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Whenever western poets wax lyrical over the merry
month of May we know it’s about another season, another clime
alien to us in the tropics. It is now mid-spring in the western
hemisphere, the “darling buds” are in full bloom like the tulips
in Ottawa—a gift from a grateful Holland royalty during the war.
May 1 is also worker’s
solidarity day which still sees snow in the streets of Montreal—a
day we dutifully attended during the 70s through the 80s, our
contingent singing the Tagalog version of the Internationale in
unison with hundreds of marching Quebec and Third World workers.
It is not uncommon to wake up to
a grey morning with driving white flakes in this part of the world
in May. Then, before the winter’s snow and ice piled up in dumping
areas could melt, it is the onset of summer till the winter comes
again in October. The locals in Montreal say there are only two
seasons in Quebec—a long winter and a short summer, never mind the
brief but fabulous Canadian autumn, with the red maple leaf as its
emblem.
Gilles Vigneault, a math
professor turned balladeer, is famous for his song, “Mon pays, ce
n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver.” (My country is not a
country, it is winter). Those who have lived in Quebec know that the
French-speaking peoples see Quebec as separate from Canada. But
that’s another story dating back to the Plains of Abraham battle
between the British and the French in Quebec City in late 18th
century.
By this time, in Pointe-aux
Trembles, as I remember, the lilies of the valley were sprouting
outside the living room that opened onto a mound that passed for our
terrace with a picnic table. By the end of May we had to control the
spread of the lilies; the lilacs were in bloom and the strawberry
vines on the side of the wooden fence showed tiny nuggets of red.
In years of exile we longed for
home, forgetting the pestilential typhoons and the searing hot
summer months, the floods and the “cuaresma” days. Come May the
rains start to come, this time in thunderstorms and occasional
typhoon. We were certainly glad to be back 22 years ago.
After paying back UP in years of
service, we found our retirement home in my wife’s hometown of
Imus, Cavite. Sorsogon, my birthplace was not suitable—again
because of its much more frequent typhoons, and the occasional Mount
Bulusan eruptions. We did endure however the inconvenience of the
Mount Pinatubo explosion in UP Diliman (inches thick dust on our
roofs). Actually at our age we need adequate geriatric facilities.
The hospital in Imus is walking distance away.
Now somewhat immobilized because
of the ravages of time on limb and joint, we could still count our
blessings. At the wooded place where we stay, we see all year, not
all at the same time, the orchard trees bear fruit which we share
with the singing birds, insects, and bats. Any good surplus we give
to relatives and neighbors.
We never lack for color. Early
this May the golden shower tree across the house was in full bloom,
so were the two narras (named after two grandsons) whose yellow
blossoms carpeted our lawn, and the banaba tree is still covered
with purple. Our yellowbell vine that has shrouded a pomelo tree (it
hardly bears fruit anyway) and the thunbergia with its hanging white
flowers fight for hegemony in the trellis on our back terrace. The
bougainvilla had also climbed the duhat and displayed its full
splendor of pink as if it were a blooming tree. For nocturnal scent
there are the dama de noche and the ilang-ilang. The sampaguita is
seasonal but this May it’s never ending in its flowering, no need
for artificial indoor scents. Several varieties of the bird of
paradise provide us with almost a year round supply of vase floral
settings. The calachuchi trees struck down by Typhoon Milenyo are
recovering and gifting us with pink and yellow white blossoms. I
can’t name all the varieties of flowering plants in pots nurtured
by our house help.
May is indeed a month for
flowers, hence our traditions of Flores de Mayo, the Santacruzan,
and the pilgrimage to Antipolo.
National Artist Franz Arcellana
is unforgettable for his story “The Flowers of May.” The title
itself is evocative but the reader beware. For as in a story of
discovery one comes face to face with a reality—the depth of
personal grief, brooding and haunting, over the death of a loved
one.
And so ends the summer.
eaordonez2000@yahoo.com
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