Edna Reynoso Anton, lover of life, defier of death

I am writing to Blossom Dearie’s 1958 version of the song “They Say It’s Spring” while birds on a wing tweet their Tuesday song. I am thinking of the time writer-jazz singer Gou de Jesus and I accompanied restaurateur Edna Reynoso Anton to buy a karaoke at SM Baguio’s appliance center for home use. Once the machine was installed at her house, we took turns singing. Gou’s and my scores were in the 90s. (That was back when I wasn’t a croaking soprano yet.) When Edna’s turn came, the help got so alarmed by the sounds she was making. Maybe they thought that something was amiss—they came running to the sala from every corner of the house to check if everything was fine. Everything was fine; it was just Edna singing her heart out. Never mind if her scores were in the 50s. Continue to sing she did! The Edna approach to song must’ve been how she approached life, even her death. She passed away peacefully on March 9 after a long struggle with cancer. A priest gave her the last anointing while surrounded by family and love in her home, not in a hospital (that last detail gave me a source of relief). Her struggle lasted more than 10 years in my calculation. She lived up to her prediction at a Baguio Country Club breakfast when she announced to everyone present that she was leaving for treatment abroad and would even outlast some of the people present. And she did. While some of her contemporaries died one after the other, Edna just went on and on like the Eveready battery, attending birthday lunches (I saw her at either Des Bautista or his Auring’s birthday celebrations at Rose Bowl), masses (she heard soprano Myramae T. Meneses sing “Panis Angelicus” at St. Joseph the Worker Church in one anticipated Saturday mass because she couldn’t attend the Viva Voce Voice Lab concert), her own surprise 80th birthday party at the Forest Lodge with a luau theme. The last was where I saw her, still smiling and laughing with gusto, thrilled that her daughters, in-laws and grandchildren came home from Hawaii to help mark her milestone. The emcee gave away boxes and boxes of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts in a game of trivia about Edna and other things like her liking for the music of Elvis Presley.

Lovely Edna (seated) surrounded by her children and children-in-law

With her favorite grandson I felt privileged to see the somber side of Edna apart from that bubbly one. In 2015, as I was coming out of a long depression, she got in touch and invited me for coffee and dessert at O’mai Khan Restaurant. She picked the corner window where it was quiet. Then she told me in minute detail her battle with the cancer that had her yearlong schedule divided in this way: part of the year for treatment with Stanford doctors in California and recovery in Hawaii and another half of the year to pick up the threads of a life in Baguio where she was a community influencer long before that term came into vogue. She showed me her colostomy bag that explained why she could only take small meals at a time and would have the rest of the food wrapped as takeaway for a later meal. Even as she talked there were still hints of girlish giggle in her voice. I guess she wanted to demonstrate to me how all the burdens we carry could be aided by a certain outlook, one that always sees the lighter side of things. We continued to correspond through email wherever part of the world she was until her last years were spent with husband Mike who suffered a stroke. Of this she wrote, “It’s difficult to grow old, but I’m thankful Mike and I are still alive. Feeling pain means there’s life to fight for! Mike has been a fighter, too, after several bouts with pneumonia (three-week stay minimum in a hospital ) and even shingles! He’s blessed that the super itchy band was on the right side of his face which at that time was still affected by his stroke, so he was able to endure the pain, thank God for that!” In June 2021, writing from San Francisco, she said, “I’m… waiting for my eighth cancer surgery tomorrow at Stanford at 7 a.m. I had to leave Mike with Carlos (their son), his two nurses and two caregivers (all live-in due to Covid precautions) because my tumor has overgrown to about three kilos and needs debulking asap. I hope it is a simpler surgery than the one in 2014 where I stayed for two months at the Stanford hospital and another two months in a Stanford home care where nurses came three times a week to dress my wound and bathe me . “I want to go home soonest so I can be with Mike through his long healing journey. Health is really wealth, and as we grow older we realize that time is precious. “Be with Rolly as much as possible, continue showing your love for one another, and thank God you can enjoy life with your family as you can all lose it in a blink! Will write and update you soon. Love, Edna” To top it all, she suffered a fall, not a deadly one but enough to fracture her wrist. Let Edna tell it in her unique words: “Lately, I have been going down to Manila for the constant fitting of my new caps and dentures (matanda na talaga) and my visits to my orthopedic doctor regarding the nasty fall I had on the 13th of September. I didn’t realize I had a fracture above my wrist until I finally visited him and he ordered an X-ray done several days after. He warned me another nasty fall will be bad, hence I’m limiting my movements and no treadmill for now. I love the book you gave me... so touching!” Post-haste I shared with her my novena to the Blessed Mary to prevent falls: Take my hand, O Blessed Mother, Hold me firmly lest I fall. I grow nervous while walking And humbly on Thee I call. Guide me over every crossing; Watch me when I'm on the stairs; Let me know that you're beside me; Lead me to my destination safely. In every undertaking, my duties for the day, till evening creeps upon us, I'll never be alone. Once again, O dearest Mother, Take my hand and lead me home. Amen. She emailed quickly: “What a lovely prayer. Thanks Babeth. Love” So we send you off, Edna, with love and on a wing of another prayer for eternal peace. May the dessert table where you are now be as generous as the ones you used to prepare for your near and dear ones. And if you must insist on joining the heavenly choir, I say, why ever not?

