THE MAINE EVENT
I had a lovely birthday, thank you for asking.
Sure, the weather was ornery, my husband wasn't feeling well, and it was my son's first day back at school after a long month's vacation, but we managed to have fun anyway.
It very nearly didn't happen. I saw how miserable Lorenzo was feeling so I offered to move the celebration to another day. I was a bit disappointed though, mostly on my kids' behalf. As it was, they were already wondering why we hadn't checked into a hotel yet (it's a family tradition on my BIRTHDAY). How could I tell them we might not even get to eat dinner out, much less stay somewhere overnight, because I didn't have the heart to pull their Dad out of our warm, comfy home when it was just so dreadful outside?
As the evening progressed, however, the weather settled down while my husband's energy level went up. It was the perfect window of opportunity so we took it, heading for Red Lobster before either of the two parties, (the weather or my husband), changed their mind.
Perhaps it was the company, or probably the restaurant's warm, inviting interior, but most likely it was the prospect of good food which brightened my husband's spirits. Whichever it was, Lorenzo visibly felt better upon reaching RED LOBSTER. He ordered clam chowder, ceasar's salad, and steak and lobster, which was a promising sign. At least he wasn't too sick to lose his appetite!
Lance and Troy opted for the popcorn shrimp from the kid's menu, and I, being the guest of honor, took full advantage of the Lobster Fest that was going on, ordering lobster bisque followed by a whole two-pound Maine lobster (they were out of the 1 1/4 lb. ones and Lorenzo promised to help.)
The kids were in their element. They LOVED going to the lobster tank and peeking at the unusual crustaceans. They kept telling their Daddy they had to go to the bathroom, just so they could visit with the lobsters (or, as Lance called them, the crawdads) again. Of course, we didn't have the heart to tell them that an unfortunate pair would be showing up on our dinner plates very soon.
So far, the lobsters were a good distraction from the fact that we hadn't packed any clothes for a hotel stay, but Lance was savvy enough to notice. It didn't help that the service was particularly slow that night, and the kids were already full from eating cheesy biscuits before their entrees made it to the table.
Our waitress kept forgetting things too: our cutlery, our soup, even our coffee spoons when dessert finally came. She redeemed herself, however, by showing up with a slice of Key Lime Pie on one hand and an ice cream sundae on the other, both of them sporting birthday candles. (She conveniently forgot to charge us for those, too, but that's getting way ahead of the story).
Dinner, when it finally came, was delicious. By then, my kids had already gotten their second wind. They attacked their popcorn shrimp like there was no tomorrow. The poor things must've been REALLY hungry. Troy actually touched the veggie dip that came with his food and Lance made a decent dent on his garden salad. Lorenzo's steak was a little on the dry side, but he DID order it medium-well so that was expected (I prefer my steaks pink in the center so I usually get mine done medium).
I asked our server to split my lobster down the middle but she must've misunderstood because she disappeared into the kitchen and stayed there for almost fifteen minutes. By then, my whole family had finished their dinners and I was starting to wonder if she was REALLY on a quest to try my patience. But she reappeared with my lobster completely off the shell. I could imagine the poor girl scrambling to crack and de-shell that lobster in the shortest possible time. This proved to be her redemption. I gave her a good tip. She deserved it.
(After all, as my husband pointed out, pinaghimay niya ako.)
We lingered over coffee, savoring my birthday key kime pie while the boys demolished the ice cream sundae. It was a wonderful dinner spent with the most delightful company on earth, my family. The very same people who sang the first "Happy Birthday" to me at the stroke of midnight were there to sing one last "Happy Birthday" before 12:01 came, exactly twenty-four hours later. What better present could anyone ask for?
In closing, I would like to thank those who greeted me by posting comments in this site: ANNABANANA, CHRISTINE, MARE, MAIJI, PINAYHEKMI, BATJAY, G, KAI, MERRITT, MONA and LETTY. Ditto for those who left birthday tags as well: Emily Howard, adun , PIE and KRISHNNA. I would also like to thank MARISOL, who e-mailed me her greeting, and my sister, Haya, who texted me hers.
