Mornings

Lately, I've been going to work at odd hours, usually late in the morning, just before lunch. This was exactly how I was more than 10 years ago, back when I was in college. Senior year was such a great period for me and my blockmates -- we only had to go to school thrice a week, late in the morning until 4pm. I had the luxury of sleeping late and waking up when the sun is shining brightly. I'd wake up and linger in bed then go to my parent's room to watch t.v. I remember watching Roseanne at 9:00 am then go downstairs for breakfast. After that, I'd go to my sister's room, who by that time would be in school, harrass my baby nephew and watch Tiny Planet with him. I relished those precious hours with G. We'd sing-along to the Tiny Planet theme and answer his questions on why the couch flies, why they have hair all over their body and why they don't talk the way we do. We'd watch the show with him on my lap, sitting on their low bed and me in utter bliss sniffing his hair. I loved how G.'s head smelled of milk and creamy chocolates.

After harrassing my baby nephew, I'd take a bath and get dropped off to school where I'd attend a class or two. If me and my friends feel like it, we'd play hooky and just hang out in the cafeteria talking about anything and everything, fueled by Coke and Fiesta Ham sandwiches with the thick Goldilocks cream bread.

World Youth Day 1995

You see, I'm not really a religious person, but in 1995, I found myself as one of the 5 million youths who took part in World Youth day.

Since my sister was part of the Kostka School delegation, Evette and I decided to go, not as formal delegates of MC, but as tag-alongs of the Kostka folks. I think it was more because my parents allowed me to spend a night away from home rather than being fully devoted to the Catholic faith -- selfish, I know.

So Evette and I met up and joined W. and J. and the rest of the Kostka folks where we walked for sooo long and so far to get to Luneta where they stationed themselves. Prior to the big mass celebrated by Pope John Paul II, we hung out and flirted and chatted with Kostka boys, secretly used one of my sister's classmate's binoculars to watch the stars and just generally lazed about on the grass under the stars with dirty hands and full bladders (nobody dared to use the facilities).

When the Pope's caravan started rolling up to Quirino grandstand, we rushed to where the mass was supposed to be and wormed our way to the front of an enormous, 5-million strong crowd. We stood beside some Canadians, one of which I chatted up. Her name's Christine and she mentioned that it was her 2nd time to see the Pope in person. When the Pope appeared onstage, I was completely overwhelmed. It was as if he was made of pure sunlight and his aura was almost tangible. His presence enveloped me with such warmth that I couldn't help but tear up. Christine saw me tearing up and she put her arms around me and said that she cried too when she first saw him.

It was a very strange, indescribable and profound experience, being affected by a complete stranger like that. To date, I have not encountered anybody else who had the same charisma as Pope John Paul II.

Star Trek

I was not and still not a fan, but watching the Star Trek movie flipped that switch in my mind that turned on the light on most of my childhood memories. There's this scene in the movie where Leonard Nimoy, looking really aged and slightly withered, meets the young Kirk. They talk a bit and before Kirk left, Spock looks at him and said very gently, very matter-of-factly, very Spock-ly, "Live long and prosper" with the Vulcan handsign. I couldn't help it, everything came rushing back, just like how it is in the movies where one flashback after another fires in your mind. Memories of my childhood in M.H. del Pilar washed over me like a great flood, too much that I couldn't help but tear up. I remember watching Star Trek in my Nanay's TV room, a space just outside her bedroom that opened to the veranda with heavy swinging glass doors. I'd marvel at the show on her enormous colored console TV that looks like a sideboard and after watching, you could draw the cabinet together and hide the TV screen. I remember doing the Vulcan handsign so easily while my sisters and other playmates would struggle keeping their middle and ring fingers separate. I thought then that if I was able to do that easily, then I must be Vulcan. I really, seriously thought that I came from a distant planet and I had to keep it to myself, otherwise, I'd be sent back. I gather that was the time that I thought that there's something special in me that's struggling to get out at the right time. I remember reading an article about Leonard Nimoy in one of my Dad's Reader's Digest from the 60s or 70s -- I forget, and getting endeared with him. I remember seeing ads of him in the other Digests hawking men's socks or something like that. It just made me sad seeing him now looking so wrinkled and frail because I know, somewhere deep inside me, my childhood memories will also wither and become a faint impression of its former greatness.

