A Rainbow For Alee
I remember passing by a rural area somewhere in Bukidnon during one of the many trips I used to take with my previous job. It was afternoon. The sun was about to set behind the mountains and there was just the right blend of cool breeze, green grass, and sunlight to make me reminisce long gone childhood days. As my boss’s white Isuzu Trooper passed by a barbed wire fence covered with someone else’s washed laundry, I settled back into my seat and took my own route down memory lane.
My siblings and I grew up in a ranch. Tatay used to be a ranch supervisor of the leading cattle operating company in our area. Unlike our cousins who grew up in the city, we didn’t have the luxury to hole up infront of a tv set all day long. We didn’t even have the slightest idea what an electric fan looked like. A generator set solely used to pump water up the large water tank and to light up the ranch during evenings powered the ranch. It didn’t have the capacity to power up any other electric appliances so my parents thought it was wise to set aside buying a television set. Our exposure to transportation was as limited. The only vehicle we were accustomed to were Tatay’s red motorcyle and the owner-typed jeepney used by some security personnel from the company head office. Oh, and of course, the jetplane that used to cruise above the sky, leaving a trail of white cloud-like exhaust. I could still remember our glee at such a sight. We would scramble down the yard, shout at the top of our lungs, jumped up and down while waving our hands, as if the people on the jet can see and hear us. We weren’t exposed to sari-sari stores either. The only vendors we ran into were the old couple with their horse-drawn cart filled with everything from plastic toys to pots and pans, who occasionally passed by the dirt road leading to San Jose, a rural community nestled a few kilometers from the ranch.
Our playground was the vast pastureland that was green during the cold rainy months and was brown during dry summer days. Our pastime included climbing guava trees that seemed to bear fruits in abundance all year round, gathering camachile with hooks tied to the end of long bamboo poles, playing hide and seek, and conquering the dilapidated tree house across the yard. There were days when we would run up to the cattle pen and watch Tatay and the other ranch hands brand the cows with the company marking for identification. But my fondest memories were, lying on the green grass at our backyard with my siblings during afternoons when the sun’s heat has already abated and the blue sky boasted of white cottony cumulus clouds, and listening to the sound of the rain on the roof during a downpour. During sunny days, we would make figures out of the white clouds. Sometimes, we would imagine Mama Mary and the angels looking down at us. Most of the times though, we came up with tigers, lions, lizards, elephants, and giraffes. During the rainy months, my siblings and I would hole up in that big room we shared storytelling or playing “bahay-bahayan”. But most of the time, we would just climbed up the large bed, looked out the window and watched the rain make little puddles and small river-like flowings down the pathway while listening to the sound of raindrops on the roof. When the rain subsides and the clouds have gone to make way for the sun’s golden rays, we would all scramble down to the balcony and looked out for the rainbow that was sure to appear.
Those were long gone childhood days now. Today, here I am, all grown-up, with a family of my own, and all too busy to care about the rain and the rainbow that follows. Come to think of it, when was the last time I cared enough to look up at the sky and admire the stars and the moon? Much more take notice of the rainbow after the rain? It seemed like ages ago. The world I live in now is much too far from the one I grew up in. The one where I would wake up to the sound of horses’ hooves on the unpaved ground, the crowing of the roosters and the cackling of the hens, the chirping of the birds and the buzzing of the bees. The one where afternoons were spent with playmates running carelessly around in circles barefooted our heads adorned with cadena de amor. That world where blue skies are limitless and the greenery so vast it seem to extend far beyond the horizon. A world where one wakes up to the morning dews on bougainvillea leaves, the sun’s golden rays on your face, and the smell of burning firewood in the kitchen.
Each time I think about these things, I consider myself lucky. And then, my heart aches for my daughter, Alee. I wish that she could also take even just a peek of that slow-paced world I grew up in. In my heart, I wonder if, amidst the technology and modernity this new world has to offer, she will see beauty in a cloud of dust down an unpaved road. Or have the chance to hear a horse’s neigh and the rustling of leaves as they dance in the wind. Or be awed by small white and yellow butterflies playfully hopping from flower to flower. Or be mesmerized by the sight of raindrops falling down a mat of green grass.
