My gorgeous Jorge

Theater artist Jorge V. Ledesma with Julian V. Araos's mother and child sculpture at the Araos home in Antipolo Photo by Babeth Lolarga

I vowed to myself, after seeing how well put together Jorge is everytime I see him (yearly since 2013 but before then more than a decade went by) that I would have my hair done like his after I let it grow another month. No, I won't color my crowing glory. Jorge actually finds the dusting of white hair on mine nice.

He is one of the rare friends I can just be comfortably quiet with. He is not only from a buena familia, he is more importantly bien educado y tan fino! Gentle Jorge, I shall miss you when you fly back to Colorado again. Be assured of my letters.

Do the Jerry

Already in the end stage of his complications from diabetes in November 2012, Jerry makes as though he's about to lift his work called "Tungtungan."

In my middle childhood years (that should be the mid-1960s), there was this dance hit called "Do the Jerry" popularized by a band called...hmmm. I forget. It may have been Gary and the Playboys, but I can't find the darn song in the online sources. I'm quite sure there was such as song, and it began with upbeat lyrics: "See the happy feet / dancing to the beat / of the Jerry."

I'm composing this for Jerry, old pal Jerusalino V. Araos who would have been 70 years old on this fifth of July. I must've written reams about him as artist and man when he was alive and another ream when he passed on. My third poetry collection, Big Mama Sez: Poems Old & New, is dedicated to his memory and also to my living beloveds (Rolly, Kimi, Ida and Kai Fernandez).

I'm kinda getting weary of my voice. Earlier today I re-read my exchange of emails with another old pal, Jorge V. Ledesma, who is also part of the Araos's extended family. He was in wintry Colorado when I broke the news of Jerry's death in December 2012.

Excerpts from Jorge's letter about our master Jerry who we also addressed as Ama. He was, after all, our artistic father.

These missives bring a salve that I seem to need as the sun sets...

It is the twenty fifth after all, and as the turkey roasts in the oven, so do the images of the journeys with Jerry, both the literal and the dreams--Ama driving at a steady twenty five on our way to the garden and our not-so-far fetched meanderings of possibilities for the child, Julian, and his future as President of the Republic--waft into everything I touch...

He so effortlessly went against the grain. Never, in that trip to Antipolo at rush hour, did we stop in ungodly traffic. He had found the rhythm of the turtle to the chagrin of other drivers that would pass us only to stop in spurts, and yet our conversations took the flight of the fastest jets. I had just lost my father when I first met Jerry and in my fevered myth making, asked him to be mine. He paused and quietly agreed to the full import of the request and so began a deep relationship of kindred spirits that spanned the time and continents of my heart.

Jerry and his muse, Melen, in their Antipolo garden on April 3, 2011. Photos by Babeth Lolarga

Melen, ever the lady, whose quiet strength tamed the fire, was his muse and inspiration. A truer partnership I have not seen the likes of since. And the children who so adored their father had for their normal the exacting exigencies of excellence. Small wonder then that each has achieved in their lives the soul of living Life as Art--painful, exhilarating, wonderful in its recognized ebb and plenty, and always True. Waya, the warrior. Jemil, the miracle. Liwa the heart. Roja, the eye. Mira, the light. Julian, the promise.

I shall conjure more in time...

Ingat ka.

Nagmamahal,

Jorge

Postscript and erratum from Babeth: I ran into Nympha Saño today, a blog reader, who immediately corrected me that the song I couldn't find in online sources like YouTube and Wikipedia was no other than "Do the FREDDIE" by Freddie and the Dreamers. No wonder I couldn't locate it. Oh boy, did we have a big laugh over my booboo there (no wonder I'm Booboo Babeth). Yes, I admit, age has stolen parts of my early memory. Thanks, Nymphette.

You Are Braver Than You Know

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like a disaster.

--Elizabeth Bishop

This is the Hour of Lead-
Remembered, if outlived,
As freezing persons,
recollect the Snow-
First-Chill-then Stupor-
then the letting go---

--Emily Dickinson

In their daily life, all are braver than they know.--Henry David Thoreau

 to the memory of jerry yet again

& for mira araos & jorge v. ledesma who mourn for him from a great distance

i agree that we are not just

bereft but humbled

by our great father's

departure

sure, the doctors

from the capitol

may have given him

several chances

to continue loving

life till eternity

but who wants to live

& love to eternity in

a shell that is 

withering

before our eyes?

it is just as well

that we will & force

ourselves 

to fill our time

with work & daily worries

concentrate on

the details of living

despite the absent luster

the trill of notes in 

his laughter

the songs that gush

naturally out of him

all these we can still hear

in morning bird songs

in the rush of water

as we cry along

in the shower

in the song of wind

that moves the green force

of tree branches

he would dislike

our hot tears

& whip the wimp

out of us

oh man,

where's the discipline?

he'd shout at us

beyond my window

the sun is up

i can already imagine

him shout-singing

"i've got a lot of livin'

got a lot of livin'

got a lot of livin'

to doooooo!"

--Babeth Lolarga

Jan. 3, 2013

6:40 a.m.

Photo of Jerry and Melen in Antipolo taken by Babeth, April 3, 2011

Brookside bibi & famille say thanks for the follow

"To be strong yet vulnerable--this is how we live on this earth. A big embrace."--New Year SMS from poet Marj Evasco 

Blood was no typo on your part
For in your words I recognize a life force
Where I find
The solace
That these days collect
Like impossible raindrops
In the frozen snow
Outside the window of this
My winter's discontent.

--Jorge V. Ledesma, writing from his Colorado isolation

With a bib tucked in her shirt, the blogger is ready for another Yuletide repast.

On our favorite couch by the Christmas tree at Mario's

Blurry photo of Lolarga-Fernandez family with house guests Sinag de Leon and Raya Amado. Sinag's son Dakila couldn't keep still and decided to play with Kai's toy car.

At the beginning of this year, I must say that our happily dysfunctional family has managed to stay intact through the decades. 

 

Has it been that long since Rolly and I decided to hitch our lives to a star and gamble (it does seem like a roll of the dice), take a chance on what Simone de Beauvoir called "an obscene institution"?  This year just past, I learned something new--that your chances of coming out a winner from a casino range from 30 to 40 per cent.

Ida Fernandez with her Tatay and her niece Kai holding the figurine of a lighted angel

Chit Roces and Vergel Santos, colleagues in writing and journalism, drop by for coffee and chat.

Hmmm. Call us Mr. and Mrs. Lucky Us then! And many a time it was our kids, Kimi and Ida, and now our granddaughter, who have helped keep the union intact. Add to that, the fellowship of friends and an extended family of children and grandchildren of our own co-parents.

In a country where Christmas is celebrated the longest, the Lolarga and Fernandez families wish to thank those who've stayed with us. The blogger, channeling Meryl Streep, also thanks her 21 ++ followers who saw her through her ups and downs, enjoyed the roller-coaster of life with her and screamed along with her, with arms and hands held high, as the ride swooped down.

Here's to more and more of the same!

Shall we dance after this meal at that Baguio classic, Cafe by the Ruins?

Source of topmost photo: "Here's the Thing," an online column by Ben Patterson

Photos taken by Suzy and Babeth Lolarga, Rolly Fernandez and an anonymous waiter