Do you know why I choose, GOOD TO BE AROUND, for this column? That is to tell people in the old hometown that I am still around and that it is good to be alive and kicking.
Really, it is good to be around, to breathe the fresh mountain air, to smell the fragrance of a wild flower, to hear birds chirping, to feel the reawakening of love in eyes of the girl of my life.
If you want your friends to know what is deep in your breast, pray, tell me. I will convey your thoughts to them through this column.
In short, you can use this column for whatever ideas you want conveyed to your friends and to other people.
* * *
Without Doming Alarkon encouraging me to run a regular column in The CRANE MONITOR, I would not be sharing this page with other opinion writers. You know there are times when my mind won’t work, no matter how hard I try to coach it to life.
But here I am, writing down with excitement past events in my life, sort of walking down memory lane. I particularly remember the day I visited Caramoan years ago after a long absence.
When I alighted from jeepney, I could not believe my eyes. Everything was unfamiliar, the buildings, the people, the main street at the poblacion.
Even my old high school pal, Kikoy San Pablo, whose department store was meters from the jeepney stop, I could not easily recognize me. It was only after some minutes that he exclaimed, “Badong, you old boy, how are you?”
My world brightened with that recognition.
These who have read the story in the Dutch folk tales of the man who slept for 20 years could imagine what I felt that day.
The pull of the birthplace was the reason why I came for the visit. I was looking for my childhood actually, to reminisce, to go back to the time when the world was young.
I was again in Caramoan months back. The unfamiliarity was not there anymore. Yet I could sense something akin to strangeness. I felt ill at ease. Perhaps it was because of something I could not explain.
In Paniman where I spent my early years with my grandparents, the flood of memories came rushing back. I could see a teary- eyed boy looking longingly at a freshly-cooked suman, mouth watering but his lola telling him the suman was not good for him.
My grandparents were fishermen, among the poorest in the barrio. Life was hard. But I could not complain, believing it was God’s will. I was taught to accept my fate. But I was happy even when we did not have enough food.
They loved me and that was more than enough. If given the choice again, I would prefer a life with them. Paradise was in the home they shared with me.
* * *
You can describe this column as too tame to cause ripples. I prefer it that way in my maiden column in this paper. It is not only harmless but written in a florid manner. I use this kind of prose when talking about memories.
But in my next column, you will read more about things that tickle people’s hunger for a better life. Things are not well and you know it.
If you open your eyes some more, you will find out there are many things to bring to the attention of your officials. Do not just stand there. Do something. Tell them they have not done enough for you.
That is what I will do in my next columns: Help you inform your officials of their failed duty. Is that OK?
