The Old House (s1.)

Once, at first glance, it seems to float in a sea of Philodendrons. On closer look, the yellow steel gate opens to a spacious frontyard that displayed an oldish garden swing and an assortment of blooming and leafy potted plants and Santan hedges, the cemented pathway leads you to the main feature – my grandmother’s Spanish old house along Calye Callejon. It was smack right in the town’s hub and was a stone’s throw away from the plaza and a short walk to the church and a prominent Catholic School run by nuns.

The old house is a big structure that quietly loomed on the block and perfectly blended with its surroundings of motley structures ranging from a conspicuous hotel building to mediocre houses nearby. It had 6 big rooms, an azotea, a sala that converts into tv room, a dinning room with a long table and a quaint kitchen. It was built on proud and sturdy posts and boast of well polished and shiny Tindalo wooden floorings. Like most houses built during the olden times, its walls were made of Sawali and its heavy slide windows of Narra.

I love that house dearly. For me, the old house is the most beautiful house I ever laid my eyes on. It brings memories of my early life, it meant comfort and refuge and most importantly it reminded me of Nanay.

Nanay is my mother’s Nanay, a remarkable woman of strength and kindness who became my surrogate mother for the first 6 years of my life. My Nanay tells me that the old house used to be the first hotel in our town. It accommodated a number of prominent political figures including the late President Quirino. Its glory days however were cut short when fire partly ravaged it and a remodeling and reconstruction of affected parts resulted to an oddly shaped kitchen.

Adding flavor to the historical character of my grandmother’s old house is the atmosphere of mysticism it exudes that I categorize as almost magical. My theory identifies the miracle of fresh life springing from a mother’s womb to have blessed the old house. With reference to our clan’s history, the old house had been the birthing place of a series of generations. My grandmother gave birth to all her 6 children in the old house. My mother and her sister and their cousin have followed such practice unconsciously. How many babies were brought forth into this world through the old house? I lost count because I have lots of cousins from the maternal side.

If only it could breathe and tell stories, the old house may have been a great weaver of tales. Only it stood as silent witness to every joy and tragedy my grandmother’s family stumbled into. And whatever it saw became a well-guarded secret locked away from the prying and judgmental world outside.

Sadly, I left the old house before turning 7 upon the bidding of my father who moved his family from the north to the central region of Luzon. My mother, armed with the determination to get the family together, came for me and so I said my farewell.

One day, the news came like thunder on a summer, it was said that the old house was torn down to the ground. Piece by piece it was ripped, like a severely ailing person decaying to death, it succumbed to human fault called greed. Knowing my Nanay, she must have felt that she was about to die too. I picture her pain and agony as she was also torn limb by limb and devoured by an angry giant. She must have been killed softly that day.

At the age of 10, when my young discernment has not yet met its fortitude, I concluded that magic and history were not enough to protect the house that my grandmother built with her love and gentleness. And that human greed does not only take away physical possessions, it also caused terrible pain and bestowed violence on good people. It was greed that desecrated a blessed family dwelling.

Was greed more powerful than love? When I was young I thought the answer was yes. I was wrong then because now when I think of the old house, I am strongly reminde d of my Nanay for my grandmother signified all that is good in this world. Her memory alone brings me back to the old house I will always call Home.

Grumble

I am more than what meets the eye! I am more than my 5’1’’, 140 lb frame! If only I could blurt this out to the next person giving me a physical appraisal without my consent. What is wrong with people nowadays? Gone were the days when a simple hello was enough to start a genuine conversation. It seems like most people have turned out to be acerbic and rude. Sometimes I restrain myself from barking back “Why comment, you have metamorphosed into an ugly beast yourself!" … or curtly, “You’ve grown hideous!”…or more simply put, “You’re ugly!”

It really irks me when someone, an acquaintance for instance, takes full liberty to do an evaluation and run down on my weight gain. This is my body, no matter what size it is, it served me well. I’ve been up and healthy for the past 29 years and it has produced me a child and again is accommodating another one. Why does it matter to others that you are not as slender as you were 10 years ago? Don’t they know a thing about bone structure, metabolism and stress eating? What about the size of your gray matter and what you have done to improve your humanity for the past 10 years? Doesn’t it count anymore?

During the renaissance, plump women were in! Their bodies were adored. Look at the paintings, plumpness symbolized beauty, fertility and prosperity. I know we are not in the renaissance but I am no fool- I am blunt but candid at the same time. Any person must be taken for what they are and not for how they look or how heavy or light they tip on the scales. Afterall, when we die, the Lord asks not how much you have or how heavy you’ve become but how you made out of your life on earth. Good luck then!

Why does my son love Buzz?

I have shelved this Toy Story 1 CD for quite some time in an old rack. If I recall it right, my husband bought this CD a long time ago, we were still dating then. I remember accompanying him to a CD store where he bought this movie for lack of any other interesting material. Little did we know that this CD had a purpose of its own and that is to serve a little master, our son.

