Consoling feedback after 'Yuletide without Mom'

My essay "Yuletide without Mom" came out in yesterday's Highblood section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. I received feedback in my email and in text messages. Some friends who I haven't been in touch with in awhile were surprised to learn Mom had passed away. I also learned of recent deaths in their families.

First to respond was my kumpare (godfather to my youngest daughter Ida), the writer Amadis Ma. Guerrero. He texted early yesterday: "A moving tribute to Mommy Lolarga was we at Raya (our former office) called her. She was our Mommy, too!"

From painter-actor Ivi Avellana Cosio (daughter of National Artists Lamberto and Daisy Avellana) came a longer message that cried to be shared with those who are grieving: "My dearest Babeth, our deepest condolences on your Mom's passing. A special hug for you and your youngest sister with whom I truly empathize. My Mom passed way (also in May) of 2013 on Mother's Day, a few days before my birthday. In December, my older daughter insisted we celebrate the first Christmas without Mama in Beijing with her and her family. It was so different that it helped to get us through such a painful time. But back in Manila, same same. I still cry when I think of her, or my Papa who left us in 1991, or my favorite brother in 2011, or my grandparents who passed away when I was much much younger. Grief is really so personal and different for each one. And I truly believe no one has a right to tell you how, when, or how long to grieve. Also, no such thing as 'getting over it'. You don't, well-meaning friends notwithstanding. You just learn how to cope with it one day at a time. And there will be good days and bad days. That being said, I wish you and yours a better New Year in every way. Tama si Helen Mirren. Much love from us."

Smiling grandmother with grandchildren Ida and Kimi Fernandez and Carlo Trinidad (foreground) several Christmases ago

“Would you rather I clean the house or write a poem? A poem lasts.”—my Mom

“I want to write poems instead of notes, but each ending is a death,
and I cannot handle the finish of words.”—Renée E. D’Aoust in her essay “Gratitude is my Terrain: Maybe”

This time of the year last year, she had just been discharged after a prolonged hospital stay. There was no exact term for what was ailing her, but it was enough for my siblings and me to have her home for the holidays. She missed reunion parties with her amigas and favorite nephew. We thought she would rally and recover in the new year.

But as actor Helen Mirren put it succinctly in summarizing the year 2016, “I think we can all agree that 2016 has been a big pile of sh*t.” It was the year when Mom’s worst fears about the betrayal of her body came true. We, along with hired caregivers, took turns cleaning her up after a “lapse.” Never could I erase from memory the helpless, pained look on Mom’s face every time this happened. I could sense that to her it was the ultimate humbling, and her look carried an apology with it.

Even if I tried to humor her when I tidied her up, the smile that used to light up our house was gone. That smile was the most eulogized part of her on the last day of her wake. Writer Efren Yambot told of how he was welcomed to the small feasts Mom prepared for her Manila Bankers Life colleagues by her smile. It encouraged him to return to similar occasions she hosted even if it meant covering miles to get to the office. When my Singapore-based daughter Ida would come home, it was Mom’s smile that greeted her first.

This Christmas my husband ordered chicken galantina from two sources to replace the irreplaceable—Mom’s yearly supply of morcon. He once had a meal at a restaurant in San Fernando, Pampanga, that boasted of the best morcon. He even had a beef roulade wrapped to take home. But his verdict was it was close to the taste of dog food and couldn’t approximate Mom’s morcon.

His assistant then, a recipient of Mom’s largesse, used to say that even only the sauce of the morcon sufficed for a meal. That was how good it was: We would ladle leftover sauce on a steaming mound of white rice when the meat roll was gone. Nothing was wasted.

A sister and some cousins were able to observe Mom in the act of preparing morcon, but even if it is ever replicated, the matriarch-cook who ruled over the kitchen and the rest of our house isn’t there to pronounce judgment on another’s take on her dish.

Mom with her five daughters

It isn’t just her dishes that we miss. Nightly the youngest of my four sisters weeps from the pain of the loss. Recently, she suffered chest constrictions and had to take herself to the hospital emergency room because of the stress of prolonged grieving (Mom died last May). Despite our assurances to her that Mom is at peace, she still isn’t prepared to go to the next level of the stages of grief and loss according to Elizabeth Kubler Ross (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance). Grief counseling has been advised, but it is up to her if she will take it.

To sort of pierce through the cloud of sorrow hovering over the house, I right away volunteered to host Christmas carolers from my Grade 11 class. The sound of young voices, the guitar strummed by a fellow teacher, makeshift maracas and drums brought the tidings of comfort and joy straight to our hearts.

