May 12, 2019. Mothers’ Day. This morning, at mass, Fr. Chris told us that aside from God, we will only feel real, unconditional love from one other person, and that is not our love partner, but our mother. He urged each of us to thank our mother and let her feel our love, while she is here.
I am fortunate to have my mother, Pilar or Dada as we fondly call her, still with us. White-haired, a little bent, much weaker, a bit forgetful, but still as beautiful as ever, Dada is now 84. She’s been through the toughest of times, having been widowed at 32 with five young children to bring up in a foreign land.
A no-nonsense, practical woman, she converted our house in the university belt to a boarding house, woke up each day at dawn to go to market, cook for her family and her boarders, get us ready for school, bring us lunch every day, tutor us when we got home, attend our school events, and love us unconditionally. She never remarried, and instead concentrated on taking care of us. And when we had all grown up, finished schooling, started working, fallen in love, gotten married and started having kids, she took it upon herself to take care of her grandchildren. Her love for us is boundless, limitless.
She was very strict, and there was a phase when we were very young that we got spanked almost every day for being naughty. Spanking stopped when my father died, and my mom had to work really hard to take care of us. I could see that life was difficult, but mom never complained. I vowed to finish my studies right away so I could take care of her and the family. I was hard-headed, strong-willed and impetuous, and must have given my mom quite a few headaches over the years, as did all of us children.
Drawing on my own experiences as a mother, I began to reflect on what it must have been for her as a young mother, far from her native Spain.
I wonder if she felt the same kind of excited ‘want to shout this news to the world,’ yet partly apprehensive love that springs forth when first she learned she was expecting me or my siblings. Did she worry too, when her body began to change? When she felt that first kick and realized that there’s this other person growing within, did she wonder what lay ahead? Did she also wonder what her children will be like? What kind of persons they will become? And if her children will love her too?
Did she, like me, feel that awesome love that takes root in a mother’s heart that precious moment when first we see our child, carry her in our arms and realize that life will never be the same? That this little person will always come first, and that our lives will be intertwined forever?
Did she feel that tender, nurturing love when we cradle the baby in our arms and croon her to sleep? The ‘grit your teeth, bite your lips’ dogged kind of love that lets her suckle, even when your nipples bleed, or carry her for hours even when your back aches.
Did she, like me, have that fierce, determined drive to protect our children from harm, and to discipline and guide them to develop the values they need to survive. Did it break her heart too each time her children cried from scruffed knees, doctor’s visits, failed quizzes, childhood scrapes, and later from the disappointments of break-ups or misunderstandings?
Did she feel proud when her children garnered honors at school, or acted in a play, or won a school competition? Did she too have that gut-wrenching feeling of seeing her children grieve over their father’s death, and of not knowing how to kiss this kind of pain away? How did she manage to pick up the shattered pieces and patch everything back so that her children will feel secure? How was she able to console her grieving children, when she couldn’t even breathe from pain herself?
Did she too experience the same hurt, when my once adoring children, now teenagers, begin to question me or worse rebel, and I feel them slipping away to become their own person, making their own decisions and living life apart from me?
Did she revel when she realized, like I do now, that the babies I once cradled in my arms, are now full-grown men and women? That these children can now stand on their own. Live. Laugh. Love. That they in many, many ways are a better me. And that somehow along the way, I must have done something good for them to turn out so well.
As I watched my children in the kitchen cook a special Mother’s Day lunch for Dada and me, I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Lord for blessing me with the inestimable joys of motherhood and for allowing me a taste of heaven here on earth.
Thank you, Dada, for bringing me into this world, and for loving me the same way Abuela loved you, with the same kind of unconditional love that makes women soldier on no matter what, through all the pains and heartaches of motherhood. Indeed, we carry our mother and our mother’s mother, and all the mothers before us, in our heart. As will our daughters do, some day.
We spent the afternoon resting at home and getting ready for the flight out. Andrè and I took the 10pm red eye flight to Miami, had an hour and half wait at the Atlanta airport, and arrived in Miami at 9:30am. We didn’t sleep at all on the plane, and so were bleary-eyed when we arrived. We took a taxi to the home of Douglas Kamm by the Coral Gables, where we met his friend Angela Younger from New Zealand who was visiting and was just about to leave for the airport. Douglas was delighted that his Australian contact had finally met his Filipino contact after all these years.
Andre in Douglas’ kitchen
Douglas, Andrè’s best friend from his college days, lives in a nice, antiquated house. Feeling grungy from the long trip, I freshened up at his restroom, and was immediately brought back to my childhood days. It seemed that I was back in my grandmother’s house in San Sebastian as the furnishings were so similar. Douglas’ classic sense of style was evident in the blue and white ceramic collection he had in his kitchen, his paintings and his ivory pieces.
Douglas invited us out to his garden. A bit wild at the moment, his garden was the toast of the city back in its heyday, and was featured a number of times in magazines. You could still see what made it famous back then from the variety of foliage planted. Why, it even had a mango tree, which Andrè avers produces the sweetest mangoes. I hurried back to the house when I learned that a few days ago a crocodile had snatched a pet dog away from its master who was walking it by the creek, and that this had happened a few houses away from where we were. I certainly did not want to be croc breakfast.
Douglas driving us around Miami
Douglas gave us a grand tour of the city in his car, driving up to South Beach lined with art deco hotels and restaurants on one side and on the other, Sunday strollers on the beach. He had worked in hotels in the strip, and gave a running commentary that was entertaining. He even pointed out the exact spot where celebrated designer Versace was gunned down by a Filipino named Cunanan. After that, we did a quick spin of Coral Gables, Miami’s version of Forbes Park where the wealthy live. I loved seeing the massive banyan trees. What character they had and what tales they could share if only they could talk, I wondered.
For lunch, we went to Bangkok City for their famous crispy duck. There were several options on the menu but we settled for the basil version, along with tom kha (i.e., chicken soup cooked in lemongrass and coconut milk.) and pad thai. Andrè and Douglas have been going to that Thai restaurant for well over 30 years. We then went to Gilbert’s Bakery to get key lime pie to bring to Cachito’s home, and we ended up getting pecan pie, Grand Marnier and tocino del cielo as well.
The two men enjoyed ribbing each other over lunch, recalling capers over the years. After lunch, we headed to West Palm Beach. Just before Exit 35, the car’s left rear tire blew out, and we had to wait for AAA to come help us. Just that morning, I learned that Douglas didn’t know how to use a mobile phone, much less owned one, and so it was interesting to observe him using Andrè’s mobile phone to call AAA’s customer service. We were told it would take 90 minutes for AAA to arrive. So I began writing this blog while we awaited our knight in shining armor. I kept hoping the aircon wouldn’t conk out before the rescue vehicle arrived, as it was sweltering hot outside.
After much anticipation, the AAA rescue vehicle arrives!Waiting for Uber
When AAA’s rescue vehicle arrived though, we learned that they could not change the tire as the spare tire was riddled with holes. The only solution was for a tow truck to come and pick up the car. This would take another 90 minutes, we were told, but since only one person could ride in the car being towed, that meant Andrè and I needed to find some other way to get to West Palm Beach. And that’s when I called Uber to the rescue. I accessed my Uber app from the Philippines, and in 12 minutes an UberX came to pick us up. There we were, perspiring from the heat of the sun with our suitcases lined up on the shoulder, when a new Hyundai Sonata driven by a lovely Cuban young woman stopped to help us.
Zuy to the rescue!
Zuy Alejo, our Uber driver, was making frijoles (black beans) at home when the Uber call came in, and when she saw that we were on the turnpike, she figured that we had an accident. Kind-hearted Zuy decided to get in her car and drive to us. She was truly heaven-sent! Zuy drove us from the Turnpike all the way to West Palms Beach.
Charming Zuy shared her interesting story with us. At five years old, she and her family came to America from Cuba on a 21-footer boat with 22 other people. They were nine days at sea, without food or water. She said they had no choice but to drink their urine. What a life changing experience that must have been for her family! Now happily married and leading the parents-teachers association in her child’s school, she works at a restaurant, and started on Uber in the past two months.
And then Andrè popped the question: “Where can we get the best key lime pie in Miami?” And Zuy said, Key West of course! But the really good ones can be found in the airport, she added. Well, this we must try on the way to Seattle.
We arrived at the home of Cachito, Andrè’s younger brother, and were welcomed warmly. That night, Cachito and his wife Rocio hosted dinner at Hoes Asian Cuisine. It was a big group, and I was a bit overwhelmed at first. I met Andrè’s mom, Tita Dolly, his cousin Margie, his sister-in-law Margarita, and his nieces Stephanie and Angeline, and their partners Andrèw and Chris. The food was nourishing after that long day of travel, but we were so tired as we had hardly slept the night before on the plane.
October 17, 2016
Outside the Cracker Barrel with Andre, Dolly and Gerry
The next morning, we went to the 8am mass at St. Augustine Catholic Church with Tita Dolly and Gerry Humphries, who drove us. It was a beautiful mass, and I felt at peace with the world. We then had a hearty breakfast at Cracker Barrel, a quaint shop selling country items alongside a cafe. We enjoyed sunny side up farm fresh eggs, sausage links, grits with sawmill gravy, freshly baked homemade buttermilk biscuits, fluffy pancakes with old-fashioned maple syrup, jam and coffee. We didn’t know what to do with the grits, but after Gerry told us to mix it with butter, salt and pepper and gravy, the grits turned out delicious! I couldn’t help but explore the store and picked up some shirts. Just outside the store were some pretty rocking chairs, and so had some photos snapped there.
Enjoying a meal at The White Elephant
We then went to a mall to check the Apple Store if they had the iPhone 7 Plus available. No luck. We went back home to rest, and went out to dinner that night at The White Elephant, on the invitation of Andrè’s Uncle Jess and his wife Benguet. There we met Jess’s children, Chris, a lawyer, and Michelle, a public prosecutor.
Michelle and her Great Dane.
