Nestled in our childhood memories are those lessons we had to take to be well versed in a musical instrument or in dance. In my case they were piano lessons which I and my siblings took under Miss Gutierrez who was actually a distant cousin of my father.
What makes the lessons memorable for me among other reasons was the fact I had to take them not because I wanted to but to satisfy the vision of my parents that their children go through training in some kind of artistic discipline. My maternal grandmother, Lola Sefa, used to encourage me to continue taking them by saying if I did not I would regret it later in life.
I was not really interested. My practice consisted of the actual playing of the piece assigned that day during the piano lesson itself. I usually stayed on one book or even one piano piece for one year being left behind as a result by my other contemporaries.
Every Saturday, we were usually dropped off by our driver in front of the wooden gate with the large metal handle of our piano teacher's house which I believe was in Naval Street in Malabon. The door looked like the one you see in a house in a fairy tale like Hansel and Gretel.
Once you enter the yard you would feel like you were in an enchanted forest in one of those fairy tales. The landscaping was unique and rustic with a mysterious ambience about it. The whole yard had a canopy of leaves from the branches of tall trees some of which were fruit bearing. The ground was carpeted not by grass or barren ground but by tiny seashells and small rocks. Two Japanese inspired ponds complete with bridges were focal points of the expansive, beautiful but dark yard.
Lush towering bamboo trees served as the border of the perimeter of the grounds. I remember there was space between these trees and the concrete wall where I sometimes ran around to just prove to myseIf that I could do it. That I was not scared of this enchanted forest of my childhood especially this secluded area. It did help that this particular space was bright since this was where the sun rays were able to shine through being unencumbered by any canopy of leaves on branches like the rest of the grounds.
One third of the yard had empty space huge enough for us the students, when waiting for our sundo or people who would pick us up, to play two popular Filipino group games, patintero and tumbang preso (see a past blogpost for descriptions of these games). Since the ground had shells and rocks not grass we could easily write with a stick, the lines dividing the different areas of the two games. However these lines were also easily erased which brought about some heated arguments if we were out or inside the lines or that we stepped on them.
Aside from the memories of play and fun in this yard, I, the future foodie, loved picking up santol fruit that had fallen from one of the gigantic fruit trees in the garden. Santol fruit (see photos below) which is also known as wild mangosteen has a light orange kind of hairy like skin that sometimes split open when it fell on the ground. If unopened it meant we had to open it by squeezing with our two hands sometimes while between our thighs to reveal the seeds coated with the delectable sour flesh. We sometimes ate it with gusto dipped in salt while waiting in the parlor of the house for our turn in having our piano lessons.
I have also fond memories of eating luscious sliced green mangoes that fell from the backyard trees that one of Miss Gutierrez's nephews would generously share with us at the parlor. It was sour but was it good with salt.
Students waited for their turn for lessons in this parlor while reading the numerous comic books of fairy tales that Miss Gutierrez provided. I savored stories of Cinderella, Snow White and Rumplestiltskin among others during this waiting time. I think this was how I developed my wild imagination that pictured out of my piano teacher's yard an enchanted forest. No matter, this huge tree laden magical garden was where fun filled memories were woven that compensated for those
piano lessons I had to take.
No comments:
Post a Comment