Kulalanti of Lubnac: The Fireflies of Memory
The day in Lubnac always started a little later, and it lingered a little longer. Nestled on the western slope of the Pallas ridge, our barrio caught the rising sun late in the morning. But in the evening, situated on that higher ground, it held onto the last stray rays of golden light, stretching the day as if refusing to let it go.
Now, thousands of miles away, leaning my back against a palm tree at a picnic ground on Oahu, I look up at the cliffs of the Koʻolau Range. In an instant, the Hawaiian landscape fades, and the vivid image of our house in Lubnac comes rushing back.
If you came up the hill back then, you would see it: a house built on sturdy stilts. It was originally three separate structures built close together, but as the family grew, it was stitched into one. The left wing was our kitchen; the middle served as the living room; and the right wing held three bedrooms. We accessed the living area by a seven-step ladder made of thick bamboo. Beneath the house lay the granary and the storehouse, safely sheltering farm tools and carpentry gear.
I can still feel the texture of the floors under my hands—split bamboo, an inch wide, nailed to wooden planks. Whenever school was out, one of my chore rituals was to make those floors shine, scrubbing them vigorously with a lampaso (coconut husk) until they gleamed. There were no ceilings, allowing the breeze to circulate freely and cool the house on tropical afternoons. Above us, the steep roof of bundled ledda grass was designed with wide overhangs, ready to shed the heavy rains while protecting the woven, flattened bamboo walls.
It was a house built in perfect harmony with the land. It faced south, overlooking endless fields of sugarcane and tobacco, while its back was guarded by a thick, lush forest. Between the house and the jungle ran a creek—the headwaters of the wa-ig that cut across the plains of Hacienda and Barrio Uno. That wa-ig was the reason for the se-fon (siphon); when the irrigation canal was built, a tunnel was dug beneath its path so the creek could flow unimpeded, emptying into the karayan (river) near the salogan.
At the east end of the house, under the shade of a massive lomboy (Java plum) tree, sat our drinking well. Further uphill, hidden under dried leaves and forest debris, was the secret spring that fed it all, its gurgling and bubbling a constant, gentle soundtrack to my youth.
As a boy, I would sit under that lomboy tree, munching on a sweet stalk of unas (sugarcane). I listened to the brook, the rustle of the wind, and the birds hidden in the canopy. The creek looked so small against the giant jungle vegetation, its mossy, fern-covered banks alive with tiny frogs scattering back and forth.
But the true magic of this ecosystem belonged to the kulalanti—the fireflies.
A Symphony of Light
Catching fireflies was our ultimate summertime ritual. We would wait beside the well until the world grew dark, quiet, and beautifully spooky. There were no electricity grids here, and we didn't bring flashlights. We simply sat in the dark, listening to the frogs croak and the crickets chirp.
Then, a faint flicker in the trees.
One by one, they appeared from nowhere. Some caught in the bushes, others dancing around our heads. Then, in a sudden rush of magic, hundreds appeared. No—thousands. The sparkles grew larger, twinkling in unison, dancing right before our eyes.
"Oh, fireflies!" we would scream in delight.
"Kulalanting," Lolo Menong would whisper, his voice filled with reverence.
It was dazzling. Stunning. Nobody moved; only our eyes darted back and forth, tracking the blinking lights. The bushes lit up like Christmas trees. As the night grew darker, the lights only grew brighter. I never grew tired of it. To my young eyes, it was an absolute awe-inspiring masterpiece—a worshipful experience showcasing what Nature bestowed upon the lowly firefly. It had to be God’s work.
Lolo Menong would gather us close, handing each of us a glass jar. "Follow my lead," he whispered, gently scooping the glowing bugs into his jar. We followed suit, eagerly filling ours to the brim, arguing over who collected the most.
We didn't go home that night; we stayed at the old house. Lolo Menong laid down the straw mats—the ikamen—in the big room. We lay side-by-side with our glowing jars. Lolo Menong covered the doorways with cloth, closed the large awning windows, and extinguished the kerosene lamps. The room plunged into total blackness.
