Green grass

Last week the man in my life -- Mr. T -- and I drove all the way from Manila to Naga to spend Holy Week with my family. This is the first time someone very close to me ever went home with me, walked with me in the gardens, slept under my parents’ roof, shared our meals, our stories, and the movements of our lives.

 My son Chandler was especially ecstatic, because he loves Mr. T, and together they already have their own escapades, secrets, and nicknames. They call each other often, and record their laughter on my Garage Band. Chandler jokes, “His life is made up of guys, guns, and Mom.” Quite an apt observation from an eleven-year-old. (He also calls us The Lovebirds. Fancy that!)

 Mr. T wanted to see the places I stayed in while I was growing up so we drove to Tigaon.

We took a photo of the abandoned main house of Hacienda Magdalena in Salvacion, owned by the Garchitorenas, from my mother’s side. It has been abandoned long before I was born, though.

We went to the small house where I grew up, which still belongs to the Molls after all this time. No one lives there at the moment, and the gate -- installed sometime during the nineties, was chained shut. (I just slipped my camera through the metal bars to take the pictures.)

Sadly, the old swing which made so many of us happy, together with the mango tree upon which branches I stayed on to read during hot summer afternoons, are now gone. In its place are coconut trees.
 

We went to my elementary school, Sta. Clara Academy, which was co-founded by my grandfather, Heriberto Moll. The main entrance still looks the same, as does the hallways.

The dividing walls are also still the same old ones from when I was a child, the wood now already soft and pitted.

This carabao's skull used to hang over the hallway of the high school department. It now hangs inside a laboratory.

The school is next to the parish church, which has been standing there for almost 200 years, and which remains pretty much the same, including the floor tiles.

Inside, the pews have all been stood up on end, because the church was being cleaned.

The church is so old that the sculpted pictures on the wall have already crumbled and the lapida markers have all but faded.

This is the stairway to the belfry. I used to go up there on Sunday afternoons when I was a child, and just basked in the warm wind that whipped all around me. Sadly, the door was locked so we couldn’t go up. (I just slipped my camera in through the metal bars to take this picture.)

Our parents treated us to an afternoon’s stay at the Stone House, a wonderful resort at the foot of Mt. Isarog.

Being the klutz that I am, I fell and scraped my knees, but Mr. T was quick to the rescue with Betadine and cotton swabs.

That, of course, didn’t stop me from walking around with him, taking pictures (including pictures of my scraped knees saturated with Betadine).

We went around taking pictures, picking leaves and flowers from the grounds, to store in small clear ziplock bags that I would paste on my journal.

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The children and my siblings had a blast at the infinity pool. My niece, the Shrimpmouse, almost had to be forced out of the pool at the end of the day.

Even my nephew, Meatball, laughed all throughout the afternoon, and his eyes grew big at everything that he saw.

On the third day, Mr. T and I had to drive back to Manila, but by the time our stay had ended, he has become one of us.

[Image credit: Mr. T)