Life in the countryside. That’s what I yearn to have again. Simple. Straigthforward. Beautiful. Abundant. Most of the delightful memories of my childhood stayed intense and pulsating. More than three decades now but I could still smell our farm. I could still hear the rustling leaves while trees are dancing as the wind blows their natural serenades. The mooing cows and carabaos, and chickens dashing around the backyard. I could not ignore the birds chirping their happiness. And as the sun slowly fades from the heavens, the serenity of life becomes apparent on every living organism, except for diverse and eerie-sounding insects, that weave the nights with bits of unruffled creepiness.
I was a ‘farm boy’ at a very young age of five. I was like my Tatay’s (dad’s) buddy at the farm. I regularly went with him to a piece of land that we looked after, some kilometers away from our home. Everyday, around four in the morning, my Tatay never failed to wake me up, made me a hot drink ( usually a home made coffee with condensed milk plus a dish of locally made sweet square biscuit). And as he sand his machete, I would gather small rounded stones from the front yard, put them in my net bag, and set on the slingshot round my neck before we kicked off to the farm.