Detail of Edna Anton's 80th's birthday cake

Manny Chaves again

While chewing my half of a whole burger that Rolly divided between the two of us, I remembered how a hamburger figured in my history with the late art director Manuel Garcia Chaves. One time lunch caught us unprepared after a meeting at the old Hiraya Gallery on UN Avenue, Ermita. Nobody brought baon so everyone, especially curator Bobi Valenzuela, was listing what they would order from the restaurants nearby. We had our respective orders picked up by messenger-janitor-handyman Roger Abesto. Roger was behind the precise installation of artworks on the gallery walls. Meanwhile, Manny or Manoling, two nicknames we called him, disappeared and came back a few minutes later. "Where have you been? What's your food order?" we asked. He grinned and said he was just at the McDonald's branch on the same street. "That's why there is such a thing as fast food." I've never forgotten that incident for although he may lean towards the arts and sometimes have an artistic temperament, Manny was the practical sort. I miss him, especially today, on what would have been another birthday if death had not cut his life in October last year. I used to tease him that he shared the same birthday as singer Joan Baez and writer Simone de Beauvoir. People of quality. I miss his impeccable taste for music--he gifted me with a vinyl record of Sarah Vaughan singing the compositions of Michel Legrand. Careless me I have forgotten where I placed that valuable piece of music. I miss chatting with him on anything and everything. Before my family relocated to Baguio in 1992, he and Bobi entrusted Rolly and me to their friend, retired UP Baguio professor Delfin Tolentino Jr. He said, "Remember that when you're with Del, it's like you're with us, too." And indeed Del is widely steeped in art, literature, music. Whence cometh another like Manny? Here in the first picture he is shown with me at my silver wedding jubilee celebrated at Cafe Juanita in Pasig. In the second photo, same occasion, he is seen with the Tirols (Vic and Lorna) and Gou de Jesus. If it's possible to art direct the look and sound of the astral world, I suspect Manny is doing that. Happy birthday!

Chicken potato salad time

Photo from the World Wide Web

It's that time of the year again when I put on an apron and transform overnight into the Lady of the Kitchen.

Friends and family know that I don't cook by choice. I don't keep house even if I'm a stay-at-home wife, mother and grandmother. I do everything (read, write, doodle, paint, daydream, arrange the bookshelves), except go to the grocery or market, check the pantry, cook, launder (with great reluctance), etc.

My housemates have come to accept this side of me. But during Christmastime, I announce to them that I take over the kitchen for the preparation of the special chicken potato salad that I learned from my mother and the longganisa spaghetti that I learned by ear.

The recipe is special because it isn't written down. I just learned it from watching Mommy and eating the salad every Yuletide season since I was this small.

Recently, friend Gou de Jesus asked me how to do it. Ok, let's start with a kilo of Baguio potatoes and cover them with salted water. Boil for 30 minutes until potatoes are tender. In a separate pan, boil two chicken breasts, again in salted water because that's all the salt you'll put in the salad.