"Now. Open your jars," he commanded softly.
In the pitch black, we released them. The effect was breathtaking. If our curiosity had been ignited while catching them, our sense of wonder burst into a full flame. We were mesmerized by the intricate, marvelous dance of heavenly delight unfolding on the bamboo ceiling.
"We called them love bugs," we’d laugh. Lolo Menong explained that they only came out like this during mating season. We wanted to watch them all night, but he reminded us of a vital lesson: "If we don’t let them out, they’ll die, and there’ll be no more fireflies."
Reluctantly but gently, he opened the windows. We watched in quiet delight as a glowing stream of kulalanti flew out into the night, reclaiming their freedom.
The Ritual of Survival
As I grew older, I learned about the bittersweet life of the firefly. Their adult lifespan is incredibly short—just long enough to mate, lay eggs, and die, passing the torch to the next generation. Year after year, the cycle repeats.
Sitting here today, those boyhood memories feel closer than ever. I remember how my Lola Mayang, just like Lolo Menong, used to give us that same glimpse of heaven in that very room, surrounded by a symphony of flashing light. I remember tracking those greenish-yellow hues as they blinked with divine urgency, dropping onto the ikamen to signal their location to a mate, sacrificing everything for the good of the flock.
Now, as I pick up my bento box for a morsel of rice, watching my fellow Vintariños gathered together in this foreign park to share lunch, the deeper wisdom of the kulalanti settles into my heart.
The firefly's dance is a play of survival. There is no turning back from that altar of birth and death, even if you are only given one brief chance. It is a single opening before you—a chance to dip and rise in the morning of each day, searching for the stuff dreams are made of: the ambrosia of labor, the seeds of ideas, the nectar of desire.
Like the fireflies, we carry on the survival of our kind. I can feel that same longing, hope, and resilience among our folks working around the world. Separated from the soil of Lubnac, we still gather to partake in the wisdom of that ancient dance: a shared desire to give, to protect, and to work together for the collective good of Vintar.
The day in Lubnac always started a little later, and it lingered a little longer. Nestled on the western slope of the Pallas ridge, our barrio caught the rising sun late in the morning. But in the evening, situated on that higher ground, it held onto the last stray rays of golden light, stretching the day as if refusing to let it go.
Now, thousands of miles away, leaning my back against a palm tree at a picnic ground on Oahu, I look up at the cliffs of the Koʻolau Range. In an instant, the Hawaiian landscape fades, and the vivid image of our house in Lubnac comes rushing back.
If you came up the hill back then, you would see it: a house built on sturdy stilts. It was originally three separate structures built close together, but as the family grew, it was stitched into one. The left wing was our kitchen; the middle served as the living room; and the right wing held three bedrooms. We accessed the living area by a seven-step ladder made of thick bamboo. Beneath the house lay the granary and the storehouse, safely sheltering farm tools and carpentry gear.
I can still feel the texture of the floors under my hands—split bamboo, an inch wide, nailed to wooden planks. Whenever school was out, one of my chore rituals was to make those floors shine, scrubbing them vigorously with a lampaso (coconut husk) until they gleamed. There were no ceilings, allowing the breeze to circulate freely and cool the house on tropical afternoons. Above us, the steep roof of bundled ledda grass was designed with wide overhangs, ready to shed the heavy rains while protecting the woven, flattened bamboo walls.
It was a house built in perfect harmony with the land. It faced south, overlooking endless fields of sugarcane and tobacco, while its back was guarded by a thick, lush forest. Between the house and the jungle ran a creek—the headwaters of the wa-ig that cut across the plains of Hacienda and Barrio Uno. That wa-ig was the reason for the se-fon (siphon); when the irrigation canal was built, a tunnel was dug beneath its path so the creek could flow unimpeded, emptying into the karayan (river) near the salogan.
At the east end of the house, under the shade of a massive lomboy (Java plum) tree, sat our drinking well. Further uphill, hidden under dried leaves and forest debris, was the secret spring that fed it all, its gurgling and bubbling a constant, gentle soundtrack to my youth.
