When the Whole Community Was Our Orchard
When the Whole Community Was Our Orchard The other night, my wife and I found ourselves remembering the fruits of our childhood. One name brought out another. Camachile. Tieza. Pomelo. Guyabano. Guava. Abyang. Mango. Aratiles. Balimbing. Kaimito. Duhat. Siniguelas. Mabolo. Mulberry. Sampalok. Pias. Soon, we were no longer merely naming fruits. We were rebuilding an entire community as it once appeared—with tall trees beside houses, branches extending over open land, seasonal fruits hanging within sight and children who knew exactly where to find them. Decades later, many of those trees are gone. More houses now occupy the spaces where they once grew. Families expanded, land became more valuable, and open areas were gradually claimed for new homes. The change was understandable, perhaps even unavoidable. Yet every new structure seemed to take the place of a tree, a patch of ground or a small corner where something edible had once grown freely. Only after returning did we realize how muc...