Weekends

Lately, P. and I have been spending weekends just lazing around and watching t.v. or surfing the net. I find myself looking for stuff to do and just wandering about aimlessly. I miss the weekends that I've had when I was younger, when streets were safe places to play in and when there were still interesting places to visit, aside from the mall.

When my siblings and I were kids, we were really scrawny and I think that our skinny-ness worried our parents a little. We had to drink 3 different types of vitamin syrup, all in the hopes of putting some more meat in our bodies. One of the tactics our parents employed was to send us off to our maternal grandparents' house in a nearby enclosed subdivision, as our family house is situated by a minor passage road and surrounded by all sort of houses with kids who'll play with us in the streets all day. Weekends at our grandparents' house would always be such a treat -- our Lolo Papa and Mama had a mini-grocery store in the local market and food and goodies were always on hand at their house. They had this sprawling house in Pasig, in which the backyard would lead to a busy highway behind the subdivision and the front gate would open to a sedate and very, very quiet neighborhood.

We would play all day with our cousins in the confines of the front yard and climb the guava trees that led to the first floor roof by the 2nd floor bedroom windows. We'd sneak into the bodega, a cavernous storage area filled with sacks of rice, boxes of Maggi Rich Mami noodles, cans of Milo and other grocery items. My siblings, cousins and I all loved snacking on Milo fudge; a little mountain of Milo sprinkled with just enough water to make the malted chocolate goodness clump together to make a gooey, sticky fudgy but delicious mess. Mama would lightly chide us for getting one small can each, but Lolo Papa, as what any grandfather would do, would let us enjoy our treats and condone the bodega raid.

Mornings would be a quiet affair, as Mama and Lolo Papa would wake up early to tend to the store, so it would be our aunt who'd fix breakfast for all of us kids, usually bowls of Quaker Oatmeal with milk. After breakfast, we'd rush off into the back garden and play by the grotto, turning on the water jet connected to a concrete statue of a little boy peeing. With the water jet turned on, a stream of water flows out of the statue's teeny penis and goes straight into the koi pond beneath it. We'd bravely step on the raised circular stones (about 3 stones) above the pond water to examine the alcove that holds a statue of Mary. How a koi pond, a naked peeing boy statue and a Mary icon go together is beyond me. I guess design was weird back then.

It would be by lunchtime that our grandparents would come home from the store and Mama would cook a simple meal for us. She'd force us to take a nap, which we grudgingly did, and wake up to a hearty merienda (mid-afternoon snack). Merienda was an elaborate affair -- a big pot of Guinataang Bilo-bilo (thick, sweet soup of coconut milk with chunks of sweet potato, ube, plantains and glutinous rice balls), each bilo-bilo (glutinous rice balls) handrolled by Mama; Sago't Gulaman still warm from the just-made pandan arnibal (sugar syrup infused with pandan and banana essence), ready to be covered with crushed ice and sometimes, Pancit Luglug (rice noodles with shrimp sauce). We'd stuff ourselves with the afternoon treats and run out of the dining area to play some more until the sunset.

Sundays would be the day when Lolo Papa would deliver sacks of rice to customers who have placed their orders during the week. He'd have his houseboy load the sacks of rice in his trusty Owner-type jeep and we'd all come along for the ride. We'd squeeze ourselves in the loaded jeep and hold on for dear life as Lolo Papa made his deliveries. Always, always, when we return from the deliveries, our parents would be at the house, ready to bring us back home for another week of school and active play in the streets of Marikina. Mommy and Daddy would always comment on how much we've gained weight since the last time they saw us (which was 2 days) and they'd promise to bring us back to Pasig the following weekend. Before boarding the car, we'd give one last mano, which was the cue for Lolo Papa to give each of us a Php 10 bill, which we'd joyfully pocket.

As the years passed, we spent lesser and lesser weekends in Pasig until we stopped sleeping over.

It's been 12 years since Lolo Papa passed on and 2 years since Mama's death, but I still remember how much fun we'd had back then.

I still sorely miss my Lolo Papa and Mama.

