A throwback

On the eve of her 91st birthday, I remember this woman who teased me at a Greenbelt shop years ago. She picked up a lamb--cordero--and said, "Babeth, why don't you buy this for me?" Greenbelt being Greenbelt, the price was beyond my budget so I did the next best thing. Capture the moment in a picture. Wherever you are, Gilda Cordero Fernando, frolicking with angels and cherubs and streaking among the stars and comets, I want you to know that you will be my forever Gemini icon of a writer, the one who communicates well in a language laced with wit and lightness, even if the subject is as serious as death. I have told you that before. I don't mind saying it again.

Pocketful of mercies

Like many of the members of my generation, she was my Lamaze teacher as I got ready to birth my firstborn child Kimi Fernandez. When I was pregnant with my second two years later, Mercy Fabros gave me pointers to remember the breathing and relaxation exercises we had studied before that saw me through a quick labor and delivery.

She was also my breastfeeding coach along with members of the Gabay at Kalinga ng mga Ina (fellow Paulinians Meran Daza Umali, Connie Estrada Calimon). Such was her commitment to the Our Bodies Ourselves movement that I was so infected with wanting to give my daughters nothing but breast milk in their early years. I practiced tandem nursing. I weaned each child from the breast at age three. It got to the point that Gilda Cordero Fernando asked me, "What else are you doing when you're not busy being a cow?" Mercy was in that phase of my life quietly supportive.

As she was when it was Kimi's turn to carry her child Kai to full term. After an uneventful birth, Mercy and I referred to Kai by the possessive OUR apo. It was at this point nine years ago when we became closer. She was a regular paying supporter of Pablo Tariman's intimate concert series at the former Kiss the Cook Gourmet on Maginhawa Street and later at Balay Kalinaw, UP Diliman. At the end of each event, she'd inquire, again in that concerned way of hers, if the concert organizer broke even. Most times, he didn't, but he'd reassure her, "Life is beautiful."

She became part of what I called the opera barkada, a group of retired and semi-retired friends that enjoyed the classics, mostly performed at the Ayala Museum lobby. Usually coming from the Diliman campus, she took the MRT to SM Makati, then walked towards the museum. Or she'd take the Point to Point bus to and fro. Such was her enviable stamina--this woman who was part of a walking group also around the UP Oval.

At the end of the Mario Lanza recital produced by Joseph Uy and Al Andres Andres at Ayala Museum. Seated is soprano Stephanie Anne Gastrock Aguilar. Standing from left: the two Jennys, Jenny Juan and Jenny Llaguno, Marne Kilates, Babeth, Nympha Sano, Mercedes Fabros, Grace Banez, Melendre Araos and Gabriel Allan Ferros Paguirigan. At the back is tenor Mher U. Nival.

At the closing rites of Dame Nelly Miricioiu-Kirk 2015 masterclass at the Ayala Museum. From left: Mercedes Fabros, Jenny Juan, Nelly and Babeth trying the open back position earlier demonstrated by the diva.

Fortieth day following the death of sculptor Jerry Araos at the Garden of Two Dragons in Antipolo City. Seated: Babeth, Bani Lansang and Princess Nemenzo. Standing are Stef Sano, Steve B. Salonga, Victor Corpus, Pablo Tariman and Mercedes Fabros.

That rare occasion when Mercy Fabros wore eye shadow as a nod to the costume party/ball that marked the vernissage of Gilda Cordero Fernando's 2014 show "Same Difference: Ganon pa din ang diperensya" at Silverlens Galleries. From left: Anna Leah Sarabia, Mercedes Fabros, Babeth and Rolly Fernandez

Mercedes Fabros (right) could be counted on to turn up at friends' milestones, in this case Sinag De Leon's and Babeth's joint art exhibit in November 2018 at Gourmet Gypsy Art Cafe. From left: Anna Leah Sarabia, Sheila Nicolas, Bobbie Malay, Virginia Moreno, Melendre Araos, Fe Mangahas, Barbara Mae Dacanay, Jenny Juan, Sinag and Mercy.

