On Sunday, April 17, 2011, my Dad invited my two kids to go to the BBC Proj 8 summer camp.  The kids didn’t seem at all interested to spend three days with people who were strangers to them.  They didn’t relish the thought of roughing it. But my husband and I talked about it and we thought that it might be an emotionally maturing experience for them to be away from their parents for a short vacation.

So, amid grumbling and protests, the kids packed their stuff.  My daughter Fran was reasonably optimistic about going but my son was positively pessimistic about the prospect of enjoying himself.  As it turned out, they both enjoyed themselves, the pessimistic one, more so.  The girl was a bit disappointed at first because she expected a camp like the summer camps she saw on American television with lots of sports and leisure activities in a wilderness setting.  She got over her disappointment in the camp pool.  She is, after all, still just a child.

What I didn’t expect was the quietness of the house.  There were no arguments and no bickering over the remote, the computer, the chores.  Things were very peaceful, kind of like the first few months after my husband and I got married. Meals were not a hassle because we ate just fish or tofu with vegetables and fruit.  I wasn’t compelled to be a short-order cook as I usually am when the kids are around. It was glorious.  We got intermittent text messages from the kids but nothing shattered the luxurious quiet.  It was energizing and refreshing. My husband and I had uninterrupted conversations and we laughed.  We watched the news and documentaries on TV without the constant requests from the kids to surf the channels in search of something good to watch.

On Wednesday afternoon, though, we got a text message that my husband’s aunt just died.  We had no way of confirming the news immediately as it was a holiday.  There was no buzz about it from relatives on Facebook, so, we just waited.  On Thursday, it was confirmed and on Good Friday, we decided to go for a drive to Loyola Guadalupe to commiserate with our relatives.

Actually, I was kicking and screaming.  Having a few days of quiet was such a rare treat, I really didn’t feel like leaving the house.  I had to be coaxed into it.  I have to say, though, that contrary to my fears, the drive through the NLEX and then through EDSA was relaxing!

Yes, I maintained an average speed of 80 kph all the way through and we managed to get from Meycauayan to Guadalupe in half an hour!  It was a joyride.  No honking buses, no MMDA, no weaving taxis, no crazed SUVs, no maniacal motorcycles darting about,  just a pleasurable drive going there and getting back without the constant need to put on the brakes!  The drive was smooth.  My husband and I remarked at the buildings and landmarks that were no longer there.  The landmarks and structures that have withstood the test not only of time but of the whims and dictates of technology and fashion.  We both remember how EDSA looked like in the 70s.  It was already called Epifanio de los Santos Avenue but people around still called it Highway 54.

I was immediately transported to the days of my begone childhood when my Dad suddenly got those sudden urges of his to go on joyrides.  He’d pile every single one of his five kids with his wife in his battered 1964 Toyota Crown De Luxe and we’d drive to Tagaytay or to Los Banos. All we really needed was P3.00 for the toll fee and about P100 worth of gasoline, supot of pandesal left over from breakfast and a jug full of iced water. If my mom felt up to it, she’d have a change of clothes in a small bag in the trunk and we’d all swim at Cuyab before coming home.

Back in the 70s, the toll fee on the south superhighway was P1.50 to Alabang.  That’s as far as the super highway got.  To get to Los Banos, we took the national highway through San Pedro, Santa Rosa, Binan and then to Calamba and Los Banos.  It was just a two lane highway. On really hot days, we would take a short-cut through the mahogany-lined avenues of Forbes Park through Fort McKinley and out to Bicutan.  I loved the smell of the grass and the sight of the fiery red flowers of the mahogany trees.  No concrete buildings obscured the view of the white crosses on the manicured lawns of the Libingan ng mga Bayani.  And there were no lines at the toll plaza, either. Seeing a plane about to take off from the airport was a rare treat as flights were few back then.

When we exited at Alabang, if my Dad had money to spare, we would stop at the Tropical Hut Hamburger just across the Alabang Market and each would have root beer floats and beef pies.  We were living a life of leisure.

The wake at Loyola Guadalupe was uncharacteristically enjoyable, too, if you can believe it.  Of course there was great sadness because the deceased was well-loved and fondly remembered.  But the company and the conversations were so frank, so artless, so candid and forthright, it was absolutely cathartic.  It was refreshing. We arrived around 11 am and did not leave until 5:30 p.m.  The company was that good.

It was one of the best holidays I’ve had in a decade!  Nothing was planned.  We didn’t go to some exotic location, we didn’t spend a fortune. No sights to see. But I relived great memories I had been treasuring and made more great memories I will treasure.  It was a beautiful respite.  Seeing old friends who are family, too, gave me an overflowing rush of joy despite the circumstances.

It used to be that we see family on weddings, birthdays and baptisms.  Now, we mostly see family during wakes and funerals.  But in the midst of the pain of the loss, there is still joy and hope.  That’s what made my Holy Week vacation great.  It required no great strain to understand how spontaneous unplanned events brought great joy.  There was a history to relive, a store of vivid memories to share and to look over with people who were in the same frame of mind to relive similar memories.

Hope you had a great Holy Week vacation, too.