Books, Books, Books

Books have always played a big part in my life. As a child, that was how I got to travel and soar and escape. My mom told me that I would hide out in the library when things get bad in school and she'd know that I'd be amongst the books when she picks me up, as requested by the guidance counselor. And because Heather McDougal is my idol when it comes to blogging.


Compton's Young Children's Encyclopedia - I remember reading the set when I was in Nursery (?) rushing home from school after mastering the alphabet and trying to put together the letters to form words and trying to read the colorful volumes of the set. I fell instantly in love with books then, reading the volumes over and over. Several years later, I moved on to:

Compton's Encyclopedia - the grown up version of Young Children's Encyclopedia. This one was hard-core and text heavy. The images were real photos, not the colorful painted ones in the junior version. I felt so grown-up reading the volumes at early grade school, reading about cells, outer space, classic paintings and history way before anyone else. Of course, everything I read about we didn't take up in school until late grade school. I remember surprising my grade 4 substitute science teacher with my knowledge on cells, which we were just being introduced to, which I read about years before.

Nancy Drew series - everyone was reading Nancy Drew when I was in grade school and that was when I came out of my shell and established friendships with my peers. My friends and I would exchange Nancy Drew books and read them over recess and lunch, sitting on the ledge of the cafeteria, waiting for the bell to ring. Other people were reading the Bobsey Twins and Hardy Boys, but I never really got into them. For me, Nancy Drew was tops.

Sweet Valley Twins - grades 4-6 were filled with Sweet Valley High books chronicling the lives of Elizabeth and Jessica. My friends and I had a club called "Peanuts Club" prior to the SWT boom and promptly changed the name to "Unicorn Club" (which was Jessica's club in the book) as a tribute to SWT.

Sweet Dreams and Sweet Valley High - these were THE books to read back in late gradeschool and early high school. I cried when I read P.S. I Love You and when a Sweet Valley High character died. I craved potato chips and ketchup when the character in Ghost of A Chance snuck some in her crotchety aunt's island house. It also signalled puberty, as well as our growing interest in boys.

Children's Sherlock Holmes - I don't remember the exact name of the book, but it was a simplified version of the grown-up Sherlock Holmes stories. The series had several volume with 3-4 stories each. I was so amazed with Holmes that I aspired to become a detective, practicing my observation and deduction skills. This is probably why I love House and Psych -- House and Shawn are clones of Sherlock Holmes. I still like playing detective and I don't think I'll ever tire of it. I wish I could find the exact books we had but alas, I can't find them anymore. I have the 3-volume annotated collection, but I miss the old children's paperbacks.

Reader's Digest Great Stories of Mystery and Suspense - reading Sherlock Holmes opened my eyes to my dad's bookcase (my dad's a big fan of mystery and suspense books) and came across this 2-volume collection. It caught my attention because the spines, when put side by side, formed a silhouette of a man in a trench coat and hat, wielding a gun. I read the Maltese Falcon, Cask of Amontillado and Masque of the Red Death here and found out that gumshoe is another name for a detective.

Perfume - my sister bought this at a used bookstore when she was in college and I read this in high school and am still amazed by this book. I never thought words could evoke the sense of smell but this book totally changed my mind. Each chapter is wonderfully constructed in such a way that I was transported to stinky old Paris and to the French countryside with its numerous perfumeries. I loved the perfume-making process described in the book and I still marvel at the instruments and bottles and alembics (I like that word). I still have that old battered paperback copy that my sister bought more than a decade ago.

November 1

Last Hallowe'en, instead of reveling in the streets like most people now, my family and I gathered at the family plot at Loyola Memorial Park. W., my younger sister, had an overwhelming desire to revive the traditions we grew up with, that is, erecting a tent at the family plot, gathering the children, eating picnic food, etc. P. wanted to pass, but my sister mentioned that it would be nice if we all could go, so go we did.

