A Dream House

We’ve changed houses six times in the past ten years. And each time we moved, our nuptial bed had to be dismantled and re-assembleded (just like the boys’ LEGO parts); new curtains had to be tailored ( a “new” home has to look fresh ); floor mats had to be replaced (cleansing off negative vibes ); and the rice-sugar/salt-water ceremony had to be performed (a ritual for abundance?)...not to mention the ordeal of packing and unpacking we had to go through.

When we transferred to this apartment we’re renting now, I only had one prayer in my heart : let it be the last time, Lord. Sana, the next place we’ll be moving in is our own home. Michael and I dreamed of owning a house since year one, but we had to set that dream aside to prioritize other concerns like college educational plans, insurance policies and house furnishings. Whatever earnings we had was just enough for our daily subsistence.

I grew up in a modest house with a floor space that could hardly keep up with us ten children (!) growing up fast and the family expanding. It was only normal then, that I used to look at beautiful houses with a tinge of envy. There was one particular house that really caught my heart as a child. It was an enchanting house - painted white, had a lovely garden with a bridge crossing over the fishpond and a big tree that housed colorful birds. Everyday, my maternal grandfather Lolo Taquio (Gonzales) had to drag me away from gawkiing at the dream house, or I would be late for my kindergarten class. He then promised me that I would live in a house like that, someday.

So many years passed, Lolo Taquio had gone to heaven - the house still stood there - but unlike before, I no longer gape at its magnificence. Perhaps because my views on dream houses has changed, or perhaps too, because of what I learned about the family who lived there. Stories about the parents’ frequent quarrels which eventually led to a break-up...stories about their only son’s involvement in a crime...stories about the family’s wealth being divested by creditors. Stories which seemed unbelievable at first, but the house is there to speak about how empty and haunting it is now.

POOR BUT HAPPY, OR MISERABLY RICH? My R.S. teacher in college once asked us what we wanted to be. I remember then my best friend in high school who came from a rich family. They had a beautiful, well-furnished house and she had everything a girl could ask for, but on Saturday afternoons, she would hang around our messy house and I always felt uncomfortable when she stayed for supper because I knew the food would be better at their table. One night, I confessed this burden to her and she hushed me by saying she actually envied me. What? I thought she was crazy. But she went on to tell me how miserably unhappy she was at home, and would gladly trade places with me anytime. I understood then why she bothered going to our crowded houses at all, or share our poor folks’ meal. It is being part of a happy family that can make one feel rich.

NOT IN THEIR HOMES. Before moving to our present apartment, we lived in a subdivision which is about 7 kms away from the city. It was the most quiet place ever, and every morning, I watched as the neighborhood became empty. Kids were off to school, fathers were off to work, and the mothers (not me!) were also off to work. Some houses are beautifully built, yet nobody’s there to enjoy their comfort and coziness the entire day, except the help because their masters were out working hard all day to pay the monthly amortizations and other things besides, for owning a decent abode. They reach home at night, beaten up with tedium and fatigue, so after a quick dinner, it’s time to crawl into their bed and retire for tomorrow’s rerun. On weekends and holidays, they drive to the beach or elsewhere for recreation, go to the shopping malls, attend the mass, or visit families and friends. And what about the beautiful house they built? Left empty again, naturally. It disturbed me to see such beautiful houses standing there , desolate and empty. Isn’t life ironic?

AN ELUSIVE DREAM. The city is booming with housing projects here and there. With numerous choices before me, it was never easy to resist the pressure from friends. After all, almost - if not all of them - already have their own house somewhere. But there was always the question : could we afford it?, The most desirable site was just always way beyond our means. Better to buy an impressive house and starve? No way, Jose. I can’t let my husband exhaust himself working, just to show the world we got what it takes. This is not car racing, or something. So we`re still in square one, trying to stock up any extra penny we could spare for that elusive dream.

Hopefully next year (or the year after that), the chase will end - but it doesn’t matter, really. We are happy and contented with what we have. And I also believe that God has something in store for us, so I’m keeping the line open for the green light.

Meanwhile, I’m doing my best to make our home a happy one We are neither rich nor poor, but I feel blessed just the same. After all, home is where your heart is.

For what would a beautiful house be worth if you couldn’t live happily and peacefully together? To me, a dream house is where a family lives in harmony, love and contentment. It doesn’t matter where or what you live in. We could live in a crowded shanty forever and still be happy together.

I’m not sour graping, okay? But who knows when luck might strike? We could still end up living in our dream house someday. Being rich and happy doesn’t sound too far-fetched to those who dream on.

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