Although my sisters and I didn’t prepare anything homemade from our kitchen (we cannot hold a candle to our mother, cooking-wise), the store-bought pancit, roast chicken and mini siopao were wiped out by bottomless adolescent appetites. I truly felt Mom’s spirit approving.

To those having a hard time coping with the holiday frenzy because of mourning that cannot be kept at bay, keep saying “This, too, shall pass” and leave some space for the occasional joy to surprise you.

Walk proud, Ida gurl

The little girl I used to carry at a Halloween party at a friend's home in UP Village in 1990 before our family moved up to Baguio

"Definition of good, emotionally-adept parenting: that the child grows up with no wish whatever to become a writer."

"Most of our childhood is stored not in photos, but in certain biscuits, lights of day, smells, textures of carpet."

Two quotes, all attributed to Alain de Botton, make me think of my two daughters who're beyond physical reach, except through their FB, Twitter or Instagram updates. The sisters are bonding in parts elsewhere while their mother reflects on times gone by and how swift the hands of time are moving to close that circle chuva la di la.

Maria Popova, another great curator of ideas like de Botton, shared through her blog, brainpickings.org, a letter that the poet Maya Angelou wrote to her younger self. Re-reading it for the fifth time today, I am struck at how her words have a force of truth that only mothers of daughters can relate to. I quote the letter in full by way of wishing  my younger of two girls all the best on her special day today:

You’re itching to be on your own. You don’t want anybody telling you what time you have to be in at night or how to raise your baby. You’re going to leave your mother’s big comfortable house and she won’t stop you, because she knows you too well.

But listen to what she says:

When you walk out of my door, don’t let anybody raise you — you’ve been raised.

You know right from wrong.

In every relationship you make, you’ll have to show readiness to adjust and make adaptations.

Remember, you can always come home.

You will go home again when the world knocks you down — or when you fall down in full view of the world. But only for two or three weeks at a time. Your mother will pamper you and feed you your favorite meal of red beans and rice. You’ll make a practice of going home so she can liberate you again — one of the greatest gifts, along with nurturing your courage, that she will give you.

Be courageous, but not foolhardy.

Walk proud as you are, 
Maya

And the girl whose fallback meal was Oreos dunked in a glass of milk when my home-cooked ones were wanting can now adjust to assorted situations in her new life. Ride 'em, cowgirl! 

We are family

That's life. One day you're just chewing biscuits and nuts and chugging down room-temperature water, next day you're part of a feast for a princess. The princess is our youngest child Ida who, as I write, is already flying back to Singapore after a too-short visit marked by big family meals.

There were reasons for us who were in Baguio to come down to celebrate the multiple occasions: Ida's homecoming, Kimi's 29th birthday, the forthcoming Father's Day. But land trips can be boring after awhile so I played with the old reliable digicam and attempted some selfies. Kimi had always discouraged me from doing selfies because my face almost always was cropped heavily or it looked abnormally wide.

It's to her credit that she hit on the idea of a staycation at the new Tune Hotel along Shaw Blvd., Ortigas Center, just five minutes by cab from Mom's house (look for its red and white signage). She booked us early so we had adjoining rooms at a budget price. Shangri-La Plaza and SM Megamall, where we had two consecutive dinners, were within walking distance.

Old couple in a bus amuse themselves with a selfie.

First reunion dinner at Ketttle at Shang's East Wing. That's Ida in a white top with floral necklace, always well put together like her Tatay. Beside her Kimi and Kai who fell asleep immediately after dinner.

The girls knew what and how to order. Corn muffins paired with buttermilk fried chicken with two kinds of dips: old-fashioned brown gravy and maple syrup. The syrup won us.

The truffle-infused pasta with gorgonzola cheese before the serving plate emptied fast

Ida and Rolly were at Boqueria early, and we caught them enjoying their beers in mason glass jars.

Kai can be a handful during that lull between ordering and waiting for our orders to be served. Good thing my sister Suzy carries this magnifying glass in her purse.

Thumbs up for the calamares (top) and the paella Madrilena.

Our completeness completes me. And we're even color-coordinated without planning it. See you again, Ida.

Even though you're far away

I used to hear the song "You Are Always in My Heart" a lot in those radio days of my childhood and youth. I think I also heard it from my mom who used to sing or hum it to a younger sibling whom she was trying to put to sleep. Another favorite lullaby of hers that my children were sung to was "Que Sera Sera."