Post-intimate concert at Balay Kalinaw. Mercedes Fabros lent her presence again. From left are Lorna Kalaw Tiro, Anna Leah Sarabia, Neni Sta Romana Cruz, Ivi Avellana Cosio, Maria Karina Africa Bolasco and Sheila Coronel. I am seated with Mercy's eldest grandchild Alon.

From March 9 to 11 of 2015, we sat together at an Ayala Museum function room as Romanian-British diva Nelly Miricioiu-Kirk conducted a masterclass for Filipino singers. Mercy explained, over lunch at Dulcinea's to which she treated me, why she was present for consecutive days after seeing Dame Nelly already perform at the Meralco Theater, "This is my birthday gift to myself." We both believed Nelly was not just an excellent vocal coach but a practical life coach for people like us.

Furthermore, we witnessed with our eyes and ears the big difference the singers made once they went through the hands of Nelly.

Mercy's death is still weighing a ton on me, a mere mortal who can't be brave in the face of loss. The tears I cried earlier have stopped, but the mourning hasn't. The months April and May have been personally cruel as one friend after another was stricken and called home. Home to where "mercies are new every morning."

Happy nights with GCF

I no longer remember the year we met for a trip to Jetro Rafael's Van Gogh Is Bipolar on Maginhawa street, Sikatuna Village. Trips like this one have always been an initiative of Gilda Cordero Fernando, she who we consider our life coach, guru, role model.

Gilda with her son from maybe a former life, Jetro Rosales

Twin souls Jetro and Gilda

I dare you to sit on Marilyn Monroe's face.

Teapots and a lamp

Long-playing record spinning

Collectors' item

Curiouser and curiouser

Her Royal Highnesses

It was enough for Nash Tysmans and her mother Carole to meet at GCF's boudoir where we could perhaps play with her brushes and watercolors, then relish her kitchen's caper-studded pasta, but the hostess was restless. So off we went to one of her favorite spots in the city for dinner.

Strange but I don't have the slightest recollection of what we ate. I remember the drinks because I have pictures of full teacups and a pitcher of juice. What stuck in my mind was when the chef patron Jethro asked us at the end of the meal to pick a headdress for our parting photo. I chose one that made me feel like the Queen Mother--heavy and sedate.

I recall, too, the long-playing vinyl record that played French music. We could have very well been at a bistro in the old quarter of Paris. But this was Jethro's special place, with each item rich in history. No wonder Gilda wanted to leap, if that were possible, from the confines of her already art-filled house.

I wonder now how Gilda is coping with the lockdown. I hope she has enough DVDs of her favorite films to view and re-view--I remember sitting through The King and I with her and humming along every time Deborah Kerr as Anna broke into song. I hope she has conversation partners when she sips her hot chocolate with fresh pinipig. I hope she has tamed her restlessness for the time being and is turning inward and enjoying meditative moments.

My wish for her is this--a line from Proust: "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."

The quieter she becomes

Photo of Gilda Cordero Fernando courtesy of Tonnette Jacinto

In the recent months whenever I visit Gilda Cordero Fernando, I am reminded of that Zen proverb: "The quieter you become, the more you can hear."

Unlike, say, five or more years ago when we could converse and she would astonish me with her memory for the slightest detail, these days all we do is exchange high five's or knock our fists together or clasp hands. If I can get a sentence out of her, I am transported to the heights of happiness.

During the last convening of the GCF Fans Club at her abode last month, she was again colorfully garbed with deliberately mismatched earrings from Japan. Her caregiver rolled her to the sala on her wheelchair that used to have jeepney signs (Cubao-Quiapo) appended to it. Only Gilda can think of that as decor for such a practical equipment like a wheelchair.

She has let her hair go white after years of coloring it. It's a fine match to her mien that is only beginning to betray the eighth going on ninth decade she is situated in. When she marks her 90th year in June, she is going to be the youthful-looking nonagenarian in my list.

