It’s caimito season once again

I was so wrapped up in myself and in my immediate concerns that I hadn’t noticed that the bountiful earth had once again given us caimito fruits. We have two prolific caimito trees in our yard, so it is almost inevitable that eventually, we will be approached by buyers who would bring their own mangaakyat. The tree-owner doesn’t make any profit from the deal, really, (a big caimito will go for P1 each, small ones for 50 centavos) but it’s better than letting the fruits drop to the ground and rot. Also, for one’s time, one helps the buyer (who eventually sells the fruits at the market) to make an honest living. Today’s buyer has 4 children, the oldest of whom is 5 years old, the youngest, 7 months. Her husband, a pipe fitter for MWSS, is presently out of work. She was given away by her parents when she was small, and she grew up with strangers. When she could, already, she worked as a maid and supported herself; she finished first year high school.

When I hear stories like these, first-hand, I can’t help but remember Den’s remark that I’m really a very privileged person, despite my complaints. My parents lived long and so did my maternal grandparents. My parents sent me to study college, and when I married after my sophomore year, Den, at the urging of my grandmother, who helped us in the beginning, continued to send me to school. I finished my A.B. I even got to almost finish an M.A. in Comparative Literature, except for the thesis. And 2 years at UP Law. Yet, I don’t consider myself THAT privileged. But when I heard this buyer speak with a sigh that she wasn’t able to finish schooling because she didn’t grow up with her parents, I realize just how precious the unattainable is, and how truly fortunate I am, after all.

All of these passed fleetingly through my mind. And then my thoughts turn back to the caimito and I remember Den lugging the caimito seedlings from the plant nursery at Pampanga and planting them himself in our new place at what would later be known as 33 Juan Luna. Much, much later, when the trees bore fruit, it was still Den who picked the fruits. He continued to do this until his hypertension worsened and he couldn’t climb trees anymore, and by then he was already too old anyway to climb trees, a task he then left to the gardener. (But as recently as typhoon ‘Milenyo’, he cut away the branches of this tree that had fallen onto our carport roof, in spite of my entreaty that he just let the gardener do it. Even our neighbor, his colleague at the Psychology Department Dr. Gregorio del Pilar III, commented that he himself was deathly afraid something would happen to Den while he was cutting the tree. Thankfully, nothing did. Somehow, Den even thrives on such.)

Back to the caimito. When the buyers started coming some years ago, Den would just ask for a few pieces for himself, knowing that I had long tired of the fruits that we all used to eat so avidly, esp. when our children were younger and were all at home. Den always said that eating was a social habit, and when the children grew up, and went away, somehow the caimito fruits didn’t taste as good or as sweet as they used to.

Perhaps the buyer noticed, or perhaps she didn’t, my voice breaking whenever I referred to Den. I couldn’t even finish simple sentences. I’d like to think that she did notice, she who was no stranger to suffering. But she didn’t pry or ask anything, thankfully. She was a good person. Unlike other buyers, who’d cheat even in small ways, she carefully separated the big fruits from the small ones, and counted them accordingly. When the boy who climbed the tree asked for some free fruits for his mother, a practice common enough as to go unremarked by the owner, she told him: We’ll buy it first, then you get from there. It’s remarkable how, even in the face of hardship, some people can maintain a certain dignity and pride that one has stopped expecting nowadays.

After the caimito season is gone, it will be the season for other fruits, like mangoes and santol. And each time, each season will remind me of the happy past, the simple days when, without long planning, we would simply pack up and go, to Pampanga on weekends (it being nearer than Batangas), to Quiapo or Avenida or Escolta on weekdays or some weekends when we opted to stay close to home. Somehow, it was never boring, although we didn’t have any appliances, even, and our recreation, when we left Fevi and Boboy with the maid, when we had one, was to go and see a movie at Ideal or Avenue, then, later, Odeon and Roxan. Some days, when we had little money, we’d just stay home and sleep, the children, Den and I. I remember one time our sleep was so sound we slept through what should have been dinner. I woke up in the middle of the night, and all our doors were open! But no harm came to us, no thieves either. Those days, Fevi could roam our area and come home safe and sound by herself, or with a neighbor (Mrs. Hidalgo) or friend (Juliet Hufana).

Such idyllic days ended when Den went to the US to pursue his M.A., then his Ph.D. But that’s for another reminiscence.