Magic and Mischief
I slept with the window open at night, and from my bed, I could hear neighborhood dogs barking in the distance, as well as the screeching cries of an occasional catfight. In the spring and summer, there were sounds of life outside; voices carried on the air late into the night, and crickets chirped from their home in the plants outside my window.
In the fall and winter, the night sky would cloud over, and sometimes the silver moon would peek through the cover and cast a white light over everything. On moonlit nights, I would kneel by my window and look out at our majestic garden that butted up against that side of the house. One night, the moon’s reflection landed exactly in the little pond where the catfish were swimming; it looked as if the silvery orb was taking a dip in the water with the fish. I imagined what it would be like if fish swam in the sky with the moon instead of in the water.
At night, my father sometimes left in his car. That was how I knew he loved driving. I would hear him tinkering around out by the garage, and then the door would open, and I’d hear the engine of the car start up and the wheels crunch across the gravel as he backed out. I watched at the window until the car pulled into view, its lights blinking through the twisted branches of our yard’s lush vegetation. Eventually, the taillights would disappear, and the roar of the 1945 Chevy engine would melt away, only to be replaced again by the sounds of the night.
I often tried to wait for him to come back, fantasizing that he would come to my window when he returned and invite me to climb out and go for a ride. One time, I yawned and must have fallen asleep where I sat, because some time later, I felt my mother’s arms moving me to my mattress.
In spite of those winter nights, it seemed as if my childhood was an endless round of summer. My mother always needed something from our garden for her cooking, so my youngest sister and brother and I were sent out to harvest whatever ingredients she required. We learned at a young age which spices were which and when the mangoes were ripe enough to pick and put in my sister’s cotton bag. It was scary but completely thrilling to be up in those high branches, twisting and hanging like monkeys. Up among the dark leaves, where I had an excellent view of the neighboring yards, I felt I’d been born a giant rather than a small-for-his-age little kid. I took pride in climbing higher than my brother and sister and finding the most vibrant fruits up at the top, where the sun coaxed them to perfect ripeness.
When I chose a good one, I would either hand it down to my sister to put in her bag, or I would peel back the skin and suck the delicious fruit in through my teeth. If I found a particularly good branch, I would sit there under the cover of the leaves, munching away until there was nothing but a pit left. I sometimes fantasized that I might be able to conceal myself in the tree and hide until the search parties were called out, but I would hear my brothers and sisters playing nearby or hear other children in the camp shouting, and I’d have to go see what was going on.
I ran into my mom while she stood in our kitchen, washing jars for canning. I wrapped my arms around her as if I’d actually been gone on a long journey rather than just up in a tree for a half-hour.
“You stay all sticky and messy!” She laughed. “You like help, Mael? We going make jam and mango seed snack.”
The mangoes we had picked were laid out on the kitchen table and counter, some of the finest, juiciest specimens I had ever seen.
“Oh, Mama, I no can look at another mango!” I said, holding my belly. I often got my fill from our garden; it was the very best kind of hunger satisfaction.
After we did our chores in the garden, my brothers, sisters, and I went fishing at the Waidagi River and Waita Reservoir. We dug earthworms behind the Spanish Camp pigpens, where the dirt was ripe and moist, and then we gathered our poles and tackle from the shed. My older siblings had bicycles, but those of us who were smaller rode on the handlebars, down to the shores of the reservoir.
We threw the lines in, propped the poles up with bells at the end to alert us of any potential catches, and then we lay in the tall horse grass and fell asleep under the warm sun, waiting for the tilapia, carp or catfish to bite. Occasionally, we’d catch the much-prized large-mouth bass, but the dark red tilapias usually took the bait.
Willy, our dog, followed along behind us to and from the reservoir and always found a good spot to nap in the shade. Every time a bell jingled on one of the poles, he barked to wake us, and then he’d hop around us while we reeled in our catch. After catching enough fish for the day, we jumped into the cool, refreshing water before heading back home.
