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.

Sunday Dinners

P. and I were talking about our most cherished memories when we were kids over dinner some nights ago. His was the Sunday dinner after mass. Come to think of it, I do cherish my family's Sunday dinner outings too.

I remember we used to go to mass every Sunday, 5pm at Our Lady of the Abandoned in Sta. Elena. We would drag our feet from playing outside to take a bath and dress up for mass. After mass, my dad would always ask, "Anong gusto mong kanin?" (lit. "What rice do you want to eat?") Which I would answer with "Hmm, fried rice." Only recenly did I realize that my dad used "kanin" (lit. rice) in place of "kainin" (food to eat), so what he really asked was, "Anong gusto mong kainin?" (What do you want to eat?) Anyway, my family would frequent Max's at Quezon City where we would always sit near the big tree in the courtyard. I remember that courtyard as being quite dark, with just a few hanging lamps to light the area. My siblings and I would rush to the koi pond and watch the fish while we wait for our rice and fried chicken. By the time we end our meal, our legs and arms are riddled with mosquito bites, but we always look forward to the walk back to the car. We knew that exiting the restaurant would mean that we'd pass the bakery by the door, which means that we each get a colorful sugar cookie lollipop. I remember keeping mine safe so I can eat it at recess on Monday and show my friends that yes, I have a pretty cookie to nibble on. The cookie itself was hard and tasteless, but we all relished the dangerously thick, crumbly colorful royal icing that decorated the cookie.

Our family also loved eating at Kimpura, a Japanese restaurant. We'd alternate between the Greenhills and Makati branches, which I remember having the words "beer garden" attached to its name during that time (I may be mistaken.) My mom would request a teppanyaki table, a long table with a cooking surface and all of us, children and adults, would gleefully watch the chef cook teppanyaki right before our very eyes. I loved how incredibly dextrous they were, able to juggle eggs without breaking them. The chef's signature move was to toss an egg and have it land on his spatula, cleanly breaking the shell and the egg squarely landing on the hot cooking surface. It was amazing.

Later on, we would try other restaurants like McDonalds (in Cubao) and Saisaki (EDSA branch) which we liked, but it didn't really give the same excitement as the old restaurants we visited when we were younger. These family dinners became less frequent when Ate L. was in highschool and would excuse herself from our Sunday ritual to attend mass with our cousins (who were mostly her age.) Mommy and Daddy insisted on us younger kids going out to mass and dinner with them, which we did but it didn't really last long. All of us eventually opted out of Sunday dinner to be with our friends, or some other excuse.

P. commented that he now knows why our parents would always insist on these little family rituals. Parents know that time with their children are limited and sooner or later, if they're lucky, it would be just the two of them at the dinner table.

Lyka

I borrowed my mom's dog for a couple of days because my husband and I wanted to find out how a small dog can move in our apartment. Well, small dogs can be quite energetic, I think we need to get a bigger place if we want one.