Finally, I would like to thank NANAY (my mother-in-law), who called me to greet me, and my MOM, who, aside from calling me with a personal greeting, also sent me MONEY to celebrate with.
Thankfully, even through time and distance, some things never change!
(PLUGGING: "Day 4: Through the Gates At Last", the latest installment in the "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
TO 37...AND BEYOND!
Please join me as I raise a cup to 37.
By 9:15 tonight, Philippine time, it will be official. I would've been in God's beautiful world for thirty-seven years. And when 9:16 comes, I will formally be launching my thirty-eighth.
My Mom beat everyone to the draw. She greeted me more than an hour ago. She lives in New York. With the three-hour time difference, she was entitled.
Shortly after midnight, my family surprised me with a birthday milkshake. Lorenzo whipped up a whole pitcherful of my favorite, avocado. He also gamely lit three birthday candles so I could make my birthday wish. My kids and I are now walking around with milk mustaches in a familiar shade of pale green. Our upper lips would blend beautifully with the walls of any Prada boutique worldwide.
I look back at the life I've led so far, and I must say I can't complain. I am blessed with good health, four beautiful children, and a happy marriage. Indeed, God has been good to me.
In a few minutes, we will be settling down for the night. I would like to end this birthday entry by posting the poem my STEPFATHER wrote for my last birthday. He calls it "For Rima", using the nickname my family has used for the past 37 years.
Hopefully it will be in use for at least 37 more.
FOR RIMA
by Ira Wollen
Not many of us have been to the Brazilian rain forest,
but once there, some might
have luckily caught a brief glimpse of a beautiful female butterfly,
As rare as a jeweled unicorn,
Wearing colors beyond the range of the rainbow,
And elusive to all but the swiftest eye.
You might not know that for her measure, she has vast, mythical power,
Herds of rowdy uncontrollable children are known
To cower at the sight of her brilliant wings,
Otherwise fearsome trolls and ogres keep camouflage near
As she dispenses justice without fear,
In the land of the hillside grape.
Her name derives from the beautiful Rima of the
Amazon Valley, who long years ago, dwelt in the forest,
and successfully won the battle against invasion by
smelly Rodents of the Urban Sprawl.
That original Rima faced incredible odds,
Yet she prevailed, and in the process, according to the film,
Won the heart and future of a young Tony Perkins.
Of course, if our own Rima were around,
The choice of Jo-Jo rather than Perkins
might well have defied the script,
And if I'd been younger, and available,
Who might foretell what fate befell the whole production?
Let us salute, then, the beautiful queen monarch,
By lighting colored candles to wassail her date of birth,
Eat freely sweet creams of confection,
And may unending joy be chocolate sprinkled for her
With loving affection.
(PLUGGING: "Day 4: Through the Gates At Last", the latest installment in the "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT
My other site is going through an identity crisis.
Yes, 87 Gentle Street, aka The Long Way Home. Where it all began.
But first, a brief history: I have always loved to write. Unfortunately, my great love for writing was overshadowed by my even greater disdain for deadines. But in spite of it all, I found myself drawn towards newscasting and producing, which I learned was just a fancy word for writing. I was in my element, extricating the facts from a story and presenting them in a straightforward, no-nonsense manner. It was easy. It was fun. And I was being paid for it.
But my creative side yearned for an outlet. And so I started writing long letters to people who would take them, spending a fortune on postage. My letters were not so much read as they were experienced, preferably over a cup of tea with twenty-gallon refills.
And then came the advent of e-mail, which enabled me to send monster missives at the click of a button, without having to purchase a single stamp. I was in hog heaven. Among the recipients of my epic e-mails were my husband's first cousin, BATJAY, and his wife, BATJET, who were also members of the Pamilya Sereno e-group.
