by Mae Respicio
“Let’s open them!” Lola says.
“I’ll help!” Sheryl says.
Great. I wanted quiet time to get ready for my first day of building, but they’ll never leave now.
Mom clears her throat and says, “Okay, family, before Lola starts, I have an official announcement to make.”
“You finally found a boyfriend?” Lola says, joking, although kind of not.
Oh no. They’re only going to be encouraging, and that won’t help me at all.
“Better. I was offered the job in Washington.”
“Congratulations!” Auntie Gemma jumps up to hug Mom and they giggle, until Auntie stands back and peers at her. “Gosh, when you said you were looking outside the Bay Area, I didn’t think you were serious.”
“We’ll see, but I actually think the time’s right, Manang. I’d have a great salary, so Lou and I could save up. They’d even pay for grad school. Those are huge benefits.”
The sisters start fast-chattering the way they do whenever they’re excited. Even Maribel joins in. “I could apply to colleges there.”
Lola interrupts her daughters by wrapping her arms around their waists. “Minda, we haven’t discussed what this would mean for the family.”
“Oh, Mom, I love you, but I don’t think this is a group decision.”
Lola looks hurt, although Mom’s probably right. “Anak, we don’t have any close relatives there. And what will you do about Lou? Who will cook her shrimp and peel them for her?” Lola smiles my way. “Who will be home for her when you’re working?”
“And what about me?” Sheryl adds. “I don’t want Lou to go!”
“I don’t want Lou to go, either!” I say.
Mom laughs. “Oh, sweeties…”
“It’s only a two-hour flight. We’d get to do a lot of fun girls’ trips,” Auntie says.
“Just think about what it would mean to take Lou from her family—can you do that?” Lola asks.
I hate it when grown-ups talk about kids while we’re in the room, like we’re not smart enough to know what’s going on.
“Can we please open gifts now?” I say.
“Gladly,” Lola says. I hand her a sparkly box and she tears into it.
* * *
—
There’s only one spot in Lola’s house that I can call my own: the bedroom closet. Mom gave it to me. It’s a walk-in, big enough to fit my clothes and books and me sitting crisscross with our family laptop.
It’s finally quiet in the house.
I yank on the light chain in my closet. On the wall in front of me hangs a vision heart.
Maribel’s vision board gave me the idea. Hers is big and glittery with pictures of the things she wants in her life, like dreamy movie stars for boyfriends, or dollar signs, or colleges she’s trying to get into. She stares at it every single night. Supposedly, if you look at the things you want, they’ll show up in real life: Blink!
My board has pictures of family and friends, and in between the spaces, holding it together, are tiny houses in all shapes and colors, cut out from magazines. There are also different sayings, like Be You-nique or Pretty in Pink but Wicked with a Hammer or (my favorite) Tiny Is Big.
Tonight Mom leaves for Washington, tomorrow I have dance practice, and the day after that—building time.
I stare at my heart and slowly inhale, slowly exhale. It helps me focus. Yes. Focus and get to work.
“Okay, dancers, let’s try this again, but on the beat this time,” says Miss Jovy, a little panicky. She freaks out when we mess up. Barrio Fiesta’s in a little over a month, but we’re still getting the hang of our dance. It’s a hard one.
Onstage, Cody and I take our places. The music starts, and we hop into a set of giant clapping bamboo poles on the floor. The dancers next to us jump on the wrong beat and trip. Miss Jovy smacks her hand to her forehead.
This is the first time I get to dance Tinikling, a folk dance that mimics a tikling bird hopping between stems of grass and running over tree branches.
The dance works like this: pole holders lay long, thick bamboo poles flat onto the stage. They bounce them on the floor twice, then clap them together. It makes a sharp beat, a rhythmic song: bounce bounce click, bounce bounce click, bounce click click, bounce bounce click.
Then the music starts, and dancers like me and Cody hop and twirl our way through the clapping reeds. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to happen, but only if everyone stays synchronized, which seems impossible with so many poles and feet moving, and clumsy cousins like Arwin, who still gets his ankles caught. The music starts slow, then speeds up crazy fast. Sheryl’s so glad she doesn’t have to dance in this one. Alexa says it’s kind of like a huge Filipino version of double Dutch, but without the jump ropes.
Miss Jovy is a pretty Filipina college student studying biology, and she’s also in charge of her university’s PCN, or Pilipino Cultural Night. That’s a whole night of folk dancing, just like this, at colleges all over the country. My favorite numbers are the ones where the dancers balance candles on their heads.
Now our music has stopped. We’re tired and want to go home, but Miss Jovy says, “Let’s try it without the music this time.” I stand next to the pole holders and wait for our signal. “Ready…one two three, one two three, hop turn turn, hop skip skip…”
Cody and I are the only ones who make it through without tripping. Success!
“Wow, nice job, Lou.” Miss Jovy pats my shoulder. I didn’t think I could do it. I like proving myself wrong.
* * *
—
Today’s the day.
