Nostalgia: Christmas musings

I am not a Christmas person but I'm no Scrooge. Maybe because I was brought up in a family where Christmas is considered un-Christian and therefore not celebrated. But I joined Christmas activities in school, admired the festive décor and loved the nightly carolers.  And I confess that I even went with childhood friends to a few simbang gabi only because of bibingka and the chance of seeing my crush. :p  


Then I was godmother to my friends' children---about 20 of them and counting. When I started to earn money, Christmas shopping was my main event when the -ber months arrive. I stretched my budget so I could buy gifts for everybody---my family, godchildren, close friends and officemates.

@ mirandablue

Nativity set from Creative Treasury

I got excited when the Christmas lights along Ayala Avenue were lighted. Whole day shopping in Divisoria was something I looked forward to. The Christmas rush thrilled me! Wrapping gifts the whole night delighted me! But as the years pass, Christmas and all its traditions have become another stressful event to hurdle before the year ends---a sign of Christmas burnout, I was told. Or maybe, I am just getting old.  The long lines in the stores feel like a hike to Mt. Everest---sore feet, short tempers, tired sales clerks, crazy traffic, highway robbery, pickpockets are some the words I associate with Christmas as I crawled myself out from the maddening mob of shoppers in Greenhills.

Christmas is such a metaphor---it offers a place and a time for reactions to happen, transformations of people, not all bright and happy. It's mind-boggling how a spiteful co-worker would suddenly turn sugary around Christmas.  The season can also be a time of darkness---imagine OFWs, sailors, prisoners and soldiers at Christmas; a need for hope, like for Congress to pass priority bills before their Christmas break; and a time of suspense---would he finally tell me how he feels after Christmas dinner? would I get a Christmas bonus?...with considerable potential for depression and disappointment (we're still "friends"...or he didn't even call! Or I was expecting a diamond ring, not a stupid scarf!). :p

I have no special childhood Christmas memory, except for the exchange of crudely gift-wrapped soap, hanky and toothbrush in grade school, Christmas pageants in high school and an occasional gift from my godfather. My childhood memories are not of Christmas gifts and rituals, but of hopes and fears, of a place that had nurtured my dreams, a scene etched forever in all its smells, sounds, tastes, textures and feel. 

When the cold December wind blows, I dream of those childhood memories.  My old creaky bed and ratty old pillow, patterns on my grandmother's housedress, the smell of burning dried leaves, warm bibingka for breakfast, dew drops on grass, hide-and-seek games, warm sand on the beach, ghost stories after dark. The season makes me homesick (even when I’m home!). Maybe I long for a different time, a sweet, innocent time when life was simpler.

Whatever you do and however you celebrate Christmas, remember that Christmas is not a date, it's a state of mind.

What is Christmas? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup may overflow with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace. 

~ Agnes M. Pharo

Posted for Nostalgic Marveling hosted by Rose

Nostalgia: Scary boat ride

For the longest time, I've been planning to take the ferry  from Guadalupe to Escolta via Pasig River.   I would like to see both banks of the river from the boat and take pictures.  But I can only do it on a weekend or on a holiday.  Unfortunately, I am such a couch potato when I am home.  I told Ivar, my 21-year old nephew, of my plan and he wants to go with me.  I hope it would motivate me during the long Christmas weekend.

@ mirandablue

I love riding on boats especially when the waves are a bit rough.  Growing up near the sea, I have always gravitated towards water.  In high school, at least once a week, I had a 10-minute banca ride with a classmate who lived across the river.  We usually had lunch at her house on Thursdays.  It's a 20-minute tricycle ride from school but most of the time, we preferred to ride a canoe to cross the river and walk to their home.  Banca fare was cheaper and we loved the excitement of riding a small canoe.  We usually cross near the mouth of the river where it meets the sea--it's a busy port and oil depot.  But up stream, there were mangrove and nipa forests, an oyster farm  with only a handful of settlers and small communities that settled by the banks of the river.

One afternoon after lunch, E and  I were going back to school and decided to take a banca to cross the river.  E apparently knew the boatman as they exchanged pleasantries as we were boarding.  It was a small boat that can only load up to 5 people including the boatman.  There were only the 3 of us and the boatman started to paddle.  We didn't pay attention and continued with our banter.  A few minutes later, we noticed that we were not crossing the river but going upstream.  E asked the boatman [he was an "older" guy, in his late 20's] why we were not crossing the river.  The boatman murmured (I could hardly hear his voice) that he's taking us sight-seeing.  Oh, alright, I thought--our first class was at 2 pm, we still have time. But I noticed E had gone pale, she was signaling me and could hardly speak.  She was giving me a hand sign that the boatman was crazy!  

What?!

