The Petchay Patch

I was still nursing myself from exile (explanation here) when the time came for us to plant petchay (Chinese cabbage). My public elementary school had the year divided in two for our Home Economics subject. The "homey" part and the "livelihood" part. The "livelihood" period was the time when we were all supposed to get down and dirty. And this brought a hint of disgust to my Christian "Born-again" heart of hearts. I remember my relief when it was confirmed we weren't supposed to care for pigs or any other form of livestock, though we had pens for chickens and pigs at the back of the school. (I was really a snob back then, now that I think of it now)

I still remember our teacher's name: Mr Agaid (A-ga-id). An old short man, sun-burnt--a "matandang binata" (old bachelor). He had salt and pepper hair slicked back to his skull wreaking of pomade. His bad reputation preceded my acquaintance of him since my classmates wasted no time talking about "a scandalous affair" he got involved with a young female student. But as any ISA goes--in class we all follow him.

Our home economics period happened between the day. I can't remember if it was late morning or late afternoon. After lectures on farming materials, types of soil etc., the day finally came for us to till the soil. The class was divided into groups assigned to a 4x12 ft plot (i'm guessing) of land. It was an unusual experience for me especially for the first couple of weeks. After English or Math class, we were off to work on our assigned plots. We always started clean and always came back sweaty and smelling of grass blood.

Grass blood*
Our plots came pretty undeveloped so weeds and grass covered almost every inch of it. Obviously, the first few days were dedicated to clearing all unwanted vegetation. Since the school was short on materials most of the members improvised on other inventive ways of ridding the plot of greens--but most of just used scissors. This initial clearing made our clothes smell of--grass blood.

My leather shoes were always caked with mud after the day's work. All of us labored to take all the mud lodged in the soles of our kicks--sticks, stone, pens: anything--before coming back to the classroom. But I also looked forward to those days even if I told myself the opposite. It was a curious experience, I wanted to grow something--with this eagerness I labored tilling the soil to make it a comfortable loose bed, loose enough for the petchay seedlings' fragile roots to grow.

*These images come back to me almost everytime I see anything related to farming. Especially the image of the lone farmer and his carabao wading in the rice paddies at the height of noon. That sense of labor and sweat I feel magnified...the petchay patch reminded me the power of the elements. In that small piece of land I saw how cursed one felt when faced with barren soil. Dry, buhaghag, silty--nothing ever grows. *Also, these images I now conjure when I read Gonzales' "Children of the Ash Covered Loam"... how the patch framed things for me now, really.

Our plot was of clay-ish quality. Though the water had trouble settling down after the first splash, it was all good. The day of seedling planting was the best for me. How excited I was to see those small blooms! I remember being extra careful. Extra everything--not to damage the roots--gentle patting of soil once they were placed. Basta!

I became attached to our petchay patch. I took care of it really. I remember how I devotedly visited it after class before going home. How I made sure no dead leaves littered it; no seedling left unearthed. How I constantly watered them, especially if the sun was particularly harsh during the day. I remember how I labored with those heavy sprinkler cans trying not to spill water as much as possible (the water source was a lone faucet located on the farther side of the field among the thicket of alugbati) while I balanced between the pilapils, careful not to step on other patches along my way. I felt I was saving them with each sprinkle. And oh what worry I felt when I saw that our patch looked like it was dying after the first few days. Some of the tender seedlings were already wilting--turning yellow...we did everything right, didn't we? What's wrong!

The petchay patch taught me a valuable lesson that day.

The time of seedling planting was a period of adjustment and trial. Some blooms were stronger than others...and then they started to grow, to flower--boy what a wonderful thing to behold. These weren't just store bought petchay, it was my petchay. If the little prince had his rose, I had my petchay--a whole plot! Though they never talked they spoke to me beyond words, teaching me things I'll carry for life.

Other problems beset our humble petchay patch. The time of pests when they were maturing (how i hated the aphids!), the need of fertilizer etc. But the quarter ended with our patch surviving. I must say ours wasn't really the most "healthy" bunch but it didn't matter. The sight of our assigned plot unevenly littered with green heads of petchay was enough for me. And how cool it was that we could take them home! I was very proud of myself during the harvest season. I remember telling my mom not to buy anything for dinner that night but to wait for me and my petchay.

Mama made "ginisang petchay" for dinner (petchay sau·téed with garlic and onions). The plastic bag of my harvest I happily carried home, past the creek, the palengke, our rival elementary school, to my street. Mama prepared the onions and garlic while I helped prepare the green heads by washing them.

And as we ate that night...I was surprised how small my "harvest" amounted to. The bag of petchay transformed to a couple of handfuls once cooked and prepared. As I ate, crunching it's juicy flesh, I thought of my petchay's "transubstantiation".

The petchay patch taught me a valuable lesson again.



:-)



__________
*For the Holyweek. Since it is the time of reflection.
Also, to the memories of my public school.