Before long, Jay and Jet invited us to their onlne TAHANAN, a portal to visit both of their blogs. I checked out both sites and knew I had finally found the perfect medium to showcase my prodigious talent for verbosity and long-windedness. (In other words, my kadaldalan.)
I immediately clicked on the Blogger link and followed directions to create my own BLOG. I chose to call it "87 Gentle Street". "87 Gentle Street" was the title of a poem written for me by someone in my past. It was also the English translation of my childhood home address, the birthplace of so many beautiful memories. I chose a green "pea soup" template to represent the tranquility I felt whenever I thought of home. A year later, when Lorenzo started his own BLOG, he would end up choosing another green template to compliment mine.
My first foray into blogging was shaky at best. All fired up with the Christmas spirit, I came out with five posts in December 2002. But all too soon, it seemed, the holidays were over, and the day-to-day distractions of motherhood took hold of me once more. There was no shortage of subjects to write about, however, and I would start working on entries, filing them as drafts for later posting. But I would always end up procrastinating until it was pointless to publish, simply because it wasn't relevant anymore.
And then fate dealt me a wild card. BatJay visited with us in September 2003 and gamely jumped into our backyard pool despite the freezing water. He ended up writing about it in KWENTONG TAMBAY. Two months later, I got an e-mail from him forwarding a comment made by MONA, my former blockmate at U.P. Diliman. Mona had recognized his description of me, and asked him if I was the same person she used to know from college.
Within days, Mona and I were reunited via e-mail. I discovered her site, "Renaissance Girl", which inspired me to work on my blog again. And so, after almost a year's hiatus, "87 Gentle Street" was back in business. It was Christmas season once more, and this time Jay and Jet gave me one of the best presents a blogger could have: MY OWN COMMENTING SYSTEM!
I was a rejuvenated writer. Reading other people's feedback to my posts gave me renewed inspiration. It made all the difference knowing my words were not wandering aimlessly in the blogosphere. They were being read by nameless, faceless co-denizens of the blogging world, who would later become my blogger friends. I owed this to Jay, Jet and Mona, who were nice enough to add me to their links during my fledgling days.
Soon I met another key person in my blogging career, ATE SIENNA, who was nice enough to invite me to join PANSITAN.NET. Ate Sienna is one of the most talented web designers I know. She e-mailed me images of her templates to choose from, and my head swam at the many wonderful designs she had created. Two particular designs caught my attention: "The Long Way Home", which can be seen in "87 Gentle Street", and the blue lady template you see here, which I nicknamed "Taray Nanay".
I guess we were all on the same wavelength because without my knowing it, Ate Sienna and BatJay had also chosen the "Taray Nanay" template for me, and they were already in the process of converting it to "87 Gentle Street" as a surprise. By this time, however, I had already fallen in love with "The Long Way Home". The image of the wooden bridge after a light rain was so haunting and beautiful, it made me want to smile and cry at the same time. I asked Ate Sienna if I could have that instead, and was relieved when she said yes.
I then decided to push my luck, asking her if I could use the "Taray Nanay" template as well. It was actually better suited to my personality, and it was perfect for the other blog I'd been planning to come out with, which I wanted to call "The Prada Mama Chronicles". I envisioned a site with shorter, sassier entries, more in line with "Kwentong Tambay" and "Renaissance Girl". Ate Sienna was very supportive, and she and BatJay gamely worked on personalizing my second site. I can never thank these two enough for the help they have given me.
Ate Sienna generously offered to host BOTH blogs at Pansitan.net. I will always appreciate this vote of confidence, coming from someone so respected in blogging circles. Aside from that, Ate Sienna was also nice enough to supply a new template for Lorenzo's blog, ONE DAY ISANG ARAW. We were blessed to have such a wonderful web ninang.
Pansitan.net was launched in early 2004 and quickly caught fire. I was so proud of our online community, and so happy to belong to its roster of bloggers. The responsibility of maintaining two blogs in a site with such wide readership did not daunt me. Back then, it never occurred to me that I might be spreading myself too thin. I had a very definite vision of both sites in my mind. Each of them had its own unique voice.