The first song begins with these lyrics: "You are always in my heart / Even though you're far away / I can hear the music of / The song of love / I sang with you / You are always in my heart / And when skies above are grey / I remember that you care / And then and there / The sun breaks through."

So you see I've not forgotten although increasingly these days I've had memory lapses, but they have more to do with where I've lately misplaced my eyeglasses or a notebook full of reporter's notes that I need very badly to guide me in writing a story. Yeah, it's that bad, especially when I depend on those notes for what I call "hanapbuhay articles."

There's a pretty flower called forget me not, blue it is. It makes me wonder if it can be used as an amulet or talisman against the forgetfulness that comes with aging.

And when I forget, I simply pray, "Lord, help me remember where to find them."

I've been endlessly sweeping clean my online files, ensuring only the vital ones are retained. Today I found a letter from my youngest of two children, the overseas Filipino professional (OFP-- new acronym I thought of this moment). She sent me some photos last month. I dunno if she was the one who took this shot of a Chanel exhibit called "The Little Black Jacket" at Singapore's ArtScience Museum.

I did enjoy gazing at it again early today and wondering how my girl who's far away is doing. Take care of yourself, Ida Pooh. You are always remembered and in my heart.

2 sisters at an outdoor art bazaar

Yesterday's accidental discovery on the Web while I was reconstructing the Play List (the other blogs I visit) on this space was "Art for Generations." Cecile Zamora of Chuvaness.com announced this two-day (Dec. 7 and 8) event of real estate developer Greenfield Development Corp.

The open space where the art fair's tents are set up used to be a parking space for wet and dry market consumers in what was formerly called EDSA Central.

The field of green is the same path I choose to walk on when I head for the MRT line that takes me either to Makati or Quezon City.

I've always liked living on the boundary of Pasig and Mandaluyong Cities. Every Metro Manila city is within reach of the train or bus, but with the holidays upon us and the heavy traffic, Greenfield is now where my sister-roommate Suzy and I prefer to go.

We visited each tent, then paused at one occupied by Prometheus Atelier. When I saw the business card of the lady inside, I quickly asked how she was related to the artist Gig de Pio. A daughter-in-law, she said, then she called her husband Simkin.

I asked if he was the same de Pio boy who was in a creative writing workshop I conducted at the Ateneo de Manila grade school, summer of '87, when I was on the second trimester of pregnancy (I was carrying my last-born Ida). He was that 11-year-old kid, and now he is husband, father, graphic designer and studio artist. Add portraitist to the list as Suzy and I took turns posing for him.

I told him, don't do me in a flattering light, please. He said he works on what he feels and what he sees. It seems what he saw of Suzy and me were our younger selves. Not complaining because we both liked what we saw. He even put my name on my portrait, "Tita Babeth," after signing it.

So pleased was Suzy with her portrait that she said it would serve as her new Facebook ID pic. I've placed mine in a corner of a bookshelf where I intend to point it out when Kai/Butones comes down from Baguio to visit her grandaunts, granduncles and great grandma next week. Wonder what she'll say, this very positive child whose favorite adjective is "Ganda!" Okay, I preempted her.

Do find time to drop by the bazaar, on its last day tomorrow, Sunday. Look for the guy with Promethean talent who answers to the nickname "Sim."

Suzy and her Ate B

Simkin de Pio sketches while Suzy dreamily looks away.

Photos by Babeth Lolarga

Little lessons

She has taught me a thing or two about neatness and orderliness, this tyke I've spent my summer with. And as I prepare to leave her to resume work in the lowlands, I'll take this image with me as a reminder to keep my own little space more, well, tidy. Briefly, I was worried that she may have imbibed the obsessive-compulsive streak in some people she lives with. That may be a good trait to cultivate without sacrificing or stifling the creativity I know lives in her. 

Last night she brought her make-believe mixing bowl by my bed and offered to feed me. But she did it frugally, bringing in a stuffed watermelon, pretending to chop it. "Why only this?" I asked. So she went back to her nursery to return the watermelon and bring in a tomato to "process" before offering it to me. After I pretended to have finished all of it, she took it, returned it to her room, then came back with a kiwi (make believe, too). One at a time. There's a lesson there, too.

By herself, Kai arranged her coloring materials in a row after she was done working with them in her recycled notebook (formerly owned by her Tita Ida).