Beautiful Michelle had her Great Dane with here. What a stately dog it was, and extremely well behaved! The pizza was just right and the shrimp curry delicious, though a chutney would have made it amazing. For dessert, we shared a key lime pie. The search for the best key lime pie was still on, but this was more like a vanilla cream pie. Again, we were told that the best key lime pie could be had at Key West.
Jess then toured us around his Wellington Mall, pointing out the five schools that were there, as well as the Post Office. The mall seemed more like a museum than a mall as it had beautiful sculptures around. There were statues of game fish and horses of different kinds, including carousel horses and a unicorn, live fish in aquariums, grandfather clocks, and brass sculptures of children playing and having fun. I was happy to see the Philippine flag together with the American flag hanging in the activity area.
Andre and his Uncle Jess
An accomplished gentleman, Jess Santamaria was elected as County Commissioner three times. He believes in sharing his blessings and has two foundations that help provide education to children as well as help for less privileged families.
We stopped to look at a poster he had of Desiderata, and I was amazed when Jess and Andrè started to recite the poem from memory. Andrè’s favorite was: “Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.”
October 18, 2016
The next morning, we had breakfast together with Cachito and Tita Dolly. The night before, Rocio had prepared a Filipino breakfast of longganiza and fried rice. I fried the eggs and prepared the tomato and onion salad to go with it. Rocio’s longganiza was to die for. She said she got them at Kabayan, the Filipino store in West Palm Beach. That night, I asked her the secret for cooking it the way she did. I was happy she taught me how to do it properly.
Margarita then picked us up to bring us sightseeing at Worth Avenue, one of the most exclusive shopping streets in the United States. It is the equivalent of Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles, where all the most expensive brands have stores: Jimmy Choo, Chanel, Ralph Lauren, Kate Spade, and more. I wasn’t paying much attention to the stores, instead enjoying the stroll and talking to Margarita.
With Andre, Mike, Techie and Margarita.
Lo and behold, who do we see at the corner of Worth Avenue, sitting down by the shaded bench but Mike Bilbao, hubby of Techie Ysmael. Turns out he was waiting for Tetchie who was meeting someone at one of the shops. Soon, Techie showed up with a copy of the book she had written on her famous mother, Chona Kasten.
After bidding goodbye to Mike and Techie, we continued to look for Pizza Al Fresco, a little restaurant tucked away inside one of the garden alcoves. We had a most delightful meal of Andrè’s favorite, shrimp cocktail, a Portobello mushroom salad, and their famous pizza alfresco, washed down with a Peregrino with gas.
Over lunch, we shared our life experiences, how sad and lonely we were when our beloved spouses passed on, how we needed to get a grip on our emotions and decide to accept fate and move on, how we adjusted to the difficulties of senior dating, and how fortunate we were to discover second chances at love, along with the complexities that come with it. After all, there is so much more life to be lived and happiness to be enjoyed.
We then visited the Palm Beach Outlet Mall where we visited various shops, and chanced upon GH Bass, which had the most comfortable shoes, which Margarita and I bought. We all ended up buying various items. A sudden downpour cut short our shopping spree, and we headed home, as we still had a dinner to attend. Angeline and Chris Gross were hosting dinner at Aglioli for the family. Margarita and I laughed when we realized we both had worn our new shoes to the dinner.
At Aglioli with Andre’s family
Aglioli is a family restaurant that allows its guests to design their own pizza and pasta using various types of noodles, sauces, meats and veggies. After sharing the fresh house salad, which came in huge bowls, with lots of black olives and crunchy baguettes, we had fun designing our own pasta. Andrè ended up with angel hair pasta with rich pomodoro sauce and a side dish of meatballs. On Angeline’s recommendation, I got a shrimp pesto angel hair with artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes, mushrooms and grilled garlic. It was sublime! When dessert time came, we were too full to order a key lime pie.
There was much banter and lively conversation over dinner. I learned that Angeline, despite her 5’2” tiny frame, is an accomplished industrial engineer, a wind blade specialist at New Era, which used to be the Florida Power and Light Company. She climbs wind towers that are hundreds of feet high to check on the blades. Cachito says that when she sent him photos of how high she was on her first climb, that he was so nervous he had to take a drink. Kudos to her, as she excels in a man’s world.
When Rocio learned that we were on a quest to discover the best key lime pie, she offered to bake us one for the next day when Margarita was hosting dinner.
October 19
Reliving breakfasts of before at Gabrielle’s
Early the next day, Andrè and I together with Tita Dolly and Gerry went to Gabrielle’s Café and Grille, voted 12 years running as the best breakfast place in town. Andrè recounted that this was a Sunday tradition for him and his brother Raymond, their uncle Tony and cousin JJ and a few other friends. He said it looked exactly the same, except the round table where they usually sat was now nearer the entrance.
After breakfast, we went home to Tita Dolly’s where we had dance lessons from Gerry. Gerry Humphries learned how to dance from the Fred Astaire Dance Studio, and eventually put up his own dance studio. His school produced several dance champions of the US. It was interesting how Gerry explained the science of dance so simply that we got it immediately. He made sure we learned the basic “box” and showed us how that box was applicable to various types of dance, how high our hands held should be (level with the woman’s eyes, he admonished Andrè), where to put my hand on Andrè’s shoulder, how to turn gracefully, and so on. I took a video of Gerry dancing with Andrè, and then with Dolly. A few more lessons, and I believe Andrè and I could conquer the dance floor!
Beautiful Dolly
I enjoyed talking to Andrè’s mom. At 92, she still exudes the special beauty that captivated the heart of Rene Kahn, Andrè’s father. Not only that, she was charming and sharp as sharp can be. She relayed stories of her youth, of their courtship, of being mother to 13 children, of being asked to be a blue lady but declining, of how she and her husband were so in love with each other, and how he would not let her dance with anyone else at parties.
She had met him when she was only 12, acting as chaperone to her older sister. Because she was tall for her age, her sister’s suitors would vie for her attention and start to court her instead. Her parents advised her to dance with other boys, but when she met Rene, she was smitten and all she wanted was to be with him. He would wait for her outside at parties, and she would escape to see and talk to him.
He got a job in Cebu, but after just three months, he could no longer bear to be separated from her that he left to marry her. She conceived on their honeymoon, and nine months later she had her firstborn, Butch. She said Rene vowed he would have just one child after he saw the pain of childbirth she went through. But it was not to be as the children came one after the other. Love was not to be denied.
Dolly and Rene were inseparable, and he would bring her with him on trips domestically and overseas, even living for a year in Hong Kong while he set up the San Miguel Brewery there. As I listened to her, I wondered how she was able to cope with social responsibilities as the wife of the Coca-Cola Corporation CEO, and as mother to all her children – four girls and eight boys. But cope she did, marvelously, as her children turned out wonderfully, with solid values.
When Rene died, she moved to the US. There, she gave in to her love for dancing, and would dance for hours. She told me that once her doctor asked if she did any exercise. She said none, but that she would dance for four hours a day. The doctor was floored! No wonder Tita Dolly has kept her slim figure all these years.
Silver Wedding Anniversary
Tita Dolly showed me her treasured albums, especially that of her Silver Wedding Anniversary. It was a beautiful album with black and white photos. Rene and Dolly looked so happy together, and they had a beautiful family! I eagerly looked for photos of Andre as a young man. He was quite handsome!
Andre and his mom’s portrait. He was in her womb when this painting was made.
In her living room, she showed me a painting of her as a young mother, and she told me that she was pregnant with Andrè at the time the painting was done. She looked absolutely gorgeous! No wonder Rene loved her so much, and as Andrè said, put her on a pedestal, teaching his children that this was the way a man should treat his wife. I asked Andrè to stand beside the painting so I could take a photo of him with her.
After the dance lessons, we went to BJ to see what they had on sale. BJ is like Costco, and also has food samples in each lane. We were tired, so we went back home. For lunch, Cachito, Andrè and I made a quick run to Jon Smith Subs for some sandwiches. Andrè and I shared an 18-inch meatball bomb sub. A poster boasted that Jon Smith Subs was voted the favorite French Fries. There was also a cute poster of a forlorn dog with long ears that said “I hate Jon Smith. No leftovers.” Poor doggie, the fries were so good there was none left for the doggie bag.
That night, we went to Margarita’s home and met her Colombian family and friends. There was her sister Beatriz and her hubby, Andrès Gutierrez; Jon Duque, the husband of her best friend Vicky; and the Kahn family. Margarita prepared a delicious roast of prime rib, served the Kahn way with horseradish, creamy mashed potatoes, grilled Portobello mushrooms, and a green salad with avocado dressing.
For dessert, Margarita made a flaky jackfruit (langka) and plantain pie. She told us her jackfruit tree from the Philippines planted by Raymond bore a lot of fruits and she had been wondering what to do with it, so she froze the fruit and made pie. It was heavenly! But, dinner wasn’t over yet, because Rocio arrived with the promised key lime pie she had specially prepared for us. I loved it so much I had seconds! Andrè was naughty and gave me a whole slice rather than the sliver I had asked for. What a wonderful time we had at Margarita’s! Andrè and I agreed that the Colombians were a fun group.
October 20
The next morning, Cachito prepared breakfast for us: toasted Thomas English muffins with melted butter and honey, sunny side up eggs, ham, and Starbucks coffee. It was delicious! Earlier, Tita Dolly had gone to 8am mass to pray for safe travels for us. She came by to bid us goodbye.
Margarita then arrived to drive us to the airport. She was going to have lunch with Douglas and give him our “little fishies” gourmet tuyo in oil pasalubong. This was going to be a long flight, first to Atlanta and then to Seattle.
On the plane, I remarked to Andrè that there were a lot of pumpkins around. The malls were full of all sorts of pumpkins, from large ones I couldn’t carry to tiny ones, with different colors and textures. Restaurants all seemed to incorporate pumpkin as an ingredient in their dishes. There was pumpkin pie, pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin risotto, pumpkin sauce, even pumpkin perfume and pumpkin wine! I guess it’s that time of the year, nearing Thanksgiving. But before that would be Halloween, and the malls were replete with Halloween costumes and décor being sold. Several of the houses we had passed were already adorned with Halloween décor, from giant spiders to witches and goblins to eerie lighting and even some cackling. Halloween was going to be interesting, but now we were off to see my side of the family, and I was terribly excited for them to meet Andrè.
