That house along Veloso Boulevard

 That House along Veloso Boulevard

A scientific research claims that the older a memory is, the more inaccurate the remembrance tend to be. Why is it then that I remember my early childhood more clearly than before? Am I just over-romanticizing my past by filling in the gaps with pretty pictures that I claim to be correct?

Case in point:

I remember clearly the layout of my grandparent’s house which later became our family home after massive renovations courtesy of my “builder” mother.

Its front yard had a lawn of uneven Bermuda grass. In the middle of it was a Santol tree (cotton fruit /Sandoricum koetjape ) that experienced the 4 seasons which is non-existent in the Philippines, as it shed its leaves around November each year and got them back again around March. There was the Calachuchi tree (Frangipani/Temple flower) with its ever present white sweet-smelling flowers. Hidden by the right side of the lawn was the Rosal bush (Gardenia jasminoides), the fragrance of its pure white flowers pervaded at night. Behind it towered the Igot (Lipote/Syzygium curranii) tree with its impossibly black berry-like fruits. Further back was the leaning wrinkly tree of Langka (Jackfruit/Artocarpus heterophyllus), most of the time burdened by its heavy and gigantic fruits that bore simultaneously. In the backyard was a huge Sampaloc tree (Tamarind/Tamarindus indica) shedding its leaves endlessly, rendering the cleaning-woman too exhausted to do anything else every day. The looming Caimito tree (Star Apple/Chrysophyllum cainito) stood proudly on its own, having the sweetest, most coveted fruits in the whole property. There was an Avocado tree further back which was mostly left on its own, unable to bear any fruit. And then there were the “temporary” fruit trees that would go flat as soon as a slight typhoon hit the island – mostly Papaya and Banana trees.

It was a two story wooden house. Its façade was of painted wooden planks laid out in vertical rows. The left side had a front awning that served as a veranda and main entrance to the house. Tall glass windows lined the front, allowing abundant sunshine into the living room. Whenever I entered the house, I would be greeted by shiny wooden floors, beige painted walls and slats of white vertical railings separating the room from the stairwell which led to the upstairs attic. In the middle of the living stood a huge sofa set of rattan with huge cushions cased in flower printed cloth. The curtains varied from the crocheted to the light draperies. Tables were covered with home-made mantles edged with either lace or tassels. I was always drawn towards the modest glass door book cabinet which held my grandmother's most precious books of Barbara Cartland and her Mills and Boon collection.

The stairwell served as a divider between the living and the dining area, which in itself was sandwiched by the slatted divider on the living room side and the balustrade on the dining room side. My grandparent’s bedroom was somewhere downstairs but it was a room I was never allowed in so I could not remember exactly where it was located on the ground floor.

The kitchen behind the dining area was pretty small, enough for a refrigerator powered by a gas tank, a simple sink to wash dishes on, a space for a gas powered cooking stove and some storage cabinets. To make up for the small kitchen, there was an outbuilding directly outside it that we called the “dirty” kitchen where meals were cooked in open fire. It did not have any floor, just the ground to stand on.

The bathroom was outside. It was a temporary roofless cubicle made of a combination of different left-over materials such as wood, bamboo, palm leaves, plywood and corrugated iron, to name a few. The floor was of rough cement (I suppose to avoid slippage). Plumbing was totally absent. The idea was to fetch a pail of water or two from the water pump nearby, and with the use of a recycled can of Milo, the bather would pour the water to the head and other parts of the body. When it rained, one could stand inside the cubicle and literally have a shower.

A little further was another outbuilding that was bursting with myriad of strange metal contraptions that my granddaddy had collected in all his “engineering” years, ranging from large old motor parts to the tiniest screws that he would regularly pick up from the ground wherever he happened to be. It was also a haven for creeping animals such as centipedes and snakes.

The toilet was located at the farthest part of the backyard, a scary little hut that was impossible for nocturnal visits, rendering the “arinola” or the piss pot a necessity at night. The toilet was the literal hole-in-the-ground contraption housed in a wooden little box and covered by a wooden seat. Old newspapers lined the walls both for reading and for wiping the butt afterwards.

Back inside the house, the stairwell held happy and sad memories for me. It was there where I sat watching visitors come and go during weekend-night parties hosted by my grandmother. I sat there in attention mainly on the lookout for a neglected glass of coke for me to snatch.

It was on that same staircase where I attempted to do a bubble-gum act which consisted of sticking one end of my gum on the lowest part of the balustrade, taking the steps upwards, still with the other end of the gum in my mouth, stretching it to its maximum and took the steps down again to check my work. The end result was a tangle of gum strands all over my hair which took two impatient maids and a whole bottle of Johnson’s baby oil to remove.

The staircase led to the Pandora’s Box in the attic. The room was used as a lodging place for temporary and permanent visitors. There was a double spring bed right in the middle of it. The ceiling slanted downwards on both sides from the middle, following the shape of the roof. The edges of the attic were open and only wooden slats prevented me from a two story fall to the ground. Small windows were on the front and back side of the whole area, not really enough to allow sunlight in. So even at high noon, the attic remained dark and spooky.

The Pandora’s Box was my grand mommy’s chest of treasures. It was filled with old shoes she wore in the 40’s and 50’s. She was a grand dame, very fashionable and chic, judging by the stuff she had there. There were lovely beaded gowns, crazy accessories, a wig, bags, and belts … everything a little girl could wish for. I was forbidden to open it but open it I did, very often, at least whenever I was invited to sleep over. I would wear them all, stomping about in those shiny sharp-toed shoes, dragging the dresses behind me, keeping them together with those large belts and topping them all with the lone wig or a lace on my head, mimicking church-going older women.

I loved that house so much that I am instinctively recreating the look and feel of it in my own home now. The only thing missing, though, are the voices of my grandparents in the background. And by the way, along with the house, I loved them, too.