Photo by Babeth Lolarga

Happiness: Where children have an expertise in

Magic Moments
"It is the art of living, the purpose of our existence. Happiness is the true index of quality of life. Without happiness, life is dry and meaningless. With happiness, life immediately becomes fulfilling and wonderful. Happiness is an infectious feeling that immediately lifts the sagging spirits of people. Happy people keep themselves happy because they know the little ways to appreciate themselves and to see the humour and magic in each moment."--Image and quote from www.thoughtfortoday.org.uk

At about the time I received the quotation and image in my inbox with a message from a friend, I also found the latest photos of these dearly beloved girls who have taught me lots about how happiness doesn't just happen and that it shouldn't be deliriously or logically sought out and fought for. Happiness is a decision.

Thanks for the lessons, girls.

Quadruple cuddles

Tita Ida and niece Kai/Butones eyeball one another through Skype.

Wearing the Philippine colors, Butones goes through the Olympics elimination round for floor gymnastics category.

A purple dinosaur that serves as dream catcher of giggles and songs

 All photos, except for the red kite, by Kimi Fernandez

Mah bibi's comin home

When it's jazz time at Green Valley, I life to put on Nina Simone's version of "My Baby Just Cares for Me." When I sing it in my head, I think of she who had been our baby for quite sometime before Kai/Butones arrived to bring this mama/grand-mama more joy and love.

So here's to you, Ida, a preschool teacher in a neighboring country, who is flying along with thousands and thousands of overseas Filipino workers to be home for Christmas. Ilang tulog na lang.

Ida is beginning to look a lot like her pupils. Photo grabbed by Tita Su from her FB acount

Nanay Babeth has taken liberties with this Gus Kahn-Walter Donaldson song to make it more appropriate for our moment in this time:

My baby don't care for Crocs
My baby don't care for frocks
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for sleazy places

Liz Taylor is not her style
And even Lana Turner's smile
Is somethin' she can't see
My baby don't care who knows
My baby just cares for me

My baby don't care for slime
And she don't even care for grime
She cares for me
My baby don't care
For cars and races
My baby don't care for
She don't care for sleazy places

Liz Taylor is not her style
And even Liberace's smile
Is something she can't see
Is something she can't see
I wonder what's wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for me

Come home to Tatay, Nanay, Kimi and Kai, Lola Mommy, Tito Dennis, Ta Su, Ta Gi, Ta Wut, Tito Kwenk and the ever-expanding, ever-loving group that is known as family.

In Fields of Dawn and Forests of the Night

"The field of the poor may yield much food, but it is swept away through injustice."
- Proverbs 13:23-23

for my daughter ida fernandez & my niece marga susi 

who i held & sung to as babies & have morphed into headstrong women

oh vey! what can this old biddy

say when i see

how you two have

risen before my eyes,

moving from states of

being to becoming?

oh, how this woman's heart

swells to legrand & bergman music

each time i see ida 
writing from a

distant country

far from country

family, friends,

writing of her crucial

loving work as teacher

molding young minds

shaping souls

in a host country

so antisepticized

by material wealth

where parents

focused on high-paying jobs

absentmindedly dump

their children in school

at early morn, then pick them up

later than late

as usual

or i hear marga

on the phone

taking instructions

from this aunt

suggesting something better

like a professional 

truly able to distinguish

between work &

blood ties.

oh, dear lord, how this aging

swaying mother/aunt

sees three fourths

of her job

in a world almost

inert from injustice

the graft of the crafty

is done.

go ida widda,

go marga marg

go plow & reap

all the nickels & dimes

of your days

find the rhythm &

the rhymes of your days

& center yourselves

stand tall

on the road of

the righteous

then smash all traditions

all the stupid stupid senselessness

of the blinded arrogant pious

devoid of a soul's riches

go my lovely loves

while i step aside 
as you run

forth to a golden

tomorrow waiting

deep in your

still innocent eyes.

--Babeth Lolarga

Dec. 4, 2012

5:43 a.m.

Title and some lines from the song "What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?" by Michel Legrand and Alan and Marilyn Bergman 

Undated photo shows child Ida protecting a younger niece with Marga beside them.

Our nights at Florabel and Rub

My family in Pasig never foresaw how Ortigas Center would turn into a boom town. When we moved to Barrio Kapitolyo in 1975, Pasig was still part of Rizal province and hosted its provincial capitol. Today, Barangay Kapitolyo, as it is now called, has become restaurant row and one eatery (cafe, grill house, inuman place) after another sprouts every few months along its main drag, East Capitol Drive. And the land where the capitol used to stand has been sold to the Ortigas Company which is constructing a warren of condos, shops and restaurants.