I don't know why I am moved to write this, knowing she is not in Facebook or any form of social media. I learned from her help that even her email account is already inactive. I continue to send her postal mail which the help acknowledges but which Gilda doesn't recall.

Maybe because it's almost Valentine already, and I just need to tell you, Gilda of my heart, how much you are admired and loved. And I am keeping my promise of a few years ago that no matter what state of mind you are in, even as you retreat into silence, I will continue to visit...and in fact, accompany fans who never tire of basking in your presence.

Feasting on our lives

I have Edna Z. Manlapaz to thank for a copy of this poem. It was the memento she left us with last Friday when the First Draft group of writers met for a long-delayed reunion. It happened to be the birth month of Gilda Cordero Fernando, Fe Arriola and myself so we each got a Costa Brava cake from Mariel Francisco. Mariel made sure we each had a photo with Gilda to remember the day by.

Then we did feasting while we shared stories of lives, work, health. Edna's choice of poem was apropos.

LOVE AFTER LOVE
By Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger
who was your self.
Give wine, give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger
who has loved you all your life...

Sit. Feast on your life.

With Gilda Cordero Fernando

Lakwatsa with Gilda

It was the day after Peculiar People's Day which is celebrated on Jan. 10, according to illustrator-cartoonist Sandra Boynton. I couldn't think of a better way to spend the residual of that day than with friend and mentor Gilda Cordero Fernando, the woman writer who defies categorization because she's in a class of her own.

I knew that at this stage in her long life, she loved stepping out even if her legs were unwilling to bring her out of her house. Her will is too strong to acknowledge the weaknesses the flesh is heir to.

So we met in the dark of her boudoir where she was all dressed and made up while seated on her wheelchair. "Halika na," she said as I caught my breath upon arriving. She allowed me to inhale exhale for a few minutes as I told her about a harrowing time spent in the hospital for a thorough breast examination and shared the findings of my doctor regarding my arthritic knees.

"Di bale na," she waved her hand. "Maganda ka pa rin, Babeth!"

Three rings on the bell to summon Michelle, the tall, willowy caregiver who was to push Gilda's wheelchair and keep her steady while she boarded her car or stepped out of it when we reached Via Mare on Timog Ave, Quezon City, a few kilometers from her house.

Gilda Cordero Fernando with her preferred drink of distinction and a plateful of Oysters Rockefeller three-fourths of which she ravished

There she immediately zeroed in on what she wanted for appetizers. She pointed her forefinger and tapped it on the menu picture of Oysters Rockefeller. When the waitress said the order would take 20 minutes to prepare since the oysters still had to be baked, Gilda shook her head vigorously but said she'd wait.

Her order arrived at the same time as mine (arroz a la cubana). She said her household kitchen made a better version of it. I said I missed her cook Veni's cooking, but according to Michelle, her employer would rather eat out seven days a week. This meant dressing her up every day, applying makeup on her smooth face (to which she credits Pond's), putting on her accessories (she wore one of her many pairs of hoop earrings that afternoon) and her sneakers that matched her outfit. Is it any wonder that she has always been the Best-Dressed Writer in my book?

I asked her what she did the day before. She nudged Michelle who, along with the other caregiver Aiko, have become her memory bank. Michelle said Gilda went to visit her old friend, Inquirer founding publisher Eugenia D. Apostol, in the latter's house in Dasmarinas Village, Makati.

Prior appointment had been made so Tita Eggie looked forward to the visit, but when Gilda arrived, the former said, "Matalik kong kaibigan si Gilda. Hindi ikaw 'yon." To which Gilda replied, "Babatukan kita na dyan."

Tita Eggie repeated her remark, denying Gilda's presence before her. Again Gilda said, "Babatukan kita na talaga!"

After lunch, the car made a U-turn to drop me off Popular Bookstore where I bought a copy of Elmer A. Ordonez's Father's Doppelganger. Back in the car, Gilda took a cursory look at the book, then handed it back to me.