I wonder if God, in His ultimate goodness, has reserved even just one more rainbow for her… and for all the little ones of this generation.
My siblings and I grew up in a ranch. Tatay used to be a ranch supervisor of the leading cattle operating company in our area. Unlike our cousins who grew up in the city, we didn’t have the luxury to hole up infront of a tv set all day long. We didn’t even have the slightest idea what an electric fan looked like. A generator set solely used to pump water up the large water tank and to light up the ranch during evenings powered the ranch. It didn’t have the capacity to power up any other electric appliances so my parents thought it was wise to set aside buying a television set. Our exposure to transportation was as limited. The only vehicle we were accustomed to were Tatay’s red motorcyle and the owner-typed jeepney used by some security personnel from the company head office. Oh, and of course, the jetplane that used to cruise above the sky, leaving a trail of white cloud-like exhaust. I could still remember our glee at such a sight. We would scramble down the yard, shout at the top of our lungs, jumped up and down while waving our hands, as if the people on the jet can see and hear us. We weren’t exposed to sari-sari stores either. The only vendors we ran into were the old couple with their horse-drawn cart filled with everything from plastic toys to pots and pans, who occasionally passed by the dirt road leading to San Jose, a rural community nestled a few kilometers from the ranch.
Our playground was the vast pastureland that was green during the cold rainy months and was brown during dry summer days. Our pastime included climbing guava trees that seemed to bear fruits in abundance all year round, gathering camachile with hooks tied to the end of long bamboo poles, playing hide and seek, and conquering the dilapidated tree house across the yard. There were days when we would run up to the cattle pen and watch Tatay and the other ranch hands brand the cows with the company marking for identification. But my fondest memories were, lying on the green grass at our backyard with my siblings during afternoons when the sun’s heat has already abated and the blue sky boasted of white cottony cumulus clouds, and listening to the sound of the rain on the roof during a downpour. During sunny days, we would make figures out of the white clouds. Sometimes, we would imagine Mama Mary and the angels looking down at us. Most of the times though, we came up with tigers, lions, lizards, elephants, and giraffes. During the rainy months, my siblings and I would hole up in that big room we shared storytelling or playing “bahay-bahayan”. But most of the time, we would just climbed up the large bed, looked out the window and watched the rain make little puddles and small river-like flowings down the pathway while listening to the sound of raindrops on the roof. When the rain subsides and the clouds have gone to make way for the sun’s golden rays, we would all scramble down to the balcony and looked out for the rainbow that was sure to appear.
Those were long gone childhood days now. Today, here I am, all grown-up, with a family of my own, and all too busy to care about the rain and the rainbow that follows. Come to think of it, when was the last time I cared enough to look up at the sky and admire the stars and the moon? Much more take notice of the rainbow after the rain? It seemed like ages ago. The world I live in now is much too far from the one I grew up in. The one where I would wake up to the sound of horses’ hooves on the unpaved ground, the crowing of the roosters and the cackling of the hens, the chirping of the birds and the buzzing of the bees. The one where afternoons were spent with playmates running carelessly around in circles barefooted our heads adorned with cadena de amor. That world where blue skies are limitless and the greenery so vast it seem to extend far beyond the horizon. A world where one wakes up to the morning dews on bougainvillea leaves, the sun’s golden rays on your face, and the smell of burning firewood in the kitchen.
Each time I think about these things, I consider myself lucky. And then, my heart aches for my daughter, Alee. I wish that she could also take even just a peek of that slow-paced world I grew up in. In my heart, I wonder if, amidst the technology and modernity this new world has to offer, she will see beauty in a cloud of dust down an unpaved road. Or have the chance to hear a horse’s neigh and the rustling of leaves as they dance in the wind. Or be awed by small white and yellow butterflies playfully hopping from flower to flower. Or be mesmerized by the sight of raindrops falling down a mat of green grass.
I wonder if God, in His ultimate goodness, has reserved even just one more rainbow for her… and for all the little ones of this generation.
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