After the potatoes have cooled, peel off the covers. Cube the potatoes. Set aside. Shred flesh of boiled chicken breasts. Do not include the skin--give it to Boots (our pet dog).

Meanwhile, chop celery stalks into tiny bits. The celery is needed for that added crunch.

After both chicken and potatoes have all cooled down, mix them with the celery pieces and add a jar-full of pickle relish. Mix in another jar of mayonaisse, then mix well with a spatula or one of those Baguio-made wooden spoons.

Best paired with fried dishes like pork chops, Canto ribs, homemade fried chicken (oy! hindi nako magluluto nun, ah!!!) or anything savory like Pablo Mariano Molina's beef rendang. As midnight snack, Mommy's chicken potato salad hits the spot. Ask Frank Cimatu, her best endorser. He also loves her morcon!

Season with joy, peace, prosperity.

Chill. Play a lot of Mozart while working on this work of love.

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!

Needled and pierced

What's wrong with this woman? Let me rephrase that. What's right with her? She's obviously still mobile, but she doesn't get around much anymore. She can still smile and exude a few good vibes, sing a few notes when in the mood. Do you now see those acupuncture needles protruding from her left ear? Lory Paredes placed them there, left them in crucial spots that stand for the kidney, liver, lungs. These needles open the spirit gate. They release, or more or less ease, blockages to allow the chi to flow. The kidney is where fears are stored; the liver, anger; and the lungs, the sense of loss, the grieving that can make it hard for singers to sing (or writers to write but that's just this woman's Doctor Quack Quack side).

What make the aches, although they're just dull, throbbing aches, of the aging person tolerable are friends of friends who share one's wavelength and offer help without prying into the details of one's personal life (or health). Here is Gou de Jesus's pal, singer-songwriter Skarlet (left, kissing a pleased 59-year-old woman so looking forward to turning 60 so she can avail, finally, of senior citizen discounts). Skarlet is the main woman working behind the scenes of Yakap Musikero and similar projects that look after the health and general well-being of freelance musicians. The needled woman asked if she could be adopted as a fading soprano. She'll write about Skarlet y compania in some other forum beyond this blog. All together now, let's rise to sing "Good Vibrations." Photos taken at the Unilab Mandaluyong hall by Ernesto V. Enrique, also known as Tats to his students

For the love of musicians

400 @ 400

Tuesday next week, Jan. 24 (my dad Enrique Lolarga Jr.'s 83rd birthday, if he were still around; he was a UST College of Medicine alumnus, batch '53), is "400 @ 400" day or 400 books, published by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, to be presented to the University on its 400th year.

Quite a feat Dr. Cristina "Jing" Pantoja Hidalgo, publishing director, Prof. Jack Wigley, her deputy, and their hard-working staff have accomplished since Prof. Hidalgo took over the university press.What I like about this coming event is the venue, a library, specifically the Miguel Benavides Library at the UST campus.

The library is thus described at its website: "The UST Miguel de Benavides Library is housed in a 6-storey building facing Dapitan Street. Seventeen sections and four branch libraries comprise the UST Library. The collection of each section / branch varies according to courses offered by the University. The Library Staff is headed by the Prefect of Libraries and the Chief Librarian. There are 27 professionally trained librarians, 24 support staff and 80 student assistants."

There'll be space to move around, and if my cold and cough (an allergy, don't worry; nothing viral or catching) isn't licked by the 24th, I'll be there in an inconspicuous corner with a box of Kleenex and a jug of water, waiting for friends and family to come by and have a copy or two signed.

This whole enterprise of putting out a book of selected essays is a story of a challenge met. The challenge came from Jing who asked if I was interested in gathering my little Facebook notes and other essays into a book. Not only was I interested, I hired myself an able research assistant, UP Diliman geography graduate Marye Panganiban, who could accompany me to the Lopez Memorial Museum and Library and the Philippine Daily Inquirer library to look for "old words," as my editor Chato Garcellano would put it. Marye, with my daughter Kimi's help, encoded these essays and reports, a whole section of travel pieces from the time when Chato sent me all over the country on assignment.