I asked her if she still enjoyed reading. She nodded, but said she couldn't remember anything anymore after she finished reading something, whether it's a newspaper or a book. She circled her hands round the sides of her head. "Magulo na," she said, seemingly aware of the ravages of time inside of her.

I asked what her friend and neurologist Joven Cuanang said about her condition. She smiled broadly, declaring, "Mahal na mahal niya ako!"

Gilda with the blogger, Xoce Luna Dalena and his grandma

Three generations almost but only two are blood relations (Xoce and Lola Julie)

She wasn't ready to go home. I said I wanted to visit Julie Lluch whose blood pressure had been elevated for the past two days and thus couldn't visit Gilda as originally planned. So off we went to Julie's house, but Gilda, being the generous soul that she is, remembered that we needed to stop over a place where we could buy pasalubong for the ailing sculptor.

We drove down Maginhawa Street until I spotted Friulli Trattoria where Michelle and I got off to order Margarita pizza and mozzarella sticks for takeout.

At Julie's who should be first to say hello to us but her grandson Xoce Luna Dalena and Aba Lluch Dalena who was on her way out on an errand? Aba stopped in her tracks to pull out her cell phone to take a photo ("proof of life," as Nash Tysmans would call it) of her Tita Gilda and herself.

We didn't go inside the house as there were steps that the older woman didn't want to negotiate so we spent the hour at the car port, with the electric fan turned to full blast. GCF continued to cuddle and admire chubby Xoce, son of Julie's daughter Kiri Dalena.

(NOTE: I can't believe I've gone this far and that particular afternoon isn't over yet. Trust Gilda to make the day long and memorable.)

When she rolled her head again, Julie and I took it as cue that she wanted to go to another place. Michelle recommended an ukay-ukay emporium (for that was what it was) on Aurora Blvd. near the corner of Anonas Road.

We bid Julie goodbye. The writer and the sculptor exchanged "I love you's" and tight hugs.

I don't have a picture documentation of Gilda among the racks of ukay-ukay where she almost lost one of her earrings which got caught in a blouse. She found one to her liking--a black top with tiny floral accents. I found a white eyelet dress perfect for lowland summer for P150 and a pair of khaki pants for the same price, all in tiptop condition.

Gilda shouted from her seat her observation of the people who patronized the place, "Very democratic!" And I did notice that all the customers who finished paying up at the counter left the Janco Fashion Trading with a big smile.

I went home also with a smile in my heart for I had spent a full afternoon that stretched to evening with a literary and style icon whom we are lucky to have very much around us still.

‘Ayi’ would have been 100

Ligaya Amilbangsa and Mariel Francisco beside a tarpaulin poster of writer-activist Paula Carolina Malay Photo by Elizabeth Lolarga

‘Ayi’ would have been 100

To dye or not to dye?

Gigi de Beaupre

To dye or not to dye?

Paella Negra and Gilda

It was the perfect and most complete meal I had in many a Holy Week since I was this tall. This Paella Negra in a well-worn paellera was served at a merienda get-together hosted by Ka Universe, Gilda Cordero Fernando, for her friends from different persuasions: psychologist Carmen Enrile, playwright Rody Vera, development worker Juju Tan and wife, the architect Ning Encarnacion Tan, sculptor Julie Lluch and yours truly. Gilda once said if there's any skill or any thing she's good at, it's playing host and getting the right mix of people in a room. So after we dug into the paella, arugula salad with figs and flowers, fish and halo-halo and finished our meal, the conversation ranged wide and deep, with pit stops for bits of gossip. Thank you, Gilda, for remaining in our lives and still choosing to be of this world.

Photo by Babeth Lolarga

Mood-altering dinner

"We're all dressed up with nowhere to go," Gilda Cordero Fernando said yesterday afternoon as I sipped hot chocolate and scooped warm fresh pinipig from the same cup in her bedroom slash work room. To me being with her, listening to her reminisce and opine made enough of a destination for the day. She'd have none of that--she was determined to leave the premises of her abode with her cane and wheelchair which she calls her kariton. The movie we had wanted to go out and watch, The Dressmaker, wasn't showing anymore.