My kid received a Buzz Lightyear bubble blower from his Godparents last Christmas. This toy became an instant hit to him the moment he saw Buzz blowing bubbles in the air. He was absolutely delighted as he chased the floating air packets around. The refill bottle did not last a week and so were the batteries.

Wanting to educate our son on the beginnings of Buzz Lightyear, my hubby decided to look for our good old CD and tried in on the player. Fifteen minutes later we get a first glimpse of Buzz when he is seen standing atop Andy’s bed as the poor Woody cowboy is flung from his prized spot. My little boy suddenly stands up, with glistening eyes and exclaims “Buzz!” The instant recognition earned Buzz our respect that he was to become Keith’s favourite toy and so begun our history of the toy-never-ending- story.

Who is Buzz Lightyear? According to the description inscribed in his spaceship, “he is a member of the elite Universe Protection Unit of Space Ranger Corp. protecting the galaxy from the threat of invasion from the Evil Emperor Zurg, sworn enemy of the Galactic Alliance.” I am writing this from memory, who couldn’t I watched the movie a hundred times already.

My son adored Buzz even though he is only a secondary character in that film where Woody is. He plays Buzz to the hilt – he jumps, crawls, runs, and raises his hands and even his right foot as copied onscreen. I am amazed at how this more than an hour movie holds the attention of my 1-year old.

I fear that constant exposure to the same movie may pose a health hazard to my son in the long run. Like all mothers, I did my homework and arrived at a conclusion that TV viewing is alright in regulated doses and should be quality controlled. This is quite obvious as “just enough” is always a better choice to less and more. The TV like any other device is a technological means that could be tapped for creative learning. I was a follower of Sesame Street and Batibot once and I guess my tolerance streams from this reason. This is our version of MTRCB at home, Toy Story 1 will be shown once a day then gradually reduced to thrice a week until it becomes occasional.

In response to the above query - why does my son love Buzz- well based from my almost a 100th time viewing, I am expected to offer highly analytical and profound answers but I can only say: Buzz is funny (my kid’s laughter is proof enough), creative and gutsy (Buzz refers to flying as falling with style) and sincere (he is a true friend to Woody whom he saves in the movie). My son deciphered these qualities the first time he watched Toy Story 1 that is why ….while it took me almost a hundred viewing times before I picked it up.

If the Boot Fits

If God sends us on stony paths, he provides strong shoes."— Corrie Ten Boom

Strong shoes - I used to have one. Mama bought a pair for me as a graduation present at Cardams in 1998. It was a dark brown, suede leather, and ankle-hi ladies lace up boots. And true to form and function, it served me for a total of four years before it finally departed the material world and for it – I bestow the title, “my favorite shoes for all time.”

I won’t classify this blog entry as a fashion rave because I have never been fashionable in my entire life to be credible enough to give one. I would just say, this is an honest-to-goodness recount of my good old boots. For the record, my brown boots or combat boots as for my jeering bros, are the most “wearable” pair of shoes I ever had. It passed the durability test with flying colors when I scaled mountains and trodden rocky terrains during my greenhorn years as a researcher. I refer to my brown boots as my survivor shoes since it went through a series of ultimate wear and tear challenges - I fed it with dust, mud, water, stones and even insects and subjected it to all weather conditions – and given little time to dust, dry and brush – Voila! lookin’ instant brand new again. Exaggeration is not my style but indeed with a few magical brush strokes, my boots seem to say, “Ok I’m good to go, next destination please.”

Literally my boots went where I went. Since I wore them the moment I am off to the next field assignment, it saved space for a backpacker like me. My boots were so adaptable. I wore them when I attended courtesy calls and meetings in some big-comfy-carpeted offices. I also wore them when hiking and crossing shallow waters.

Memorably, I wore my boots during my baptism of fire, my first and longest field assignment; it was 1999 and our team of 3 was to survey rubber-planted areas in Mindanao. As fates would have it, I wore my boots during a field visit to an area in Davao del Norte where vast tracts of land planted to rubber trees were converted into banana plantations. The experience was sending feelers relative to one aspect of my future which I failed to decipher. Who would think that the man I was destined to marry in 2003 spent a significant portion of his young life in this particular town before their family permanently resided in Davao City.

My good old boots was with me through my active years of field work. I never slipped nor faltered for it kept me steady on sloppy and stony pathways. It more than protected my feet from getting beaten and sore from the long treks, it helped me walk with confidence and courage to cross unfamiliar landscapes and step into unknown territories. After four year of service, ageing came in form of worn-out rubber soles, wash-out and dried leather, I wrapped my boots in onion paper and laid it to rest in a shoebox. I did not have to heart to discard it so I kept it behind my closet. Two months later I purchased a replacement that never measured up to my old boots, since then I never wore boots again.

Living in this tropical country I reverted to wearing sandals and rubber shoes. However when I got pregnant with my first born, flats and flip-flops became my greatest allies in the midst of stilettos and pumps in the jungle called the Office. Can’t relate with me? I can only say, to each its own.