Oh, how I miss her!

I sat down and finally did some sewing tonight. It’s been years since I’ve touched a needle, much less tried to sew. As I tried threading the needle (and succeeded on the third attempt), I remembered my Lola Teta. Oh, how I miss her!

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Lola Teta wearing her formal saya on the occasion of my brother Pepito’s baptism. I am in my mom’s arms.

Pepito, my younger brother, ousted me from my mom’s warm embrace when I was not yet a year old. It was Lola Teta (Eriberta Manalo Iturralde), my father’s maiden aunt, who took over nanny duties. I would sit down beside her while she sewed, and she would tell me stories of her youth.

I remember her telling me of how all the dogs howled when Jose Rizal was executed by a firing squad in Bagumbayan (New Town). She was but ten years old then, but was aware that the adults were talking in hushed tones of what was happening, of how important this man was to the country, and of the books he had written that were forbidden, but nevertheless were making the rounds.

I loved watching her nimble hands embroider and sew. She helped me with my sewing assignments (I was so bad at it, and it was the only way I could pass Ms. Gabriel’s class). Much later, when I was in high school and Lola Teta was in her 80s, she would still attempt to sew. My job then was threading the needle as she could no longer do this.

As a young child, I would watch her work on her black Singer sewing machine, her dainty right foot clad in an embroidered silk slipper, rhythmically tapping the pedal to make the needles hum and work magic lines on the dress she was making.

Lola Teta never married, preferring to take care of her younger brother, my lolo and his children. Come to think of it, none of the women in the Iturralde family in five generations have ever married. They either stayed single to take care of their brothers’ children or became nuns. I broke the “curse” and to make it stick, married twice!

Curious, I asked Lola if she ever had a boyfriend. She said that there was this older Chinese man who lived in the pagoda in Quiapo who would visit and bring hopia, but she felt he was too old for her.

She was in her 90s when I introduced my boyfriend to her. Her eyesight was already failing then. After he had left, Lola commented that she liked him because he had a nice voice, was polite, and his hand was not soft. It was a good thing he was into martial arts training then, which was his saving grace.

Lola was fluent in Spanish, having been tutored at home, and was thus my Spanish mom’s communication lifeline to the family when she first arrived in the Philippines as a young bride. She was a staunch supporter of my mom, explaining Philippine culture and way of life and teaching her Tagalog.

Much like Rapunzel, Lola never cut her hair, and it was longer than she was tall.  Washing her hair was a big production. She only used gugo, a local bark that would get soapy when soaked in water. The maids would help wash her hair, and then to dry it would lay it on the back of several chairs. Once dry, she would twist her hair up in a bun and fasten it with a Spanish hair comb and large hair pins.

When she would go to market, I would wait for her to arrive as she always had something for me. I accompanied her on her shopping trips to Quiapo, and we would have siopao and ice cream near the Quiapo underpass. She was a whiz at sungka, and used that to teach me math. We both loved reading Liwayway and listening to the novelas on the radio. To celebrate my birthdays, she would prepare my favorite halayang ube, and would order a kaing of luscious carabao mangoes.

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With Lola Teta right after college graduation.

Lola always wore a saya, wanting nothing of the modern dress my paternal grandmother would wear. Modesty is a virtue, she would always remind me. Study hard, she would urge me.  She was too weak to attend my college graduation, but was happy when I came home with a Summa cum Laude and presented my medals and diploma to her.

After college, I wanted to be a flight attendant and travel the world. When she found out my plans, she was very upset. She forbade me to do this, and warned me that doing so would kill her. And naturally, loving her deeply, I obeyed her, though with a heavy heart.

She was happy when I pursued my masters, and ecstatic when I did well. Highly intelligent, she was a firm disciplinarian, taught me never to compromise on truth, and to always stand up for what is right. Much of what I am is because of Lola Teta, who I carry in my heart always.

Beautiful Taormina

December 2, 2013. Taormina is beautiful! Mario Monforte, Cara’s boss, made reservations for us at Hotel Diodoro, Our room has a fantastic view of the Ionian Sea. The hotel is right beside the public gardens, which surprisingly has cacti, bamboo and banana trees in them. Very quaint. It also has a statue of soldiers from WW1, and a cannon.

