It was at 8:30 in the morning of a beautiful Palm Sunday, in the year of our Lord 1917, when I was welcomed to the world and to my family, in a tiny house situated in Hacienda Buyongbuyong (the name of the adjacent river), in the town of Silay, Negros Occidental.
My mother, Esperanza Garrido Mirasol-Icamina was with the village “paltera” (midwife) who opted not to go to town in Silay that day, and stayed to look after my mother who was barely 18 years old but already a young mother to my elder sister Corazon.
My father, Ciriaco Icamina and my maternal grandparents Vicente Mirasol and Pilar Garrido Mirasol, who were sugar planters, were all in church attending an early mass on this special church day of the Holy Week.
The Silay church was some 10 kilometers from our house, and most people have to walk as there were no vehicles to ride on. There were some cars owned by big landed “hacienderos”, but none for the farm workers except the two-wheeled “carosa” made of wood and nipa shingles.
When the family arrived late in the afternoon, greeted them with a very loud baby cry. “What a big surprise!” my grandmother Pilar said. “Let us name her Oliva as it is Palm Sunday, and the Bible mentioned that olive branches were used to welcome Jesus in the church courtyard”.
However, my paternal grandfather, Macario Icamina, from the town of Malinao, Capiz had been a devotee of St. Joseph, the Patron Saint of Malinao. So, it was my father Ciriaco and grandfather Macario who chose my name Josefina – the female name for Joseph.
I was three years old, in 1920, when our family moved to Malinao, Capiz, the birthplace of my father. Together with my sister Corazon, our grandmother Pilar Garrido Mirasol, of Mandurriao, Iloilo City and my baby brother Elpidio, we took the long voyage to our new home. We rode the train from Jaro to the town of Capiz, Capiz.
We then took a ship named “Lagatik” from Capiz to the town New Washington. And from there, we rode in one old bus owned by a certain Advincula, that brought us to town of Banga. There were no more roads after Banga. Our family and companions walked eight kilometers to reach the village of Rosario, where my grandfather Macario and grandmother Isidra prepared for our arrival.
There were very few houses then. The farms and coconut groves shaded our way to the village. My father, Ciriaco farmed the rice lands of certain landowners named Gomez from Numancia. Since he was a good farmer, the Gomezes allowed him more years to till their rice farms.