As if on cue, we started talking to the boatman.  I couldn't remember the conversation--we were probably blabbering.  His back was turned and we couldn't see his face.  In an emotionless voice, the boatman said that it's beautiful upstream and there were weird-looking trees and birds.  We begged him to  bring us back to the pier as we didn't want to be late for class.  Then he started singing--and I still remember the song, "Only You"!  E started to cry while telling the boatman that her father would get mad at him if he'd know about this side trip.  But  he didn't seem to hear our pleas..he kept paddling away from the pier. I thought of diving off the canoe but wasn't sure if  I could swim safely to the river bank! The boat was too small that any sudden movement would probably turn it over.  I sat there clutching my notebooks and prayed.

My prayer was answered when we saw another canoe cruising at the far side of the river. We screamed for help, really screamed!  The boat rocked and it caught the attention of the other boatman and he paddled towards our boat.  When the other boatman saw us crying, he told our boatman to bring us to the pier pronto or he would call E's father.  Our boatman looked at us innocently and said that he didn't do anything wrong, he just wanted to take us sight-seeing!

Both E and I were sobbing [with relief] as he paddled quietly to the pier, and in a soft voice said, "Halong kamo" (You take care). The side trip was about 30 minutes and it was the longest 30 minutes of my young life.  E told me that passengers noticed the boatman was acting weird lately---he was heard talking to himself and smiling and staring into space. In those days, when men were acting weird, it's always about unrequited love.  Loco de amor, E and I concluded.  Our young, romantic hearts went out to the boatman and we promised not to tell our parents about the incident.  And we didn't...after all this time.

I wonder what happened to him.

Posted for Nostalgic Marveling

Nostalgia: Habal-habal ride

Lake Kabalin-an @ mirandablue

My third trip to Dumaguete in September 2008 was a memorable visit. Not only because I met new-found relatives I never knew existed in Dumaguete, but because I had the ride of my life on board a habal-habal (a motorcycle that can carry up to 8 passengers) through the rain forest, on steep, twisting and rugged mountain road. The meeting with relatives was great as we traced our roots from our great-grandfather who came from Spain in the late 18th century.

But let me tell you about my death-defying ride to the lakes in the rain forests of Sibulan. 

To reach Sibulan, we took a 25-minute ride in a multicab (a modern version of jeepney) from Dumaguete. When we asked some townfolk how to reach the lakes, we were advised to rent a habal-habal because the road was only accessible to motorbikes and 4-wheel drive. There were 3 of us and nobody was willing to sit on the gas tank in front of the driver so we needed to rent 2 habal-habal. The motorbike drivers were charging P600 for each bike to bring us to the lakes and back to town. I used my rustic haggling ability and a bit of my charm until we all agreed at P800 for 2 bikes. 

Borrowed from http://ylai.tumblr.com

Getting to the lakes was an unforgettable experience. Sibulan is a coastal town and the tip of Cebu is seen across Tanon Strait. From the sea breezes at the start of the ride, the road to the lakes took us to the rain forest filled with scents of trees and sweet mountain air. But the steep, rugged road as well as the elevated slopes were scary at the same time exhilarating. My cousin, Franzia, covered her eyes when the slopes became too steep and our motorbikes seemed to have lost control, while April held on to their driver with both arms and legs. Their poor driver was almost mangled from their grasps. It was a hilarious sight! My driver, Edison, assured me that he’s been driving through these roads for the past 14 years---it still didn't reassure me.  At some point, I had to beg Edison to stop so I could walk because it was too bumpy and  scary.

Riding a motorbike is not my favorite thing. Motorbikes make me extremely nervous. And riding a habal-habal in a rugged terrain with no helmet, no protective clothing, you’d never believe the bloody scenes running through my mind. But I reasoned with myself that anticipating an accident was pointless, so I prayed harder and steered my mind to enjoy the lush mountain ranges, feasted my eyes at the unobstructed view of the sea, and inhaled the fresh air.  

After a 45-minute bone jarring ride (that felt like 3 hours), we finally reached Kabalin-an, a crater lake. It’s a scenic little lake, very calm and the water reflected the green mountains around it. At the center were trees that have sprouted from the bottom of the lake, giving it a mystical feel. Enchanting Lake Kabalin-an was a peaceful haven after our arduous bike ride...a perfect place to catch our breath.

Posted for Nostalgic Marveling

Nostalgia: Minors in New York

Central Park                     @ mirandablue

My first visit to New York City a few months after 9/11 was overwhelming.  There was so much to see and experience in such a short trip. Stringent security procedures were implemented, and people secretly eyed each other with curiosity (especially if you're an alien).  You couldn't miss the vibrancy of American travelers as they rushed in airports, but there was an underlying tension under the "business as usual" attitude. 


After meetings in San Francisco and Dallas, I flew to NYC and it was purely for pleasure.  I wanted to see Ground Zero, at the same time, looking forward to experience New York City in springtime.  But when I arrived, it was at the beginning of spring.  It was wet and cold and the streets were covered by a muddy slush of melted snow.  The trees were bare still and the sky was downcast.  I was miserable!

I stayed with a friend in Brooklyn and she wanted to show me around.  But I could barely get up in the morning---my friend had to drag me to the shower and out of the apartment so I could see the city.  All I wanted to do was stay in bed and sleep all day long.  Itchy pimples erupted on my face and I never felt so ugly in my life!

