My Childhood Story
I miss my childhood days. The days I have long left behind. Childhood memories, fun, because the painful never want me to remember, or indeed there is nothing painful. Ah ... for me now, all the childhood stories are fun. The days I spent in "Omah Kulon" (the name of my grandmother's house, before my grandmother died, before my new house was built, 100 meters away). The times I spent with my friends, the village kids who only knew the joy. Ai ... how wonderful. How great is the grace of God, the gift of such an impressive life experience.
I will scratch that memory, not only in memory, but also in the stroke of the words I am composing into a story. My childhood story. Oh .... so much, until I'm confused where to start. But the rest, writing this story is so exciting. Trips of the past. Childhood in ancestral land, beloved Java Land.
Puli Crackers
Okay, just start from my activities after elementary school). 12 o'clock is still practically noon I immediately put my bag and changed my clothes, but more often just put a bag. The change of clothes is a lazy thing I do, can be many hours of new activity I want to change clothes, until sometimes Mom and Dad so angry just about changing clothes. Yach is me. This fool is very difficult to advise, but it is not natural for children of that age (this is a foolish child, always seeking justification in every mistake).
After changing clothes (or not changing clothes) after school, I went straight to my grandmother (call grandmother in Bahasa Indonesia) busy making puli crackers. Very tasty and delicious crackers, my family favorite food. I saw a deft grandmother mixing ingredients consisting of rice (yesterday's leftovers), salt, and yeast pulleys. The ingredients are simple but capable of producing something of value. Mother mixed it until it became a dough that was ready to be ground. Before grinding my grandmother always gave me a small handful of dough to taste. I take it with pleasure.
"What is turtle, good?", Asked the grandmother curious.
I nodded, "Delicious tenan (delicious) grandmother"
"Not less salty?" Added the grandmother
I shook my head, "it's so good
Grandma smiled and started grinding the pulley dough. After milling, I helped my grandmother slice it into boxes, the kind of crackers. After that, the pulleys are placed on top of the tampah then in the drying on the roof or over the fence. In the afternoon the tampah was lifted. Puli that has dried, in the fry, be a cracker puli. Crackers are then inserted into the blek (cracker jars) and ready to be enjoyed. The puli crackers seem to be a part of my family's days, never short of stock, because grandma always makes it every day (more precisely if there is rice leftover yesterday;)). Eating rice without puli crackers tastes bland. Watch TV without snacking puli crackers,
Vampire ... ..Vampire ....
After accompanying my grandmother to make a puli, I usually watch TV. Especially the 11 o'clock event if not a vampire. Yes ... the silly Chinese ghost movie became my favorite show and my sister, Reza, who was two years adolescent with me (at that time I still have one younger brother.) The show is usually played on a private TV station, call it RCTI.Sometimes the vampires are funny, sometimes scary, but it all appealed to me The style of the vampires, jumping up and down with their hands raised, straight to the shoulders Biting the human neck Confused, celingak-celinguk when humans around them covered their mouths and noses Sculptures when plastered with amulets (shaped a piece of yellow paper with kanji not knowing what it means.) Burned if flushed with virgin piss, as well as other hilarious stuff typical of other vampire movies.
Cook-Cuisine
After watching TV my activities usually play, alone or with friends. If alone, I play unloading pairs. Sometimes making houses from soil or rock or pillow-bolsters. Sometimes playing cooking from banana sticks and making a cake from a mixture of soil and water, then baked alias dried in the sun to dry. Various forms and kinds of cakes I managed to create, only with water and land, creative is not it ?! Ah ... if it's sold, it's my skipper now.
For cooking I usually involve a knife to slicing ingredients consisting of banana leaves and plant leaves. But, if you see him, he will forbid and advise me at length that a child should not play a knife, a danger if cut. Again, everything just goes right ear out the left ear for a fool like me. Advice and warning you never kugugu. As a result, my finger is often sliced a knife (really said Bapak). Not healed wound on the index finger, came a new cut, appeared on the middle finger. Have not healed the wound on the middle finger, appeared a new one on the pinkie. That is, to the many hansaplasts that adorn my fingers.
