During his free time Juan would write some nostalgic poems about his old town. One of which was this poem:
My Little Town
I wanted to climb the hill
and enjoy the sight of my little town
and the mountain that bears witness
to the growth and tribulation of
our proud people
the railways which used to bring
both young and old to the big city
remain rusty and idle
how proudly it naked away
like steel serpent. Bearing fortunes
and misfortune to our little town
young people who made it great and returned with laurel
while the fallen warriors
were borne on body bags
inside a casket
I saw the old schools which have
transformed farm kids into men
of all climes and seasons
young women who went abroad
to save their families from starvation
enduring loneliness and sacrificing
their purity against bearded wolves and jackals
My little struggling town
yearns for old days
when its young were pure and simple,
undefiled by strange
culture and ways which forever
erased the simple innocence of Maria Clara.
The girls returned with dyed hair,
tattooed body and masked faces,
their ways were vulgar
now I pine for good old days.
From time to time Juan would visit his old town. Up in the air Juan would look outside the plane's window and marvel at the mountain of their town.
Mt. Asog was much older than the oldest that ever walked on land or rowed out into the sea in search of freedom. She used to be the haven of exotic trees and beasts. Her looming sight mesmerized Juan and fanned his dream of scaling her height when opportunity came.
She witnessed the growth of the lowland, providing it with sturdy trees and preys—mighty primates and birds caught by the Agta and sold to the lowlanders.
The years went by. Tourists posed against the priceless mountain, but hunger and greed have ravished her. She still stands like a patient saint waiting for reverence as people exploited her and left her naked and bleeding.
Then one night he dreamed of big waves flowing down from the top of the mountain. In his nightmare Juan woke up cold and perspiring. He told his mother about it and she said that the mountain is a volcano and in the 16th century (but geologists claimed it erupted before the coming of the Spaniards) it erupted and sent down boulders and water.
I hope my dream would not come true, for I hold Mt. Asog with awe and reverence, thought Juan. But who can stop her from exacting her vengeance against us who never thought of preserving her?
Juan, like other children, was much closer to his mother than to his father. Unlike his father whose grandfather was a Chinese until he was converted to Christianity, Juan's mother was a Spanish mestiza, fond of Spanish cuisines like stuffed turkey or relleno, morcon or embutido. She had artistic flair in dress designing, having finished at International Correspondence School (ICS).
During her birthday Juan secretly wrote a poem and sent it to her mother.
My Mother
They called me mama's boy,
Spoiled brat
And all epithets cast by the cruel world.
They missed the point
And violated the Holy Book
For judging others
It was mother who
Bore the pain
During my birth
It was mother who nursed me
To health, not once
But countless times when I was
On the throes of death
It was mother who stayed
My tantrum when I
Refused a separate bed
She was so kind and forgiving
Though I made her cry
Because I was a naughty brat
Blessed be my mother!
Juan's mother could not stop crying, because she had a premonition that Juan would leave her again. But she was a brave woman, a devoted follower of the Virgin Mary and wore a Lourdes habit when she went to church.