Last year, my mother was nearly horrified when an inasal joint was built right across from our house, supposedly a purely residential area. These days when a friend would ask for the landmark that would point to our house, I always say, "Look for Bokbok's Inasal." But do we even patronize it on nights when everyone in the house is too tired to make the effort to prepare a simple supper? A vehement "No!" because Bokbok's hasn't perfected its inasal sauce, and its other dishes are way too salty for our taste.

Over the last few weeks, my ravenous company of siblings and I (in our childhood the more apt description for us was "rambunctious") has had a chance to try fine dining at Florabel on the ground floor of The Podium at Ortigas Center, a few minutes drive from the house, and go super casual on another evening (we were in our pambahay shorts and t-shirts) at Rub two doors away from us on East Capitol Drive. I'm happy to report everyone went home with a smug smile on his/her face.

Today's blog entry is dedicated to my tall, svelte daughter Ida Fernandez who will be home for the holidays to partly satisfy  her food cravings. Ida, I'm telling you now that on some nights, we'd rather eat out at dinnertime so our dreams are laced with the sweet and the savory. Here's what you can expect.

Quietly tasteful interiors of Florabel

Prawn and pomelo salad with leaves from the lettuce family

The inihaw platter has nearly everything to please the pickiest eater from oysters to squid to chicken and pork barbecue.

No place for plain rice when we eat out. It has to be special like this adobo rice.

Being dessert freaks despite conditions of real and borderline diabetes, we had the creme brulee as first of the end course.

The frozen canonigo left us rapturous. We asked the maitre d' what went into it apart from the whipped egg whites and caramel sauce: there's a thick layer of mantecado ice cream somewhere there. No wonder!

That's my youngest bro Eric who always comes home from work with the greeting: "Anong foody natin ngayon?" Here he awaits our order of baby back ribs and assorted sidings.

Rub's wall decor speaks for itself--from John Wayne to Bob Marley. It covers a wide political spectrum.

I couldn't get a better shot of our main course. Way too hungry. My choice of sidings was filthy mashed potatoes (am joking but they're yummy). You don't need a knife to pry off the oh-so tender meat from the bone.

With fried Oreos, vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of chocolate syrup for dessert, how much more nicely decadent can you get?

Photos by Babeth Lolarga

For my wandering, wondering gardener

He is no Mellors--he'll blush at this reference to the D.H. Lawrence novel. Our garden is a potted one, mostly. The semi-wild growth in the frontyard is more the village gardener's doing.I haven't gotten down to counting how many pots we have on the balcony and veranda (aren't these two spots the same?), but our resident gardener takes pains to water, weed, trim them each morning. When the rare visitor comes and compliments him for the loving tending he has done, said visitor can expect to go home with a pot.

The gardener by avocation applies his real vocation, reading and evaluating the news, at a cafe called Rocky Master.

Months ago, he chose to retire from teaching for among many reasons to have more time for a home life, his garden included. He and work had been inseparable for decades that without his knowing, the children had grown and were making adult choices that hardly required their consulting him anymore. So in August, he and I visited our youngest daughter Ida in Singapore on her birthday weekend. She had chosen an expatriate's life and had matured almost overnight. Gone were traces of our baby.

On our last day, he and I were at Changi International Airport, hours early for the flight home. I was immediately drawn to this moving sculpture that had a hypnotic effect, perhaps enhanced by soothing music that included sounds of swishing, splashing water. This work is called "Kinetic Rain", a creation of an art collective called ART+COM. Awestruck, I spent several minutes watching this bronze-colored raindrops move in different but synchronized directions.

Later, I walked around till I found a huge vase of flowers and took photos of the mini floral paradise in it. All these sights convinced me that terminals ought not to be sterile, boring places. They can and should offer the traveler on her brief stop during her journey some respite, an aesthetic solace that reflects the culture of a place. Haven't we had enough of high-end and lowbrow shops for last-minute pasalubong shopping?

Wet anthurium leaf

Sometimes mistaken for plastic but quite real

Pink orchids, are they?

This may be a yellow cup of gold.

As for these lime green spiky bulbs, the only adjective I can think of to describe them is "inflorescent."

I'm guessing these are lilies.

 

In a day or two, I will be back to our potted garden, to my older daughter Kimi, her own Kai and my shy Mellors who would rather bury his head in a newspaper or in his hobby, one of many, of being God's botanical steward.

Till then, I remain a faithful admirer and amateur "documentator" of things evergreen, ever-rainbow on earth.

Photos by Babeth Lolarga