Invariably, whenever I would bump into an older graduate of the College of the Holy Spirit where I studied, I would be asked, “How is Miss Maria Luz? How is Dean Julia Iturralde?” And then they would launch on how the two sisters left an indelible impression on them, how much they missed them, and how thankful they are for the values and learning they received. Sadly I would tell them that my two aunts, younger sisters of my father, had passed on.
My brothers and I grew up in the family compound right behind the Basilica of San Sebastian. My mother was widowed early, and so we were raised in a maternal environment: my mom, my father’s mom Lola Ingga, my father’s aunt Lola Teta, and my two maiden aunts: Julia and Maria Luz. My father had another sibling, Tita Rory, but she had entered the nunnery and became a Sister Servant of the Holy Spirit (SSpS) and so we hardly saw her.
My two aunts figured largely in my growing up years, and this is my tribute to the two women who I love dearly.
Maria Luz Iturralde
My godmother and aunt, Maria Luz Alvaro Iturralde died in the wee hours of December 31, 2008 while I was in Texas. I can still remember my sister Pinky’s sobbing voice trying to tell me the sad news over the phone, which she had received from Paz, my sister-in-law in San Francisco, who had in turn been called by my brother Paul. The news had traveled swiftly around the world.
I quickly called my mother in Manila. She had not even heard the news yet. All she knew was that my brother Paul had brought Maria Luz to the hospital at midnight. Then, I woke up Bea and asked her to go to Quiapo to be with my mom and help out with arrangements. Like real troopers, my daughters Bea and Cara, with their cousin Monchoy, took charge of the wake while my brother Paul made the funeral arrangements.
The rest of us siblings (Johnny, Pepito, Pinky and I) felt helpless being so far away. All I could do from the other side of the globe was write down my memories of our aunt for an online memorial. Maria Luz loved to write. This was the best way I could think of to pay her tribute.
Maria Luz or Lucy or Frenchie as her friends would call her or Dada Uds as her grand nieces and nephews called her was a writer non par. She was the longest running moderator of Action (1947-51), Veritas (1980-94), TheProfile, and The Faculty Review. Udsy was also the editor of The Search and We the Alumnae. She was an excellent writer and would write under the monicker Sub-Rosa (or chismis queen). I remember many trips to the National Printing Press in Quezon Avenue to check on various publications. She guided the exhibit for the College of the Holy Spirit’s 75th anniversary.
An English teacher at the College of the Holy Spirit, Udsy dedicated herself to helping students learn to love the English language. Quick-witted, she entertained her students with stories about family and life, making her dearly beloved to all of them. She was my English teacher as well, from the time I learned how to speak, read and write. In college, I studied English under her. She prodded me into writing and editing for the school paper. My baptismal godmother, she was always there to watch over me and guide me. And I had to study extra hard to make sure that I earned good grades.
She taught for 49 years at the school that she loved with all her heart, and was guidance counselor for a long time. I remember her anguished crying when she was replaced as the guidance counselor. Her life revolved around that school, and when she was forced to retire, she was terribly disheartened. Writing and editing kept her alive, and when she was removed by the CHS Alumnae Foundation as editor-in-chief of We the Alumnae on the pretext that the newsletter would now be computerized, she lost all interest in life.
As a young girl, Udsy excelled at sketching. Sports-minded, she won two trophies for marathon running. She studied Elementary Education for Teaching Children at Holy Ghost College (now College of the Holy Spirit).
A frequent visitor of the school’s bodega when she was a youngster, Udsy was always sent there for being the naughtiest girl in school. She was the bane of Erundina Fernandez (who later, for a time, became my mother-in-law and wrecked her revenge on me), Teofisto Guingona who called her “kabayo” because of her kicking him with her boston, and Alejandro Reyes who later became dean at San Beda.
Udsy was brave to the point of carelessness. During the Japanese occupation, a man was shot by the Japanese on our street. Without thinking of her own safety, she ran to him to give him the Last Rites. She would always take the side of the oppressed, and if she felt any of us were being given a hard time, she would take it upon herself to defend us.
Udsy loved to clean. Cleaning was her thing. She was very OC about this. The wooden staircase was not acceptable until it was gleaming. Her room was off limits to all us, unless it was story-telling time. She never liked the kitchen, and could not cook as far as I know. Kitchen duties were reserved for her sister Julia. But, oh, how she loved to eat! To the very end, she was always hungry, even if she had just eaten five minutes before.
Story telling was her thing. And for this, no one came even close. She was a master storyteller. And we lapped it all up.
I always credited my love of reading and literature to Udsy. When my brothers and I were young, we didn’t enjoy the usual fairytales like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, or Cinderella or Snow White. Instead, Udsy would regale us with stories of Greek, Norse and Roman mythology. Zeus, Hera, Aphrodite, Poseidon, Apollo, Athena, Hades and Ulysses. These were our heroes and heroines. The Three Fates – Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos – caused me nightmares. When would Atropos cut the string of my life, I anguished? Why, before The Lord of the Rings became a hit serial movie, we knew the entire story from beginning to end.
We eagerly looked forward to her payday because she would bring us to Goodwill in Escolta or to Bookmark and Alemars in Avenida Rizal and let us buy whatever book we desired to read. We had a complete collection of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books. When I got into my teens, she even indulged my love of Barbara Cartland and pocketbook love stories. On my 16th birthday, she got me a dozen pocketbooks. That was a special day!
Hot-tempered, Udsy easily got agitated. But when she was calm, she was very gregarious. She was always the life of the party, or so I remember. She would force my brothers and I to perform for her guests (mostly nuns, teachers and students) during parties at home. We had to recite a poem, dance or sing. Rock-a-bye-baby and Joyce Kilmer’s Tree Poem were favorites of mine.
When Udsy was angry, she was like a grenade, hurting everyone within reach. It was wise to stay out of her way. She would run over everyone. She would fly off the handle if she could not find a book, and would accuse us of getting it without permission. But when she would find it, her way of apologizing was to treat us to a Coke. And, oh, how she loved to drink Coke!
She wanted us to be serious about our studies, and thought anything unrelated to school work was the Devil’s work. One time, I was invited to become a model. Udsy was so angry, she threw a basin of water from her second floor window over the agents who came to take my photo. Naturally, that was the end of my budding modeling career.
Near-sighted in one eye, Udsy always wore glasses for as long as I can remember. Red lipstick was her trademark. She kept her shiny black hair short and hated it when white hair started to appear. She commissioned us to pick out her white hair with tweezers and would pay us a centavo for every three white hair we got out. She had her breasts removed when she was in her early twenties because of a cancer scare. She told me the surgeon made a mistake and took out her good breast, and when he realized his error, removed her other breast. She heard him talking about his mistake during her operation through the haze of her anesthesia. This caused her lifelong fear of doctors and medicine. Otherwise, she was in the pink of health for most of her life, all 5’4” and 98 lbs.
Udsy secretly admired my late husband, Mike, and would cut out his articles from different newspapers, save them in a brown envelope and give them to me each time I visited San Sebastian.
In her later years, Udsy became schizophrenic, thinking everyone was out to get her. It was truly sad seeing her fall into deep depression. She would physically hurt her caregivers, and so we decided to put her into a nursing home in Calamba run by nuns. We felt then that she and my aunt Julia would have better care there. We brought the family’s Christ the King statue to Calamba to watch over them. I was relieved though when my brother decided to bring them back home to San Sebastian. This was their home where they were happy.
Julia Alvaro Iturralde
On February 8, 2015 while vacationing in Rome. I received word from my mom that my father’s only remaining sibling, Julia Alvaro Iturralde had passed away. In a way, I was relieved. She had been ill for a very long time, her brilliant mind long gone, her once robust body withered and thin. She still managed a cherubic toothless smile whenever I would visit and remind her that I was Monette, her niece. Sometimes she would remember me. The last time, she did not, and it saddened me greatly. She asked why it was taking her parents long to fetch her.
Julia was born on October 7, 1931 to Jose Manalo Iturralde and Dominga Alvaro. The youngest in a brood of six, Julia or Jill as she was fondly called, was an extremely intelligent individual. She graduated Magna Cum Laude with an AB-BSE degree from Holy Ghost College, and finished two masteral programs: Master in Sociology from Ateneo University and Master of East Asian Studies from Radcliffe, where she enjoyed a scholarship. Jill held the deanship of the Liberal Arts Department of the College of the Holy Spirit for 23 years. She was also moderator of Action, Veritas and The Profile from 1964-67. A prolific poetess, Jill expressed her emotions in beautiful words.
My first recollection of Tita Jill (and later Dada Nings), as we fondly called her, was playing in my grandmother’s warm kitchen with a white porcelain tea set decorated with flowers that she had given me. I must have been less than three then. Pouring real milk tea in the tiny cups, she sat with me on the floor, and we pretended that we were having guests over. Sometimes, we would collect the moss in the garden, place them on the tiny plates and pretend it was salad. Other times, I got lucky and we actually ate food that had just been cooked in the kitchen.
When she came back from taking her masters at Radcliffe University, she brought home a huge walking doll for me. Oh, how I loved that doll with curly blonde hair! It was almost as tall as I was.
Tita Jill taught me how to pray before I slept: “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God’s love entrusts me here. Ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my soul to take. Amen.”
Summers, when we were growing up were spent in that kitchen. She would teach us how to bake, decorate cakes, and then let us experiment in the kitchen. I remember crying when my cake didn’t rise because I had forgotten to put baking powder in the mix. My brothers and I would fight as to who would clean up the leftover fudge in the bowl.
I loved watching how she cooked, and she would let me be her little assistant, though I was not allowed to wield a knife. I was assigned to mixing food. Getting egg whites to stiffen up was the hardest task ever. “Whip it 100 times, Monette, and don’t lift the spatula up or the air would escape,” she would admonish me. I would try valiantly to soldier on even if my arms felt like they were about to fall off. Looking back, I realize now that she had nurtured my interest in food.
