Charmed Life by Gretheline Bolandrina

"Home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserve; it is life's undress rehearsal, its backroom, its dressing room, from which we go forth to more careful and guarded intercourse."

Harriet Beecher Stowe, (Little Foxes), captured best how a home should be, not just how it is defined. Though if one looks up the word home as a noun, it is a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family or household.

The first home I remember was a secluded red roofed bungalow on a hill, amidst a sea of talahib (saccharum spontaneum). The official address was Area D, Camarin, Caloocan City. There was no house number as there were no neighbors nearby. There were rice paddies, mud puddles in June and more talahib. The house itself was a modern dwelling my Dad had paid people to build. It was way ahead of its time. The house was fenced in by at least 7 feet of adobe, with an equally high red iron gate with an easy to climb design. I know, I climbed over the gate many afternoons when we were supposed to be napping. Up and over the gate I went, catching dragonflies in the garden. I mastered catching alitaptap (fireflies) there too. The living room floor of tiles (terrazzo of cream and green ornamentals) was a childhood challenge. Any tile with the hint of being loose was then pried and further loosened, and we’d hide coins underneath. We had guava trees, papayas, kalamansi, avocados and bananas, of different varieties. We had fragrant gardenias and birds of paradise. Crimson Bougainvilleas climbed the front walls and red hibiscus (with double petals) grew as big as trees. I cannot recall if that home had two or three bedrooms but it had two kitchens. It had everything we needed. Sadly, when I was thirteen, we moved to a new home in Quezon City. A yellow cement government-built home (teacher’s village) that grew quickly to accommodate our family. There were neighbors everywhere! Today, the house isn’t yellow anymore and it stands three stories high.

I shared an apartment with my siblings one semester while in college at a place with a funny name Balic-balic (come back, come back). I also lived in a ladies' dormitory at one point, the name I can’t seem to recall. But it was in Sampaloc, Manila. As a new graduate nurse working at Philippine General Hospital, I stayed at the Nurses Home, a grandiose Hispanic edifice with winding staircases. Every time I came down the stairs, I felt like a debutante.

310 Allston Street, Brookline, MA was my first US address. I shared the first floor with five other Filipino nurses I came to Boston with. It was a two-story brick building, very New England. We made it as much home as we could, complete with walis tambo (broom). After Joe and I got married (civil ceremony), as in true Filipino fashion, we stayed with his parents until we saved enough to buy our own home. May 1993 was when we moved to our new home in Milford. A white Garrison colonial with gray shutters on 2/3 of an acre lot, with a dogwood tree in front, a flowering cherry and plum trees on the side. The house had four bedrooms, 2 ½ baths, one car garage, a fireplace, and a picture window in the kitchen, a full basement that Joe later finished with his best friend Jim. It was a dream living on our own, making wonderful memories. We had a vegetable garden in the summer. We raked leaves in the fall. We recycled, we did compost. Life was good. However, shortly after Lilly was born, tragic events not withstanding, we outgrew our home and so we moved to where we are now, in scenic Douglas, southern border of Massachusetts where Connecticut and Rhode Island meet. We have a modular home built for our growing family, in 2 and 3/8 acres land. It has four bedrooms and a media room, 2-½ baths, 2-car garage, but double the living space of our old home. Plus, we have a pond in the back where the children ice skate in the winter and the street is a cul-de-sac development with only seven other homes. Close to a lake, several horse farms, camping grounds, apple orchards and blueberry fields. Like being at a vacation destination all year long.

Outside of all the descriptions of where I have lived, what I remember best were the fun memories that I have shared with loved ones. The traditions we make up and eventually adhere to. We have this Thanksgiving tablecloth that everyone who attends our Thanksgiving gathering sign in washable marker and the signature eventually gets embroidered. And every year, we all gather and admire everyone’s signature (scribbles, drawings and messages included) and get amazed at how the children’s handwriting had improved. I always have this vision of my Dad laboring away in front of a charcoal grill on Sundays when we have lazy lunches under a picnic Nipa hut he had built. Evenings under a big iron umbrella spent talking with my Mom about school. Tending to a rose garden. My siblings coming home with pasalubong (presents) from wherever they came, field trips or excursions. I recall houseguests, visitors, the angelus, chores, cousins, graduations and many, many wonderful milestones in life as part of where we were living at the moment. I also have memories of happy birthdays, wacky Halloweens, taste testing in the kitchen, wonderful surprises or even simple movie nights when a movie choice is voted on and Gino gets to make popcorn. Ah, home, it only isn’t where the heart is, but dare I say, the soul too? Were it not for loving family, there wouldn’t be a place like it. And even when one is physically away from home, we always have the happy thoughts and memories. I’d like to close with a Filipino proverb that I first read on a page of my childhood savings passbook (Good old Allied Bank). Aanhin mo ang palasyo, kung ang nakatira ay kuwago. Mabuti pa ang bahay kubo, ang nakatira ay tao. Which translates to “What good is a palace if it's inhabited by owls. Better a straw hut inhabited by humans.” Why owls? I have no idea, but it is a shot at materialism, something to the tune of, better to live in a shabby house and be humane than to live in a lavish house and act like a low-life or an animal. To Harriet Stowe I’d like to add, home is not just a place, it could also be a fond remembrance of strong affections, of entire acts unreserved, still life’s undress rehearsal, its backroom and greenroom, its dressing room but from which we go forth as better, happy, well rounded individuals.

Feel free to e-mail me reactions, comments and or suggestions for ideas to ponder. Contact me at Gretheline@aol.com or through Carousel Productions.

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