But through the passing of time, the lines got blurred somewhat. And now my blogs can best be described as "chop suey" in radio parlance, with no definite styles setting them apart. Both sites now adhere to more or less the same format, except "87 Gentle Street" is updated less. I can only blame myself. It was much more convenient to concentrate on THIS site after BatJay included it in his "Kaakit-akit" list of recommended blogs. My site stats skyrocketed since.
Sadly, my other blog has been left behind, greatly eclipsed by its fraternal twin. "87 Gentle Street" is now a shadow of its old self, but it still holds a special place in my heart. It has always been a labor of love, and a wealth of memories can be still be mined from its archives. But gone are the days when entries like REMEMBERING DADDY could elicit 52 comments in a matter of days.
I have long considered changing its format, and now the time has come to take that plunge. Inspired by my former college seatmate turned blogging idol, Mona, whose "Renaissance Girl" recently underwent a facelift, I will soon be unveiling a new and better version of "87 Gentle Street". This time around it will be truer to itself. More loyal to its title, "The Long Way Home".
But the final transformation will have to wait until I finish my ROYAL HOLIDAY series, which has come to mean a lot to me. I am already done with DAY 4. Just three more posts to go.
And then I will bid goodbye to my old friend, who has been dying a slow death for quite some time. I won't be sad to see her go, knowing she will soon rise again from the ashes. And I can't wait to breathe new life into her once more.
Just wait and see.
(PLUGGING: "Day 4: Through the Gates At Last", the latest installment in the "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
NONE OF YOUR PEASWAX
Lance came to me recently looking quite disturbed. I asked him what the matter was and he answered me with a little voice:
"My ear hurts...", pointing to his right ear.
I wondered if he was coming down with an ear infection. I was quite puzzled about this, since I didn't remember any of my kids having colds recently. I decided to peek into his ear, just to be sure.
I thought I could see something white just barely in the shadows. Thinking it was impacted earwax, I got my trusty ear pick and had myself a look-see. The mass was hard and unyielding at first, but after some finessing and maneuvering I finally managed to to dislodge it.
It turned out to be a black-eyed pea.
A part of me wanted to deal with the situation the Old School way, using scare tactics handed down from generation to generation. I was SO ready to tell him that if he ever did it again, that pea would sprout and a great big tree would grow out of his ear.
And then I remembered MY irrational fears when I was Lance's age, brought about by people around me who thought the only way to make a kid do something was to scare him into submission. "Don't open that umbrella inside or snakes will rain on you." , or "Brush your teeth or ants will crawl into your mouth while you are sleeping."
Of all these, however, the scariest one by far was "Take a bath or the ipis will crawl on your head and lift you up by the hair and fly you out the window!"
It didn't matter that all our windows were screened-in at the time. I was so terrified of being borne away by cockroaches that I slept with one hand under the pillow to weigh me down. I have obviously been enlightened since then but up to the present, I still can't sleep without tucking an arm under my pillow. Force of habit, I guess.
I looked at my son, whose worried look softened my heart. I remember wearing the same worried look three decades ago, when I accidentally swallowed a santol seed for the first time. I frantically perused the contents of our commode for days after that, hoping to find the seed. I was afraid that if I failed to eliminate it, it would grow inside my stomach.
The memory strengthened my resolve. Little kids have enough irrational fears to deal with as it is. How quickly adults forget.
I smiled at Lance and saw his relief as he smiled in return. I briefly explained the dangers of putting foreign objects in his ear. No drama, no hysterics, yet I am confident it will never happen again. I think the painful experience convinced him more than any of my words ever could.
And you know the best part of it? Knowing I didn't have to scare my son for it to be effective. I couldn't find it in me anyway. That was Old School. This is now.
I had broken the cycle. The nightmares of my generation will never more be visited by the next.
And I, for one, am glad.