Dada Nings taught Asian Studies at the College of the Holy Spirit, and to drive home learning, she would host parties at our ancestral home in San Sebastian for her students. They would cook Asian dishes, and wear dresses from the different countries they were assigned. My personal favorite was her sukiyaki. I loved watching them prepare the food, and then perform Asian songs or dances after. Oh, that was a lot of fun!
And she made life fun for her nieces and nephews. On Holy Saturdays, she would herd us into the dining room, give each of us a brush, and we would paint dozens of eggs for the Easter Egg Hunt the next day. I guess she must have hidden the eggs in the garden while we slept because we had fun hunting for them after mass on Easter Day.
We would have our own version of Flores de Mayo. We would dress up as saints using her clothes and stack of ribbons and scarves, parade up and down the house, then have a raffle of little knickknacks that she would collect. Oh, and we were not the only ones who had fun dressing up under her guidance. Her students were also in on it. I remember one Marian festival where she had her students dress up as different versions of Mama Mary and stand up like statues around the garden by the CHS Mendiola chapel.
She was a consummate writer, poet and story teller. She wrote plays about the Old Testament which her students performed in school. She wrote poems for the school paper, the CHS alumnae newsletter, and later for the newsletter she and her sister Maria Luz put up. She penned a book entitled Family Treasures which revealed all of the Iturralde secret recipes, and which I use to this day. Her friends gathered some of her poems and published them together with pieces written by my other two aunts, Maria Luz and Sister Encarnacion.
Early on, she encouraged us to perform during parties at home (Actually, I think a better word would be mandated). We either had to sing, dance, or recite a poem to the guests who invariably were their fellow teachers and nuns from the College of the Holy Spirit.
She was a very kind soul, soft-spoken, and yet you knew you were in deep trouble if you ever crossed the line. When I was in first year college, a classmate from elementary asked if she could visit me at home on a Saturday. I had not seen her for some time and was excited to see her. She came to the house with her father who was an advertising executive. A popular soft drink brand was giving away a car to the lucky person who found the tansan (bottle cap) with the winning mark. Apparently, he was running the contest, and he told me that he would make sure I would win the car, but in return I would have to sell the car and split the proceeds with him. I was to let him know my decision on Monday.
Naturally, I was very much tempted. Since my father died when I was ten, we were hard up. The funds would come in handy so I could pursue my dream of studying law, buy things I’ve always wanted, give my family a more comfortable life. At that time, I was studying on scholarship. I discussed the options with my Tita Jill, who advised me of the importance of being true to the values of honesty and integrity. That night, she gave me two cards she had drawn. Depending on my decision, I was to open one of the cards. That weekend was excruciatingly difficult for me. I decided to turn down the offer, and opened the card. Here’s what was written:
“Dear Monette,
You lost. W-a-a-a-a-h… sob sob… Boo hoo… Boo hoo. Hikbe… Sniffle… Sniffle…
But to me, after Monday, you are taller than a giraffe, taller than Empire State, taller than Mt. Everest.
You are one of us – born losers whose poverty is their (sic) our wealth.
At any rate, I’m so proud of you, so proud that I can treat you to a Shakeys pizza tonight!!!
Love,
Ninang
October 23, 1975″
And then, I opened the other card. It said simply:
“Dear Mongga,
Hooray!! Tsup!!!
Love,
Nings”
I knew then that she was very proud of me for making the right decision. That for me was the most beautiful gift she had ever given me. I treasure those two cards to this day.
I always wanted to study Fine Arts but we didn’t have the funds for this. But the summer after the softdrink incident, Tita Jill enrolled me in a summer class in painting at CHS. I was in heaven! The next summer, she enrolled me in theatre class, along with my brother Pepito.
She was always looking for ways to encourage our various interests. I remember the day the encyclopedia set she had purchased arrived. Pepito and I who were in grade school then were so excited, we spent the entire summer reading the encyclopedia from A to Z. We also played Scrabble and Monopoly with her. Tita Jill’s bed could be spotted a mile away because of the mountains of books and papers that littered it.
College studies was a different matter. Because I was on scholarship (which was the only way I could afford studying at CHS), I had to study very, very hard. It was made more difficult because my aunts worked at the school: Sr. Encarnacion taught Theology, Maria Luz headed the English Department, and Julia served as dean of Liberal Arts. They were stricter on me than anyone else, because they wanted to prove that I could make it on my own. They were thus ecstatic when I graduated with a Summa cum Laude.
Although she was the youngest sibling of my father, Tita Jill appeared to be the head of the family when it came to decision making. She was always protecting her older sister from harm. When Tita Jill and Tita Udsy (Maria Luz) were forced to retire from CHS, they started a newsletter to keep their minds busy. I suspect that Tita Jill used her retirement funds for this as Tita Udsy who had unceremoniously been removed as editor-in-chief of We, the Alumnae, had gone into deep depression. She wanted to make her sister happy. Tita Jill bought a computer and learned to use it.
Things got worse when my cousin Jose Rene and his mother Vicente died and Tita Jill was left to cope with the legal issues on inheritance. The stress was too much for her, and she suffered one stroke after the other, with complications from diabetes. She lost her eyesight, and this was a crushing blow to someone who was as widely read as her. As the years went by, she became less and less interested in life, and would just lie down, seeming to wait for her parents to come and fetch her. And now, they have finally and they are all reunited in their real home in heaven, with Christ.
Though I miss them terribly, I am happy that they are now at peace. I thank the Lord for the gift of having had them both as my aunts, and will always keep them in my heart. May they rest in God’s embrace forever.
When our friend Elaine Mapa asked Andrè Kahn and me to give a talk to the Girl Scouts of the Philippines (GSP) on branding and the use of their new logo, we readily agreed. First of all, the prospect of visiting Baguio, the country’s summer capital, after more than 26 years was exciting. Second, I have always wanted to be a girl scout but there was no opportunity when I was a child. Instead, I had encouraged both my daughters to join the girl scouts at St. Scholastica’s College, especially since their great grandmother, Pilar Hidalgo Lim, was one of the founders of the GSP. This was my chance to be up and close to the GSP.
About 120 council executives representing 97 councils nationwide were gathered for the GSP’s National Meeting of Council Executives, with the theme, “Exceeding Possibilities: Facing Challenges Toward Excellence,” from February 21 to 24, 2016, at Ating Tahanan National Program and Training Center, in Baguio City. Andre was a big hit as he talked on logo love and the importance of consistency in the use of the GSP’s logo, while I drilled down to their guidelines on the use and applications of their logo.
We both enjoyed the presentation, and were pleasantly surprised when Ma. Dolores “Beng” Santiago, GSP’s National Executive Director suddenly announced that I was going to be inducted as an adult girl scout volunteer. I was so happy I actually jumped on stage. After being given the GSP kerchief and pin and reading aloud the Girl Scout Promise and pledging to abide by the Girl Scout Law, I was sworn in while the council executives sang the girl scout song in unison. Oh, it was a dream come true!
With February 25th declared a national holiday, we decided to stay on after the talk and do the tourist rounds. Armed with friends’ recommendations on what to see, where to go and what to eat, we looked forward to the trip. His gym friends highly recommended we eat pizza at Amare la Cucina at Albergo de Ferroca, Leonard Wood Road, even saying the pizza there was much better than any in Manila. Another suggestion was to eat at Ketchup Community opposite The Wright Park which supposedly had the best baby back ribs this side of the country. It helped that Andrè had spent many summers up in Baguio in his youth, and he was eager to show me his usual haunts.
We stayed at the Baguio Country Club, where the air was thick with the scent of pine. Memories of my childhood visits to Baguio came flooding back. After praying at the Cathedral, we walked down Session Road, hardly recognizable with the thick throng of people walking up and down, the modern fast food joints, the malls and the outdoor advertising screaming for attention, and yet here and there I could still spot the facade of edifices that spoke of my youth, like the Session Theater. We ducked into one of the small bookstores where it seemed that time stood still. I yearned to see the store where my dad had bought me my first comic book, the Chinese restaurant where we would eat, and the Pines Hotel where we would stay. Alas, they were no longer there.
We crossed over to Burnham Park traversing the dusty football field, and entered the walkway now lined with stalls selling various merchandise opposite a row of creative and attractive flower installations set up for the Panagbenga Flower Festival. Baguio is renowned for its beautiful and colorful flowers, and it was a special treat to see this flower exhibit.
Colorful bicycles for rent lined another part of the park, another blast from the past. Once again, I was transported to my youth, when my brothers and I would ride the bicycles around the park. The manmade lake was still there, but this time, the little boats sported figures from Sponge Bob to Micky Mouse. Andrè offered to rent one with a swan, provided I did the rowing, which I naturally refused with a smile. We meandered through the park, enjoying the bright sunflowers, the warm sun on our skin, dispelling the coolness in the air.
Mines View Park was another destination, and we shopped for souvenirs at the little shops. Baguio fare was still the same as I remembered it: delicate silver trinkets, colorful ponchos and sweaters, native woven cloth, and wooden items from baskets to keychains with the ubiquitious Barrel Man still sitting proudly amongst the items on display. I settled for some thick brooms with “eight fingers,” a far cry from the thin ones available in Manila. I noticed that these days they sold brooms dyed in different colors, and I wondered if the dye would run off the wooden floors if the broom got wet. Of course, a visit to Baguio would not be complete without buying “pasalubong” from the Pink Sisters, a veritable institution. We loaded up on strawberry and mango jam, santol preserves, and their caramel alfajor.
At the Baguio City Market, we bought upland rice, Arabica coffee, vegetables, cut flowers, and fresh strawberries. I got throw rugs, soft white handwoven Ilocos blankets, and colorful kitchen handtowels. At the Easter Weaving Room, we viewed various native fabric from different tribes, and got some table linen. Naturally, we could not leave the Baguio Country Club without a dozen of its famous raisin bread, another standard pasalubong.
