from SONNY ESPEJO

memories of my childhood

(a view of Asingan's barrio skyline)

When I was growing up, I hated taking those afternoon naps and all I wanted was to go out with my friends and playmates in my Dupac neighborhood.

"Stay put after lunch and sleep. You need that to grow fast, otherwise you would stay short like Mimay", my Inang would always exhort. Inang was my maternal grandmother with whom I lived. Nana Mimay is of course the then famous midget woman who sold peanuts and snacks at the town plaza. Everybody in Asingan knew her.

Of course, I was never worried about staying short like Nana Mimay. I simply knew it's not true. Fact is, I was growing very fast those days. Too fast that when she bought me shoes for some special times like Recognition Day in school, my grandmother  always insisted on something one size bigger than my actual size hoping that I could use it again for the next time. She would then stuff it with Bannawag pages so that it would fit me snugly – never mind that it would look like Goofy's huge shoes– only to find out that I would have outgrown it again by the next occasion. She would do that every year and she never  learned.

"You better sleep, or we will leave you behind on Saturday when we go to the kiskisan", she would then threaten, sensing that I was not sold on her stunted-like-Mimay theory. Now, that would get my attention. On mention of the kiskisan (rice husking mill), I would feel the need to toe the line and pretend to sleep beside her in the papag, waiting for her to fall asleep so that I could tip-toe out later. Fact is, I would never miss the trip to the rice mill for anything. I just love to go to the poblacion and loiter around the millhouse watching the old machine do its thing. For a young barrio boy who never had close encounters with anything more mechanically complicated than the gripo, the rice mill is rather fascinating and imposingly complex. Of course, buses, trucks and cars pass through our barrio and even helicopters land in the plaza for rescue work during the flood seasons, but I have never been allowed to observe them closely or given the chance to figure out how the different parts fit and work together like I am allowed to do in the kiskisan. I also look forward to the treat of hopia and royal tru-orange – so refreshingly warm and straight from the display shelves as freezers are unheard of in small stores those days - which comes with the trip.

So on those appointed days, at about 3 pm in the afternoon, I would volunteer to unleash my grandfather's carabao from under the kaimito**** tree where it would be down on all fours, eyes half closed, regurgitating and perhaps contemplating on his lovelife. Despite outweighing me, a frail boy of seven or eight, 40 to 1 and notwithstanding his menacingly sharp horns, I would tug effortlessly at his rope to rouse him to stand and then led him by the nose beside the old coconut stump where I could climb on for an easy mount. I would be riding him to the banawang***** so I could give him a nice refreshing bath prior to taking him to town. Carabaos love nothing more than a cool dip in the middle of a hot day. Kalakian* would be so enthusiastic about it that sometimes I am persuaded to join in for a swim in the clear irrigation stream. We would be joined in by a swarm of annoying mosquitoes and pesky flies. They would be hovering above our heads, confused and undecided as to who smells better between me and kalakian.

By the time we would be back in our backyard, my Tatang (which is how I call my grandfather) would be impatient and fuming mad over what took us too long. He would have finished loading the sacks of unhusked rice into the kasko (also known as kariton) and everything had been readied except for the motive power. The kasko of my Tatang is one of his few precious possessions. It is a two-wheeled cart with a sturdy wooden box for a body and two long pieces of wooden beams on the two sides for a chassis. The beams extend far enough into the front so that they could flank Kalakian and they could be secured to his yoke in front. The wheels are marvelous feats of woodworking – iron ringed wooden rims at the ends of wooden spokes radiating from a wooden hub reinforced also with iron rings. To say it's a primitive contraption is the mother of all understatements. But despite the absence of independent wishbone suspension or a touch of aerodynamic styling, the kariton serves its purposes quite well. At the back, my Tatang attached some reflectors discarded from some old jeepney to giveitsome high-tech character. And some wise guy scrawled the mean warning, " Distancia Amigo" and the meaner "Caution: Air Brake" ala Pantranco. I am mighty proud of our kariton. My Tatang is very selective as to who is allowed to borrow it – only his relatives and drinking buddies, which also means the entire barangay.

To this day, I could still hear the sound of the iron-rimmed wheels as it rolled ploddingly on the dusty gravel road. The grating sound of pebbles crushing on its heels is matched only by the equally annoying squeak of the un-lubricated bushings rotating grudgingly around their axles. My Tatang would sit in front of the kasko controlling the rein. He would look like Diego Silang with his bistokol ( a helmet-like hat fashioned from the shell of matured tabungaw, a member of the pumpkin family). I would be slumped on top of the sacks of palay, shielded from the afternoon sun by a brimmy pandan hat. I would have to duck every now and then as some low hanging foliage along the way threaten to brush me off from the top of the heap. My Inang would walk behind us with her umbrella, probably as an additional insurance that a wheel would not decide to detach itself from the rest of the kariton unnoticed. It's a slow ride without the excitement of racing, much less overtaking something else that moves. But it was fun and enjoyable nonetheless.

Invariably, we would arrive at the kiskisan situated across the street from the old Tabacalera. It is managed by a kindly old lady who is a close acquaintance of my Inang, judging from the way they would gossip. Tatang would stand inside the carriage of the kasko to shove over the sacks of palay to the shoulders of the kargadors who would effortlessly carry them off into the millhouse. And while tatang would find a suitable place to park his kariton under those giant acacias that used to ring the Tabacalera , I would go straight to the kamarin or millhouse. We go here often enough that the mill operator knows me by nickname and I have befriended him enough that he allows me to go up the wooden stairs to the second level where the sacks of palay are being poured into a big wooden funnel. From that vantage point, I could see the whole operation. The driving engine (possibly a one-cylinder diesel machine judging from the way it chug-chugs) was housed separately inside a small barn at the back. All I could see of it was an iron pipe that spewed water into a cooling tank and the drive belt which wentoutfrom a hole in the walls of the machine room and went into an opening at the back of the main millhouse. The belt loopsaround the main cog of the mill which in turn drove a series of secondary belts and chains which drove an assortment of gears and cams and levers producing various up and down, to and fro actions and rotations. I would gape at the complicated assembly for a long time and stare from all possible angles trying to figure it out with boyish amusement. As a child I would be fascinated at how a clockwise motion could be turned into counterclockwise or how a slow rotation could be made faster or how a rotary motion is converted into a linear, back and forth action. And I would marvel at these things as I would always do with anything mechanical. Only the frantic calls of my grandmother could take me away from my musings. "Come and load the toyo** and the pegpeg*** to the kariton. We have to move on. Its getting dark now. Hurry!" she would command.

Later in the night after dinner, I would draw the milling machine from memory. Under the dim light of the kerosene lamp, I would be sketching,  doodling and dreaming of building my own machine. I knew then that I would not be a farmer like my Tatang. I would become an Engineer. ---#

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EDITOR'S NOTES:

* I assume to be the name of the carabao ( water buffalo)

**rice bran, a good supplement for the slop given to pigs

***small pieces of rice grains, a good chicken feed..

****star apple tree, a very common fruit tree in Asingan then

*****a  wide watering hole or pond, not very deep

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Sonny finished Engineering in the Philippines. He is presently working as a  Senior Structural Engineer in Dubai.