The OC (obsessive-compulsive) streak of my niece Marga Susi was harnessed as she arranged the essays in sequence to facilitate the layout artist's job. Several times the flash drive I submitted to Jing was corrupted until one afternoon, Kimi and I sat down cleaning my files one at a time till I was able to send a clean USB to UST.

I heeded Gilda Cordero Fernando's advice not to get a more established writer to do the introduction. She had a funny experience when she had a first book of short fiction introduced by someone else. It seemed the intro was unrelated to the contents and it was generally ignored.

She suggested that I get writer friends familiar with my works to submit blurbs, and that's what Chato, Marj Evasco, Cris Yabes, Gou de Jesus and Anna Leah Sarabia did. They didn't need to be sent samples of my work to go over. They were familiar enough with the stuff I've managed to get published over the decades (that really dates me) and turned in their short blurbs by text or email after a day's notice. Aren't women friends wonderful?

One day in late June, Jing texted, "Your book is out!" Excitedly, I made arrangements to pick up my 10 complimentary copies at her home (henceforth, delivered to the blurb writers). I think this was as close as I could get to UST. Throughout the process, everything was done online. The series of USB I would send through a personal messenger or drop off at Jing's house on my way to or from school where I taught (when the Community of Learners was still at its New Manila location).

The proofs were sent to my mother's house in Pasig, and I went over them during a weekend in Baguio. My husband of 27 years cursorily read them, then declared in an offended tone that he would boycott my launch if his name was not moved from the acknowledgment to the dedicatory page (hmmm, this detail should go into an autobiography because I find it funny; my reaction was "Kailangan pa bang i-spelling 'yan?" but the correction was made for fear of losing a prized patron).

I arranged a book reception in my adopted city of Baguio at that bookshop-turned-literary salon Mt. Cloud. Padma and I worked on my modest working woman's budget so we could feed the visitors and book buyers with Hill Station's delicious turrones and flowing coffee. All 26 or 28 books I brought up were sold out that afternoon in July. The others were sold by Nina Araos at her Kitsch the Cook Boutique, at the Alabama art fair in Cubao and at Libreria at Cubao Expo.

My kumare Winnie Velasquez, fellow Paulinian, made a special trip from Marikina to Baguio to be with us, while my grandchild Butones made her public debut as my guest of honor. She wasn't featured on the dedication page; she wasn't born yet when the making of the book was in progress.

Last December, as the Christmas rush got started, Philippine PEN sponsored an authors' talk that had me sharing a panel with Manong Ed Maranan, Mookie Katigbak and Dean Francis Alfar. I arrived early at National Bestseller at Robinson's Galleria to chat with the salesladies.

The store manager said my book was doing well. My heart skipped two beats as I began to think of royalties and imagine Catholic and Emancipated on the NBS bestsellers list for non-fiction.

I asked, "How many copies has your branch sold?"

She answered, "Sampu po, ma'am. Marami na iyon."

That's why I like writing and getting published. It has a way of keeping you humble. I'm sure Dad would've agreed.

Photo of blogger's book courtesy of Rudi Tabora

‘Oh, My Señorita, Sweet Sweet Lady’: The Story Behind the Painting

Sometime in February this year, my youngest of four sisters, Gigi Lolarga (poker nut to me, Eugenia Celerina D. Lolarga in her birth certificate), asked me, her ate, what my birthday gift was for her. Normally, I’d pull something out of my thin wallet. But that day, all I could promise her was a portrait of Bruno Lolarga, her “son.”

The image of the playful pug Brunski stayed in my mind like an old refrain, so to speak. When friends like Brenda V. Fajardo, my former professor in modern art in the mid-1970s (gosh, this really dates me) fell seriously ill followed by Rey Rimando, math prof at UP Baguio and my children’s math tutor who made them less fearful of numbers (his aneurysm struck on Valentine week) and Noel Cuizon (a nephew of Brenda’s, by the way), there was no way my earnings as a freelance writer would contribute anything of significance to the cost of their operations, recuperation, follow-up with medical specialists, rehabilitation, etc.

By this time I was keeping mind, breaking heart and sometimes unsteady hands busy by painting in preparation for a solo show at Taumbayan bar-bistro.