Mom and Lola think I’m at Sheryl’s, and Sheryl said she’d cover. But before I go, I’ll need something. I peek into the garage. Lolo’s old black tool cabinet sits dusty in the corner, as tall as I am.
I slide open the drawers, starting with the top and working my way down.
I see screwdrivers and screws.
Measuring tape and levels.
Small parts and metal things.
Finally, in the last one, I find what I need—pliers and a crowbar. I slip them into my backpack.
* * *
—
I’m pretty sure no one who lives in San Francisco likes driving. It’s easiest to take the bus, so most of the time that’s what Mom and I do. We barely use our car. I know all the routes by heart, like the one that travels across the Golden Gate Bridge into Terra Vista Valley, the small town where my land lives. That’s Route 143, one stop, no transfers.
I’ve never gone out there alone—until now.
I’m nervous, not because I’m scared or I might get lost, but because Mom doesn’t know. She gets back from Washington late today and if she finds out, it will finish this plan. If someone stops me because I’m alone, I’ll say my parents are waiting for me at the other end. Then I’ll fake-sneeze and make gross phlegmy sounds so they’ll back off.
The bus hisses at the curb where I’m waiting, and the doors swing open. I step on and toss in some quarters with a clink. The driver doesn’t even glance my way. Easy.
I choose a seat in the middle where there’s no one sitting near me except for a lady with a baby, who studies me for a few seconds. I give a small smile and stare down at my Converse.
Sunshine pours in through the windows and the bus chugs on its way. Soon I’m smiling. I can’t believe I’m going out there like this. Mom’s away and Lola’s out—I have the whole day.
We pass through the Rainbow Tunnel, with its archway painted in all seven colors of the rainbow. At the end, the bay sparkles below. Not far now.
When the bus reaches the hillside, I’m the only one who steps off. I’m in front of the park where Grandpa Ted used to take me, where we imagined building tree houses high up in the redwoods’ top branches.
The sky still has its dawn
like blush. Early-morning light feels magical, like I can do anything.
It’s always sunrise somewhere. John Muir said that. He was a guy who had a gigantic grove of redwoods named after him, called Muir Woods, where we take school trips every year. Some redwoods are over a thousand years old, as tall as skyscrapers. I drop my head back and stare straight up. I don’t mind feeling small when the giants are trees.
This is another place where great ideas pop into my head, with nothing crowding me but nature, and air that feels good on my arms.
Across the way is the town’s main street with mailboxes nailed to a wooden post, a pizza place, and a convenience store with a sign that usually says Closed. Around me, a few trails vein off into the hillside. Sometimes they stretch to hidden houses, like they will to mine one day.
It’s chilly, and my breath comes out in small puffs. I slip on a fleece and start the short trek up.
* * *
—
The first time I found out about my land, I was eight. It started with a question: “Mommy, what was Daddy like?”
She said, “I want to take you someplace.”
We drove there, winding around hills I somewhat knew—Grandpa Ted’s old house wasn’t far. Finally, we landed in a secret spot where trees and sunlight came together. As soon as we stepped out, I wanted to sit still and listen.
“Where are we?”
“Where you can remember the Nelsons. This belongs to you, Lou.”
What did? The trees? The plants? The dirt under my feet?
“We used to hike around here with Grandpa Ted, remember?” she said. “He gave all this to you, even that shed over there.”
Mom showed me where the property started and ended, with rows of bushes like fences. So many sounds of bugs and the wind blowing leaves. She fanned out a picnic blanket for lunch while I found the shallow creek and learned how chilly and perfect the water felt on my feet. My land had other things, too, like an orange hammock connecting two trees, and a rusty old trailer bed.
“There’s something else. Cover your eyes, and don’t peek. It’s a surprise.”
When she said, “Look!” a wooden dollhouse sat on the ground. I crouched down and peered in. It had a kitchen, stairs, and a bedroom with a miniature bed and a real cloth blanket.
“Did you buy this for me?”
“No, your dad built this for you when we were in college. Isn’t it beautiful?”
The dollhouse had two teeny wooden rockers with a little doll sitting in each: one with light brown hair like mine, and the other with pitch-black hair like Mom’s. I couldn’t wait to show them to Sheryl, who had always wanted a Barbie with black hair to match her own (she had to color her Barbie’s head with black marker).
“Why didn’t you bring me here before?”
“I wanted to wait until you could take good care of it. This will be for you one day when you’re ready. It’s a gift to help with your future. Our family treasure.”
The dollhouse made me so happy, but Mom seemed upset. She sat and hugged her knees.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, sweetie pie, I’m remembering. This is where your dad asked me to marry him.”
“And that makes you sad?”
She shook her head. “Happy, but…I miss him, that’s all.”
At least she had memories—I didn’t have any.
Mom brightened. “Want to hear something? He was going to build a house for us. You were going to have your own playroom, and I was going to have my own art studio.” She took my hand and led me around, describing their big dreams. “Your grandpa Ted worked in construction, and they were going to build it together, right on this very spot.” She beamed at it.
“Let’s do it ourselves! Let’s build a house here!” I said, but she only laughed.