Ground Zero                                                                      @ mirandablue

One of my dreams was to see a show in Broadway.  To cheer me up, my friend bought us tickets to see "Mama Mia" in Broadway. After the show, it was so cold outside I needed a shot to warm me up.  We went into a bar and ordered whiskey.  But the bartender looked at us like we were aliens [from outer space] or we had grown a mustache.  My heart skipped a beat when he asked for an ID---do I look like a terrorist?   I gave him a look of outraged disbelief. Angry thoughts were running round my mind---I wondered if this was some kind of racial profiling.  I was about to express my indignation when the bartender said that it's illegal to serve alcohol to minors. "Huwattttt? We're not minors!" we protested.  Then we realized how funny it was!  We stopped being minors for the past 20 years or so.  In fact, back home, we're fondly called old maids!  We were laughing so hard while I was showing the bartender my passport.

He chuckled as soon as he opened my passport and told us that he worked in Hawaii and got in trouble because he didn't check the IDs of some Asian girls.

A group of [Caucasian] men behind us remarked how lucky Asian girls are---that we look perpetually young!  We said a charming "Thank you" and gave the bartender a generous tip.


Oh, remembering the bar incident still tickles the tip of my nose.:p

Posted for Nostalgic Marveling

Nostalgia: Time travel

@ mirandablue

When I am having a bad hair day, one look at this picture and I chuckle.  I love this frozen psychedelic time travel that takes one back to the era of the beat generation.  Rest assured this group does not belong to a cult espousing free love and alternative states of consciousness.These hippies were not high on anything except hair-spray.  The flower power get-up was the theme of our company's Christmas party in 1999.  


You'd be surprised how difficult it was to look this cheap hip. It was a team effort, really. Tita M and Mel were in charge of charol bags---I don't know where they got the bags and outfits, while I scoured every beauty parlor in Guadalupe looking for wigs, begging a few Miss Gay contestants to lend me their wigs for a night. Didn't know about ukay-ukay back in the day, and I had no idea where to get retro outfits. (If only my mother kept her 60's wardrobe complete with polka-dot vinyl bags and winklepicker shoes...sigh!)


Well, it took me 3 weekends to finally find the perfect orange outfit at Corso Marconi.  To complete the look, I wore an afro wig [that itched like crazy] and a pair of clogs that felt like I was pulling a whole trunk of acacia under my feet.  Varicose veins screaming in protest but I pulled it off like a true-blue hippie fashionista.  By 3 am, we were all dancing barefoot sans wigs.  It was liberating!


We were admiring each other's brilliant creations [sic] when somebody asked, "What happened to Lola Cristy? Why is she wearing a curtain?"  Obviously, Lola C is the one in florals, a testimony that she grew up in the 60's.


This was one Christmas party that I will always remember---a fun, delightful night among friends and colleagues. It was a poolside party held on the roof top of a building in Ortigas Center.  Marte and I won the "star of the night" award with a cash prize of one thousand pesos each.  It didn't cover the cost of my outfit but at least I have this photo to look at when my spirit needs a lift.  

Posted for Nostalgic Marveling hosted by Rose

Nostalgia: Scents from childhood

@ mirandablue

Recently, I stayed at a friend's ancestral home in Laguna.  The house has been empty for quite a while as most of the family members are living abroad, and those who are in Manila are too busy to make the trip.  A caretaker does the cleaning and the upkeep of the house.  The house, with its echoes, reminded me of my grandmother's house in Negros.  

I stayed in the guest room.  Originally, this was the room of my friend's aunt--a single woman who died in this room from old age.  My friend was probably expecting me get spooked--he didn't realize how I love a little bit of mystery and spookiness.  But I wasn't able to sleep right away on the first night--I kept thinking about an old, frail lady dying on the same bed I was lying on (although the bed doesn't look that old!:p).  And with morbid fascination, I started to conjure images of my own death.

Instead of counting sheep, I decided to explore the room.  This beautiful antique armoire caught my fancy.  The carvings are fine and delicate--a family heirloom, I suppose.  When I opened it, the room was flooded with the scent of napthalene (or moth) balls---the scent from childhood (as my friend would later say, the odor of coffin lining :P).  As we all know, smell evokes memory.  The scent of moth balls comforted me somehow---it triggered memories of crisp blankets and pillow cases, fluffy towels and lacy curtains, of my grandmother's room with her not-so-hidden treasures of chocolates, fancy dresses and coins.

I was still dreaming the next morning when I was called for breakfast.


What scents trigger your childhood memories?

Posted for Nostalgic Marveling

Nostalgia: Remembering Tatay

It has been thirty-one years since my father passed away---31 years today.  I like to remember my father's life, not his death.  He was 38 years old when he died...short as it may seem, but I believe he lived a full, vibrant life.