Life was a mix of hard manual labor and complete and total leisure, but even the hard work was enjoyable. I loved being outside and helping with the tilling, digging, planting, and weeding in the garden. One morning, my father called me out specifically to help him in the garden. I always felt a little taller when dad singled me out, and I worked extra hard on those occasions to impress him. He showed me what he needed to be done and gave me the small tools I’d need to dig out the plots for the new plantings. I felt especially grown up when he trusted me enough to leave me to do the task entirely on my own—well, just me and Willy.
My dog stood by for a bit, watching and panting with his tongue hanging out while I cleared the weeds away and began tilling the soil. After a long while, Willy must have gotten bored, because he moseyed over to take a nap under a tree, but he still watched me until he fell asleep and then when he woke up again.
I stopped and sat beside my best friend to enjoy a snack of ripe fruit and vegetables, eyeing the large amount of work that still lay before me. We continued that way for the rest of the afternoon, Willy watching and me working.
It was late afternoon when I finished, and I was so proud of the job I’d done that I ran inside, still full of energy. This time, I gladly helped my mom in the kitchen so I could see out the window when my dad checked out the work I had done. I figured he would be surprised that I had finished so quickly and done such a good job, that he would be full of praise and tell everyone at dinner that I was the best helper he’d ever had.
When I finally saw him approaching, I stopped to watch, suddenly full of excitement at the prospect of his reaction. For a moment, I thought my father was going to walk right past the garden without stopping to look, because his head was down. Then he glanced over and stopped to look again. He backtracked and stood on the other side of the area I’d prepared, closely scrutinizing my work. He stood there for a long time, and then finally threw his hands up in the air, shaking his head and muttering something I couldn’t hear—not at all the reaction I expected.
He was visibly upset, but I didn’t understand why. I pushed through the screen door, but before I could ask him what was wrong, he shouted in Filipino, “What you mean by dis, Mael? What you do to awa garden?”
My mother came out of the kitchen door, followed by my siblings, who had obviously heard him yelling at me and wanted to know why I was in trouble.
My father waved my mother over, and she went to stand beside him. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, and then her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh.
Only when I looked at my day’s work from my parents’ and sibling’ perspective did I see my error. Not once had I stood back to examine my work, and it was a case of not seeing the forest for the trees. I looked at my laughing family, and then observed the full effect of my work: Our garden was barren, covered in large mounds of freshly piled dirt that looked as if we had just buried half a dozen bodies.
Over the next day or two, our neighbors all came to chuckle over our so-called graveyard and commend me on my hard work. Even though I hadn’t intended to turn our garden into a burial ground, it was enjoyable to watch my father tell the story to our friends and neighbors. He used his hands and was quite animated when he reiterated the events, and his face came alive with something so very much like the happiness I had imagined he would wear when he saw my gardening work. He said, “That’s Mael. It is always sumting wit’ dat one,” and he laughed an
d put a hand on my shoulder.
Because of my father’s laughter and his joy, in spite of the great catastrophe of the result, all in all, my hard work had been successful.
Garden of Sugar and Pineapples
Sugar Days and Pineapple Nights
Once or twice a week, I noticed my father driving away at night in his light gray Chevy. My fantasies of him inviting me for a drive had expanded to include me sitting in the front seat and looking out the window while he drove, watching the night fly by; all my friends, who just so happened to be intermittently posted along the roadside, pointed with envy. Sometimes during the day, I would sit in the parked car in the garage and imagine this scenario. At ten years old, I was still small and had to kneel and sit on my feet just to get a decent view, but once I assumed the position, I would put my right arm on the windowsill and my left on the top of the bench seat and dream about how cool I would look whizzing by.
About that same time, I’d gotten into the habit of closely observing my father, trying to decipher the meaning and mysteries of manhood. I accompanied him a few times in the summer to the sugarcane fields, where he was responsible for irrigating the sugarcane around the