“When I was small/ and Christmas trees were tall/ we used to love while others used to play/ don't ask me why/ but time has passed us by/ some one else moved in from far away,” so goes the first stanza of a song popularized by the Bee Gees. Listening to it brings me back to the many Christmases I celebrated in my hometown several years ago.
What was Christmas like in a little town called Bansalan in the ‘60s and ‘70s? Since Christmas is supposed for children, the season was a memorable event for me. I was born into a very poor family but despite this our house was loaded with Christmas decorations. My father and I had so much fun decorating our house during Christmas time.
As early as October, we would discuss the possible motif of our Christmas tree. After all, making the Christmas tree was a family tradition. We wanted to have a different motif each year. I could still remember the time when we wrapped a big branch of a coffee tree – cut from farm of my auntie who lived in Bulatukan, North Cotabato – with green crepe paper. Coffee? Yes, in those days, lots of farmers still managed small coffee plantations.
On another year, we made a big cone out from a hard cardboard and wrapped it with pastel-colored tissue papers. But the last one I could not forget was a Christmas tree made from a bunch of raw banana complete with fruits and heart (yes, the puso ng saging). It was an adorable sight to behold.
We also hanged on our windows multi-colored Christmas lanterns wrapped with Japanese paper. We lined our main door with colorful blinking Christmas lights. But there was a hitch: Christmas lights attracted carolers and we had problem giving them pinaskuhan.
Every Christmas, our father would wrap small presents for all of us. We opened these presents after taking eating our Noche Buena but only after we had attended the midnight mass. Though not expensive, the gifts – a dainty handmade bag for me, plastic dolls for my younger sisters, pairs of socks for my brothers, and bandanna or nice blouse for my mother – were splendid because we only received them once a year. We rarely received birthday gifts since money was for food.
Days before Christmas, particularly at 3:30 in the morning, the phonograph of the parish convento would start playing Christmas songs. In order for the people to hear the music, the priest installed a loud speaker outside the convento. Indeed, the songs were literally a wake up call. Once the third song, “The First Noel,” would be played, I would rise up and start dressing up for the Misa de Gallo. The song served as my cue.
Before that, however, the two Christmas songs being played were “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Hark the Herald the Angels Sing.” Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus, has been – and still is – an arena of bitter political dispute. I learned all these years later.
I always told my father how pleased I was that our family name Noel because during the Nativity season everybody seemed to remember us. Since I am the eldest of the eight children, I usually teased and made my brothers and sisters green with envy that the song was actually meant for me. My father was the only son and as far as I knew we did not have cousins who have the same family name.
Dressed in my Sunday dress topped with a second-hand twin-set, which my mother bought from the market (it was called “relief clothes” then; now, it known as ukay-ukay), I walked spiritedly to the church together with my parents and siblings. We would come early to be sure that we have the best set in the church.
I was always fascinated with the Christmas decorations in the church. I felt sad every time the décors were taken down after the Feast of Epiphany. I had to wait for the next Christmas to see them again.
Every now and then, the church would show a “real” Nativity scene. Local players would essay the roles convincingly that sometimes I thought Joseph and Mary may ascended from heaven. I watched them with awe and deep reverence. In several occasions, I was chosen to portray as one of the angels and this would be the highlight of my Christmas. I thought I had the most beautiful wings among other angels. My father made the wings especially for me that in most instances, I wanted to sleep wearing them.
Going home was a pleasant walk since we usually stopped at a store to drink warm native chocolate and eat suman or bibingka. The aroma of the native tableya brewing in an old clay pot was enough to wake me up from daydreaming, which I usually did when I was still young. I daydreamed about anything or hummed a song on my mind even while walking that my mother thought I was going out of my mind. Even until today, I still do this childhood habit especially when I walk home after a busy day.
My father, at age 49, died in an accident in April 1975. The first Christmas without my father was unforgettable. Being the eldest, I tried as much as possible to continue the Christmas tradition we observed. With the help of my younger brothers and sisters, I tried to make the Christmas tree and the lanterns. Everything we did seemed to be a poor version of what we have done the previous Christmases. My mother was not a big help at all. “If your father is still alive, he could have made this and that,” she told us.
Unlike past Christmases, we prepared simple food. Our late father was the only bread winner of the family, and we did not have much then to buy special food. Although I had a job, my salary was miniscule and I supported my own studies as well as my siblings. Months before Christmas, I started buying gifts at the bargain shops for every member of the family and saved enough money for our Noche Buena, which consisted of spaghetti and hotcakes made from Hungry Jack flour.
When all of us were gathered around the table, we were surprised when my younger brother requested something. “Please place a plate for Papa since he will join us,” he urged. Hearing this, we looked at each other and did not do anything. We all went to bed and dreamed about Christmas when my father was still with us.
Well, those were the days.
Today, I have a real Christmas tree made of fresh pine tree adorned with beautiful golden colored Christmas balls, pine cones, and dainty tulle and organza ribbons. Christmas packages are now bigger compared to those I had when I was still in Bansalan.
Snowflakes are falling while I am writing this piece. Perhaps we will have a white Christmas this year which we always dream of in the Philippines when we sing Irving Berlin’s “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas”. I didn’t know then that the song was written while American soldiers were fighting during the Second World War and for their families who were waiting for them to return home safely. Why is it that there is always a sad story behind a beautiful song?
Our Christmas tree here in the Netherlands is literally much taller and fancier than what we had before. Food and wine are aplenty, gifts are abundant but the Christmas in Bansalan continues to linger on my mind. My memories drift back to the time when I was small and Christmas trees were tall.
Malipayong Pasko kaninyong tanan ug bulahang Bag-ong Tuig!
Christmas 2005
No comments:
Post a Comment