I REMEMBER 1973. I was in second grade, enrolled at a private school in the city of Tagbilaran, when our parents moved us from the city to our bungalow in Taloto – an unelectrified city barangay, ensconced by tall coconut trees, wild guavas, madre de cacao, ipil-ipil, and manzanitas. On the ground, it was a battle against nature with cogon, amorseco, frog, and carabao grasses, wild ferns, and all sorts of weeds that would cut your skin. Plenty of snakes regularly appeared on our kitchen floors, and worst, right inside our drawers.
But that relocation also began my affection for Acacia trees.
I remember scouring the neighborhood, looking for other houses (and other human beings) for possible playmates. Our neighborhood, called Little Baguio – I only got to know why it was called that later – was so quiet, with scanty houses built sparsely apart. It was a lonely community for a kid, I tell you, and you had to navigate to have fun, given that electricity was missing.
Before the four-lane road and the seemingly-unending traffic took over Little Baguio in Taloto, the landscape belonged to a different era with its most unambiguous dominant feature: the huge Acacias. Sometime later, I understood why they called it Little Baguio. It is the abundant Acacia trees whose canopy kept the area perpetually cool…like Baguio City.
Two sari-sari stores and the ubiquitous talyer flanked the Taloto Crossing. Uniquely, the crossroads brings you to either Dao, Taloto, Ubujan/Manga, or the city proper, depending on your destination. The same crossing was identified for decades by the giant Acacias that magnificently shaded the space. A makeshift waiting shed stood below the canopy provided by the Acacias.
In those days, the neighborhood close to the crossing consisted of these families: Zamora, Viñalon, Israel, Romo, Bayron – our immediate neighbors, and the Sales.
Imee Viñalon and I grew up in the same sleepy community, but we never became close. It was the typical childhood awkwardness, I guess. We even went to the same elementary school when my mother transferred me in third grade. We were simply coexisting in the shadow of those giant trees, separated by the natural hesitation of youth.
Life, however, has a way of circling back. Our true connection didn’t form until after college. As young adults, our paths began to cross during those transitional years when she still stayed in Tagbilaran City, and I would travel back to Bohol from General Santos City to visit. Those chance encounters in local restaurants became the true foundation of our bond. The childhood awkwardness faded, replaced by mature conversations and a growing mutual respect.
When Facebook (FB) emerged, it bridged the geographical gaps that adulthood inevitably creates. We followed each other’s journeys from opposite sides of the globe. I watched as she moved to Canada, found love and married later in life, and eventually relocated to the United States. Through FB, we tracked the separate lives we built away from the village where we grew up.
My fondest memory of her was her deliberate use of the word “silingan” whenever she left a comment on my posts, and I would gladly do the same. It was a term of endearment that honored our childhood ties as long-time neighbors.
Our shared history remained deeply rooted in that soil. When the four historic Acacia trees of our childhood were mercilessly cut down to make way for the construction of a gasoline station, she shared entirely in my indignation. Like me, she had grown up under their branches; she understood exactly what had been lost.
But then she had to go. A serious illness took my beautiful friend away.
Her sudden departure leaves a quiet, heavy ache. In life, we always assume there will be more time, another chance encounter, or one final conversation. I regretted not running after her in early January 2020, when I again visited Bohol for the Christmas season, and saw her together with her younger sister, Anabelle, in the vicinity of a restaurant in the city. I thought there was still another time.
The next occasion she visited, she was already sick and wanted to spend time with her family, and so, I could no longer ask to meet her. I really regretted that time I let the opportunity pass. I could have called out to her. We could have chatted there, agreed to meet somewhere, or visited her at their house near the Taloto Crossing.
The only comfort is that whenever I think of Little Baguio, I will remember Imee – not just as a neighbor from a bygone era, but as a lifelong friend who shared the very beginning of my story.
But the saddest gift is that she passed on my very birth anniversary: June 6. What could be a more symbolic gift than that?
So long, beautiful silingan; you are forever woven into the morning cool, the very beginning of my story, and every birth anniversary.
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The author owns and manages Belinda Communications Consulting. You can reach us via email at belindabelsales@gmail.com. Engage with us on X @ShilohRuthie./PN
