Eating ripe mangoes for dessert after dinner created a nostalgic feeling. My (greedy) act made me recall our old house where I grew up until I was in my third grade (or was it Grade One?).
Anyway, our old house—an underground, really—was small and very convenient. It was like one simple rectangle divided by two walls to give way to three rooms—our sari-sari store in front and along the road, our bedroom right behind it, and the kitchen at the back. Our comfort room then was like an outhouse, but only about five meters from the kitchen door.
What was striking about that previous home was how a mango tree could grow so tall and healthy with roots planted inside our store and branches sprouting out our rooftop. While our old house was quite dark and dusty, the mango tree was extra shade from the sun’s heat. We just have to bear the sounds of the fruits falling during its season or when children took the fancy of shooting down ripe fruits with their slingshots.
When I was Grade Three (as far as I could remember), we moved to a lot and house that was finally ours after dad took the responsibility—and the pains—of legalizing my mother’s land share of the family compound. We just moved to an area at the back of our old house.
That was 15 years ago. The mango tree–our mango tree, if I may say—still stands. It continues to bear fruit, although not as delicious as those produced by trees that were nurtured well.
I’m happy that the new owners of our former land, now being used as base for a car rental business, has not decided to cut down the tree despite the responsibility of having to cut some of the branches for a certain period.
For me, the tree is itself so part of the community—having lived and stood through rains, heat, and pollution for more than 15 years. Just across it is a sambag tree, which is probably about 10 years or more. Both trees continue to grow amid mankind’s cruelty.
Other old trees near our new house did not make it. We once have an eba tree, a stunted avocado tree, and a jackfruit tree in our modest garden, mostly composed of potted plants. But that area has to be plowed and the plants moved outside the gate to give way to more warehouse space (we are a dealer of San Miguel and Coca-Cola products).
My grandparents’ house, which is still standing today, used to have a garden—my garden of Eden. It has a huge garden area filled with malunggay trees, jackfruit trees, a cacao tree, some tall non-fruit bearing plants, bushes, and vines. Oftentimes, when I would visit my grandparents, I would purposely cross the garden to the front door and encounter several earthworms, frogs, and butterflies along the soft, wet path.
This is a fairly new picture since this is no longer the original garden. Despite the changes around her, my grandma continues to tend to whatever plants left for her to take care of--always with a smile. She passed away last year.
Now, thinking about that garden made me understand why my mother wants to have a garden of her own and continues to maintain her present garden of potted plants. I would want to have my own, too, when I have my own house. It would be my personal tribute to my mother and to my grandmother.
My mother and grandmother posing among their plants...
My grandparents’ garden, unfortunately, has long embraced modernization. Half of it was caught in the governments’ road widening plan. About one-fourth of it was used by my family for our sari-sari store and the rest has long been transformed into a one-storey apartment building as an added source of income for my uncle who now lives alone in my grandparents’ house.
Sad, really. I haven’t seen a real garden in my family compound in years. I haven’t seen butterflies, earthworms, and frogs ever since.
Even sadder is that our family gardens have not survived long enough for my sister and other younger members of our family to see and experience.
GUESTBOOK