She booked us for an early supper at Van Gogh Is Bipolar on Maginhawa Street, Sikatuna Village. She prodded me to think of persons we could go out with and have a relaxing dinner. "At short notice?" I asked, incredulous.

On top of me is a Tunisian hat, a fake crown on King Jetro, a copy of the Miss Universe crown on Carole, something from Mongolia on Nash and a muffin hairband with the word "Happy" on perennially happy Gilda.

But young writer Nash Tysmans and her mother Carole were available. So that was how we found ourselves at a subdued Mad Hatters' Party at Van Gogh with a pastor serving as our waiter and owner-chef Jetro Rafael by our tableside, keeping up a running commentary on the dishes served and the restaurant's new daytime thrust as a mood-altering tea sanctuary.

Jetro and Nash show different ways of pouring tea. Nash takes hers seriously. She went all the way to Darjeeling district in India to study tea and got thoroughly sunburned during her apprenticeship there.

My turmeric tea with honey came from the uppermost pot and was served encased in elegantly filigreed silver. You'd surmise that food and drinks served this well would up the cost of the bill, but no. Van Gogh Is Bipolar has Quezon City rates, meaning, highly affordable for writers, especially poets, scholars, artists and similar vagabond spirits.

The beauty of choice for post-prandial tea: You get to choose from Jetro's collection of teapots. Unlike other art and knickknack collectors who keep their collections for their private enjoyment only, Jetro enjoys sharing his. Nothing in his home restaurant is only for show. Everything is meant to be used.

While more commercial cafes and tea salons would practically shoo you off if you're just availing of the free Wifi and have consumed your minimum one cup of coffee or tea, Van Gogh seeks to attract souls in need of silence and healing in the daytime hours of 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. You can avail of the Wifi but better if you take a break from the use of electronic gadgets by lying on a hammock reading from the book swap library, sipping tea that will address any negative mood at the moment (confusion, anger, panic, depression), doing art (art materials are provided free) or just wandering in the pocket garden.

There truly is something about the way Jetro prepares his meals that calms you down. He described the meat as "free range," the fish "wild." And I, like the fox in The Little Prince, felt tamed. All these things happened in a venue that has been named by a network or an international magazine as one of the coolest homes in Asia.

Enhancing the already rich ambience was the auditory pleasure of listening to chansons by Charles Aznavour and Jacques Brel spinned from an old long-playing record player with an antique case picked up from Jetro's European travels. They threw me back to Thursdays in my youth in the '70s.

What 65 looks like if you're content

Six years ago, writer-painter Gilda Cordero Fernando painted "Gilda's Morphing Tower of Hearts" dedicated to one Rolly Fernandez. She used to tell the all-women members of First Draft, of which I was then a junior member (age-wise, the other was Karina Bolasco) that she has no choice but to love our husbands more than she does us because "I know you all well enough to know what they have to put up with."

Recognize the object of affection?

Rolly, husband, provider, friend, adviser has put up well and can put up with more. I am confident about that because my indicator is his shock of white hair. His thick hair hasn't fallen off (I'm the one with the thinning, falling hair problem) in all the years we've been together and not together.

Hanging out on a Friday night at Del Tolentino's famous kitchen on the occasion of a farewell dinner for Inquirer Northern Luzon Bureau's Robert Abaño. From left are Desiree Caluza, the host Del, Rey Rimando, Robert and the man who is not Santa Claus

At our lunch date yesterday at Chaya, best little Japanese restaurant in Baguio City. Behind him are quilted items for sale.

Today, Kai Curly Tops and I took turns documenting Tats Rolly's preparation for his birthday lunch. Friday night while at a dinner at Del Tolentino's, he suddenly seemed to have an epiphany and realized that he couldn't let a milestone go by without celebrating, even if he had to market/do the groceries/cook the food himself.