That kind of thing does not in the least make a deterrent, though the pain when the blood flowing from my finger cut. When my hands were sliced, I cried, then hid in the closet, whimpering, holding back, afraid to catch you. My sensitive mother, soon realized, led me out of the closet and bandaged my wound with a bandage or hansaplast. Then, invited me to lie down, fan me, or sometimes blow my finger on a bandage, and tell me not to cry anymore. Actually I cried not because of illness. Ah ... this kind of pain is common. I cried for fear of being rebuked by my father.
I looked at my mother's face, pleaded and said, "Ojo diomongne Dear sir! (do not tell Father yes Mother!) ".
My mother nodded slowly.
"Promise yes!", I made sure.
My mother nodded again.
Then, I slowly closed my eyes, fell asleep. My tears have dried up. In my mother's lap, I feel calm. Blow my mother into my wounded fingers, so soothing. Everything feels peaceful. Actually I can never hide that cut from you. Though she never complained. The bandage in my hand is the one that always speaks without words to you, telling me that once again his son did not understand his advice.
Playing on the Ground
Almost every day, I play with my village friends. They are many. Sometimes they make me laugh, sometimes cry. But everything to me is beautiful, everything I do with my village friends.
We have favorite places to play. We used to play hide-and-seek, gobak sodor, kasti, beteng, or statues in a field that lay in front of my friends house kampungku. Everything is exciting, especially when it has played kasti, the fathers and mothers cheering and sometimes laugh out laughing at our action. Indeed, the game is to hit the ball thrown by the opponent as far as possible, but what we do is throw the batter as far as possible. That is, the game was never serious, but enough to satisfy us. At least we've tried the Japanese game, although our random-kadut do not care, which is important everything Happy.
Play in the Rice Field
Often we also blend with nature, with plants and animals. Though it's noon, sunny, hot, we do not care. We are friends of the sun, there is nothing to fear.
One of our activities is to make fish traps in the middle ditches of rice fields. Bringing small fish into the trap. Shouting delighted to find the trap filled with small fish (though all we got at that time was tadpoles). Put it in a plastic bag, taking turns holding it, watching it move swiftly in the water, and singing merrily up the muddy rice field. Ah ... it's as simple as that, able to make our hearts flower.
Capture the Dragonflies
In the vast paddy fields, we look for ciplukan (a round fruit of marbles, green when raw, and brown when cooked, tastes very sweet). Often we also catch the dragonflies and grasshoppers, race to collect as much as possible. This is one of our expertise, catching the famous dragonflies and grasshoppers, with empty hands, with a surprising stance, for the six-legged animal. We have the skill of catching dragonflies and grasshoppers, no matter what is flying in the air or landing on the branches and tops of the plants, we can catch it, without a net.
One of my friends put up the horses, ready to catch the quarry. He stood up, frozen. His hand was stretched out, with his palms open up. His eyes swirled in search of a dragonfly that flew into the air, hoping someone would pass over his head. God granted his request. Before long, a dragonfly maneuvered beside his body. Up. Swooping. Fly again. And finally flew over the head of my friend. Quickly, as quick as lightning, the two palms meet "puk" cupped, the dragonfly can be pat, not great. Humans are created with their respective advantages. We were created with the advantages of catching insects.
Something even better, some of my friends could even catch a dragonfly that was flying in the air like a balloon bubble catch. They just jump, wave, dragonfly in hand, incredible. I can only successfully do that once or twice, the rest fails.
Although I'm not very good at catching dragonflies flying in the air, I'm good at catching dragonflies that are perched on twigs or leaf buds. If there is a dragonfly perched on, my eyes focused, my hands take a few square centimeters beside my hunt. After I feel the time is right (the hunter mode instinct is on), I move my hand flat, fast, sure, split second, dragonfly caught. Shock, the dragonfly was shocked by its present state, its wings tied by two human fingers, unable to fly. The dragon stretched, rebelling. It's useless.