Spending borrowed time with my mom's dog brought back memories of the very first family dog we had. Her name's Lyka, a mongrel given by our family driver. She looked a bit like a Corgi, packed like a sausage, short legs but with the sharp face of a Collie. It didn't matter what her breed was, for us kids, she was a gift from the heavens. She was a short-haired dog with brown patches, one patch covered her left hind leg just below the 'ankle' that it looked like she was wearing brown pants on that side. I found that really cute, I would always 'fix' that 'pant leg' whenever I play with her. Everyone, even my grandma doted on her. My cousin C was living with us then and since she's my older sister's age, they were inseperable. Cousin C. and Ate L. named the dog Lica, a contraction of both their names. When my dad brought Lica to the vet for shots, the vet issued a shots-card for "Lyka" -- he thought we named her after a popular 80s boldstar. As with any other puppy, she was a lively one and slept in my parents' room until she got too rowdy. She was marooned to the sitting room by the verandah where she can bark down at strangers knocking at our massive gate and eagerly greet us when we open our bedroom doors to head downstairs. Our grandma, whom we call Nanay, would wake us for breakfast and help us get ready for school. Of course, as kids who prefer to play than go to school, it would take Nanay several trips up and down the stairs to knock on our door and persuade us to eat breakfast. She would always complain how tiring it was to climb up and down the curved staircase, so she devised a plan that was sure to wake us up the first time she called. Her plan was to let Lyka in our room. Lyka would dash to our bedroom, jump on our beds and lick our faces until we wake up. We would all wake up shrieking as Lyka was not the, well, the most fragrant dog. She also had fleas, so we'd rush out the door to let her out. Lyka hated baths and I remember that she'd stink up my mom's newly renovated living room by rolling around on the vast oriental carpet spreading fleas and a rich doggy funk. Badong, our club cook and dog-man, would try to give Lyka a bath but would almost always end up with a bitten leg or arm. One day, I saw Lyka leashed (she wasn't a leash-dog) by the garage faucet quietly enduring a shampoo. I thought that she learned how to appreciate a cold bath on a hot day when I saw Badong holding a soap and a dos-por-dos with a nail sticking out held above her head. That was how Badong was able to peacefully give our poor dog a bath.

She was a good guard dog, but never did bite anyone and the most loyal dog you'll ever encounter. She would always know when my dad's near the house and would position herself by the kitchen door near the garage, ready to greet my dad as soon as he comes in. When she got really old, she would wearily pull herself to the door to greet my dad and quietly go back to her corner to sleep. She did a lot of sleeping during the latter part of her long life. She claimed a corner of our living room and would stay there day-in day-out, hardly moving except for a little food and drink. When she did move, a cloud of stink would erupt in the living room, but we would just ignore it, it was the least we can do for a long life of servitude, apart from respecting her wish of a bathless existence. I remember one day when I opened the heavy front door to buy something from the sari-sari store next door, our old Lyka got up and went out the door too. I thought she just wanted a bit of sun, but surprisingly, she followed me to the store, her short legs almost dragging on the concrete and followed me back inside the house. That was the last memory I have of her, as a couple of days later when we got home from school, Nanay told us that Lyka passed away. I cried a bit because our dog with the most adoring brown eyes is no more and I will never again have a stinky old dog with the brown pant leg follow me when I go to the store next door.

Tag-Ulan

There was this scene in an American Dad episode where Stan instantaneously sombers as soon as he sees the first snowflake of winter, as memories of past winters come back to haunt him. I had a nostalgia attack yesterday. The weather was grey, cool and gloomy. Every hour, the heavens deemed it necessary to dampen the city. I love looking out windows and yesterday was no exception. I was gazing down at a colorful Gawad Kalinga settlement far below my 10th floor window and I saw children playing in the rain at the top of their multi-purpose hall. The hall has an uncovered penthouse with green and white tiles gaily forming a geometric mosaic. Balusters line the sides and a cement staircase leads to this unassuming place. The tiles were wet and slippery but the kids loved it that way. They used their bare torsos and the slippery tiles to launch themselves from one wall to another and laughing hysterically.

Back in M.H. del Pilar street, our house sat adjacent to a Barangay hall with a large concrete plaza in front and a proud central flagpole. Whenever it rains, my parents would never permit us to play outside and bathe in the rain, so my sisters and I did the next best thing. Watch. We would station ourselves in our vast terrace facing the Barangay hall, and watch the other neighborhood kids frolic in the rain. They love standing below a severed gutter pipe on the side of my father's 100-foot building (I am exaggerating, it was about 30 feet) beside our house and let the cascade from the building's roof beat upon their heads. Sometimes they would fight over the spot but most times they patiently wait their turn. I remember reading in my encyclopedia that kids in Hawaii use large Ti leaves (still don't know what plant they came from) to slide down a muddy hill, which I thought then was very dangerous and very, very exciting. The kids in my street didn't need Ti leaves or mud or a hill to do that. They slipped and slid on the concrete plaza in front of my house with just their bare chests and water from the heavens while my sisters and I enviously watched from between the intricate pillars of our lavish verandah.