Missing farm visits

Two summers. That's how long we've missed our annual ritual of visiting our small farm in Laguna during the Holy Week.

Since the lockdowns imposed due to the pandemic, traveling outside of the National Capital Region for leisure has been limited. It is both to protect ourselves and others that we have opted to forego our trip.

Traditionally, the family plus my Dad's only sister would drive to the farm on Holy Wednesday and stay up to Black Saturday. Leaving very early on Wednesday means avoiding traffic, which can get horrendous during this season. The plan is usually to leave around 5 AM, but we often get backed up and finally drive off 30 to 40 minutes later. Guess why...

The trip, which takes 1.5 to 2 hours, unless we zip through the freeway and make no stops, includes breakfast on the road. Nothing fancy, just McDonald's or Burger King so it's quick serving.

Then we'd hunt for fresh tilapia (for lunch) along the road and stop by a market before finally heading to the family farm where we can relax and unwind from the stress of city living.

By the time we arrive, everyone is ready to stretch cramped legs and breathe in fresher air. The sight of so many trees, the sound of chirping birds, and the smell of rural life is actually quite refreshing.

The rest house is quite spacious. My father had it built that way expecting to have many people come and stay over. It has three bedrooms on the first floor, and one in the second floor, plus this wide open space with a queen-sized bed in one corner and lots and lots of space to lay mattresses on.

There was a time when cousins, nephews, nieces and aunts joined us for our yearly sojourn. And sleeping in one big room is always enjoyable because there is so much story-telling ang giggling before anyone ever really falls asleep.

It's made more exciting because we still use mosquito nets on the second floor so there's this camping feel, especially for kids.

Ahhhh, it was very, very different when the kids were younger and gadgets and phones were non-existent.

One of the things we never do away with when at the farm is eating with banana leaves laid out on the table to take the place of plates, and doing away with forks and spoons. With grilled fish, sliced tomatoes and onions and green mango, some fried chicken and blanched vegetables, and this was always a very satisfying meal.

Dad was a master at grilling tilapia and would do it most of the time. He used a lot of coconut milk to baste the fish as it grilled, so that added to the flavor. With the skin a bit charred but the flesh perfectly cooked, all we need is some fish sauce with calamansi and it's good to go!

As my father got older and would often tire from the long drive, my brother-in-law, and later my niece, took over the grilling chores.

When in the farm, sitting around the long dining table to exchange stories was a favorite past time. We could sit for hours and talk about anyone and everything.

Most of the time, my dad and aunt would reminisce about their life in their hometown. They had tons of funny tales about growing up, how much mischief my dad and his brothers got into, how they were always with their cousins...

No wonder the bond between cousins is so strong to this day. And one of the things I most appreciate is being exposed to these people and being included in their exchange of stories today.

That's the roots that my dad wanted for us. We may not know everyone in town like he does (and he really does know most everyone!) but when we came across folks downtown and they learned I was my father's daughter, there was always this sense of familiarity and inclusivity.

Part of the time in our visits is spent visiting relatives. It is a must to do so because when these people learn we were in town and didn't drop by, they would feel bad.

Visits meant a lot of food. If we called on three homes in one afternoon, we would be fed in each one. And we had to eat or they would feel insulted!

One of my father's cousins runs a successful catering business. And if we didn't feel like cooking for one meal, we simply had to drop by his place and we'd be laden with food. Or we could call and joke that we had nothing to eat and his quick reply always was, "How many are you?"

That's provincial hospitality. We weren't served anything fancy when calling on people. But we will always be offered something to eat, even if they have to go out of their way to prepare something.

A Good Friday tradition was participating in the Catholic or Aglipayan procession. That's late in the afternoon, and usually takes more than 90 minutes to complete the route.

We just used to watch the procession but when my niece was about 5 years old, she dragged me into marching with the congregation. And we've been doing it for several years. Somehow, as tiring as the activity was, you didn't really feel exhausted. Perhaps, it's because you're doing it in the name of faith.

Capping our Holy Week sojourn is a trip to Liliw, Laguna, slipper capital of the Philippines. We get our supply of slippers for the year, and hunt for sandals and shoes and whatever else we can find there.

We eat dirty ice-cream, have pancit hab-hab, and poke around the shops along with hordes of people who also drop by around this time.

But since last year, we've missed out on this annual trip. We missed the lethargy of being in the farm, and just sitting around and eating and swapping stories. We missed the fresh produce, the fruits that can be picked or bought along the way.

Most of all, we miss our Dad and sister. They were a huge part of these trips. It was 2017 when we last went there with them. I miss seeing my father sitting at the head of the table, reading, or writing, or talking to his sister. Or him going off to inspect the farm, and have one thing done or another.

My father was a dreamer, not a doer. So he could never figure out what he wanted to do with the farm. He'd grow one thing, lose interest, and try something else.

I guess it was just being in the farm that he truly wanted. It didn't matter what he did there. That was always his place, his home. It was the one place he could still be himself, remember his boyhood, and his growing up with family and cousins.

I now understand his need for roots for us. I've slowly planted mine.

All photos are original.