs, and pancakes, waffles and sinangag (garlic fried rice).

Then there would be walks, no romps all over Camp John Hay across the street. There would be bowling and vending machines that dispensed Snickers and Three Musketeers (not readily available off base). Eventually there would be pony rides from the eternal little stable on the bend to South Drive.

When Desa was there, we would be up all night talking and painting our nails. Then the nail polish would bubble and be perfect for peeling. Then we would start again. Desa was like a sister, being the only child of my mother’s closest sibling. Uncle Sonny and Auntie Lou and their sweet children lived in the compound and added intense cuteness.

In those days, I noticed the difference of siblings and cousins. We were all from the same source, yet individuals in our own families. I could feel the power of the clan.

One night, but according to Desa this was at New Year’s, we were all sleeping and a tremendous racket broke out upstairs. Ghosts, she said, from the war and the time of atrocities.

As we grew older, we got to know Desa’s friends, who were added to the table and the fun.

The second act of the summer was the migration to Cresta Ola. We’d settle into the large cottage, and divide ourselves according to age, to squeeze into the rooms. Oh, the fun we had! We swam all we wanted, we ate unabashedly. I would look at my cousins’ required doses of Scott’s Emulsion Cod Liver Oil, and feel lucky. Never did anything that looked so creamy and sweet taste so strange and fishy! They submitted to it every night without a squabble, for Irene was not to be disobeyed!

We watched the romances bloom between the yayas and the waiters. We watched the Brent kids and the Wagner High kids come in for a day trip and dance with abandon to the tunes of the band (we called it a combo, then). No one could belt an exhuberant “La Bamba” like Tony with his slick pompadour and pointed boots. Elvis could not have ruled a stage better than the combo on that cement half moon.

In the hot still midweek days, with guests gone and none arriving until the weekend, Auntie Mary Anne, who seemed to me to have the most interesting life, would take me to the library at St. Louis College in San Fernando, La Union. In that small room, a shelf of donated books called and I read them because there was nothing else to read at the beach, because I had read it all. I immersed myself in a genre I have not found again. In the early 1900’s there arose a genre of girl’s adventures that revolved around young romance and everyday adventure, amidst high school and college themes. I would sit in the heat of the cottage, with rivers of perspiration coursing down my face, and watch a snow fight in far off New England.

I don’t remember having television or radio. The music was live, and the storytelling was vivid. We would often go onto the beach and sit around a bonfire while kamotes (sweet potatoes) roasted. Sometimes, if Uncle Sonny were there, he would play and we would sing. Oh, the hilarity of one of his favorites, “I Don’t Know Why Nobody Don’t Like Me.” He would insert our names into the song and we would double up laughing.

Then sometimes there would be ghost stories, but I would not look into the distance for fear of seeing ghosts.

Then we would go to sleep and reconvene for breakfast in the restaurant, which we called the dining room. Julie, our dear cook who was with us at Clark Field, would make pancakes and tell us about life as we looked across the pool at the ocean. I was listening, if no one else was, I listened.

It was, after all, about being together and delighting in each other’s companionship. Life is short but childhood lasts a long time.

In New Bedford of 2009, my rules are simple. Sleep late, eat well, daydream and be together. Look out those windows, sit on the porch, watch those cumulus clouds blow in. Walk on the beach, eat summer corn. Build up the memories of being together, for tomorrow comes too quickly.