IMG_1445Cara and I walked all over town. Such a pretty place. We were ravenous by 2pm but could not find any place open. Every place we went to was either closed for the winter, or would open at night. We finally found a wine bar which served an antipasto siciliano with formaggi and salumi, Caprece salad,bread and Vino Rosso from Etna.

After this we walked a lot more, entering tiny shops for a look see. There was one store on the second floor that sold angel paintings by Anna Corsini and another that sold originals by Pino la Vardera of mixed Spanish and Sicilian descent. We met the artist who apparently has several paintings in various museums. We really loved his work but one small painting cost Eur400 and the larger ones Eur4,000. Mama Mia!

We entered at least four churches and there were many more, almost one in every corner! There was even one church that was being prepped up to be a chocolate museum. I wondered if Sicilians went to only one church as their parish or were able to choose depending on their mood or the petitions they had, something like a smorgasbord of churches. Churches here are generally simpler than those I’ve seen in Rome, Madrid or Barcelona.

IMG_1555We saw one really slim street called Viccolo Strata which had a restaurant. It looks like only slim people can enter, and they better not eat too much or they would never get out!

Oh, and we chanced upon a roman amphitheater behind Sta. Caterina church. Almost every nook and cranny of Taormina is picturesque and all I want to do is sit and paint.

Cara had been looking for a resto that serves pasta ricci and a pistachio pasta that Pinky and Ken raved about. She also wanted to eat granita, and I’d been dreaming of gelato since Madrid.  But tired we were, so we headed back to the hotel for some much needed rest.

IMG_1458 After resting a bit, Cara and I went down to the reception and asked for recommendations for dinner. The front desk officer suggested we try Trattoria de Nino, close to the funicular. It was quite a hike but well

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worth it. We had spaghetti ala bottarga and involtini de vitello with vino rosso Siciliano. The trattoria was quiet, but soon filled up with a party of well dressed Sicilians celebrating a birthday. Walking home in the rain was not much fun, though we had gelato at a cafe beside Don Bosco.

IMG_1550I woke up to a dreary gray morning. Mount Etna was shrouded in heavy clouds, mysteriously silent. It was raining kittens and puppies. After a hearty breakfast, we trooped to town, Cara with her bright yellow umbrella and me with the rainbow colored umbrella. We visited the Taormina museum for some glimpse of its history and art. Cara loved the old clothes and dainty lace. I enjoyed looking at the sculptures and paintings. Interestingly enough, there were several images of San Sebastián.

Back at the hotel, I quickly fell asleep. The next day, Cara told me she could not sleep because the wind was howling and the glass windows were rattling. She was afraid that Mount Etna which we could see from our window would erupt. Little did we know that that was exactly what Mount Edna did that night.

IMG_1476After the museum visit, we hied off to the Greek amphitheater, marveling at its majesty and wondering how performances were done. Both of us being theater buffs, we thought how busy backstage would have been with costume changes and props, and wishing we could enjoy a play or opera there. Cara complained about the grainy volcanic black earth entering her boots.

Walking back to town, we visited shops along the way, looking for a trinacria for Cara. A trinacria is a winged head of Medusa with its three legs symbolic of the triangular points of the island of Sicily. Trinacia is also the ancient name of Sicily. Our quest for a beautiful face led us to enter almost all the curio shops. After settling on one, we then trooped to Bam Bar for a granita, cutting through a secret garden with Roman walls.

???????????????????????????????Bam Bar is famous for its granite. Saro Bambaro who owns the 17-year old bar was very gracious, telling us his story and showing off the photos of famous people who have sampled his granite, including Antonio Banderas, Michael Douglas, Marisa Tomei, Dolce and Gabbana, and many more. We met his 75-year old mom, who every morning still opens the shop. Cara’s strawberry and almond granita was delicious, taken with fresh cream and a toasty warm brioche. My espresso coffee granita was just right for a rainy day. Inside Bam bar, the ambiance was homey, with colorful fresco on the walls. 

