Christmas past

Rhona Canoy

SO… Something about the end of the year makes me maudlin. Maybe it’s the thought that something is coming to an end that makes me reflect on so many things. Sentimentality coupled with an assessment of where life has brought me after more than 63 years. Science says that memory is the least trustworthy of what we know of the past but I’d rather stay with what I recall to keep me in touch with all that has been.

Perhaps the reason why Christmas always holds such warm memories for me is because of its simplicity. It was a month-long preparation for The Day. Having a dominant grandmatriarch decide the events of Christmas took a lot of the stress away because we all knew what we had to do and what was going to pass. I cannot remember getting anything breathtaking at Christmas. Christmas Eve was spent with our own families and since we are Protestants, many of the rituals and religious ceremonies of the Roman Catholic church were alien and fascinating to me.

We had Christmas Eve service at the little UCCP church (now Pilgrim Auditorium) at 7:30 in the evening and walked home afterwards to sleep and dream of the treasures that tomorrow would bring. Early Christmas morning was spent on eagerly awaiting each of our gifts under the tree. We really only ever got one each from our parents, and mine was usually a hardbound book so the excitement was more because we finally got the presents. Except for my sixth grade Christmas when I got a green bicycle. The thrill there was more in knowing that I was going to be allowed to pedal my way around the streets of our neighborhood. And every year I got a Sunday dress from my baptismal ninang, Mama Dulcing Borja, wife of Mayor Tinying and  mother of Justice Romy.

Then, we all trooped to my lola’s house (the big one on the corner of Malvar and del Mar Streets, facing the capitol grounds and housing DxCC on the ground floor) where the real gift haul would take place. We all had to give presents to each of our cousins and uncles and aunts. We also got one from each of them. Nothing fancy since we had to work within our budgets. Money for gifts was earned at my lola’s tindahan, the NAMARCO store at the corner of Mindanao and del Mar Streets, where Crown Paper now sits proudly. We would earn several centavos helping roll up coins for the cashier, or packing sugar or gantas of rice, or sweeping the aisles of the grocery store to keep it clean. This was done over many Saturdays until it was time to spend our savings on gifts.

Nothing spectacular really. We gave each other little packs of candies or bars of soap or pencils or pad paper. Even now the scent of perfumed bar soap evokes memories of Christmas past. And then we would eat breakfast, all the children and grandchildren of Laureana and Mariano Canoy who lived in Cagayan de Oro. Jockeying for a seat at the big round table with the big people was like a lotto win. And breakfast was simple. Pan de sal from Ah Fat bakery, guava jelly from a big round tin, eggs scrambled by lola’s cook, Manang Tuwa.

After breakfast, we would all then pile into Tito Yoyong (Eileen San Juan’s dad) Escobar’s jeepney for the leisurely drive to Opol where our great-grandmother lived. She would be waiting for us seated by the window of the entry, dressed in a baro’t saya. I never saw her dressed in anything else. After the mandatory touching of her hand to our foreheads, we were left to our own devices to spend the day. Christmas day to me will always be sand, sea, the smell of Lola Nanay’s handwashed sheets.

There was nothing exceptional about our childhood Christmases. But it was magical. The day would be spent getting sunburned swimming in the sea, clambering all over the boulders of the breakwater, or looking for tiny crabs at low tide. The grownups would sit around the big (in my memory) dining table talking about everything and nothing. If we were lucky, there would be hand-cranked ice cream for dessert. I can’t remember ever being envious of what other kids got. We were just happy to be opening little packages, sharing our loot with each other, more like siblings than cousins.

At day’s end, we would climb back into Tito Yoyong’s jeepney (our purveyor of paseos) and tiredly try to stay awake through the dusty drive home. A futile effort, I must say. Christmases of long ago, still real to me now. Sometimes I wonder what my grandson’s Christmas memories will be when he’s all grown up.

With these cherished memories, I wish you all a joyful Christmas, as meaningful and special as the ones we still carry in our hearts and minds.