(PLUGGING: The plot takes a twist in "Day 4: Through The Gates At Last", the fourth installment in my ROYAL HOLIDAY series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
TICKLE KEY ELMO
The Proud Mama in me is tickled pink again.
Thanks to my three-year-old, Troy. Troy loves to mimic his older brother, Lance, who's five.
Lance is in kindergarten. Whenever he has homework, Troy insists on doing some kind of activity too, so I usually tuck him away in a corner with a coloring book and a few crayons while I help Lance out with his letters and patterns.
When Lance started cutting things, Troy asked for a smaller pair of scissors so that he, too, could cut. When Lance would work with paints, Troy insisted on working beside him.
When Lance learned to quote our complete address and phone number, Troy wasn't that far behind. These days, when I am asked to supply this information I usually do it in chorus with my two boys. Lance would be the nasal tenor while Troy is that little falsetto you hear in the background.
It gets quite irritating, I know, but it's a safety precaution, in case they get lost.
Lance went off-track in March, which means he does not have school for an entire month. To keep him from being bored, I set up the computer for him so he could practice typing his whole name, "Lorenzo Sereno", and his "sight words", words he is expected to recognize without having to sound them out.
The first time we did it, I could see that Troy was a little jealous. He kept trying to catch my attention while I was explaining the keyboard basics to his kuya, asking me for a for a piece of paper so he could write while Lance was typing.
As expected, when Lance got bored with the computer, Troy jumped in front of it and asked if he could type his name too. I said "yes", expecting him to attack the keyboard and type all sorts of gibberish.
Instead, Troy started by saying "L...", looking at the letters with utmost concentration. I could see he was looking for the letter "L", so I pointed it out to him, and he hesitantly clicked on the key.
And then I said "O", and I was surprised at how quickly he located the letter. I resolved to let him find the next letters himself. He had a harder time finding "R", until I told him it was "right beside the E", and he located it immediately.
Of course, since "E" comes after "R" in Lorenzo, it didn't take him long to type that in as well. He had a little bit of a problem with the letter "N" (Lance had to come to his rescue for that one), but I could see he was gaining confidence.
After that, it was smooth sailing. Troy didn't have a hard time finding "Z" at all, and that last "O" was a breeze.
I looked at the perfect "Lorenzo" staring back at me from my monitor, and I couldn't help but be proud of my sweet little boy. Indeed, apart from demonstrating letter recognition, this little exercise also showcased admirable patience for a three-year-old, whose focus and concentration enabled him to single out individual letters from a busy keyboard in order to type them out.
And then I decided to go for broke. I asked Troy if he wanted to type in his last name too. My son was happy to take on the challenge. I dictated the first letter of "Sereno" to him, wondering if he would have a hard time with "S".
He found it in no time flat.
The rest of the name wasn't difficult for Troy, since he had already encountered the other letters while typing "LORENZO". I continued to spell our last name for him and sure enough, he was finding the letters faster the second time around.
You could see my son beaming upon seeing his name "LORENZO SERENO" boldly emblazoned on the computer screen. Troy was so proud of himself. I wasn't far from turning somersaults myself.
It's amazing how much knowledge a child can absorb in his day-to-day activities. They are perfect little sponges. And it is up to US to provide the right environment.
And if you are a mother of three, all of them five and under? Believe me...
Elmo is YOUR best friend.
THE WATER BOYS
Lance and Troy insisted on watering the plants today.
Oh, it was a messy affair and they were dripping all over my vestibule, but their hearts were in the right place.
I have automatic sprinklers in my front yard, so I don't really have to worry about my grass dying out. I also have a tightly wound hose perched neatly on my front porch column, but I had an over-active imagination as a child and I would sometimes dream of long garden hoses turning into squirming green snakes. I never trusted them since.
So there I was, standing in front of my house with an oversized pitcher of water, filling my boys' watering pots and watching them drizzle the flowers.