The rest of the day we played with the dollhouse while I dreamed of a tiny house in the woods.
* * *
—
I keep walking, snapping a few pictures of a madrone tree with its papery orange bark flaking away from the trunk, the new skin underneath yellow-green and satiny smooth. Whenever Lola’s come out here, she’s taught me about living things.
The path ends in a flat clearing surrounded by more redwoods. All around, crooked branches like witches’ fingers make patterns where the sun crisscrosses through.
In the Philippines, my grandparents had acres of fields where they raised tobacco plants with wide, full leaves. Lolo said that before harvest time, the leaves would grow to the height of a short man. You could see for miles over them, until your eyes reached a line of shadowy mountains topped by sky.
I throw my backpack on a pile of leaves and unpeel a plastic tarp that covers the trailer bed. What peeks out is a large, flat grid of metal beams with thick wheels and a sturdy triangle at the front, the tongue, for hitching. This trailer bed is rusty and old, but it’ll work. People who build tiny houses from scratch use them as the foundation.
I read about a family who got rid of almost everything they had, and kept only enough to fit into a camper while they roamed the country. They didn’t want expensive things, only memories. I like the idea that a house can be anywhere, because a home is about more than the stuff we buy to stick inside.
Something rustles. I peer around to make sure it’s not a skunk; then I see a fuzzy squirrel race up a tree. They like to feed on the seeds of evergreens.
I cover the trailer bed.
My family used to picnic here, and the cousins and I would catch minnows at the creek. Lolo always brought ripe mangoes; he’d score lines into the flesh so we could flip the halves open and eat the sweet cubes. I asked him if we could grow a mango tree, but he said my land was too dry for that. Still, we dug a hole near the shed and planted the pit, just to try.
Lolo taught me that gardening means imagining things before they happen, like where to root the plants, what’s needed to keep them alive, and how they’ll add to your view someday—kind of like planning a house.
Whenever we came to my land, the aunties would tell Mom to look in the shed, but she didn’t have a key. Lola would remind them that they shouldn’t search through dead people’s things; it would only bring bad luck.
I’ve never seen it open, but if Dad and Grandpa Ted wanted to build on this spot, here’s my guess: It’ll have all the things I need.
* * *
—
The shed has a padlock joined onto an old metal strip. With the pliers from Lolo’s tool cabinet, I try to pull off the lock, but it doesn’t budge. Next, I try the crowbar. I slip it behind the strip and pull down as hard as I can—it shifts the teeniest bit. I keep prying and prying until the strip moves a little more.
It’s working.
I use as much muscle power as I can until the whole piece drops, lock and all.
The wooden doors swing open slightly, and it’s dark inside. I thought I’d rush in, but it feels kind of weird. What if Lola’s right and I’m disturbing their spirits? But they’re my family; they love me. They won’t mind.
Go for it, Lou. The shed’s yours, too.
I take a deep breath and pull open the doors.
* * *
—
Sunlight floods a dusty space with nests of cobwebs in the corners. The shed has a worktable piled high with stuff and a giant Peg-Board wall with lots of tools hanging from silver hooks. I see hammers, pliers, tape rolls, measuring sticks, drills, scissors…
Holy. Cow. It’s an entire hardware store! I scream and jump around and it makes the dust fly.
On the table sits a box with a name on it in big messy black letters: Michael Nelson. I recognize the handwriting from his sketchbooks.
I approach it carefully, like it’s enchanted—and I touch the box, too. I close my eyes and try to feel us connecting on this spot where he stood.
Gently, I lift the cover. The box is packed with bulky black rectangles—old movie tapes, I think. Lola has a shelf of Filipino movies that look the same, but these have blank labels, so I’m not sure what they are. I’m putting them back in their places when something on the opposite wall catches my attention.
Jackpot!
* * *
—
Long planks of wood rest along the wall, bundled in tight stacks, a ton of them, sitting on top of each other. I can’t believe it. I’m sure there’s enough to build the framework of my house, probably even enough for the floor.
I grab the end of a bundle, but it’s so heavy I can barely inch it up. Something skitters out and sweeps past my hands. A tiny black mouse runs into sunlight.
Okay, Lou. Breathe. You got this.
On the Peg-Board wall hang garden clippers, like Lola’s. I snip the plastic ties around the wood. Easy.
I slide off the top plank and walk backward with it, but stumble and fall right on my bum. It’s taller than I am and super heavy, so I drag it out into the daylight. I want a better look.
The wood’s light-colored, with soft gray grain running down it like pathways. It’s raw, not varnished. I swipe my hand over its surface and a splinter pricks my finger. It stings as I pluck it out.
The mouse skitters close, nibbling from its hands.
“Hey, little guy. You here to help?”
I stare into the shed at all the stacks of wood I’ll need to move. Building a house might be harder than I thought.
Maybe it’s time for a break—or some inspiration—and I know just the thing. It’s still early; I can always come back.
I leave the plank, close the shed, and grab my backpack before walking down to the stop; the bus comes right as I arrive, opening its doors like an invitation.