I texted my exhibit proposal to Joel Saracho, former colleague from Manila Standard days and manager-partner of the bar, who was on a video shoot in Bukidnon, but he managed to reply, “That’s so Taumbayan,” meaning he approved of my contrasting blings with canned goods and instant noodles.

Summer of last year, he invited me to exhibit there when it was just a few months old. Since then, the place has been a night owl’s hub for the theater and television people who keep odd (a.k.a. vampire ) hours. I felt right at home that first time there with Gou de Jesus and Ernie Enriquez.

Someone was having a birthday then—Augie Rivera, if my blinking memory is working right. We were complete strangers to one another but were quickly introduced. Like any hospitable birthday celebrator, he asked me to partake of his feast. Un-shy when faced with a rectangular slab of Estrel’s caramel cake, I cut a generous slice complete with rosebud-shaped icing. Talk of feel at home. I always like to use William Saroyan’s title for his book “My Kind of Crazy, Wonderful People” in situations like this.

To shorten this narration, one day in March this year I posted a picture of Bruno on my Facebook profile and stated that I intended to paint a portrait of him paired with a snooty señorita. The images of him with a lady were up there, still vague. Actor Frances Makil Ignacio, Nitz to those who know her, volunteered in her comment to be the model. I asked permission if I could scour her photos posted in her profile to guide me.

I zeroed in on Frances in a black and white polka dotted dress, which turned out to be her costume for her role as Lucy Brown in “Threepenny Opera” by Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill. Well, as Ka Universe (Gilda Cordero Fernando) likes to say, the universe has a way of stitching things together. Even Gou, freelance writer-editor by day, occasional jazz singer by night, gave the bright suggestion of singing our friends to health. An art auction with songs to up the bids--brilliant, Gou!

Meanwhile, I couldn’t think in my regular format of 16” x 20” anymore. This tribute to Bruno, his master Gigi, Frances, etc. had to be BIG to be worth anything if it were to be auctioned off to benefit the sick. So I thought big: four feet by four feet canvas on board. My private art teacher Norman Chow had to repeat the request to ensure he was reading his SMS right. Yes, I texted back, four feet by four feet and make it an order for two canvases.

“Stormy Norman,” our private nickname for him, had his carpenter in Baguio execute the specs up to the stretching and priming of canvases. With paint and brushes ready and the managing of minor assorted household crises in Baguio and Pasig not bothering me any longer, I applied myself the way my other teacher, Jerry Araos, told me how at the greenhouse of Oscar and Toottee Pacis in Happy Homes.

Norman guided me all the way, recruiting his son Chino, a computer science major who paints on the side, to help. Chino was a study in coolness while Norman and I mismatched colors, hues and tints, he scratching his bald head, me scratching what was left of my head of hair. On learning that Chino was the third pair of hands in the endeavor, Toottee, who was then in Manila attending a valedictorian grandchild’s graduation, texted: “I hope Chino knows what he’s in for.”

We will see what we’re all in for when “Oh, My Señorita, Sweet Sweet Lady” goes up for auction at an opening bid of P8,000 early this evening, April 9, at Taumbayan, 40 T. Gener and K-1 streets, Kamuning, Quezon City.

Belated happy birthday, baby sis Gi. Sorry the painting of Bruno will find a new owner. Just the same, the real deal will always be with us.

Photo of re-tooled, revised "Oh, My Señorita, Sweet Sweet Lady" by LIWA ARAOS, exhibit curator

Ka-womenan Para Kay Danny Lim

At first, I declined the invitation sent via my Facebook inbox—I wanted Wednesday (yesterday) devoted entirely to painting. The organizer understood and didn’t push me anymore.

A dear friend I see off and on (meaning, rarely and in short spurts) was attending, and she said I ought to go. The possibility that we can kick off our slippers and chat immediately after the official agenda of the meeting was taken up still wasn’t enough to persuade me.

But on Tuesday, Princess Nemenzo, activist for life, went on a texting brigade. That clinched it. I can never refuse this woman. I put the paints, brushes and pieces of canvas paper aside and prepared for the luncheon meeting at the home of lawyer Deng Cordero Tan.

