My Lola's House

Reading this post from The Cat's blog blew me into a nostalgic swirl. Spirals of memories of my Lola's old house in Albay where I spent my early childhood put a sentimental spell on me and I found myself traveling way, way back in time, when I lived each day one at a time (adulthood makes this concept virtually impossible, won't you agree?).

I remember writing about that very big, slightly worn and very charming old house in one of my journals (which I can't seem to find, darn) and raving about the loquacious chickens milling about with their chicks and the resident turtle inching his way with an upturned nose, never minding anybody's business except his own. There, too, was Queen, the dog, who was immortalized in one of my pictures which my dad took when I was a toddler in diapers, with pink curlers on my already wavy hair (what was my mom thinking?), my lolo, Papa, beside me, smiling that perpetually benevolent smile of his. It was from Papa that I discovered who Robin Hood was. My brother and I usually spent siesta on his hammock, listening to his stories.

Let me remember to tell you, too, about the mornings, when I would wake up to the smell of frying tocino, longganisa or badi (dried fish), which my brother, Earl, used to be really crazy about. The tocino and longganisa later made way for bacon. For lunch, it was cocido, or adobo, or mechado or afritada, or escabeche. Mama (my lola) made it a point to cook the best meals for her grandkids and her cooking is one of the things I miss fiercely. Mama's food was priceless. There, she poured out her love and her heart.

Come to think of it, that grand, old house was Mama.

The last time I passed by the place, though, I saw nothing but tall, green grass.