Lance saw a snail and asked me if he could crack its shell. I was quite disturbed at this uncharacteristic show of cruelty, until he told me he didn't like snails because they destroyed our plants.
I explained to him that snails were living things and they had to eat too. My son still looked doubtful, but he decided to leave the poor snail alone.
It didn't take long before Troy came running excitedly towards us. He was having the time of his life watering a small bush at the edge of our lawn, and he needed another refill.
"Mom, I need more water..." and then I heard a CRACK!
That wretched little snail didn't stand a chance.
Pretty soon, we could hear Reanna fussing inside. I looked at my watch. It was time for her lunch. I emptied the contents of my pitcher into my boys' pots, telling them to choose one last plant to water. Lance headed for my CALLA LILLIES while Troy chose big, setting his sight on the lone tree in my front yard. He emptied all his water on the tree trunk and stood back to admire his work.
There was something strangely familiar about that water mark, which went up to Troy's waist-level.
And then it hit me. Yup. I've seen that mark before, except sometimes Spot the Pit Bull would miss and spray a patch of dandelions instead. Once again, art imitates nature.
The crying inside the house intensifies. My litle girl will not be denied.
I rounded up my two boys and told them to go back in though the garage so they don't track mud into the house. They reluctantly turned in their pots and met me at my laundry room. I couldn't handle seeing their dejected little faces so I promised them they could water the plants again later that afternoon, but only if they ate well.
Lance and Troy beamed and headed straight for their snack table. Soon they were eating their lunch with great relish, and making a pretty good show of it.
I may not be MRS. GREEN THUMBS but there's hope for my boys yet.
(PLUGGING: "Day 3: Christmas in the Kingdom", the latest installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
LOLO'S GIRL
It's my Daddy's birthday today.
He would've turned 65, had he not been taken from us so suddenly five years ago, just five months shy of his sixtieth birthday.
Yet, strangely, someone else has occupied my mind lately. Someone who's passing predated my father's by ten years.
His name and title was Atty. Manuel L. Gaerlan, but he was simply Lolo Maning to me, my Mom's Daddy. He passed away sixteen years ago, on March 1, 1989. He was 78 years old.
My Lolo was a man of uncommon kindness and grace. He came from a time when men were still courtly and women were still ladies.
Thanks to my new DVD of "The Notebook", which I watched this weekend, (emerging red-eyed from seeing it two nights in a row), I could picture my Lolo as he was in his prime: a tall, dashing, handsome young attorney who won his share of hearts with the beautiful young ladies of the time.
I was also reminded of how he was at the end, when Parkinson's Disease denied him all recollection of his family. It still pains me to remember how he was during those last months, knowing he didn't recognize me. I was his "ihang", his first grandchild. Out of all his apos, he should've remembered ME the most. But during those last days, we were all equals.
I tried to change this by giving him a framed photograph of the two of us, on what was to be his last Christmas. It was a candid shot of me when I was four or five, sitting on his lap. He was tickling me and I was laughing out, flashing my bungal smile at the camera.
He opened this present in front of me and beamed, his smile not quite reaching is eyes. I told him it was a picture of us when I was younger, placing it on his nightstand. And then I told him I loved him.
Lolo Maning was a stable presence in my life when I was growing up. He became my surrogate father after my parents split up and my Mom went to work on her PhD at the University of Hawaii.
He liked to freak out his grandchildren by catching giant bullfrogs at my grandmother's garden and bringing them into the house, their long legs thrashing. He called my Lola "sweetheart" and "darling" and was a whiz at repairing her underwear, changing garters in less than five minutes using the trusty old Singer upstairs. At three o'clock every afternoon, he would come down for a snack, usually a sandwich and a cup of Nescafe or Blend 45, inviting us to join with him with a friendly "Cafe tayo?"
Late in the evenings, he would come down to check if all the doors were locked. He used to catch me, still awake, sometimes doing my homework, sometimes listening to the radio, but most of the time just making telebabad with my boyriend. Sometimes he would chide me for being on the phone too long, but most of the time, he wouldn't say anything, which I appreciated. He was cool that way.