Something electric happens when women get together. Literally, there’s more static in the air from all that energy (and these are women mostly in their 50s; Princess is 70—she has never hidden the fact). There’s more laughter, more irreverent humor that would make our partners and husbands jump out of their skin.

Deng detailed everything in her head to ensure everything was covered, including requesting the neighbors’ carpenters to kindly refrain from hammering from 12 noon to 2 p.m. while the meeting was going on.

Very briefly, Danny Lim is a political prisoner under the Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo administration. In my head, he is simply Danny Lim because years of a spoiled, politicized military (no thanks to the Marcos dictatorship) have made me leery of men in uniform who have the impunity to run for public office like Butcher Palparan.

But political imprisonment in the Lim case is borne out of his belief in a just, civil, democratic society, not a longing for a banana republic where colonels and generals hold sway.

The idea that women of the caliber of Princess, Deng, Aida Santos, Mercy Fabros, June Rodriguez, Gou de Jesus, Susan Tagle, Marianita Villariba, Mari Santiago are keen on seeing Lim enter the Magic 12 in this year’s senatorial elections overturned my entire perception of what a military man is.

A personal note: My father Enrique Cariño Lolarga Jr., a physician surgeon, and his younger brothers Ernesto or Esting, an ROTC instructor, and Celso, a businessman-school administrator, were in the reserve corps of the military. But they belonged to the era of officers and gentlemen. Before they died, my father and Uncle Esting left instructions that they be garbed in their Boy Scout uniforms in their coffins. Uncle Celso chose to be in his Demolay or Mason outfit.

My perception changed with martial law and the military adventurists who tried to destabilize the Cory Aquino government in the 1980s.

Just who is Danny Lim, and why is GMA afraid of him that in his detention cell at Camp Crame, he is not allowed to read newspapers or magazines? There’s a TV set there, according to the women who’ve visited him, and he is allowed to have a cell phone but not to use it for patched interviews.

In earlier surveys, Lim had done well, earning as high as 16 percentage points. The sample size in these surveys shows that people know who he is and what he stands for: anti-graft and corruption, education, health care reform, peace and order, food, energy sufficiency, agricultural modernization, national industrialization and electoral changes.

He was among those who joined groups from different sectors in their call for GMA to resign because of electoral fraud and graft and corruption. He was thrown in jail for this after The Peninsula Manila stand-off where the Armed Forces showed its capacity for overkill by unnecessarily smashing one of the glass entrances to the hotel’s fabled lobby, sending scores of sharpshooters dressed to kill to arrest the protesters gathered in a function room, including the media covering the event.

Deng said, “DL (the candidate’s initials) has been consistently slipping down because he has no TV ads.” With her enormous capacity for fund-raising, she will try within this campaign period to find the P16 million needed to buy radio-TV ads to run in the major networks for 48 days at the rate of thrice a day. The P16 million is already an advertiser-supporter’s heavily discounted rate.

The short TV ad will present Lim as a sundalong matapang na di sinuko ang prinsipyo, sundalong sumalungat sa kasalukuyang administrasyon (a brave soldier who did not surrender his principles, a soldier who defied the current administration).

As the women who’ve visited him described his simplicity and his off-the-cuff remarks to them, a catchy sound byte emerged. At one point, Lim told them after he was asked what he would do if he was freed and allowed to serve in a public position, “What I started, I will continue. I’ve been consistent all my life. Kung ginto ako, itapon mo ako sa putik, ginto pa rin.”(The last sentence in Filipino loses its strength in translation.)

As the campaign heats up this long hot summer, Lim will have to learn to say more palpable things on issues close to our hearts such as human rights, including lesbian-gay-bisexual-transgender rights, strengthening the economy so it is not buoyed mainly by dollar remittances of overseas Filipino workers and the call center industry, the neglect of cultural workers, the best of whom we are exporting to, among other countries,"Hong Kong Disneyland," in Gou's words.

Another woman friend, Mia Protacio, a lighting designer and singer, wrote me after Cory Aquino's death this observation. We hope Lim will take these words to heart: "For me, the greatest outcome or effect of Cory's passing away is that it has made Filipinos embrace genuine and lasting values such as simplicity, spirituality, humility and purity of heart as opposed to the other qualities of supposedly successful or 'high-powered' individuals whom we normally idolize. A paradigm shift has occurred in the way we Filipinos revere greatness. Great now means simple. Great means humble. That is her true legacy."