He was named after Jacob's first-born with Leah, Reuben.   Reuben was the apple of my grandfather's eye, a headstrong, playful boy and his exploits were legendary.   He dropped out of high school at 14, became a wanderer and earned notoriety by sheer guts and smarts. When he met and married my mother at 23, his new sister-in-law saw him as a good-for-nothing thug, and she advised my mom to plant lampunaya (a medicinal plant that relieves swelling) in her garden.

After I was born, my father returned to school to finish high school.  He went  on to college and was in the debate team.  Everybody was surprised that he had brains, especially my aunt (my mother's sister). A few months before graduation, 5 henchmen of a local politico attempted to murder him  in a rumble that is still being talked about by some old-timers.  How he survived numerous stab wounds, nobody knows.  There was even a myth about how he survived the deadly assault.  He was in a critical condition and the doctors were not hopeful when they talked to my grandfather. My father lost a lot blood, there were punctures in his liver, defensive wounds damaged his arms.  The doctors believed that ultimately, it was my father's will to live that saved him.  He was in the hospital for a month.

There was muscular atrophy on his arms caused by the injuries.  The nuns gave him a guitar and he played everyday.  It probably helped stop the deterioration of his arm muscles.  In the hospital, he reviewed for his exams and graduated cum laude.


He joined the Integrated National Police in the early 70's, and took Criminology subjects at night.  I was too young to care about my father's job but I remember not seeing him for days when he was on a "mission".  The strays and strange characters he brought home fascinated and exposed us to the ugly side of life.  How security measures were drilled into us about suspicious-looking strangers around the neighborhood, or at school.  Our home was always filled with his friends, some would stay for weeks.  His friends cooked non-stop, one taught me card tricks, one was showing us magic tricks, one was showing us the tattoos all over his body and the story behind every tattoo.  Men with guns would come looking for Tatay, and they would hug each other like long-lost brothers.  Looking back, I never saw my father in a police uniform until he was inside the coffin.

My father loved learning---evident in his love for books. He encouraged us to read, read, read anything.  He made sure that we had enough reading materials at home.  Aside from the books in the bookshelves,  he subscribed to Readers' Digest, Time and Newsweek, the daily broadsheet.  He also brought home illustrated classics which we devoured with enthusiasm--illustrated Greek mythology, Shakespeare, Robinson Crusoe, The Scarlet Letter, A Tale of Two Cities, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Lord of the Flies, Crime and Punishment were some of my favorite.

"I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." ~ Jorge Luis Borges

A health-conscious guy, he was into physical fitness and healthy diet.  Quite ironic for somebody who had a relationship with booze.  But he was a man who could hold his liquor well---we never saw him inebriated. He lifted weights---my sister and I were the weights for his bicep curls.

Tatay was in no way perfect.  He had girls alright--and he would always ruffle my hair or kiss the top of my head when I threatened to go on dates as soon as I graduate from high school (he said I was trouble waiting to happen :p). My sister and I would inspect his wallet and interrogate him about where he'd been. He was passionate about his fighting cocks and spent money on the roosters' food and vitamins.  Generous to a fault, he would give the last money from his pocket to help out someone which drove my mother up the wall.  He made enemies because he didn't like to be anybody's puppet.  He was even-tempered but I saw him lost his temper with my sister who had bad temper tantrums, and when he found out that my brother cut class and lost his school ID in a movie theater.

My most vivid memories of my father were the times he would wake us up as soon as he comes home--even at 3 o'clock in the morning. He would tease us, tickle us until we're fully awake. Sometimes, he would bring home siopao and we'd all be eating siopao early in the morning.  In hindsight, he was probably making up for the times he was not home.

Story-telling was huge in our family when we were kids.  Tatay believed that TV makes people dumb so after dinner, he entertained us with stories. We never got tired of listening to stories about the court-room adventures of Clarence Darrow, John Dillinger, Django, the coffin-dragging gunslinger, the rescue-mission in Entebbe, "The Godfather", Al Capone, "A Bridge Too Far", "The Eagle Has Landed", "The Bridge on the River Kwai", among others. I would cry at the end of John Dillinger's story, and he would whistle the tune of "Red River Valley" to make me smile.  He told us anecdotes from his childhood, about aswangs and supernatural encounters.

Music was something we all enjoyed with our father.  One of his favorite guitar pieces was "Forbidden Games". I was the family performer, and he would ask me to sing "Evergreen"; my sister and I would also sing together, even Nanay would sing along.  Friends and neighbors also joined in our impromptu jam sessions.  I could still hear Patrick's cool and soothing rendition of "Ebb Tide", and Chino crooning "For the Good Times".

My father was a tough guy who could dance.  At 10, he taught me how to boogie, and I kept stepping on this toes.  He was a kind of father who wanted to know everything--about my crushes, my favorite subjects in school, what I was reading or drawing, who my History teacher is. And he would "dream" out loud of the day when a boy would court me, or serenade me at home!  I was about 13 when he had somebody fetched me from a workshop and met me for lunch with 5 of my classmates.  It was the first time my classmates and I were in a "real" restaurant with a menu and we could order anything we want. We couldn't stop talking about it later in school and I was shocked to learn that my classmates had a crush on him and thought he's so cool!  All I could say was---"He's sooo old!"