I had a great guide in Andrè as he pointed out landmarks like Mansion House, Casa Vallejo Hotel, The Wright Park, Teachers Camp, the Botanical Garden, the Crystal Caves, City Hall, the Convention Center where several Ad Congresses took place, the Baguio General Hospital & Medical Center, the hotels, the churches, with a running commentary on how it was when he was young, and the fun he and his siblings would have exploring and playing. We walked at Camp John Hay, enjoying the cool breeze, checking out the new stores, and chanced upon the Hill Station Bistro where I spied a Tajine, which I immediately bought. Ever since I sampled my Rome-based sister’s delicious dishes prepared using a Moroccan Tajine, I have been searching for one, and now I finally had one.
I had long wanted to visit the Ben Cab Museum, hearing about it from my daughters who would go up to Baguio, and so we made sure we checked it out. The collection was beautiful, although there was much more of Ben Cab’s work at the Metropolitan Museum of Art where he has an ongoing exhibition. Antique wood sculptures seem to be a favorite of Ben Cab, with bulols or “Ifugao rice gods” occupying a prominent wall. A bulol is a carved human figurine which Ifugaos believe is inhabited by an anito or spirit, and is thus worshipped with rituals involving pig’s blood, wine and rice cakes. Carved from narra wood, the bulol usually comes in a pair, and represents happiness and riches. I loved the gardens around the museum, the strawberry patch, the little manmade lake with the hut in the middle, the beautiful view of the mountainside, the lush greenery and the cool crisp air. Ben Cab also had a whimsical cafe with vibrant colors.
It was interesting to see Baguio from Andrè’s lens. He rued the fact that the mountainside which was once a green expanse of verdant trees has been replaced by a myriad of houses that dotted the view. The scent of fragrant pine has been replaced by diesel fumes of vehicles gnarled in traffic. The horses at Mines View Park had beribboned manes dyed pink, and sad-eyed Saint Bernards lazed on the benches, waiting for tourists to have their photos taken with them. Despite these troubling changes, Baguio still had its charm.
Being the foodies that we are, eating was a natural high, and Baguio delivered handsomely on the promise. From Mario’s to Café by the Ruins to Hill Station in the historical Casa Vallejo Hotel established in 1909, the food experience was superb. The teppanyaki dinner at Hamada at the country club hit just the right spot, with our chef showing off his knife juggling skills, then forming the food into hearts with a whisper of “Para sa forever.” Even the daily breakfast buffet at the recently renovated Veranda was heartening, with the promise to become even better as we ran into celebrated Chef Myrna Segismundo who is now consulting with them.
Even the drive up to Baguio was a pleasant experience. We left the South at 4:45am, afraid we would be bogged down by the busy Monday EDSA traffic. The Triplex cut down traveling time to three hours from the start of NLEX. We broke our fast at the S.O.U.L. Café, short for Spice of the Urban Life, another recommendation from his gym friends. SOUL Café featured an extensive menu, and I was eager to try their Dr. Seuss-inspired green eggs cheese omelette and ham for breakfast, while Andrè opted for their longganisa breakfast. The food was so good, we decided to eat there too on the way back to Manila.
Everywhere we went, we bumped into people Andrè knew. It was great meeting his friends, but even more wonderful was the chance to just be alone, talk, discover each other, walk hand-in-hand, and be with someone I love. I am learning to slow down from the hustle and bustle of work and smell the flowers, as they say. I will always remember Baguio for this idyllic adventure, and look forward to the next trip, and perhaps try that famous pizza one day.
July 17, 2015. Taywanak, Alfonso. “Take time to do what makes your soul happy.” This post on Pinterest caught my eye yesterday morning, and I reposted it immediately, determined to carve out me time from the busyness of work and commitments. And then, I got to thinking. What makes my soul happy?
The first thing that entered my mind was I’ve always been happiest loving someone. Love makes my heart sing. With Mike and my children, life was perfect. When Mike died, I died too, going through the motions of life with a big dark hole where my heart used to be. That is, until Rollie came barging into my life and for a blissful and exciting six months, I felt alive again. But then, God took him away too. Once again, I burrowed into work. The busier the better, so I would not have time to dwell on my unhappiness. Time and again, though, grief would make its presence felt. Yes, my beloved children are there, but they are now grown up and have their own lives to lead.
One thing Rollie taught me was that I was responsible for my own happiness. When he lost his wife to cancer four years ago at the same time he turned 60 and retired from work, he coped with his grief by keeping busy, writing a book, traveling, biking, meeting people, helping develop young leaders at AIESEC, and more.
And so, I’m back to thinking what makes my soul happy since the two people I’ve loved are both gone?
Painting. One of my earliest memories is sitting on the floor drawing and coloring, and my mom commenting that I was just like her sister Conchi, a talented artist. I treasured my coloring books, read and reread my art books, and hoarded my art supplies. I was chagrined when my art teacher in elementary declared I had no talent at all. This didn’t stop me from spending recess time in first year high school drawing on the chalkboards at the empty music room. The manang was probably wondering who the culprit was who left the drawings and used up all the colored chalks.
I desperately wanted to take up Fine Arts in college, but we didn’t have the funds for this. Nevertheless, I took the entrance exam, which required us to draw still life. Dean Faustino passed by, looked over my shoulder at what I was drawing, and told me I must take up FA as I had the gift of drawing. Unfortunately, we simply could not afford it so I ended up instead taking up AB Psychology. I was overjoyed when my Aunt Jill enrolled me one summer in Art Classes at CHS. Learning how to use charcoal, watercolors and oils, and do pen and ink drawings, I was in seventh heaven!
This helped me earn funds to buy my college textbooks. Summers, I taught young children drawing lessons. My aunts’ co-teachers at CHS would commission me to sketch their family members. When I had an oil painting framed at an art shop, the proprietor told me that a customer wanted to buy it. I refused to sell it, as I wanted to keep that painting. It is still hanging in my mom’s house.
One day, acting on my Aunt Jill’s request, I drew a young child with big round black eyes. She loved that drawing so much that she had it framed and hung in her office, and later, when she retired, in her home. I had forgotten about that drawing until I visited her almost two decades later with little Bea in tow. I was amazed that Bea looked almost exactly like that child in the drawing.
At 25, I went to Spain and lived with Tia Conchi and Tio Mariano. While they were at work, I would paint. Tia Conchi mentored me in watercolors and oils, her forte. Weekends were spent in the Museo del Prado. I learned that the best art was in churches, and so while my aunt and uncle prayed, I soaked in the art of the masters, and marveled at the beauty around me. When I visited my aunt a year ago, I was pleasantly surprised to see all the paintings and sketches I had done during my apprenticeship framed and displayed in her house.
Painting requires a lot of time, and this I had in short supply when I started work and more so, when I was raising a family. It seems that the only free time I had to take up my pencils and brushes was when I was pregnant and had to stay at home, or much later, when we had our family vacations in Club Paradise. No wonder then that most of my paintings are of beaches and the people I love.
Rollie got me painting again, or should I say we encouraged each other. We had painting sessions together. Once, I sketched him and emailed him the sketch. He was so proud of it that he had it enlarged, framed and hung in his living room. For Christmas, he gave me a box of oils. I have yet to open it. Someday, when I can bear to open it without crying, I will. For now, though, I will stick to another thing that makes my soul happy.
Writing. I never thought I could write until second year college when my English teacher asked me to take the exams to join the editorial team of Veritas and Action, the school papers. We were instructed to write an essay on whatever topic we wanted within half an hour. My mind was a blank. Where to start? Listless, I moved my chair, and promptly got bitten by a little ant. And then, I saw the procession of ants crossing in front of me, resolutely carrying tiny bits of food that had crumbled on the ground, some seemingly bigger than they were. And suddenly, it dawned on me. I was just like that little ant. Feverishly, I started writing about ants, their resoluteness, their tenacity, their work ethic, their sense of community and teamwork, and their strength in numbers. Apparently, I nailed it, as I was appointed as Associate Editor.
Taking up my masters at the Asian Institute of Management, we were required to do voluminous reports and analyze case studies. I once got back a report with my professor’s comment that it was a joy reading my work. When I started corporate work though, creative writing took a back seat. Business English was the order of the day. Besides, I was married to a brilliant writer who wrote effortlessly on far ranging topics from business to management, economics, current events, social issues, human nature, information technology, and the like.
Mike authored several books, some together with Professor Philip Kotler, the marketing guru, and wrote a regular column for the Manila Bulletin. Mike could string words together so beautifully while making perfect sense, like pearls forming a perfect necklace, and I felt wanting in his presence. He did, however, ask me to edit his writing and comment before submitting it to his editor. Another pair of eyes to spot mistakes that crop up when writing.
Mike encouraged to me to write but I didn’t take it up until I was on a plane enroute to Spain nine months after he died. And then, it seemed like the floodgates opened, and I started to write. And write. All the pent-up emotions just came rushing out in my writing, and I started a blog. I wrote for myself, but it was heartwarming when people would come up and say then enjoyed reading what I wrote, or that I had helped them cope with their own situation by reading about mine.
For my mom’s 80th birthday last year, Rollie suggested I write a book about her. He had written one on his wife Isabella three months after she died, and he said it was great catharsis. He gave copies to all her friends, and said they loved him for it. I was intrigued and excited with his suggestion but didn’t know where to start. He offered to collaborate on the book project, and promised to scan all the pictures I could find. And so we did work on it together. My mom loved the book, and I gave copies to each of my siblings for Christmas, so that their children will have a memento of their grandmother.
Rollie then encouraged me to write a book on Mike, before the memories disappear. He said it would be a beautiful and lasting gift for our children, plus it would help me move on, and we could then begin our own story together. That was what I was working on the long weekend when Pope Francis visited the Philippines.
It was hard going as I wept most of the time I was writing it. Rollie called from Hong Kong to check how I was doing. When I told him I had spent the better part of the weekend crying and that I was only half way done, he praised me, saying “Keep going, my courageous girl. I love you,” Just a few days later, he was gone. Forever.