We meandered through Corso Umberto, window shopping until it grew dark, and searching for a restaurant that serves pasta ricci to no avail. We ended up in Il Cyclops for a pistachio pasta and Taormina pizza, opting to stay outside. A troubadour sang love songs in Italian, IMG_1606which made me miss Mike so much. I slipped on his wedding ring which I keep on a necklace with a champagne pearl he gave me, and momentarily felt his arms around me. The troubadour introduced himself to us. Rosario was his name, and he explained that he sang by night and was a music therapist by day. His introduced his cousin who played classical guitar and was a music teacher by day.

A trio of young men could not help but approach Cara to introduce themselves. Cara immediately introduced her mom, thinking this would stop them. Well, it did not. Italians as a rule are not shy when it comes to expressing themselves. Several times in the past two days, men have whistled, honked, greeted us. So this is Italy!

Cara was so tired she fell asleep right away. I tried staying up, hoping to glimpse Mount Etna venting a little. Well, it did not, but this morning, I finally saw it, washed in whites and grays, mysteriously beckoning. I got up and took out my paints and started feverishly painting. And as I worked, Mount Etna’s tip began to glisten in yellows and oranges as it caught the sun’s rays. Slowly, the the grays and whites gave way to vibrant greens and blues. I put away my paints and just soaked in the beauty that God gave us. What a marvelous and awesome Creator we have!

Will you visit me when my time comes?

IMG_6079Every year, I make the trip to La Loma Cemetery to visit our family plot and pay respect to our dear departed.  As much as possible, I would go on All Saints Day.  This time around, I went with just my mom on All Souls Day, as Niccolo and I had gone to visit Mike and hear mass at St. Therese of the Child Jesus the day before.  Bea was in the US attending a wedding, Cara in Boracay working, and Niccolo nursing a fever at home.   Niccolo tried convincing me to go another day saying traffic would be terrible.  I knew this was going to be the case, but I was adamant.  Nothing would keep me away.

IMG_6065Armed with two large pots planted with white and yellow flowers, candles and a hat to shield me from the sun, I got into the car to go to San Sebastian and pick up my mom on the way to the cemetery.  Luckily, our driver had shown up, and so I didn’t have to worry about parking the car.

As expected, traffic had been rerouted, but with the help of Waze, we arrived at the 5th Avenue entrance of La Loma.  Cars were not permitted to enter the cemetery today.  We usually enter through the Rizal Avenue Extension gate as this was nearest the family plot, but then we were not sure if we could get around given the traffic rerouting so we decided to step out and walk.  It was 3pm and the sun was bearing hot on our heads, despite my hat and Dada’s umbrella.  Soon, Dada gave up using her umbrella as there were too many people around bumping into it, and instead used it as a cane.  She held on to me while I carried the bags with the flowers and the candles.

The streets were lined with makeshift tents selling all sorts of snack items and drinks.  All the fast food joints have come out in force.  As usual, flowers and candles were being sold, but the fare seemed to have extended to clothes and shoes.  Lo and behold, there was even one stall selling leftover Halloween costumes, hideous masks, and blinking horns.  About 500 meters from the gate, we found a tricycle driver who agreed to take us to our family plot.  Thank goodness because it was still a distance away.  While riding the tricycle, I started reminiscing days gone by.

As a young child, each trip was wrought with wonder.  My earliest memory of All Saints Day was in the kitchen watching my grandmother prepare her thick chicken asparagus sandwiches.  She would lay slabs of white bread with their edges trimmed on the plate,  place a curly lettuce on top, carefully pile cooked chicken breast, white asparagus, a pickle and a sliced tomato on top, spread her special mayo dressing on top, then finish this off with another slab of bread.  She then wrapped the sandwiches in big paper napkins, carefully tucking the ends inside.  I must have been about four or five years old then, because I still looked forward to eating the chicken sandwich with the surprising burst of pickle flavor, and lick the gooey mayo that inevitably escaped from the sandwich from my fat little fingers.

My grandmother would order the maid to pack her large silver candelabras into her bayong, together with tall thick yellow candles from Divisoria and a box of matches we children were not permitted to touch.  These were loaded into the car, with the basket of sandwiches, cold bottles of Coca-cola, and armloads of festive flowers in pails of water.

