MEMORIES: The old Calamba is my town

The past is an illusion. It passes like a breeze. While it may leave faint traces on its path, it shall not pass the same way again. Nothing could bring back the old Calamba, a tranquil, progressive agricultural town where everybody knows everybody, where 10 centavos is a calesa or Jeepney fare, a bowl of goto, or a bottle of coke, and 25 centavos is a double program movie entertainment galore. Nothing can bring back the times when a meager monthly salary of 120 pesos can send a child to school, build a simple house, and provide a convenient life. Who could restore the ardor respect given to parents, teachers, elders and the quintessential behavior of the young?

And yes, who could forget the barrio fiesta dance parties, where teenagers come in their father’s Barong Tagalog and borrowed gowns dancing on a dusty, unpaved basketball court− music provided by a neighbor’s World War II vintage phonograph?

Who can still picture in their minds the long Lenten processions snaking on Calamba main roads without causing much traffic? Who can still hear through their minds the Ave Maria prayers chanted by old women drowned by the music of the old town brass band? How about the candle drippings on asphalt road that causes horses pulling calesas to slip and lose balance the next morning?

Calamba used to be a scenic town. Stand anywhere in Calamba and you will not fail to see waves of golden grains blown by the summer wind on rice fields shaded by blue hues of the majestic Mount Makiling standing on the background, and the silver tinge of the opulent Laguna de Bay on the horizon

When you are in Calamba you inhale the same air that filled the lungs of Dr, Jose Rizal, and all other great men and women of the town, filled with the scent of fresh grass and wild flowers.

The old Calamba was my town. It is now nothing but memories, a fuzzy, fading impression of time gone by