Feliz cumpleaños, Amadis

Amadis Ma. Guerrero Photo courtesy of Philippine Daily Inquirer Lifestyle He has always struck me as modest and self-effacing. This is borne out in an article that Inquirer's Eric S. Caruncho wrote about Amadis Ma. Guerrero, arts and books and travel writer. Amadis was quoted as saying, "I’m not a critic, I’m a feature writer. My approach is reportorial rather than critical." I could very well say the same thing for myself. Which is why he and I get along famously, the kind of relationship where we can even trade gentle insults. The late Prof. Nieves B. Epistola bestowed the highest compliment on him, addressing him in French as Le Cheri Guerrier. He likes to say in jest that he is the lovable warrior to Jose Ma. Sison's alter ego, Amado Guerrero. My compadre is also known for his deep loyalty to kin and friends, especially to his aunt Carmen Guerrero Nakpil. Even at the height of the anti-Marcos dictatorship movement when Mrs. Nakpil was still identified with the administration, Amadis warned my office colleagues in a tight voice to back off from her. If memory serves, his words went: "Who's saying something against my Tita Chitang? Let me just pull his hair out of his head!" I am amazed at his stamina in writing reportage and the occasional fiction. He is also in demand as a writer of art books, the latest among them Philippine Social Realists and SYM, Galicano and PASPI. He takes down notes longhand or sometimes tapes the interview. Then he does his drafts on his portable typewriter and has someone encode and email the piece for him afterwards. He's old-fashioned that way. He's the only person I know who still buys typewriter ribbons. Needless to say, he's not in social media although there are occasional sightings of him in Facebook when he's singing with Jerry Dadap's Andres Bonifacio Choir. Whenever I am sick and in despair, his message to me is unwavering and unchanging: "Keep on singing, soprano!" On his 80th birthday, I greet him: "Long may your voice ring, El Tenor!"

Sweet banana

"Writers are like those good thieves. They take something that is real…and by a trick of magic they transform it into something totally fresh." ~ Isabel Allende I live with some kind of sinusitis that gets going in the morning, especially after I've eaten breakfast. I am assured that my poor sense of smell isn't a COVID-like symptom. But I need to do something about it because this morning, as I was preparing lunch, I didn't notice that the pot where my husband Rolly Fernandez was cooking plaintain bananas in sugar syrup, minatamis na saging, was about to dry. There was steam all over the kitchen. I was so focused on dicing the carrots and slicing the cloves of garlic that were supposed to go into my own pot of chicken with pineapples. My back was turned to the stove. Plus my ears were listening to the CD album of cellist Yo-Yo Ma. I even had a fleeting thought about how peaceful these all felt--the meditative gestures of dicing and slicing. Rolly rushed down the stairs holding the walis tingting and dustpan containing Satchi's poop, shouting that the house was almost on fire. I rose abruptly from my seat and quickly turned off the knob of the gas stove. He got rid of Satchi's leavings first before returning to scold me. We opened the pot and looked inside. The sugar had caramelized to a dark brown around each of the banana slice. I'm a girl who looks at the jug as half full so I told my partner, "We have banana cue for dessert!" Still much shaking of Rolly's head.

More Mario memories

Indulge me, please, as this is the way I manage my grief over the loss of writer-patriot Mario Ignacio Miclat. I met him and his family a few years after they returned to the country following 15 years of political exile in China. I was assigned to write about him for The Sunday Times Magazine, supplement of the then Gokongwei-owned The Manila Times. I don't have a copy anymore of my article, but I do recall the magazine cover of that issue--two photographs of Chinese landscape and architecture taken by Mario himself. I vaguely remember the article's title as "Bayan-bayanan sa Beijing." What struck me upon visiting their first home, a condo unit at BLISS Pag-asa in Quezon City, was how orderly and clean it was. Fast forward to the time they moved to another condo on Quezon Ave., QC. I entered the hallway and just perfunctorily left my walking cane on a corner. Then Mario showed up and in a strict and annoyed tone wondered aloud what the cane was doing on its spot. I realized that he was like my husband Rolly Fernandez in seeing to it there's a place for everything and everything's in its place. When the Miclats make a trip to Baguio in December during Alma Cruz Miclat's birth month, instead of us treating them to a meal, they play gracious hosts to us. In the inner group are Mario's fellow UP academics Del Tolentino and Ben Tapang and their family friend Mitos Benitez. Over Japanese dinner at Hamada at the Baguio Country Club, we used to watch Raj's antics. Talk would last until the restaurant's closing time. In this photo Mario is shown with his Unyon ng mga Manunulat sa Pilipinas award for his lifetime's literary output and with his family and Church Cafe confreres. From left are Mario, Alma, Raj in the arms of mother Banaue Miclat-Janssen, Fe and Pastor Sunil Stephens, Roger and Fe Mangahas and myself. Happy times--so many to look back on to lessen the sting of his departure.

The dog who would be a reader

I just went through my digicam to check what's stored and found these pictures taken by my grandchild Kai. They're of Satchi and her master Rolly Fernandez lounging in the library where she loves to scoot over once released from the balcony that she has for her home. She loves Rolly's bed, rolls all over it before lying on her belly. She even likes to look at the books. When she wags her long, bushy tail, she knocks over Rolly's assorted knickknacks, including a framed bulletin of Bandilang Pula, a publication of the seven-day Diliman Commune, or our kids' snapshots. Once, and only once, did Satchi gnaw the spine of my book, Object Lessons: The Paris Review Presents the Art of the Short Story. What a scolding she received, but I doubt if she understood any word said. Something must have sunk in because there has been no repetition of the incident. She has maintained her respectful distance from the books. However, she still sniffs at them, her eyes glancing longingly over the titles. Somebody said Satchi must've been a reader in a former life. If she was, then she has found the right home.