A novice newspaperman in Minnesota hitchhiked 1,947 miles to Key West Florida to meet Ernest Hemingway to ask a few questions about writing. Discovered he’s also obsessed with sailing, Ernest hired him as his boat night watchman before going to Cuba. Their conversation became an essay: Monologue to the Maestro published in Esquire Magazine in 1935.
The young lad asks: What is the best early training for a writer?
Hemingway responded: An unhappy childhood!
That strike a nerve. It shriveled my heart as plastic in flame. I’ve had unhappy childhood incidences. Each time they surface, emotions flare up: upset, frustrated, agitated, dismayed, crushed. Experiencing these can be a gold mine for writing. That maybe what Hemingway meant: Ingredients for good writing.
At age of 10, being the eldest, I witness how hard food came by for our subsistence. I thought of helping by selling popsicle (ice drop).
I did errands from our neighborhood and able to save up 20 cents as seed money. I put my merchandise on a salvaged Magnolia ice cream box. I covered them with an old newspaper, freezing them longer. I got permission from my mother. Reluctant at first, but agreed. Then I went to Selegna, the ice drop factory. My 20 cents bought me four twin popsies, which I can sell for 5 cents apiece, so it doubled my money.
Ice drop selling is a tossed up game. One cannot do an honest to goodness sale. Most buyers are street urchins adept in (Pitik) toss coin. Your sale dependent on twice guessing right when the coin landed.
I didn’t go for it, but realized my ice drop can get melted inside the box. For that I got sucked up by a crooked system.
Dealing with street urchins and pitching ‘ice drop’ on top of my lungs only gained me 20 cents the whole day.
That’s not the hardest part.
When my mother ignored me when I walked by at Vena’s Sari-Sari store wailing my ice drop song, my mother waits her turn to get dealt with, as she’s buying on credit. That disheartened me. She averts her eyes to something else unappreciative of my effort. I made myself closer. She swung her head. In one instant moment, seeing her eyes watery.
I solve the puzzle of my mom’s averting watery eyes 35 years later.
When I vacationed from my job in Saudi, and tending our grocery store at the Baliwag Public Market. I instructed my then 9-year-old son to pick up a tricycle and go home ahead of me. I got home. He’s not in yet. I found him still walking, covered four kilometers, drenched in sweat, and exhausted. I pitied him. Didn’t want to look at him. A repeat of the scene when my mother averted her eyes, had a glimpse of me selling ice drop.