Once during the holiday season, he came down to find me still awake, wrapping Christmas presents. He went back upstairs and returned with a men's wallet, still in its box, asking if I could add it to the batch. It was for the Exchange Gifts at the annual Christmas pary of the BIR (the Bureau of Internal Revenue, the Philippine version of the IRS, where he worked until his retirement). My Lolo faithfully went every year, looking forward to these annual reunions with his former colleagues.
I wrapped Lolo's present extra nicely and gave it to him, blushing when he praised my work. And then I went down to finish the rest of my gifts. A few days later, Lolo Maning returned from his Christmas party looking for me. He held a gaily-wrapped parcel in his hand, telling me, "Heto yung nabunot ko sa Exchange Gifts. Buksan mo na!" He and I huddled together smiling while I excitedly opened his present. I don't even remember what it was off-hand, but it was a moment that we shared alone together, and I will always treasure it.
Soon after, I started working as a radio newscaster for NU-107 FM in Makati. Since I was busy juggling both job and school, shuttling back and forth between UP Diliman and Makati, I didn't get to spend as much time with my Lolo. His health started failing around this time, after he had an operation to take a pin out of his leg. He never recovered from it, living in constant pain until he developed what was later diagnosed to be Parkinson's Disease.
It was painful to see his condition deteriorate. At the beginning, I would still see him walking in the morning for exercise. Eventually he became too weak for that. But he would still answer the phone and come looking for me if the call was mine.
When I started hearing about his memory loss, I made it a point to go to his room to see him more often. It was difficult and painful to have to ask him if he remembered me, and he seemed taken aback and quite offended at this, so I resolved never to ask him again. The part of me that was in denial was easily appeased by this show of spirit. Unfortunately, by the time I saw him next, he had withrawn farther into his own little world and there was no denying it. We were losing him.
He was eventually taken in his sleep, while confined at the Lung Center. It was ironic that my grandfather, who had never smoked a cigarette in his life, succumbed to emphysema. I had a few moments alone with him before he was loaded on to the hearse. I knew it would be the last time I could hold him so I hugged him, there in the hospital morgue, feeling his lifeless body, kissing his cold cheek. And then I told him I loved him one last time.
Even though his passing was already expected, I still wasn't ready for goodbye. I remember desperately looking for a piece of scotch tape and running it across the top of his head, collecting a few white hairs before he was wheeled out. It may sound morbid now, but I wanted something tangible from him. Something to remind me that he was still there, and would always BE there for me.
Today, the scotch tape is gone, but Lolo Maning remains with me still, in my heart and in my memories, sometimes in my dreams...
Just like my Daddy, whose birthday it was TODAY.
(PLUGGING: "Day 3: Christmas in the Kingdom", the latest in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
SHANGHAI SURPRISE
Lumpia is one of life's little ironies.
At least for me. See, I love eating lumpia, but I dare not make it.
This is because lumpia is a deep-fried food and the whole process of deep-frying terrifies me. Somewhere buried within my psyche is the deep-seated fear of being disfigured in a freak deep-frying accident.
I have managed to avoid deep-frying all my adult life. I rationalized this by using cholesterol as a convenient excuse. Indeed, I cannot imagine myself pouring a whole jugful of oil into a single cooking pan without developing a nervous tic.
And then there's the business of heating the oil up to boiling point. This would be my cue to excuse myself and flee to the next county.
I admit I am a coward. I jump uncomfortably at the tiniest sizzle and startle nervously at the smallest spatter. I marvel at people who courageously deep-fry their food, dropping perfectly breaded pieces of meat in scalding oil, their hands perched oh-so-casually millimeters above the bubbling liquid.
But I knew I had to face my fear sooner or later. And sure enough, the perfect opportunity came when my mother-in-law prepared a monster batch of lumpia, both regular and shanghai, which she sent to all her daughters-in-law in two neat, ready-to-cook packets.