A dream of becoming a lawyer got Tatay into law school. He was on his third year when he got sick with a deadly type of infection and died nine days later after three surgeries.  My father had cheated death a couple of times in the past  that when it finally came, it was a blessing.

Thirty-one years after his death, and the stories and memories of him live on.

I still think of him as the most important man in my life. I remember his laughter when I am celebrating life's small victories.  His strength becomes my strength when I am swimming against the tides.  His love inspires me to be a better version of myself.

"For what is to die, but to free life from its restless tides and seek God unencumbered."  ~ Kahlil Gibran

This post is linked to http://meetourclan.com hosted by Rose at Nostalgic Marveling

Nostalgia: For my brother, Brian

Today is my brother's birthday, so let me tell you something about him.  Without his knowledge, of course.  Brian was born 23 days before my first birthday. His arrival filled the vacuum of our grandmother's longing to spoil a grandson. We are the first two grandchildren on both our parents' families.  I was everybody's pet but Brian was our Lola's bon enfant, her Baby Bon.  Truly, I cringe at the thought of Brian as Baby Bon!  But yes, Lola had only eyes for him.  After dinner, you would find them together sitting on the floor playing bug-oy, a game of shells, or blowing bubbles in the air, playing taksi (tatsing), or simply staying at grandmother's kitchen, keeping her company.  Of course, Lola disciplined him when he was naughty.  She spanked him with a strip of coconut leaf we call lukay that was more ticklish than painful.

From left:  moi at 6, Brian at 5, Zhallyn, 3 and 1-year old Brix

Brian slept beside our grandmother since he was a young boy.  We all slept under a huge mosquito net but nobody could sleep beside Lola but Brian.  We would inhale Lola's baby powder scent, play with the loose skin under her arms, listen to her stories, but when it's time to sleep, the pillow beside her was reserved for Baby Bon.  

When Brian graduated from grade school, while his name was being called and he was walking towards the stage, Lola was looking at him with such love and pride that the emcee announced "Indi n'yo na paglantawa ang ma-graduate, lantawa na lang ang iya Lola!" (Don't look at the graduate, just look at his grandmother.)

He walked with a slight bounce that kept me in gales of laughter when we were kids. (Nowadays, the "bounce" is one of the similarities that distinguishes us as siblings.)  I was eating chocolates one afternoon when I saw Brian helping our uncle lift a bench, moving it to the far corner of the room.  I started to giggle when I noticed his bouncing behind, and choked on chocolates that almost landed me in the emergency room. 

Because of his closeness to our grandmother, he seldom stayed home and spent most of his time at our grandparent's house.  He was about 9 or 10 when we noticed how spoiled he was, acting like an unico hijo that he's not!  To get our father's attention, I told him that I saw Brian "swaying" (true!), and that he might be gay (sorry, bro!). Faster than you can say que  barbaridad, our father made sure that Brian stayed with us rather than with our grandmother. His first night at home was hilarious.  He couldn't sleep and was crying softly, afraid that our parents would hear him.  Around 3 am, mother found him sitting  on his bed, hugging his pillow, crying and asking for Lola. He had trouble sleeping night after night, and to soothe him, our grandmother sent him one of her used house-dresses that became his security blanket.

Naturally, we didn't let him forget the crying incident!  He had quite a temper and to get his goat, we called him by our Lola's pet name, Baby Bon.  And to our delight, it drove him to fits of anger!  At the end of the rumble, we all got grounded.

X'mas morning, 2009

Brian, our Lola's favorite apo, the most good-looking nephew according to our aunts, a walking encyclopedia according to his first-born, my defender against bullies at the playground, teachers' pet, hot-tempered, opinionated, a great cook, frog-killer, with a nose we can only envy, a closet sentimentalist, history buff, my partner-in-crime, is all these and more.  If only he would step out of his comfort zone and start over.

Happy Birthday, Bry!

Posted for Nostalgic Marveling at http://meetourclan.com

Full moon and other stories

I have been absent from Nostalgic Marveling for a while.   Busy with work, familial obligations and what-not, I haven't had some quiet time for nostalgia.  Until I looked up while walking to 7-Eleven this evening and noticed the full moon.  La bella luna!

The full moon is always a marvel. I never tire of full moons and have always felt a connection when I see the moon rise above the trees.  Not because of an urge  to take off leaving the lower-half of me behind, or because my friends call me "Loony", nor I wail arias of grief during the full moon.  Incidentally, my father aptly named me Luna,  the moon.  My lunacy is entirely a different story.

Growing up in a rural area, watching the full moon with my grandmother was one of the highlights of my childhood. Sitting on the bamboo bench under the old jackfruit tree, we would listen to the sounds of crickets, of jubilant frogs singing a cappella, and a distant call of birds at twilight---a poignant moon rising beyond the cornfield, beyond the bamboo trees. It’s an indelible memory of richness and color and song.