As for poetry, I never knew I had it in me until I met Rollie. For some reason, he unleashed the poet in me. I would wake up in the wee hours of the night and start penning. He was overwhelmed with what I wrote and eager to receive the next one. When he died, this gift seemed to have died as well.
But I continue to write, feeling this connects me to people even when I feel so alone. And then I come to my next passion.
Cooking. My love of the kitchen was nurtured in my paternal grandaunt’s warm kitchen, watching her prepare meals for the family and for feasts. I would eagerly wait for Lola Teta to come back from the market in a calesa, and take out the wonderful goodies from her market basket. I guess that’s why I get excited seeing plump and colorful vegetables and fruits and nice smelling herbs growing in farms.
Inevitably, my lola would bring home two or three live chickens, which she would later kill and dress. She would let me play with the stomach lining, which I would blow up like a balloon. And the myriad little yellow eggs that had not yet come out were prepared as adobo as a special treat for me. All these happened before my 7th year when a beheaded duck started my phobia with all things feathered.
Summers growing up were spent in that kitchen. My aunt Jill would teach my brothers and me how to bake, decorate cakes, and then let us experiment in the kitchen. I loved watching her cook, and I was her designated assistant, though not allowed to wield a knife. My brothers and I would fight as to who would clean up the leftover fudge in the bowl.
I remember crying when my cake didn’t rise because I had forgotten to put baking powder in the mix. Or the time my chocolate cake caved in because I had taken it out of the oven prematurely. My brothers mercilessly teased me about this, and called it my chocolate volcano. And now, chefs brag about their chocolate lava cake. I should have had it patented then. Or that time I tried to make lemon squares and forgot an ingredient so they came out really hard. Lemon cardboards, they were called. I guess all that teasing made me stop kitchen experiments, and I concentrated instead on studying.
Later, when my boyfriend asked for my hand in marriage, my mother asked him if he was sure about me as I was hopeless in the kitchen and all I knew was to study. I was flabbergasted, made my mind up that I would learn, and bought several cookbooks.
There were some hiccups along the way. In the early days of marriage, I decided to make coffee and wondered why the coffee machine wouldn’t work, only to find out I had not plugged it in. Another time, I was at Farmer’s Market and was convinced to buy stingray. The market vendor told me it was delicious as adobo, and taught me how to prepare it. Well, it was so bad that even our dog refused to eat it. I confided my travails in the kitchen to a friend at work, and she agreed to help me. She put together a menu for my house blessing with detailed instructions on how to prepare it: chicken a la king presented in puff pastry and vichyssoise. It was a hugh success!
One of the first things I learned was to make spaghetti bolognese and I would do this a lot until I perfected it. I did not realize that my poor sister developed a strong dislike to spaghetti because she had to eat it a lot while I was practicing. This was a huge disincentive to her moving to Rome, but luckily she has learned to make peace with pasta, though she still shys away from bolognese to this day, and makes sure she rubs this in each time we eat pasta.
My work in publishing entailed a lot of travel, and I was exposed to different cuisines. All these left their mark on my cooking. I was comfortable with different spices. Soon, I stopped referring to cookbooks and ventured into experimenting in the kitchen. I enjoyed going to the market, checking out the fresh produce, and interviewing the vendors how best to prepare them. If I liked the food I ate at restaurants, I would start guessing what went into it, already planning how to do it at home. Mealtimes, I would look at what was available in the pantry and ref, and start imagining the dish I would concoct. Invariably, my family would love it. Their happy smiles and comments were well worth the hours I would put in the kitchen.
Over the years I developed some family favorites, like adobo which my children swear by, different pastas, stuffed peppers, Christmas ham, chicken relleno (though someone else had to do the stuffing and the sewing), and paella. My love affair with paella started when Mike bought me a paellera for our anniversary. I had learned how to make it from my Tia Conchi, who gifted me with a hundred-recipe paella book. I would have so many requests for paella during family gatherings and especially during the Christmas season. For years, my paella was a staple at the Cyberpress yearend party. From one small pan, I have now graduated to various sizes of paella pans, even some big enough for a barangay.
Mike loved to eat, especially if it was spicy, and preferred beef and seafood over pork. He bought a huge barbecue grill for our home, and would grill steaks often. This was men’s work, and so I was relegated to preparing the sauces and sidings.
When we had our farm in Alfonso, I was excited to finally have my very own herb garden. Weekends with Mike in Alfonso were spent in the kitchen. We would cook together, and it was such a joy! We would walk around the farm early in the morning, and pick vegetables and fruits that would go into the meal. His last project was building an outside grill. I thought he meant a small barbecue grill but I should have known better, as it turned out to be a stone-walled double oven and grill, wood-fired and gas-fired. Sadly, it has not been used as often as we would have wanted.
So there you are, the top three things that make my soul happy. Tell me, what makes you happy?
This week, there has been a slew of posts about Father’s Day, and I feel somewhat cheated that I only had my dad with me for a very short time. Earlier this week, I viewed a post of a father giving away his beloved daughter at the altar. His speech was funny yet so heartwarming I cried. It was obvious how much he adored his daughter. And I wondered what my father would have said if he had been alive when I got married, or when my marriage broke up and I filed for annulment, or when I got married again, happily this time. I wonder if he would have been proud of me when I graduated with honors, or when I got my first job, or got promoted, when I was first published, or when I set up TeamAsia. That father in the video obviously was very proud of his daughter. So many unanswered questions. So many what ifs.
My father died when I was but ten years old. All these years, I’ve wondered how my life would have turned out if he had not died early. How I wish I had more time with him! I even wrote a blog about it one Father’s Day (https://monettehamlin.com/2014/06/15/how-i-wish-i-had-more-time-with-him/). While thinking of the many conversations I wish I had enjoyed with my dad, a memory long forgotten popped up.
Do you believe in angels? In 2003, I met a woman by the pen name of Avi Maria at the home of a friend. She told me she had died one day, and gone to heaven where she met angels and Jesus Christ. She described her experiences in heaven, and said it was beautiful beyond imagination. What she thought of first as gentle rain, turned out to be shimmering glitters of all colors and hues. When she asked her guardian angel what it was, the angel said the glitters were all the answered prayers of the faithful.
Avi Maria wanted to stay in heaven, but she was told she still had many things to accomplish on earth and a son to take care of, and was thus sent back. She told me about seeing her baby son about to fall from the bed unnoticed, while her whole household was crying over her dead body. She rushed back into her body and woke up. All these had happened in the span of an hour during which time she was thought to be dead by her anguished family.
When she came to, she started seeing angels. One day, she ended up in a bookstore and bought a lot of painting materials. When the cashier asked if she was a painter, she said no and wondered why she had done this. From that day on, she started to paint guardian angels of people she would meet, even if she still had not met them by the time she painted. Before this happened, she had never even used a paintbrush.
Avi Maria’s paintings were sought after; in fact, my friend had several in her home. She confided in me that each angel painting had a designated owner, and she could only sell it to that person. She once sold a painting upon the insistence of someone who wanted it, and by the time the person brought the painting home, the angel in the painting was gone. It was returned to her, and the angel once again appeared when she finally met the rightful owner. She was compelled to paint, as if she were a puppet in the hands of a master. I didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but it was quite an interesting story.
I didn’t think much of it, until several months later when I got a call from her, saying she had my painting ready. I protested that I had not commissioned anything, but she insisted I get it because she had made it for me and it could not be owned by anyone else. Besides she said, it was different from all the other paintings she had made. I asked her why, and she said that a big handsome man had sat beside her and asked her to paint it. It took her just 20 minutes to paint it, a mean feat considering its size.
When she had finished painting, he asked her to tell me that I was not to worry anymore, that everything would be all right, that I would never want for anything again. He also asked her to tell me he was sorry that he wasn’t there physically when I needed him most, but that he was always there, watching over me. I asked her to describe the man, and she described my father exactly. By this time, I was gripping the phone tightly and crying, prompting Mike to ask what was wrong. Needless to say, I bought that painting and it is hanging in my home.
My angel painting by Avi Maria, circa 2003
The painting is that of a beautiful angel coming out of what seems to be a dark blue tunnel. At her feet are three angels, and a little to the side is another angel. I asked Avi Maria what the painting meant. She told me that the angel was my guardian angel; the tunnel was all the hardship and pain I have gone through, and is now behind me. The angel’s wings are spread over the children, protecting and taking care of them.
My first born, Bea.
The slightly larger angel to the right represents Bea, my first born. Avi Maria said Bea would always be there for me, watching and taking care of me. And this is exactly what is happening now. Bea came back from the US after finishing her masters with honors to take over the reins of TeamAsia. She is doing a wonderful job at it too.
Cara bonita
The quiet little angel in front of me represents Cara, my middle child, who we’ve always called Cara bonita, being so fair. Avi Maria said that Cara would always be close to me. I’ve wondered about this because Cara has the wanderlust and loves to travel and explore. But it is true that she comes home often, and would call out “Marmee” the minute she enters the door.
Niccolo
The little angel flying around to the left represents Niccolo. Avi Maria said he was a happy angel. Niccolo was just five when the painting was done. He is now in the United States visiting kin and learning to be more independent.
Mike
Mike was the one to the left, seemingly engrossed in something, yet always there to keep me company, making sure I was safe. Little did I know that just ten years after I got that painting that God would claim back Mike. But I know in my heart that he is there, still watching over me.
So, do I believe in angels? Yes, I do. Do I miss having my dad around? You bet I do. But then, I have him in heaven watching over me, as I do Mike and Rollie. And I am sure all other dads in heaven are doing the very same thing. So Happy Father’s Day to all!
Siblings, five years apart, on an unplanned Coron adventure.
May 16, 2015, 5:30am. Coron. The city is waking up, and so am I, wondering why my entire body seems to ache. For a second, I am unsure as to where I am, and then I remember yesterday’s adventure.
This was a sudden, unplanned trip. My Seattle-based brother Jean Pierre (Johnny) breezed into Manila for a dental visit and to stay a few weeks. This time, he was alone. During breakfast last Sunday, we talked about places we’ve always wanted to explore: Vigan, Batanes, Banawe, Coron, and more. I told him I would love to visit them. Well, he took it seriously, bought the tickets, booked a hotel he found on the Net, and called me to say the deed was done.