When we were kids, November 1 was one of the big holidays we observed and boy, did my parents prepare for it. It would always be a big production with my dad heading the puntod (grave) cleaning brigade where he and our male househelps would cut the grass, clean and buff the marble graves of our relatives. Meanwhile, my mom would supervise the food, entertainment and other things needed for the big Araw ng Patay (Day of the Dead) outing. On the day itself, we kids would troop over to Loyola, braving the horrendous traffic and the huge throng of people funneling to the memorial park to observe the holiday. Upon reaching our family plot, we were greeted by the sight of our big green and white tent, with folding beds and wooden planks on the ground, as it always seems to rain before November 1, rendering the park a muddy mess. The houseboys would set up the chairs and folding beds, while my mom and the kids (that would be us) would lay out the food on a picnic table. As the day progressed, adults chatted and gossiped and we roamed the park, reading the gravestones and looking for the oldest patay (dead) we could find. I remember shouting with jubilation when I found someone born in 1819 and passed away almost 100 years later.

We also hovered by the candles and collected the dripped wax which we formed into balls. I remember the hot sticky wax yielding in my cautious fingers. We would always endure the just-melted-and-dripped wax as this was the most pliable, thus, making a smoother ball. We'd go at it until darkness falls, then we'd sneak off to the other unattended graves (which were very few at that time) to get more wax for our balls. When we've had enough, we would play catch with our wax-balls, letting it smash to the ground then kicking it to the fields.

When my Ate L. got a bit older and started to hang out with friends, we, the younger kids, would tail our Ate L. wherever she'd go, with our cousins her age. I remember walking to the Last Supper, a humongous bronze permanent installation somewhere in the middle of the park, where teenagers would hang out and mingle. I didn't really find that impressive because most of the people were girls fighting for the attention of just a handful of cute guys, mostly my cousins -- who during that time, were the 'heartthrobs' of our place.

After the mingling and socializing and eating and playing, we would all plop down on the folding beds and tell ghost stories while the adults played cards or gossiped. At around 11 pm or 12 midnight, our parents would gather us, all sleepy and exhausted, for the ride home.

I never really thought of November 1 as a somber day. Quite the opposite, really. As kids, Araw ng Patay was a big picnic and a mini family reunion of sorts, not just with our dead relatives but with living, breathing ones as well.

Seeking Miracles

I have a physical condition I acquired when I was a child. My grandmother, whom we called Nanay, was a devout Catholic and maintained several altars in our home. The one near her bed she considered the most sacred as the Santo Nino reportedly cries. I do remember that the Santo had tearstains on its cheek and Nanay's uniformed church ladies would crowd around the Santo and whisper and touch the relic's face.

Of course, since I am the "afflicted one," Nanay made it her mission to seek the miracle that would heal me. Every Sunday for years, Nanay would seek out miracle workers that claim to be possessed by Jesus, Sto. Nino, Mama Mary and other religious personalities. I can still picture a house in far-flung Novaliches that is similar to ours, with the requisite spotted marble floors and heavy wooden furniture. I remember the heat from a crowd of people surrounding a lady who was seated on a short gallinera and the yellow lights pricking the somber living room. People would whisper and chitchat, waiting for the miraculous possession. After a couple of minutes, there was a hush and the gallinera lady dropped off as if she fell asleep, then righted her head and with her eyes still closed, spoke in a teeny voice. This was her schtick (for lack of a better word), which was supposed to be a Sto. Nino possession. Her assistants would bring out glasses of water that she'd whisper to and blow on then give to the lucky few who'd drink the 'consecrated' water (I had my fill of that water.)

Later on, there was this man who moved to our neighborhood, about 2 blocks away from our house who claimed that he gets possessed by Jesus every night at 10pm. Nanay and my dad would bring me to that wooden house with wide windows and bare cement floors at J.M. Basa street as often as 2-3 times a week. As always, there is a crowd every night, and we'd sit on crude wooden benches while we wait for the 'possession' to happen. He claimed to diagnose diseases while in a trance and x-ray a person with his eyes. He did this by drawing the body of a person he'd be looking at with squinty eyes using a blue pen and mark off the disease with a red pen on whatever organ it affects. He also scribbled incantations on paper, cut it, spread Vick's Vaporub on it and stick it to the affected body part while unintelligibly whispering an oracion. After the oracion, he would put his lips on the paper he stuck on the body part and blow on it, very much like blowing a raspberry. He'd do all these with unfocused, faraway eyes and heavy limbs. We eventually stopped going there and later on, I remember passing by the house and seeing the miracle man blowing smoke on his panabong.

Come to think of it, I think I've had such an interesting childhood.