There was once a huge sineguelas tree in my grandmother’s yard. Its bare branches create gnarled shadows during full moon---the set of my childhood horror fantasies.  There was no electricity in those days, and we entertained ourselves by playing hide and seek at the beach during full moon.  The ocean shimmered under the moonlight and my best buddy and I would lay on the sand and share our girlish dreams, or we're on our stomachs,  crawling over vines on the sand dunes with ants biting our faces as we spied on lovers whispering sweet nothings by the seawall.  No wonder full moons are traditionally linked to insanity, crime, fertility as well as vampires, werewolves and aswangs, not to mention peeping Janes!

One full moon many summers ago, my [female] cousins and I went skinny-dipping in Guimaras.  We locked our cousin, Ian, inside the cabana and ran naked to the water, then prayed no fishermen saw us.  The notion that some people act strangely during a full moon has been around in every culture for ages…they call it the “full moon effect”.   In Hitchcock's films, Stephen King's novels, there is always an element of the full moon effect.

True romantics, like my Uncle M, invoke moon deities hoping to mystify the object of their desire--my uncle even talked to the man in the moon.  The full moon has an enduring place in our lives.  I am inspired by it, some are afraid of it.  I am glad these days my lunacy does not seek new levels when the moon is full, I guess I am crazy enough already.   But I must admit that sleeplessness tend to increase during the full moon---my flock of sheep will be working overtime.

And you may ask, with all the goings on and distractions of living in the city, why look up? Well, because sometimes we are rewarded with a spectacular natural event, like a hauntingly beautiful full moon.

P.S.  The moon photo is borrowed.

This post is linked to Nostalgic Marveling

Rainy afternoon

My cable connection is down.  I called the cable service provider, even pretended to be pissed, but truth be told, I don't really mind.  It would save me from being a couch potato for a day.  So what to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon?  The first thing that came to mind was to take a nap.   My bed  beckons!

It made me smile and remember the time when a nap was the last thing on my mind.  As a child, I hated naps---the afternoon naps imposed by my mother were always met with much resistance.  I would invent a thousand and one reasons not to take a nap.  I felt that it interfered with the fun things I'd rather be doing.   Especially on rainy afternoons when all I wanted to do was to find a giant puddle to play in and dance in the rain.

Photo from:  http://todayillsay.wordpress.com

My mother did not appreciate my idea of fun---she was probably thinking of the muddy laundry. Thank God for grandmothers! My grandmother, bless her benevolent soul, allowed us to play in the rain, would even point us to the downspout to take a shower.  My brothers and cousins played ball on the muddy trail and we would slide on wet grass using  a thick layer of banana trunk down to a small pond.

Sometimes, I would borrow my uncle's bike and ride around in the rain.  The constant rain falling down on me and the splashes from puddles and mud made the ride more exciting.  The muddier, the merrier.  And when nobody's looking, I would dance to My Sharona playing in my head.  

We would go home shivering, lips purple and fingers wrinkled from the cold.  Our lola would dry us off one by one with thick,  sun-scented towel and feed us with something warm like champorado or ginataan.  Ah, life's simple pleasures!

Do you remember the last time you danced in the rain?

Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain.

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Leftovers

In early June, U and I made a pact that whoever gains more weight after  July will pay for our body massage at The Spa in Bonifacio High Street. We’re weighing in  on Saturday and I’m getting nervous! I don't think I could back out from a birthday dinner tomorrow night, and I’m gaining weight as I type this!

I've been eating nothing but salad, soup, a small portion of pasta or half a sandwich for lunch everyday and I still feel stuffed! I guess as we grow older, it isn’t so much about achieving our ideal weight but eating our favorite food without guilt! I skipped dinner last night, but at 2 am, I opened the fridge---another dead-of-the-night dining extravaganza for me! I ate the leftover coleslaw salad, some queso de bola…I reached for the leftover  cake but stopped myself. I enjoy my late night/early morning binges…everybody’s asleep except me, eating without rules. I like the quiet and comfort of my thoughts. I thought of leftovers, in their less visible form are called memories---stored in the fridge of the mind or in the cupboard of the heart.

A few of mine came up…hearty laughter shared with friends over pizza, the last embers of a bonfire by the beach, the long glance of love (from someone who used to love me) from across a room full of people, a long lost melody of a childhood song---Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen and down the mountain side, that brought me to sleep in my father’s arms, and a chunk of poetry I learned in high school---Tiger, tiger burning bright/in the forests of the night/what immortal hand or eye/dared frame thy fearful symmetry?

I am not often aware that I am happy. But I often remember that I have been happy. Especially on nights when I sit eating leftovers, wrapped in an invisible patchwork quilt made of the best moments I had. I thought of you---where were you at this moment? Or some other people who might be at the same place in their kitchen at this very moment, hungering as I hunger, wondering as I wonder. King Solomon must also had been suffering from a sleep disorder and got hungry at 2 am when he wrote---'Strengthen me with raisins, refresh me with apples, for I am faint with love...'

 Posted for Nostalgic Marveling hosted by Rose

Deja Brew

Black as the devil, Hot as hell, Pure as an angel, Sweet as love.  