I put it in a plastic that has been hollowed so small that the dragonflies in it can breathe. The dragonfly circled, looking for a way out. It's useless. Long enough. Hopeless.
I surveyed the silent dragonfly. Its large round, round eyes. Really funny. The color of his body is really charming, in the dominant blue color brilliant, yellow. The wings are clear, colorful, rainbow-colored as reflecting sunlight, so beautiful.
I sat, staring at my dragonflies. No matter the race catch the dragonfly. One dragonfly in hand, that's enough.
Dragonflies are flapping. Weak. Somehow I pity. He looked resigned, his eyes no longer glowing, wistful. It's getting weaker. Oh ... I do not want this dragonfly to death. This beautiful creature can not die, it should not die for me. I thought of Mom, if I could not torture animals, sin. Oh ... God, what am I doing?
Finally I decided. I took the dragonfly from plastic, wiped my wings with my fingers. I raised it up. I release him. His wings flutter, momentarily dazed, his faltering flight, but he quickly balances his body, flies up, and seems to turn towards me, saying "Thank You". I waved and countered "Together" (never underestimate the imagination of children, they are great imagers).
Then, the dragonfly darted, agile, into the sky, invisible. I looked at her eagerly. I feel happier.
Moments later, my friend came up to me, confused, looking at my empty hand.
"Ndi your kinjeng? Not the twelve? (Where is your dragonfly? Not at all?) ", He asked in surprise.
I smiled and said, "Looks like we do not have to catch another dragonfly".
I pointed at the plastic my friend held. Three dragonflies scramble for place and oxygen in it. While putting on a serious face I again said, "If they die, their spirits will haunt you every day".
I just smiled, walked away.
Behind me my friend hurriedly opened the plastic. Three flying dragonflies. Free. The sky welcomed him.
The following days I miss catching a dragonfly. The pleasure and tension of catching the dragonflies ambushed me. I also want to see the beauty of the color. Finally, if I can not stand it, I catch it, just look at it for a while, then release it again.
Unlike the dragonflies, locusts are easy to catch. For us they are not too nimble. But we do not really like catching grasshoppers. In addition there is no enjoyment when caught (because it is too passive, not much move, no challenge), grasshoppers also often remove dirt and odor of fluid when captured. As a result, we had to wash our hands clean.
Since then, I've never caught a dragonfly and grasshoppers again. I'm quite happy to see them fly as they please, to and fro, to decorate the sky. It turns out that such a more beautiful, see them happy. No one is happier than freedom is it?
Along the Railway
In the afternoon, we usually spend our time in the meadows on which the railway runs. Run around here and there. Picking and collecting wild flowers that adorn the meadow with female friends.
Then tucked the flower in each hair. Watching the friends of the men who clashed with a kite with the next-door boy. Cheering is encouraging. Shout "Yach" when our friend kicks off, and shouts "Yes" when the opponent's kick is broken.
Tiptoe and waving when the train passes, not infrequently passengers in the train throw a packet of chips and waving back. Ah ... the short passing train, able to make us share with other inhabitants of the world, share the joy and the rizki. Really, how can I forget it.
The game and laughter we had to end when our mothers, from a distance calling our names, shouted at us to go home. We went together, went home. Sweat soaked our shirts, the smell of sour, the smell of the sun. On the way back from the meadows, we had to pass through the paddy fields, skip the little moat, and hup, landed us in the back ground of our houses (exactly the houses of my fellow villagers, because my house was still 500 meters away). I took my brother's hand, walked home, approached our Mom who had waited in front of the alley. I passed my mothers and grandmothers lined up, sitting on each of the front steps of one of the houses, shoving each other or pounding, happy. Meet also the gentlemen who came home from grazing, parked bicycles, carrying sacks full of grass, tired. They are one of those panoramas I can not see in the city, where I live today.