On the eve of the San Vicente Fiesta celebrations here in Chicago, we share this post from our archives and hit the restart button for our beloved site.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!!!!”
Fiesta mornings always rattled me. All the bleating, grunting and squealing. What cacophony. The slaughter of the fattened has begun. Run, livestock, run! Its summertime and the living aint easy.

Summer is almost synonymous with fiesta back home. Take one from the other and things seem oddly out-of-synch. For what would a fiesta be if the weather isn’t as steamy as the gigantic boiling water-filled kawa? Doesn’t the feel of sweat-drenched barong compliment the sweet agony of biting into a helping of lard-laden lechon? Isn’t angel food cake made even more heavenly with a dribble or two of Inday’s perspiration? “An electric fan each for the guests”. Hear the hostess’ silent lament.

Come afternoon, thunder rumbles in the distance as the anvilhead clouds herald rain. A group of saop scurry back to the bus terminal. Better go, any later and the river will be too swollen to cross. Walk the streets in the torrential downpour fiesta night and you are bound to see a straggler or two, bowled over atop some abandoned fishball vendor’s cariton. What with all the debt incurred to stage this pig-out, who wouldn’t want to zone out?

Flores de Mayo may be our saving grace. Contrast the adults’ excesses with those innocent tykes taking flowers to the altar. “Mangadto kitang tanan…sa mga bulak magdala…ihatag ta kang Maria…” . Remember the ever-vigilant Legionaires ?, watching out for the little ones bearing the letters “ A-V-E -M- A- R- I -A”. A misstep or two could mean theological chaos. Picture if you will, “E – V – A – M – A – R – I – A”.

I have been away for a while. When I left, pangambit was an art. Up one house ( always where the ladies are ), gorge up, a side trip to the CR, discharge, and up the next. In this Age of Text, I presume it has been elevated into a science as well. Buzz is where the action is. “ Is that a cellphone in your pocket?, or are you just glad to see me?”

For younger boys though, flirting is eons away. For them summer is the season of fear. They break in cold sweat. For this is tuli time. Look up and you can almost see the recently-departed sow smirking in contempt among the clouds, looking down as the doomed lads make their trek – either to Engko by the bayabasan or the closest clinic. No pain, no gain.

In the carpool this morning I was presented with a half-quart Tupperware of papa-it by a friend. What consolation. Going back to work isn’t always easy. This time it was made even worse by the sight of Mugo pine buds by the train tracks, seemingly giving me the finger.

Ahhh. …summer! You can pair it with a lot of words – “Sacrifice” is one for those away. So is fun…sun…sea…sand. Love? Well, I shall leave you to fill in the blanks and reminisce.