Meanwhile, he had a few moments of quiet with Kai and his partner in crimes and misdemeanors for 31 years. Truly yours and his

Kai took pics of her grandfolks after we had just cleared the table of breakfast fare and were preparing it for today's lunch. I had written before that this four year old is more assured when handling gadgets. She isn't afraid to turn the camera around, even if some photos look vertiginous. Middle photo should've been deleted if she had her way, but I found it cute. She went through so much trouble setting up her Hello Kitty toothbrush on the foreground. After all the picture-taking was done, she ended the series with a selfie. Photos by Kai Fernandez

He's got these duties down pat: going out for supplies, loading the trunk of the car, etc. With a little assist from his favorite gal in the world Photos by Babeth Lolarga

What do you say to a depressed person?

Get-well card painted by Toottee Chanco Pacis of Baguio

Codes names of Toottee and this blogger for one another

What do you say to a depressed person?

Read more: http://lifestyle.inquirer.net/203815/what-do-you-say-to-a-depressed-person#ixzz3jKOfYjJ0
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Against all odds we made it to our 31st year

My husband Rolly and I made it to our pearl anniversary last year, and I did a Beatles gig on this space, rewriting Lennon and McCartney's "When I'm 64." Philstar's Millet Martinez Mananquil took note of it and appreciated that blog entry, and she ran it on a Sunday issue of her Life section. Sure! I said. Rolly, I felt, needed more affirmation how kainis guwapo he is.

On our 30th, we treated ourselves to a yoga and wellness retreat organized by poet Marj Evasco in her home province of Bohol. Rolly was open to the idea--that was triumph enough when I asked if he'd like to join us. I told Marj he would join the healthy meals, Bimboy Peñaranda's book launch and talk on disaster preparedness and a different spiritual view on how to get ready and not be in panic mode. But I couldn't guarantee if Rolly would be there for all yoga sessions with our teacher, Ajita Reyes.

Damn right the missus was, but he looked quite relaxed from that look weekend. I have these pictures to remind me of that rare couple holiday that we enjoyed.

Rolly admires the Chocolate Hills of Carmen, Bohol. Photo by Babeth Lolarga

Ajita Reyes, yoga teacher (middle), is flanked by her students Babeth and Marj Evasco. Photo by Rolly Fernandez

Now that we made it to our 31st year, radical changes are being made here and there, one of which is reaffirming a commitment to one another (walang iwanan muna) in the spirit of our Roman Catholic vows of "for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part."

We affirmed not to make promises of obedience to either one as coached by our Life Coach Gilda Cordero Fernando when she hosted a tsokolate't pinipig afternoon following the lunch Rolly treated us to at Alab by Chef Tatung on Scout Rallos, Quezon City. Love, honor, yes, but "obey"? Only dogs go to obedience school, no slur aimed at dogs. Our witnesses this time included Gou de Jesus and her Ernie (Ernesto Enriquez), Gilda Cordero, Bobbie Malay and Nash Tysmans.

Gilda made us switch roles for the "wedding picture" with Rolly seated and I standing with Bobbie's face reflected on the mirror. Bobbie's Dad Armando was our July 26, 1984, wedding sponsor. All wedding sponsors are dead. Of the two women who signed their names on our marriage certificate, Nieves B. Epistola is especially missed during the month of July. (She had a birthday the other day.)

Our wedding photog in 1984 was Jerry Araos. When we celebrated our 31st jubilee in advance on July 23 this year, Nash Tysmans, Wig and Carole's daughter (herself a skilled photographer, writer, educator--a woman wearing many berets) did the photo documentation duty. The luncheon was as intimate as our wedding dinner in '84 at Nielsen Tower was.

And on the seventh day, the God we recognize rested. We two are resting, too, he in Baguio, I in Pasig.

What's new, pussycat? Sing it to me, Rolly!

In a sentimental mood

I was born in the Year of the Sheep so this new lunar year is supposed to be a good one for me. I'm not taking a chance on leaving it all to fate. So certain decisions I am firm about, more firm than usual. My January surgery and the prognosis that the tumor removed from me was benign prodded me to value my family and friends double their worth in my life. They are my true riches, indeed.