And, if he will heed the women's suggestion, Lim will have to dump his general's uniform and change into civvies in his campaign pictures.

Froyo: The planet’s new ice cream

The sign is atop a heap of other signs: Dave’s Yogurt Bar. I swiveled from where I was seated at the back seat of a cab, sometime in May last year. I was en route to an out-of-town assignment, but I promised I would return to that clean, well-lighted place at 16 United Street, Barangay Kapitolyo, Pasig City. The bar-café is behind other eating places that serve steaks and barbecued meat products.

And for those from outer space, yogurt is this planet’s new ice cream.

Return I did for an initial sampling of the plain yogurt. If Oprah has had her Aha! moments, I have had mine every time I go to Dave’s. First time I went there was with my kumare Anna Leah Sarabia, then with hard-to-please Kiss the Cook caterer Waya Araos, followed by my sisters and daughters, ex-colleagues at a now defunct media office, Gilda Cordero Fernando, spiritual worker Bong de la Torre, and Club Nostalgia singing host-emcee Lincoln Drilon.

Once I brought cups of different-flavored yogurt to freelance writer Gou de Jesus's pad for an afternoon of catching up, and she just mewed in delight while taking a few teaspoonfuls of the stuff so the supply would not run out quickly.

Unanimously, they say, they’ll go there on their own the way I always do to try the regular flavors on the line-up like passion fruit, everything from the berry family (strawberry, wild berry) grape, mango, vanilla bean, dark chocolate and coffee. Dave’s now has a premium line: macadamia, pistachio, dark decadent chocolate, among others. Coming soon is mangosteen (the word itself makes me salivate).

When franchise owner David Onstott, a Filipino with American-Bavarian roots, says, “Our yogurt cakes are awesome,” you’ve got to believe him. This guy is a living testament to what diet awareness can do to alter one’s life for the better. Born with a form of skin asthma, his parents tried different medications on him. As they sought other cures, they learned that a diet leaning more on fruits and vegetables alleviated David’s discomfort.

Today David can pass for someone in his late 30s. I could scarcely believe it when he said he’s 50. No botox. The man detests anything artificial, starting with his own products. His motivation for making yogurt is “to make a healthier frozen treat than ice cream,” he says.

Few people read labels on ice cream containers, and it’s high time that more do. The label declares the usual ingredients, namely, water, sugar and milk solids. The last can include some hazardous chemicals for preserving the ice cream’s color, for guaranteeing shelf life (preservatives), for stabilizing to keep the other ingredients together instead of breaking apart when they’re frozen. There’s artificial flavor, too (only 2-5 percent fresh fruit; everything else is unreal).

Perhaps the worst ingredient there is white sugar, the most destructive kind.
But back to Dave for less scary news. Fresh yogurt, which is the base, is made from scratch. It takes him two days from the time he gets the milk (pure cream) to the time he turns the stuff into frozen yogurt. He uses as much as 40-50 percent fresh fruits so he finds no need to artificially color his products. The color comes from the fruit. David doesn’t compromise taste and texture.

“So how good can this possibly be for you?” he challenges me as I dig into a cake.

He is keeping prices “as low as I can. It’s important that people get their money’s worth when they come by. That means something to me,” he says.

For the salad he makes for me, which he calls “just a salad,” he throws in on the spot lettuce leaves, sugar beets, cubes of multi-grain bread, tomatoes, sesame seeds and pours a vinaigrette and olive oil dressing. It’s a huge bowl, but he assures me it will be finished in no time and I will feel light, with room enough for another round of yogurt.

Next on his personal menu is to start a class on how to feed an ailing loved one at home and how to help them recover, again through a good diet.

He’s moving out of his charming “hole in the wall” in Barangay Kapitolyo; his products will soon be found in more than 10 outlets in Metro Manila malls.

Dave’s Natural Premium Yogurt is open for franchising. Email bananakings@yahoo.com or text/call 0905-219-8961. He has a fan page in Facebook.