Surrendering to coffee is one of my life's pleasures, and sharing a cup of coffee with a friend is happiness tasted and time well spent.  Sometimes a cup of coffee is more than just a cup of coffee.  Its familiar taste and aroma can take one back to childhood, to a place of comfort where a mother, an aunt or a grandparent served up kindness along with a rich, steaming mug of barako.

I always believe that as a baby, I was bottle-fed not with milk but with coffee.  Coffee molecules stir up my blood, stimulate my mind, and warm my heart.

Mornings would be unbearable without a cup of joe.  It is the lifeblood of nerds and book-lovers, my own antidote  for a hangover.  What's overtime without endless cups of coffee being refilled hour after hour after hour?  Office and showbiz gossips are humdrum without the brew being shared at the pantry.  This beverage keeps the workforce complacent on their journey to work despite the traffic and bad roads.

I remember the air of quiet anticipation in my grandmother's kitchen when I was a kid.  Native coffee or barako smelled like freshly ground heaven and was brewing 24/7...aunts and uncles and their friends were having coffee at all times.  Passionate debates took place at my grandmother's dining table over mugs of hot, black coffee.  Plans were concocted, ideas expounded, tempers cooled and fears were calmed.  I loved the fever of it all---voices rose and dissolved into sounds of hot steaming liquid being drank, all punctuated by hums of conversations.

Lola served us kids with a lighter brew and  always with a warning that strong coffee would stunt our growth.  My brothers and younger cousins would add steamed rice into their coffee while my sister and I would dip pandesal into our mugs.  The warmth and essence of my Lola's espresso was one of my childhood's flavorful indulgences.

my favorite coffee shop at Bonifacio High Street

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Nostalgia at Kissing Rocks

 

There is nothing special about this beach, in fact, I've never been here for almost two decades. But that weekend in  September after we buried our grandmother, my siblings, cousins and I, had a sentimental yearning to see the beach of our childhood. This is where we frolicked during summer vacations, learned how to swim, chased hermit crabs, watched sunsets and dreamed of the world beyond Guimaras Strait. This stretch of seashore was our playground, from the Kissing Rocks to this rustic resort.  On those rocks, our grandmother taught us how to harvest and eat freshly shucked rock oysters. 

Nothing has changed around here except for a wider beach erosion, and the  nipa huts got older. The simplicity of life here is achingly sweet and familiar.

 

Posted for http://meetourclan.com hosted by Rose

Memories from the big chair

Old houses remind me of my childhood at my grandmother’s house in Valladolid. It was an old Spanish house with a huge ballroom, big rooms with antique chairs, and wide windows overlooking the highway. I remember the echoes in that old house...the lingering traces of laughter, of my aunts playing mahjong on weekends, of my grandmother singing Besame Mucho, of fading footsteps, and the chatter of women-weavers on the ground floor.

"Hablon are hand-loomed textiles woven by women in Western Visayas who have the tradition of weaving for more than 150 years. Hablon fabrics come in muted colors and sometimes combined by silk threads."

The hablon-weavers were headed by an old woman, Tia Tonia, who fascinated me and my sister because of her bright red lips and black teeth. We watched Tia Tonia prepare her nganga (mama in Ilonggo), the ingredients of which were kept in a knotted hanky hidden under her chemise, delighted by the ritual. One afternoon, she taught me and my sister how to put together just the right amount of bonga (fruit of areca palm, a green-colored nut), buyo (leaf of betel piper vine) and a dash of lime to chew on and produce a blood-red juice that we gleefully spit out---checking who has the most vivid red spittle. Sharing betel chew with the women after the afternoon siesta was our bonding time---my sister and I felt like grown-ups!

...aside from assuaging hunger pangs, betel-chewing is believed to strengthen the teeth and gums. The Spanish chronicler Pigafetta, describing the customs of the islanders in the 16th century , wrote that “it is very cooling to the heart, and if they ceased to use it they would die.” The betel nut tradition once bound together Filipinos from the Cordilleras to Sulu. ~ from "Hidden in the Heart"

Everyday, there was a fiesta atmosphere in that house, with relatives and friends coming and going, guests at every meal. As a child of 8, there was always some corner in that house to be explored, to hideout and build my kingdoms of make-believe. The front staircase was my favorite place--- a grand 13-step staircase. Sitting on the steps, I would watch people come and go and listen to snippets of conversations; or listen in to afternoon soaps from a transistor radio the weavers were avidly tuned in to.

The old house was a landmark that people would tell the bus driver where to get off. “Sa balay daku lang,” the conductor would yell at the driver, and the bus stopped in front of my grandmother’s house. Balay daku means big house. I would climb in my grandmother’s big chair by the window, count the buses that stopped by, and sometimes wave at some stranger who smiled from the bus window.

I miss that old house, with its cracked paint of yellow and green, latticed windows, and creaking doors. It was torn down when I was 13.  When I see an old house, I always wonder about its history...the people who lived there and those who left their scent and footprints.

