Sand Castle

To see the world in a grain of sand
-- (resaid) Lara Croft, Tombraider

In my parent’s home, my favorite part is the top deck. From there you can see the wild mini forest beyond the back fence, the gentle sea up front, and my mama’s blooming garden below.

When the air is cool and the sky a silvery blue, like now, it becomes the perfect place for dreaming, plotting mayhem, or simply thinking nothing at all. You can even risk lying on the cemented railing and float in the sky with the clouds when you feel like indulging those superwoman delusions.

The scatter of coconut trees -- some bent like old men with sacks full of stones -- remind me of the folklore, Juan Tamad -- the lazy man who lay beneath a tree with his mouth hanging open, simply waiting for fruit to fall down. Why he actually thought keeping his mouth open is less tiresome than climbing the tree, I have no idea. Try it for five minutes, okay 10, and you know what happens? Do you? I don’t. I’m not loony enough to try. But I can imagine. It makes me dizzy just thinking about it. Even in sleep, I bet you can’t manage to keep your mouth open long enough for the fruit to fall down. So tell me if I’m wrong -- I demand proof, a demonstration. Anyone? You? Eeek.

Anyway, let’s not waste our time on not-so-pretty sights. After all, there is my mother’s garden.

By the way, I’ll be bragging any minute now. If you feel you can’t take it, disconnect from my site already. Go! Bye, bye! Don’t come back, insecure people. Good riddance.

You still reading? Aw, shucks. You really love me, don’t you? I love you, too.

Now, where was I?

There is an inspiring story behind my mother’s garden.

Years ago, when my parents decided to leave the city for rural life, I wondered how my practical mother would manage. After all, all her friends, her babies (us and a lot more for she has this habit of adopting kids by heart), and her teaching career for what must have been a gazillion years, are all here in the city.

“I give her three months, half a year tops,” I told my sister. Good thing I didn’t bet on it.

My mother took to her new home like fish to water. “What do you do there?” we and other people kept asking.

“A lot – cooking, exploring, walking on the beach, arranging things, experimenting in the kitchen, cooking, and other household work,” she actually says this with a happy smile on her face. “And of course, there are my flowers.”

My mother took up this hobby -- raising flowers -- right after the house and her kitchen were settled. This was one thing she enjoyed doing as a child, she said, but she got busy with life and raising us that she didn’t have much time to indulge it. Besides, consider the city air, and the flowers here don’t get much of a chance.

“But mami, I didn’t know flowers grow on sand,” I told her.

“Of course not,” she chuckles. “That’s why most are potted.”

Every time my parents visit the city, my mother goes into “ka-ang (clay pot) madness”, as my father puts it. She buys them and dozens of potted plants in places here I do not even know and transports them up north via my popsy’s long suffering multicab fondly called “Sukie” (after Suzuki).

Soon enough, the garden grew. Like paint, it envelops the small lovely circular green house designed by my father. You turn around and you feel and see the garden exploding with colors that could compete with the flames of sunset.

Me, I don’t know much about flowers. I just like looking at them. But, here, let me try giving them to you…

There are the euphorbias – colorful, elegant, classy, and looks like something that could face the wind with no leaf or petal out of place.

There are the ground and hanging orchids – blue, violet, pink and white.

There are the flowers I do not know by name but which sleep by night and bloom by midday.

And then there’s this group of flowers which look like that spinning thing Harry Potter goes after when they’re playing air hockey. Really, it’s a silver ball with feathery arms, too.

Then there’s the cactus collection of many kinds and shapes – I see a rose, a sea urchin, a dick (shhhh! but really), a hairy spaceship, a gingerman cookie, and what else. You have to see them to believe it.

Then there are the ferns and San Francisco, the gumamelas and bougainvilleas.

Then there are the wild flowers from nowhere. They’re violet so can’t kill them or else my sister will go after me.

And then, to give it some pizzazz, these flowers are accompanied by trees strong enough to survive the sea breeze – coconut, papaya, guyabano, banana, wild guava, sili, malunggay, noni (yes, the one with that catchy song some years ago), and Palua Maria (Palm of Maria). Now the Palua Maria is amazing. It’s the local people’s herbal cure to every eye pain – sore eyes, blurry eyes, strained eyes, dirty eyes – you name it, it really works.

You learn a lot from watching mami nurture her garden. It entails hard work, a big dose of patience and familiarizing with icky stuff like urine, fertilizer, mud, and other elements I don’t care to know which she uses to create her own solution for plant spray.

I realize that gardening is really not my thing— the icky stuff and socializing with insects make me cringe. But I feel blessed and I appreciate the fact that there are people like her who keep the world beautiful for us.

As my mother’s garden expanded and grew even more beautiful, a lot of locals began dropping by to stare and covet. Soon enough, people began to ask my mother to sell some.

“Oh no, my flowers are not for sale. It’s just a hobby,” my mother said. And for a few more months, she kept on telling that to people who dropped by. But they just begged and begged and begged till my mother could not resist their cries to share these beautiful and glorious breathing specimens any longer. (See, I told you I’m gonna brag…)

So she began to sell the offshoots or “baby” plants while the original or parent remained off limits. More teachers, wives of fishermen, and oh, foreigners dropped in. That’s how I came to know that many white men have invaded the beaches of Medellin as well.

And then people from neighboring towns also heard of this great wonder garden (you’d be amazed at how fast rumor spreads in this part of the world) and came to travel the many meters to paradise.

Then one day, mami was amazed to find out that she actually made profit. She got all the money she invested in her garden back plus more. She is the perfect example that when you just follow your heart and love what you do, money will follow.

For her, though, it’s still not about the money. Always, the flowers come first. She still worries about her babies going to the wrong hands. And even though she has a potential big business at hand, she’s not rushing. She doesn’t like to be a seller, she says. It takes too much time from gardening and making her flowers bloom.

From my view at the top deck, I see color and life at the edge of an old, almost barren town. Looking at the house, the garden, the sea and the woods, I often stand amazed at how my parents managed to build their version of paradise, no matter how small, on sand.

There are greater places, I’m sure. But if you’re curious about this world I’m talking about, just look for the green house with the many flowers by the beach of Medellin.

From the town’s old church, go straight, pass by the public market, turn left on the first corner, go straight, pass by the cemetery, then go rickety-ta-ta on the road some more till you see the beach.

If you’re a friend of mine, follow the trail to the left until you reach the green gate. You won’t miss it.

If you’re just a moron pretending to be my friend or a stalker or a salesman, just go straight to the water and don’t stop till the fishes eat you alive. You won’t be missed.

And no, no, no, the house is still not for sale.

But there’s another beach lot in the area I can recommend. 600 square meters. Price negotiable. With a little imagination, you can build your own sand castle too.

If you’re interested, call me or post it here.