Summer of 1981 is a nostalgic memoir that revisits my childhood during Holy Week and the summer season in Pardo, Cebu. Set in the early 1980s, it captures a time when life moved at a gentler pace, and family, faith, and community were woven into the fabric of everyday life.
Through vivid recollections of household chores, neighborhood adventures, Good Friday reenactments, solemn religious processions, and joyful Easter celebrations, the memoir portrays the traditions and experiences that shaped my earliest understanding of the world. These moments, both ordinary and extraordinary, reveal the enduring values of faith, friendship, generosity, and belonging that defined my youth.
Rich in personal memories and cultural heritage, Summer of 1981 offers more than a glimpse into a bygone era. It is a heartfelt tribute to the people, places, and traditions that continue to live in memory, inviting readers to reflect on their own childhoods and the timeless power of family, community, and remembrance.
It was the summer of 1981, and the Lenten season was drawing to a close. As expected at that time of year, the days were hot, dry, and often exhausting.
With the heat came the familiar rhythm of daily chores, and once again, Mama’s voice echoed through the house, assigning tasks that I carried out without question. From sweeping the floors and washing the dishes to helping with the laundry and running errands to the market, my days followed a routine that had become second nature.
That Good Friday, my assignment was to wash clothes. I remember standing over a large basin, carefully rinsing every garment to remove every trace of soap.
We did not have running water at home, so all our washing was done using a deep-well hand pump owned by Noy Pacing and Nang Auring Cabaluna, who lived about two blocks away. Their family had long been close friends of ours, and their pump, like their generosity, was always available whenever we needed it.
Good Friday was observed with deep reverence in our community and many traditions surrounded the day. One belief discouraged people from bathing, especially during the afternoon hours. Mama, however, told us it was acceptable as long as we bathed before 2:00 p.m., since Christ was believed to have died on the cross at 3:00 p.m. Following her advice, I took my bath early that morning.
By around 12:30 in the afternoon, I found myself at the yard of Andot and Balbing Cabaluna, near the house of their brother, Pacing. Several boys from the neighborhood had gathered there, Apang (Gaspar), Dario, Conrad, and a few others. We amused ourselves by making makeshift caps from empty cigarette cartons, folding and shaping them into what looked like helmets. It was a simple childhood pastime, but wearing them made us feel like soldiers, adventurers, or pilgrims embarking on an important journey.
Once our "helmets" were finished, we set off toward the hills of Pardo. Our destination was a live reenactment of Christ’s crucifixion performed by a man named Nomer. The site, which is now occupied by Alta Vista Resort, was then nothing more than a wide plateau overlooking the surrounding landscape. Yet on that particular day, it felt like the center of the world.
People came from all directions to witness the event. Large crowds gathered on the hillside, creating an atmosphere that was both solemn and festive. Vendors lined the area selling ice drops, banana cue, camote cue, candies, cigarettes, and ice water. Families, children, and devotees mingled together, united by faith and curiosity as they awaited the dramatic reenactment of Christ’s suffering and death.
As evening approached, attention shifted to the activities at the Pardo parish church. Preparations had been underway throughout the day for the grand religious procession. As the sun slowly disappeared beyond the horizon, the procession began its journey through the streets and continued late into the night.
The procession featured approximately forty carros, beautifully decorated floats portraying scenes from the Passion of Christ. Each float carried statues of saints and biblical figures. One depicted Saint Veronica holding the veil upon which Christ’s face was miraculously imprinted. Another portrayed Mary as Mater Dolorosa, the Sorrowful Mother, her eyes lowered in grief and contemplation. The final float carried the lifeless body of Jesus enclosed in a glass coffin, a powerful and haunting image that left a lasting impression on all who witnessed it.
On Easter Sunday, the parish celebrated the Sugat, a cherished Filipino tradition symbolizing the joyful reunion of the Risen Christ and His mother, Mary. Although I never personally witnessed the ceremony, many people spoke of it with admiration. It took place at dawn, when a child dressed as an angel would be suspended from a platform above the meeting point. As Mary and the Risen Christ were brought together, the angel would remove Mary's black veil, symbolizing the end of sorrow and the triumph of hope through the Resurrection.
Looking back, I remember those days with quiet reverence and nostalgia. The intense summer heat, the sacred rituals, the gatherings of family and neighbors, and the expressions of faith woven into everyday life all became part of the rich tapestry of my childhood. They were memories shaped not only by religion, but also by community, tradition, and the enduring bonds that connected people during the most sacred season of the year.
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