Posted for Nostalgic Marveling

Miranda: Where it all began

For my first Nostalgic Marveling, it is only appropriate that I start from where it all began.  When I  saw this photo in my archives, childhood memories came rushing in.  This is where I was born and lived until I was 11.  I went to a public elementary school here, about 200 meters away from my grandfather's house. And wherever I am in the world, I think of this place when I think of home.

I started school when I was four. I do not think it was because I was especially smart. But I think my parents wanted me out of the house because I asked too many weird questions. I remember being obsessed with the indentation between our nose and our lips. I overheard an aunt (my mother's cousin) saying that people with deeper indentation are tamawo---fairies who inhabit anthills, they pretend to be humans, attend church but leave before the benediction. So I examined everybody I see at home, in the bus, at the market, church, even the neighbors. And I would ask my elders if they agree that the fish vendor or the tricycle driver is a tamawo---his or her indentation is much deeper than ours.

Kindergarten school was my whole world. I loved my school uniform---a blue jumper and pink blouse with puffed sleeves, lace socks and black shiny shoes. My bag was full of crayons, papers and pencils and ten pieces of pandesal with my favorite palaman--peanut butter or Milkmaid condensed milk. My grandfather didn’t want me to have pocket money to school, worried that I might cross the street to buy something and be run over by a bus. I savored each day I spent in kindergarten…it was my little personal launch to a life of knowing, of discovery.

From then on, I discovered books, comic books, magazines. I guess my siblings and I were lucky because we grew up in a house full of books and reading materials, where people debate and argue about anything and everything at the dinner table. My aunts and uncles are all opinionated, my grandfather was the ringleader. And even kids were encouraged to join their debates. The only quiet member of the family  was my grandmother (she passed away last year at 96). A younger aunt would ask something about her physics assignment and everybody would tease her about how low her IQ is.

Then my grandfather would launch into his speech that we keep our interest in everything; that we’d be curious about how the natural world works and even if we know that a mystery may not be solved in our lifetime, we’ll try anyway. I don’t remember my grandfather's exact words but he was always passionate about not being afraid to walk your mind…that it is like the universe; it does not walk into a limit but it creates the space as it expands. He reminded all of us at the dinner table that we were all born with talents but what we do with them is yet undefined and will be our entire life’s work. He demanded that we seek where and how we can be most creative. To work hard and set our sights high but pay attention to the little things.

I learned from these debates that intelligence is only liberating if it frees yourself and perhaps others, of ignorance. If not, then it is just overbearing nuisance and therefore a curse, not just to me but to others. He wanted his children and grandchildren to work from a desire to discover and imagine how nature, in its many aspects, does its job of creation---one of the greatest pleasures of being human---worthy of any pursuit spanning entire lifetimes…or something to that effect.  Now, I think all these maybe were a combination of my grandfather's, Charles Darwin, Albert Einstein and Richard Feynman’s wisdom.

We were all in awe of my grandfather (we called him Lolo Toñing, he passed away more than 20 years ago). People admired as well as feared him. He had a volatile temper and didn’t mince his words for the sake of anybody’s feelings. We called him Bonifacio behind his back because he always carried a bolo knife around. I realized when I was a bit older that he used it in tending to his crops; he turned into a farmer of some sorts after his retirement. He was a voracious reader, a coffee drinker, a smoker and a great storyteller to us kids…of his adventures, black magic, World War II and his encounters with Japanese soldiers, among others. One unforgettable story was the mandragona tree in Spain---where you take its deepest roots, then burn it at a crossroad where blood was once shed, kill a baby in the middle of that crossroad and you will see the devil face to face, even talk to him. Not exactly a bedtime story for kids…but I enjoyed it. I loved the feeling of my little heart thundering under my chest.

Lolo Toñing would sit in his bamboo lounge chair after dinner and  all of us kids would sit by the floor. Stories about aswangs (a generic term to all types of mythological creatures, ghost, witches, shape shifters, monsters) maranhig, santermo (St. Elmo's fire) were our nightly entertainment before going to bed---we had no TV. He told us about the kapre, a big black hairy creature smoking a huge cigar, and living in the old kapok tree at the backyard. During the full moon, I would nervously peep from the window hoping to see the kapre. I comforted myself and thought of it as our night guard, watching over us while we sleep.

One uncle entertained us with stories about Count Dracula,  about Indians and cowboys complete with sound effects and props from our grandmother's kitchen.  Another uncle taught us how to make interesting shadows on the wall using our hands, showed us how to eat oysters, and draw gunslingers.  I learned about constellations from my grandmother.  She also taught me my first big word when I was about 5---Diphtheria, after she saw me and my brother forcing a cat to look at the mid-day sun.

Things weren't perfect, not by far.  And sometimes nostalgia makes me sad.  But I believe that the stories from childhood set my sights on knowing and discovering so much more. I’m always curious and interested…haven’t lost the sense of wonder. I embrace the larger world with the march of my own mind.

"Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life's coming attractions."

~ Albert Einstein

Posted for Nostalgic Marveling