So when a friend invites me over and my calendar is empty, especially on a new holiday like yesterday's Chinese New Year, I go without hesitation. If the visit is over and there's time and no appointments for the next day that require my turning in early, I inquire from other friends living nearby if I may visit. "Oh do not ask 'What is it? Let us go and make our visit." Thanks for the line, T.S. Eliot. I seem to be living it!

GCF's insight on hugging: "The vaster your hugging experience and the older you get, the more people you get to embrace." Read more: http://lifestyle.inquirer.net/184517/rules-of-hugging#ixzz3SFQw14um Photo by Franco Regalado

And at lost last, someone took a picture of me and Gilda in a pose I've always wanted to do with her: my hugging her from behind. She has this extremely instructive essay on how to calibrate a hug so that it's sincere and not uncomfortable or showing emotional neediness. She's aware I've always been an awkward hugger so where best to learn the rules than from the master herself?

It was a good way to end an early evening together so I could move to the next visit at nearby Fisher Mall where I met up with Bobbie Malay and Satur Ocampo. I always run into them at book launches or similar events, but we never get to go beyond the surface greetings. This time it was just the three of us talking about our families, children and grandkids, what true fulfillment is like over a light meal at Kokoro Ramenya. You never get to talk about these subjects at length in a noisy party.

Earlier, we browsed through a pile of books on sale at P10 pesos each and up. I brought home four; the couple brought home their own stash of Filipino-authored titles.

Like old folks with little time left, we promised to do it again, and they said they would also visit their almost next-door neighbor Gilda who has an injury on her dominant right hand and temporarily can't write or paint.

The ladies talked about cafes and artsy places in the city. Then it hit me, and I said aloud, "Why go to artsy cafes? I'll take Gilda's boudoir anytime. The hot chocolate with fresh pinipig is always good." Cora Alvina (right) heartily agreed. The others in the picture are (clockwise): a retired accountant who wants to study art, Gilda's neurologist Dr. Bernardo, Gilda and Marissa Alegre Macuja.

The kind of old woman I want to be

Two loveable fatties who double as candlesticks found in Gilda's boudoir, a gift from her daughter-in-law Lanelle Abueva Fernando

In a matter of six months, I shall be turning sixty and zero, the age that'll entitle me to wave a senior citizen card at the pharmacist, bus conductor, waiter, supermarket checkout counter girl and best of all, at museum admission counters.

More than those privileges, I am more concerned with the kind of "hip crone" I want to be. I count myself lucky because I have living models who, as one of them puts it lightly, "love art and walkers."

I've shared meals with them, helped them out of cars, pushed their walkers that, when turned around, convert to seats when they tire. Gilda calls hers a kariton. Sylvia knows the long technical term (sorry, I can't recall, evidence that my memory is becoming unreliable).

Gilda and Sylvia viewing "Mexico: Fantastic Identity, 20th Century Masterpieces, FEMSA Collection"

What I've grown to like is being invited to their gallery hops. One took us to that heavily guarded rare exhibition of Mexican art (Rivera, Orozco, Tamayo, Kahlo) at the Ayala Museum. Picture-taking was strictly prohibited, but I managed to sneak a shot of the women on their walkers intently looking at and discussing an artwork.

We made a special trip to Crucible Gallery a few hours before Manuel Ocampo's solo show opened, mainly out of curiosity over what million-peso paintings look like and why collectors are falling over one another to acquire them. Gilda turned to Sylvia to say, straight-faced, "O, Ibyang, eto gusto ko. Bili mo para sakin."

Serious about their art appreciation. Or maybe their thought bubbles read, "But I can paint better!"

Art, humor, walker, but with my heft, my mobile seat may look something like this. And I'll need a retired but still well-buffed male dance instructor to push me around.

So I say to Father Time as I move towards my bonus years, "Bring it on!"

Armchairs with rollers at Gilda's living room Photos by Babeth Lolarga