Just three days ago, I was running all over town busy with meetings. It was a hectic and interesting day, starting at 6:00 am when my driver’s wife called to say he wasn’t coming to work. With an 8am meeting in Ortigas and staff to pick up at the Alabang office at 7am, I quickly changed to flats and drove my car, with Wayz guiding me to meetings in Ortigas then Alabang, then to Makati, back to Alabang and finally to Paranaque in time for the 8pm mass to celebrate the feast of Our Lady of Fatima. I imagine there were quite a few white-knuckled moments and fervent prayers said. Sometime in between these meetings, Johnny called to announce we were confirmed for the 8am flight to Coron the next day.
I readily agreed to go. The last time, Johnny and I traveled together was 30 years ago. We went to Iligan for his ‘pamanhikan’ and wedding to Tita. I figured a sibling trip was long overdue.
With bags packed, we were off on our adventure! Arriving at the Busuanga airport, I was surprised to see the Cabuslays, friends from our village who were also visiting Coron. Sharing a van, we dropped them off at their resort and proceeded to Coron town where One Averee Bay Hotel was. The hotel was in the midst of town facing the plaza.
Courtesy visit to Fems Garcia, fellow CHSian and mayor of Coron
My friend Wilma Leagogo who owns Julie’s bakeshop came by to greet us. First off, we paid a courtesy call to Hon. Clara “Fems” Reyes, fellow CHSian and mayor of Coron. We then had lunch at Lolo Nonoy’s, then hurried back to the hotel for my 1pm concall with a client. After that, Johnny and I walked around town, looking for tours to take. The umbrella Wilma lent us came in handy as the fierce sun was beating down on us.
Wth my friend, neighbor, fellow servant parish leader, CHSian and all around nice person, Wilma Leagogo. Wilma owns the Julie’s Bakeshop in Coron and took very good care of us.
Coron Town is a sleepy laid-back municipality. We visited small stores, mostly run by Muslim traders. An ancient looking sungka in the shape of a crocodile caught my eye but the proprietor refused to sell it. We ended up at Julie’s Bakeshop, and Wilma treated us to the most delicious freshly-baked pan de coco. It was so good I ate two of them. The poster said it was nakaka-loco and I wholeheartedly agree! Goodbye, figure. Oh well, I may end up shaped like a dugong later, but the food is hard to resist when it is this good.
The lobster was so fresh and delicious I almost cried while eating.
After freshening up and taking a stroll by Lualhati Park, we had dinner at Lobster King, as guests of Mayor Fems. The lobsters in kalamansi butter sauce were divine! Many thanks, Fems!
After dinner, Johnny and I decided on DCC’s tour package and went there to sign up. According to Mr. Kim, the Korean proprietor, we would share the boat with another couple who was going diving.
Back at the hotel, I stationed myself at Breakfast at Sydney’s, the hotel’s restaurant, to work. It was the only place with wifi and I had to complete some forms online for GCG. The website was not very friendly and I was getting frustrated whenever it would suddenly refresh and everything I had written was erased. Finally, by11pm, I was shooed off as they were closing.
That night, Johnny put on a movie entitled “Into the Woods.” The musical was quite interesting and had great actors but sleep took over quickly.
We woke up with much anticipation for the boat trip we had signed up for. But first we had a hearty breakfast of lamayo, Coron’s version of danggit, tapa and eggs. The brewed coffee was surprisingly robust. Wilma came by with a bag of Julie’s Spanish bread and bottles of water for our trip. What a thoughtful and kind gesture!
After last minute shopping for clear plastic ziplocks for my phones and slathering ourselves with sunblock, Johnny and I were ready to go. We met up with a young couple from Washington who were going diving: Matt who works for Starbucks in the US and handles their airport outlets and his friend Mihee who is a nurse. Matt and Mihee turned out to be from Seattle, so they had a lot of things to talk about with Johnny.
Our first stop was CYC Island which was chockfull with tourists. Donning my snorkeling gear, I went swimming but noticed there were so many black sea urchins around with scary looking spikes, so I turned back not wanting to be impaled. I didn’t realize I had gone so far and had a difficult time swimming back to our boat.
Skeleton Wreck
Next stop was Skeleton Wreck, named after the remnants of a Japanese supply ship. I’ve never seen a wreck before and was a bit nervous as it was in deep water, but with a life vest on, felt pretty safe.
Hearty meal by the shack with our guide.
We had lunch in a tiny hut on Skeleton Wreck. It was a simple meal of steamed rice, cucumber salad, grilled liempo and mackerel. While eating, I noticed a young couple paddle to the shore then climb onto a tall bamboo hut.
Members of the Taganua tribe, guarding Skeleton Wreck.
We walked over to say hello and they turned out to be from the Tagbanua tribe. They were assigned by their grandfather to collect fees from the boats that docked there. They told us there were 13 lakes on the island, and they had only seen two of them.
We transferred to Twin Lagoon, which required us to swim underneath some rocks to get to the hidden lagoon. The guide warned us it was brackish water, where fresh water from the lake mixed with salt water from the sea. Johnny and I snorkled, circling the lake’s perimeter. We were amazed at how the water would turn alternately hot and cold. It was exhilarating!
Barracuda Lake was up next. Our boat navigated between forbidding grey cliffs, with hardly any vegetation. It was eerie. Johnny commented that it seemed that anytime King Kong would make an appearance. The boat docked and we entered a break in the cliffs, walking on a slim bamboo walkway flanked by tall jagged rock formations on either side. Holding on to the flint-like rocks for support, I found them brittle and sharp.
After a short walk, we were greeted by an amazing sight. I gasped at the beauty of the lake. It was serene and still, hidden from view by the jagged cliffs. We jumped from the bamboo platform into the cool blue waters below. I looked down and hardly saw any fish swimming. However, there were black dots everywhere, as if someone had sprinkled too much black pepper on white spaghetti sticks. Curious, I picked up one of the black dots and it turned out to be a black spiral shell, much like what my grandmother used to cook as ginataang kuhol.
I relaxed and floated on my back, looking up at the cliffs and the blue sky above, thinking of my loved ones and thanking God for them. My companions and other tourists jumped from the cliffs, laughing and enjoying themselves, but I tuned them out. It was so peaceful! Soon, our guide told us it was time to go Kayangan Lake.
Kayangan Lake
Kayangan Lake was the best of all, he promised, with caves to explore, a fantastic view, a beautiful lake, and a mountain to climb. Three hundred steps, he said: 150 up and a 150 down. Just 300 steps, I thought. I should be able to climb that. Johnny warned me not to count the steps saying I would just get disheartened, but that’s exactly what I did. I started counting, and by the 50th step was wondering as I tried to catch my breath if I would make it to the top. And when we reached the top, we realized that the guide was right, there were another 150 steps down to the lake. We hurried down, excited to get into the water.
A bamboo platform ringed half of Kayangan Lake and it seemed that there were people everywhere. We walked to the very end and stationed our things there. We checked out the cave which was but a short one. I started getting claustrophobic as more people entered the narrow cave, and escaped fast. Our guide boasted there was another subterranean way out. He dove into the water and came out a few seconds near the entrance. I heard Johnny saying he was going to do the same thing. I waited outside and when Johnny didn’t come out after several minutes, I started to worry, imagining him stuck in the rocks under water. How will I ever explain to his wife and children that I had not taken care of my brother? I was about to go back in to check on him when he appeared. Thank goodness!
Because of this incident and the fact that there were too many people around, I did not enjoy swimming in Kayangan as much as I did Barracuda or Twin Lagoon. But the guide was right. It is a beautiful place and one I would like to visit again during the lean period.
The view from the bat cave
Once again, we had to climb the 300 steps to get back to the boat but not before a quick picture at the very top where the bat cave was. Our last stop was Twin Peaks where our companions were going to dive.
Donning our snorkeling gear, Johnny and I jumped into the water, discovering a most amazing world down under, with verdant coral, teeming with a myriad of fish in all shapes and sizes, colors and hues, nibbling at the coral. I wanted to take out my paints right then and there and capture the beauty of the seaworld, with its vibrant colors that would put any palette to shame. Various schools of fish passed us by, like ribbons of pulsating color, from matte to brilliant neons. I could have stayed there forever. Oh well! Back to reality. We returned to Coron Town, where we met up with Wilma for dinner and to make reservations for the next day’s tour.
Walking to Julie’s, we wondered why the streets were dark. Apparently, there was a brownout which had been going on for four hours. Luckily, electricity came back on as we made our way to Bistro Coron. Dinner was pizza, pasta and Hungarian sausages. I must say that their crusty French bread was very good. Tired, we went back to the hotel and promptly fell asleep.
The next day we were up early once more. This time around we were joiners at the JY tour. The trike picked us up and brought us to the Pantalan where we boarded our boat and met our companions for the tour.
New found friends who warmly welcome us into their group.
Ryan and Michelle are psychiatric nurses at a Riyadh Hospital on vacation. With them was Kaycee, Michelle’s sister who is a home-based software programmer and their cousin Knarf who was visiting from Canada. Then there was Randy and Abby who were celebrating their 12th wedding anniversary, and a young couple April and Ryan who were honeymooning. This was the second tour of our companions together so they were pretty friendly with each other already and warmly welcomed us to the group.
Henderson, our amiable tour guide, briefed us on what to expect. He was much more knowledgeable than our guide on the first day. He pointed out the sleeping giant, asking us to hazard a guess as to whether the giant was male or female. We all agreed it was a “she.”
Johnny and I perched on the side of the boat, trading stories of our childhood.
The boat ride to Malcapuya was and hour and a half away. Johnny and I sat by the side of the boat with our toes touching the me water, reminiscing childhood memories.
Malcapuya has a long stretch of white sand beach, perfect for lazing around. The beach was dotted with nipa huts. Our group settled on the farthest nipa hut, set down our things, and went straight into the water. Johnny showed me a bed of giant clams, their membranes opening and closing, each one different from the other. Some were tiger striped, others had green or blue or red mouths.