As a boy, I would sit under that lomboy tree, munching on a sweet stalk of unas (sugarcane). I listened to the brook, the rustle of the wind, and the birds hidden in the canopy. The creek looked so small against the giant jungle vegetation, its mossy, fern-covered banks alive with tiny frogs scattering back and forth.
But the true magic of this ecosystem belonged to the kulalanti—the fireflies.
A Symphony of Light
Catching fireflies was our ultimate summertime ritual. We would wait beside the well until the world grew dark, quiet, and beautifully spooky. There were no electricity grids here, and we didn't bring flashlights. We simply sat in the dark, listening to the frogs croak and the crickets chirp.
Then, a faint flicker in the trees.
One by one, they appeared from nowhere. Some caught in the bushes, others dancing around our heads. Then, in a sudden rush of magic, hundreds appeared. No—thousands. The sparkles grew larger, twinkling in unison, dancing right before our eyes.
"Oh, fireflies!" we would scream in delight.
"Kulalanting," Lolo Menong would whisper, his voice filled with reverence.
It was dazzling. Stunning. Nobody moved; only our eyes darted back and forth, tracking the blinking lights. The bushes lit up like Christmas trees. As the night grew darker, the lights only grew brighter. I never grew tired of it. To my young eyes, it was an absolute awe-inspiring masterpiece—a worshipful experience showcasing what Nature bestowed upon the lowly firefly. It had to be God’s work.
Lolo Menong would gather us close, handing each of us a glass jar. "Follow my lead," he whispered, gently scooping the glowing bugs into his jar. We followed suit, eagerly filling ours to the brim, arguing over who collected the most.
We didn't go home that night; we stayed at the old house. Lolo Menong laid down the straw mats—the ikamen—in the big room. We lay side-by-side with our glowing jars. Lolo Menong covered the doorways with cloth, closed the large awning windows, and extinguished the kerosene lamps. The room plunged into total blackness.
"Now. Open your jars," he commanded softly.
In the pitch black, we released them. The effect was breathtaking. If our curiosity had been ignited while catching them, our sense of wonder burst into a full flame. We were mesmerized by the intricate, marvelous dance of heavenly delight unfolding on the bamboo ceiling.
"We called them love bugs," we’d laugh. Lolo Menong explained that they only came out like this during mating season. We wanted to watch them all night, but he reminded us of a vital lesson: "If we don’t let them out, they’ll die, and there’ll be no more fireflies."
Reluctantly but gently, he opened the windows. We watched in quiet delight as a glowing stream of kulalanti flew out into the night, reclaiming their freedom.
The Ritual of Survival
As I grew older, I learned about the bittersweet life of the firefly. Their adult lifespan is incredibly short—just long enough to mate, lay eggs, and die, passing the torch to the next generation. Year after year, the cycle repeats.
Sitting here today, those boyhood memories feel closer than ever. I remember how my Lola Mayang, just like Lolo Menong, used to give us that same glimpse of heaven in that very room, surrounded by a symphony of flashing light. I remember tracking those greenish-yellow hues as they blinked with divine urgency, dropping onto the ikamen to signal their location to a mate, sacrificing everything for the good of the flock.
Now, as I pick up my bento box for a morsel of rice, watching my fellow Vintariños gathered together in this foreign park to share lunch, the deeper wisdom of the kulalanti settles into my heart.
The firefly's dance is a play of survival. There is no turning back from that altar of birth and death, even if you are only given one brief chance. It is a single opening before you—a chance to dip and rise in the morning of each day, searching for the stuff dreams are made of: the ambrosia of labor, the seeds of ideas, the nectar of desire.
Like the fireflies, we carry on the survival of our kind. I can feel that same longing, hope, and resilience among our folks working around the world. Separated from the soil of Lubnac, we still gather to partake in the wisdom of that ancient dance: a shared desire to give, to protect, and to work together for the collective good of Vintar.
Community-submitted memory.