And so the hour of reckoning came. I readied my smallest saucepan, knowing it wouldn't take as much oil to fill it up. This helped marvelously in the tic department. I was off to a good start.
Then I turned the heat to medium and let the pan languish on the stove until the oil was hot enough. The first batch that went in was the smaller shanghai. I figured the kids would prefer these over the regular ones since they could eat it with ketchup. My kids love ANYTHING that goes with ketchup.
My initial foray into deep-frying turned out beautifully. My lumpiang shanghai looked just like the ones you would see in a cook book: picture-perfect in a uniform shade of golden-brown. I served the little lumpias to their diminutive counterparts, who consumed them with gusto, stopping every so often to ask for more rice and refills of ketchup.
Pretty soon, my boys were full. I gave them their bedtime bath and put them to sleep. Lance had a minimum day in school the next day, which meant he had to get up earlier than usual.
I tackled the rest of the lumpia later that evening. Unfortunately, the regular ones didn't turn out as nice-looking as their smaller Chinese counterparts. I suspect it had something to do with the temperature of the oil. Rookie mistake. Noted.
Pretty soon, my husband was home, tired and hungry. He tucked into the lumpia, eating more of the regular ones, telling me he was leaving the shanghai for the two boys to eat tomorrow.
I served up the rest of the lumpia for breakfast the next day, knowing it had limited shelf life. By the time Lorenzo and Lance were done, all that was left were a few lonely sticks of regular lumpia.
Troy woke up hungry later that morning. I could hear him scampering down the steps while I was nursing Reanna in my bedroom. He must've headed straight for the kitchen, hoping to find some more lumpiang shanghai. I could imagine his disappointment at seeing just the regular kind, and prepared myself for the sight of his dejected face at my door.
Instead, I heard an excited patter of steps coming back up the stairs. My boy burst into the room, his eyes wide as saucers.
"Mom", he said breathlessly, "the lumpia grew BIGGER!"
(PLUGGING: "Day 3: Christmas in the Kingdom", the latest installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
ODE TO SPRING
The calla lily must be the hardiest plant in the planet.
The specimen in this picture is located at the front of my house. Since we moved here in 2001, I have never watered it. I wouldn't even dare step close, since it seems to attract all the eligible snails in and around Stanislaus County. Yet every year, at around this time, it starts blooming virginal white.
Yes, spring is in the air. My plant is but one of many harbingers of the season, showing up uninvited at the end of winter's party. Yet everywhere else in the Northern Hemisphere, these gate-crashers are welcomed warmly and with great fanfare.
Like in New York, for instance, where my winter-weary STEPFATHER wrote THIS with great anticipation:
YELLOW!
by Ira Wollen
Don't let the snow you see falling
mislead you into imagining
that everythng is the same as it was yesterday,
It is not.
The snow is miserly,
and will not leave
even a slight patch of white promise
To match an idle minute of nostalgia
But, look! A clandestine army approaches
With not a single sound,
and if you take a walk with me
Just 'round the rise,
Where one tree
challenges the swirl of the wind,
We will see the first signs
of imminent, inescapable color,
Yellow!
Worry not, rejoice rather
that soon the world of Drab
Will have been overwhelmed by a vast armada,
commanding that we surrender
Frost reddened eyes to the
Brightest of the primaries, yellow!
Forsythia have conquered!
and joining to watch the expanding view,
we need not feel threatened, nor bow to restraint,
Instead, eyes and hearts coming together,
We dance to the yellow of Springtime taint,
The beginning of life anew.
If you liked this poem, please let Ira know by visiting his site, "Ira's Poetry" at http://irawollen.blogspot.com. I'm sure he'll be happy to hear from you.
(PLUGGING: "Sunbeams for Lance", Ira's latest poem at IRA'S POETRY, and "Day 3: Christmas in the Kingdom", the latest in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET. Yup. Another update.)
(Oops!)