Try and get me out of this hammock.
We had a veritable feast for lunch, with sinigang na lapu-lapu, grilled mackerel, grilled squid, chopsuey, adobong pusit, steamed rice, and an amazingly delicious salad of apple, mango, banana and Chinese petchay prepared by our guide. Henderson refused to share his recipe no matter how much we begged. Fresh coconut in their shells and sweet mango rounded up the meal. We were ready to hit the hammocks after lunch, but was given only a few minutes, so we tredged back to the boat. We must have all eaten so much as the boat refused to budge when we were all on it. The poor men had to disembark to push the boat out into deeper waters.
Banana Island was our next destination, but on the way there, our boat’s engine sputtered then died. Henderson asked us to help him call for help using our mobile phones, but there was no signal where we were. I texted the situation to my chidren and Wilma, hoping they would ge the message. Somehow, we were able to reach Banana Island’s bamboo raft, and we all disembarked to ride the bamboo raft to shore, while the boat captain and his assistant tried to fix the engine while waiting for help to come.
On the hill at Bulag Dos
Luckily, the other boat was at a nearby island and they came over to check on us. Soon, we were on our way to our last stop, Bulag Dos. Our guide warned us that we had lost too much time and that we could only stay half an hour. This was enough time to have pictures taken and check out the beach. We climbed the little hill for a better view of the surroundings.
As we were about to board the boat, we learned from our companions that there were a lot of clown fish popularized by the movie “Nemo” in the area. We just had to take a look at them. While we were all hunched looking at the clown fish swimming in and out of their stone house, I noticed a much larger fish circling the stone, seemingly agitated. It suddenly attacked me, nipping me in the leg. Apparently, it is a territorial fish intent on defending its stone house which it shared with the family of Nemos.
Sunset on the way back to Coron
We headed back to Coron. Wilma was patiently waiting for us at the dock with a trike that would bring us to Maquinit Falls. We were glad we went, despite being terribly tired. Wilma had packed a picnic dinner of grilled liempo, roast chicken and pinakbet from Lolo Nonoy’s. It was dark by the time we reached the resort, but there were still a lot of people there. We ate at one of the rustic picnic tables and made friends with the people at the next table who reveled us with stories of hidden treasures discovered in Palawan.
Basking in the warm waters of Maquinit Falls, I felt all the pains and aches slip away.
Maquinit Falls has three pools, catching the hot spring water from Mt. Dalara, a dormant volcano. They say the 40-degree Celsius water has healing powers, and that an egg left there will actually get cooked. I enjoyed dipping into the pool and letting the hot salt water ease away my aches and pains. I
Johnny walked around and came back saying it was beautiful at the other end of the resort. Curious, I went around to the other side of the pool, and walked on the bridge by the mangroves. It was dark and I was alone. True enough, when I looked up, I saw the vast expanse of the sky, twinkling with an array of stars, arranged by constellations. A shooting star crossed the skies. Moved by all this beauty, I praised the Lord, and thanked Him for all the many blessings I’ve received, praying for all the people He had sent my way, for those I have loved and have gone ahead, and most of all, for my family. And at that very moment, I felt one with all the generations of people everywhere who have looked up to the sky and felt an upwelling of emotions. We have an awesome Creator!
That night, Johnny and I put on the movie, Into the Woods, again, intent on finishing it. As you can imagine, we both fell asleep from being so tired. Someday, I will finish this movie, but for now, I’m glad I took this sibling trip to Coron with Johnny. There is still so much to discover about Coron and more adventures to experience, but those I will keep for another day.
April 2, 3015. Here we are at NAIA 2, waiting at Centennial Airport. We woke up at 2am to make it in time for our 5am PAL flight to Cebu. Checking in was a breeze, a delightful surprise since we thought there would be a mad rush at the airport because of the long weekend.
It’s Holy Thursday. For the past 13 years, I’ve spent the Holy Week in Manila, serving as a lector in our parish. This time around, however, my daughters decided that we should all go on a fam trip to Moalboal. So here we are, Dada (my mom), Bea, Cara, Niccolo and me, off to a new adventure. My thoughts wander over to the church activities I would miss.
The Paschal Triduum, or the three days from Thursday morning to just before Easter Sunday is the busiest time for servant leaders. All the church bells are silenced, votive candles extinguished, and images of saints and the crucifix are removed or hidden behind violet cloth. The Paschal Triduum begins with Chrism Mass early Thursday morning when the Holy Oils are blessed and all the priests of the diocese renew their vow. After Chrism mass, it is customary for parishioners to have breakfast with their parish priest to show their gratitude and love for him. Later that day, we would celebrate the Mass of the Last Supper where priests go down on their knees to wash the feet of parishioners. This commemorates Christ’s actions on the night before he died, when he washed the feet of his 12 apostles, in so doing teaching them humility and servant leadership.
When I was a little girl attending mass at San Sebastian, I watched the Spanish parish priest wash the feet of 12 fellow priests, and wondered why. Are their feet dirty? Later, as the church became more inclusive and priests scarcer, common parishioners took on the role of the apostles. When we first moved to Southbay, our family was chosen as one of those to be washed. It took some convincing for Mike to agree, but Niccolo was excited to have his feet washed.
After the Mass of the Last Supper, we would do the Bisita Iglesia, a Catholic tradition of visiting seven churches and praying the Stations of the Cross, ending with spending time at the Altar of Repose to keep the Lord company in His time of agony. We always enjoyed this time, choosing which seven churches to go to and comparing the different altars of repose they put up.
At dawn on Friday, we would have the Community Way of the Cross, walking through the different Basic Ecclesial Communities (BECs) of the Ascension of Our Lord Parish, from Villonco to Southbay to Waterfun, Estrada 1 & 2, Aratiles, Mangga, Silangan, then Goodwill. When we first did this about ten years ago, I was a bit worried having to walk and pray in the developing communities, then genuflecting on the dirty streets, beside dogs and chickens. But this also opened my eyes to the circumstances of how other people lived, and I became more thankful of our many blessings, and also more open and understanding of the people around me.
At 3pm, we would have the Veneration of the Cross, the symbol of Christ’s suffering and love for us. We used to call this rite the Seven Last Words. This is a solemn rite where we relive the last hours of Christ’s passion and death on the cross. When the priest enters the church with the cross, stops three times and unveils it partially, he sings a biblical phrase. Fr. Didoy Molina, our beloved parish priest then, was absent when God gave the gift of beautiful voices, so when he attempted to sing, we all cracked up and started giggling.
There is no more consecration of the bread and wine at the mass that follows, but we would partake of communion with hosts blessed the night before during the Last Supper rites. We would then go home, but some of us would stay and keep the image of the Cristo Muerto company.
Black Friday, as we call the day that Christ died, is supposed to be a day of fasting, quiet and reflection on this passion and death. I still recall a time, I must have been three or four years old then, when Pepito and I were playing rowdily by the avocado tree in the backyard. Our mom came out and roundly spanked and scolded us to keep quiet. “Don’t you know that Jesus Christ is dead?,” she screamed at us in Spanish. We kept quiet, wondering who this Jesus Christ was and why he died. To a young child, the concept of death is difficult to grasp, more so when it is someone we don’t know.
Black Saturday is still supposed to be hush hush but come night, we would have a grand celebration as we celebrate Easter, or the resurrection of Jesus Christ. In our parish, we would congregate in the pitch black court outside the church. The bonfire is lighted and the priest would bless and light the Paschal Candle, saying “You are the alpha and the omega.” These words never fail to touch me, and bring home the message that God is our all in all, the beginning and the end, our Creator, the Almighty to whom we owe everything. And once again, I would be humbled as I am reminded of my nothingness and yet the grandness that God loves me and holds me in the palm of His hand.
The Easter Vigil mass is long and dramatic. It begins with us entering the dark church following the priest holding up the lighted candle. We listen to several readings followed by Psalms which are sung. The readings begin with Genesis, the story of creation, to when Abraham willingly follows the Lord’s command to sacrifice his only son Isaac to God. He is about to kill his son when he is stopped by an angel and told that God has blessed him for showing his faithfulness to the Lord. God then makes His solemn promise to bless Abraham with descendants more numerous than the stars of the sky or the sands along the beach, descendants who will be a blessing to all nations. The readings proceed to Exodus, or the triumphant flight from Egypt when the Israelites under the leadership of Moses and the guidance and protection of God cross the Red Sea and all of the pursuing Pharaoh’s chariots and charioteers are drowned.
I am usually assigned to read one of these first readings as they are the longest and most dramatic. But it is the second one I love the most. I put myself in Abraham’s shoes, and wonder if I would be as obedient as him. Imagine being told to kill your only son, the beloved son of your old age, and to offer him as a sacrifice to God. Give up Bea, or Cara or Niccolo? Arghhh! And yet, this is exactly what God did: send His only son, Jesus Christ to live and die on the cross to save us from our sins.
The following readings from Isaiah, Baruch and Ezekiel chronicle God’s faithfullness over the centuries to His covenant to take care of His people. We then have the Epistle and the readings from the Gospel. I love it when we sing the Gloria with all of the lights turned on, as we wave our white flags and ring our bells. Oh, what a glorious time it is as we rejoice that the Lord has risen!
The next day we would have the Easter Egg Hunt in our village. When my children were young, they would join the other children in the village and see who could collect the most eggs, especially the prized Gold and Silver eggs. Similarly, when we were young, my siblings and I would also go Easter Egg hunting in our yard. What fond memories Easter brings!
Oh, I will miss all of these rituals this Holy Week, but then I will be with my children and my mom. It is high time we have some family bonding. The children are grown up and soon they would have their own families. I hope and pray that we would still be able to celebrate Easter together in the years to come.
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!
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.
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.
Every 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.
Armed 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.
The 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.
To 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.
To 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.
The 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.
When 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.
TeamAsia founder and president, trainer, event organizer, food and art lover. President, Philippine Association of Convention/Exhibition Organizers and Supplier Philippines · teamasia.com
