POLKA DOTS a imalan, kanyun a gawa keng kawayan na ginamitan kalburu, torotot a kartun, lata, kawali at kalderu, watusi, lusis, and the list goes on.
I was having a post-Christmas breakfast with six of my siblings when our banter turned into a collective recollection of how many things and events were done and celebrated during the not-so-distant past.
We all fondly recalled how the Gatdula family reunion was held every December 31. There was no lavish party whatsoever; neither was there an array of mouth-watering dishes on the buffet table. We only had lechon that was “cooked” the old fashion way in the backyard, pork and hotdog barbeque, and spaghetti. Completing the menu were the staple ube halaya, kalame nasi and kalame misalubong. That was already our idea of a once-in-a-year feast.
In the morning until afternoon, some of us were tasked to clean our respective homes thoroughly to rid them of any negative energy, ensuring that only positive vibes would enter the coming year.
It was also mandatory for everyone except those who were tasked to prepare the food to attend the 9 p.m. New Year’s Eve Mass. From the church we would all then proceed to the ancestral house, change into our polka-dotted clothes and waited gleefully for 12 midnight to strike.
The eldest among the first-generation cousins would then remind us not to sleep so we could all witness what he would tell us, “Talanga kayu banwa karas alas dose, at lawen ye ing banwa uling mamalit ya piblas.” For the longest time, we all took his words literally and waited patiently for the sky above us to change – either in color, shape, form, size or in any imaginable transformation we could all witness.
So, we did everything we could to fight off sleep. My older cousins would turn to the kanyon de kawayan while we assisted with the kalburo stashed safely in a can. Our spinster aunts would remind us endlessly not to buy and light those “high-powered” firecrackers; we would contend ourselves with the watusi, and the boxes of lusis that were no more than seven inches long.
At the stroke of midnight, we would all make noise—not with expensive fireworks, but with simple noisemakers like torotots made of cardboard, pots, pans, and if our older cousins were lucky enough to evade the prying eyes of our aunts, five-star ribentador, all intended to ward off evil spirits and usher in blessings.
All the lights in every room, corner and area in the ancestral house including ours would be turned on, along with all the faucets in the comfort rooms, lavatory, and wash area for water to flow endlessly for a few minutes. We would all then be jumping as high as we could, believing that by doing so we could add a few more inches to our height in the coming year.
Back then, our celebration of the New Year was deeply rooted in community and family, with relatives and neighbors visiting each other’s homes to exchange food, good wishes and blessings. It wasn’t about spending money; it was about gathering together and being grateful for whatever little we had.
Fast forward to today, the New Year celebrations have become increasingly lavish. The streets of my hometown are now filled with an explosion of fireworks, each more expensive than the last. While these modern festivities may seem exciting, they have also become a symbol of excess, often overshadowing the true spirit of the holiday.
My dear readers and friends, I hope this isn’t too much to ask of you. In this era of consumerism, perhaps it is time to return to the quiet joy of family, the peaceful noise of firecrackers, and the humble belief that true prosperity is not found in material wealth, but in the love and togetherness shared during the New Year. As we welcome another year and look to the future, let’s remember our own family traditions —not as a relic of the past, but as a reminder of what truly matters.