IMG_6086The trip to La Loma always seemed to take forever for the young child I was then, and the plot when we got there seemed huge and sprawling.  I knew we were close whenever I would spy the big white angel with wings spread wide, carrying a wreath that stood on top of my grandfather’s tomb.  The plot was ringed by black iron grills, and had two benches on either side of the gate.  Green springy grass covered the ground, a treat to loll around on.

Paul, Pepito and I would scoop up the molten candles and form them into balls.  Whoever formed the biggest ball would be king or queen for the day.  That was our game, as was hide and seek behind lolo’s tomb.  We didn’t mind the grown-ups who were praying the rosary, though we were constantly told to keep quiet at least until the prayers were over, after which lola would distribute sandwiches and Coke. The adults would then  tell us stories about the relatives who were buried there.  But we didn’t much care as we were intent on playing our games.

Early on, it was just that one large imposing tomb with a tombstone that said Jose Iturralde y Manalo.  This was my father’s father.

IMG_6080To its right were two identical smaller tombs on the lawn:  Apolonio Iturralde y Conding and Esperanza Manalo de Iturralde, my great grandparents.  To my child’s mind, they seemed like little castles with turrets all around, and I enjoyed daydreaming about them.  A tiny slab in front was for Enriqueta M. Buenviaje.   I never learned who Enriqueta M. Buenviaje was, but looks like she was an aunt from the inscription on the tombstone.  The inscriptions were all in Spanish, and my mom would explain what they meant.

IMG_6083To the left were two larger tombs on the lawn: one for my father’s brother, Rene Iturralde y Alvaro, and another for his nephew, two-year old Philip Iturralde who had died during Japanese war and who the family always referred to as their little angel.

I was always drawn to the inscription on the tombstone of my uncle Rene, and for some unknown reason those words have haunted me over the years:

“I am tired of tears and laughter

And men that laugh and weep

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap

I am weary of days and hours

Blown buds of barren flowers

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.”

I don’t know who wrote that romantic poem, but I have a sneaky suspicion it was my dad who had adored his older brother and was devastated when he died.

DSC06777The year I turned ten was cataclysmic for our family.  My father passed away of an aneurism leaving behind a 32-year old widow and five young children aged 4 to 11.  Once again, the inscription was in Spanish, but this time, the words hit home: tu esposa, madre y hijos que no te olvidan.  This was my father buried there, not someone I had never met.  Each year, I would write him letters, telling him how much I missed him, and leave them there.  I never knew what happened to those letters.

To make way for my father’s tomb, they transferred the remains of Apolonio to that of his son, Jose, and placed his marker underneath the angel’s wreath.   His wife Esperanza’s tomb lay intact, looking lonely without him.  I felt bad for them.

Some more years passed, and my grandmother Dominga Alvaro Iturralde (Lola Ingga), my grand aunt Eriberta Manalo Iturralde (Lola Teta) who had reared me as a young child, my aunt and godmother, Maria Luz Alvaro Iturralde (Dada Uds), and my newborn nephew Alfonso Castillo Iturralde were all laid to rest in the family plot.  My aunt Sr. Encarnacion, S.Sp.S. (nee Aurora Alvaro Iturralde, Tita Rory) was buried together with the other Holy Spirit nuns in Christ the King Church.

The inscriptions were now in English, except that of my Lola Teta who had spoken fluent Spanish.   These were no longer just names on the tombstone, but people who had been intimately part of my life, who had cared for and loved me unconditionally, and whom I have loved deeply in return.  I have memories for each one of them, and I would tell these stories to my children.

And because of this, no matter how difficult it is to visit them with all the traffic hassles, I go to say hello each year, offer flowers and candles, pray the rosary for them, and be with them for a brief time, telling them how much I love them.   I believe that my siblings, if they were in the country, would visit them as well.

IMG_6073When I reached home and checked on Niccolo, telling him how tired I was and recounting what had happened to me all day, I mused aloud, “I wonder if my children will visit me too when my time comes?”  I received a tight hug and an “I love you, mom.”  Just as he did yesterday after I stood on tiptoe to plant another kiss on Mike’s tombstone at the Columbarium.   We stood there holding hands, teary-eyed, missing Mike, telling him in our hearts how much we loved him.  Somehow, I felt assured.  It’s the circle of life and love.  It’s what makes us family, and why traditions live on.