I learned to play hide and seek really well from the most unusual place. And from the most unusual playmates one can ever find.

The place where I grew up in is your typical provincial setting. It is small, life is spartan, everybody knows everybody, everyone is related to everyone in one way or another, and everywhere to nowhere is walking distance. The town center is surrounded by the schools and the plaza on one end, the church and government building on another, while all around it is where we live.

Life is predictable, especially on Sundays. When I was young, probably around seven up to time I was nine, it is a criminal act to miss the mass. You can sleep late on other days, but not on Sundays. You can get sick while enduring the hour-long mass, but you have to be there. It's understandable if you're unable to take a bath, it's fine if you left the house with teeth unbrushed and spoiled breath. No one is exempted. People have a way of knowing if you're not in. Funny, but everyone seemed to sit at the same place all the time so it was effortless to spot who are absent. The only one's free from this rule are those who are ill and confined in the hospital across the street where the church is. So the town may virtually be looted from inside out --- and all would still be in church without anyone having the slightest clue.

I hated Sundays that time. It was arduous enough to sit-stand-kneel-bow heads-raise hands for an hour. But our troubles do not end there. After mass, my friends and I have to maneuver our ways past three senior religion teachers who were probably friends of our grandmothers when they were our age. I was still young then, but I had good memory. I knew exactly the time Lolas Toria Ydel, Juana Aguasa, and Pining Viola would leave their seats and position themselves in the middle of the three big cathedral doors as our parents would exit. That's when we kids played the best hide-and-seek games of our lives back then.

I remember getting caught just once. But that was because I decided to go back to my seat and prayed some more after communion. I forgot I wasn't suppose to do that. Or if I opted to, I had to do it near the exit so as soon as I see the three coming, I would rush out and run home faster than Forrest has ever run. So that time I got caught, Lola Juana led me to where the other kids were. When all of us "captives" were seated, we occupied probably four pews. We looked differently, some were in shoes, some in slippers, others barefoot. But we all had the same angry look. Like a masterful conductor, the three women will then divide the kids according to age and make us recite from memory prayers that we hear oftenly spoken. The younger ones, of course, get the easier ones But regardless of whether it was an easy prayer or the longer prayer, all of us kids would recite them so loud that the motionless images facing us at the altar would likely throw us out if they were alive. After the prayers, we would be asked to enumerate the ten commandments and the sacraments and all the other enjoinments and reminders. We know we have to perform well otherwise they would let us stay there till there would be no one else left in the church but the three old ladies and us kids.

I laugh heartily when I think about those days now. I keep repeating to myself, I really had colorful childhood. Lest they say I'm not contrite, I will say a little prayer in a while for Lola Juana (who died years ago) and Lola Toria (who died last night) and Lola Pining (who's still alive but has gotten older). I have to thank them somehow. Were it not for them, I think I wouldn't have become a damn good sprinter at one time in my life.