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."

Balancing act

I thought I'd put this old photograph here to remind me how woebegone this Wednesday has been. I couldn't dream up a topic I could passably write about.

My inner censor has been working double time, cancelling such subjects as My Mother's Paksiw na Pata, an ode to Mom's meat dish redolent with banana blossoms, laurel leaves and black pepper, with a thick soy-based sauce (censor said it's Holy Week, a time of fasting from red meat, and a rich dish may be offensive to those who are hungry); the unfinished bottle of eau de toilette, lavender scent, from friend Chit Santos (I couldn't possibly dress up, only to realize I have nowhere to go and thus dabbing the behinds of my ears and the base of my neck with lavender was out of the question); mastering the pressing of the snooze button which Bruno Lancelot Lolarga has done by napping in the morning, in the afternoon, then enjoying a full night's sleep, except for peeing time around midnight (see, El President, you are not alone, but Bruno is more handsome than you'll ever aspire to be even if you smoothen the pores on your nose).

Those are the subjects I ticked off mentally as I went about my day. But I did a Bruno--going on snooze mode at 10 a.m., then at 2 p.m. again until a compulsion to record my day impelled me to turn on the computer and attempt something.

I responded to the posts of friends like Pablo Tariman whose short tribute to Kerima Polotan triggered a memory of what might have been an encounter on the phone with the lady. Turns out I was speaking to her secretary, not The Kerima herself. But for many years I deluded myself into imagining it was the legendary writer whose voice I heard on the other end of the phone, inviting me over to pick up my contributor's fees. The fees were my first from a national publication, and I spent all the money on pocketbooks at the old PECO (Philippine Education Company) bookstore in downtown Manila.

If anything, this limbering exercise, a prelude to real writing, is a reminder for me to do more actual physical exercises--the mind loves a walk. Look at Elmer A. Ordoñez, the literary critic, novelist, essayist, who comes back from his evening walks with a Facebook status that reads like a haiku or a tanka. I imagine him with a mandarin painter beside him rendering the images of tagak and frolicking calf into a haiga to deepen the meaning further of the FB status.

My grandchild's pose states, yes, balance there, Booboo (her pet name for me). More walks, more sunshine to get the adrenaline running anew.

Still life in Bohol

Pablo Tariman thinks I must've descended from the line of Francisco Dogohoy, he who waged the longest revolt in Philippine history. It comes from my attraction to the province of Bohol. I've visited neighboring Cebu just as many times, but there's nothing like the appeal of people and landscape of Bohol.

I've always envied poet Marjorie Evasco because she has this province to go home to again and again. On our last trip there with Rolly Fernandez in 2014, she brought us to the house restored by aesthete Ino Manalo.

Something clicked in my mind that I brought out my digicam and shot picture after picture. Everywhere I turned there was something worth preserving in digital memory.

The enhanced community quarantine permitted me time to go over these files. What was on my mind as I took them? Perhaps the wish that one day I'd show them to my painting tutor, Norman Chow, with the thought that he'd guide me through a series of works in acrylic on paper canvas. It was never to be. Norman died in 2018.

I don't know about the fate of Ino's house--if I can ever "go home" there again one day. Meantime, I'm left with these images.

Suddenly, she is 9

I woke up to Nash Tysmans' angry tweet: "Ang Amerika hindi rin preparado kasi ungas din ang Pangulo nila! #OUSTDUTERTENOW"

And to Pablo Tariman's angrier FB status, since then deleted, methinks, about the foul mouth of the Leader and how a janitor has more dignity than he who lives in Malacanang Palace. Nothing like a morning swim to calm Pablo down.

The malicious aspersions cast on Atty. Chel Diokno were causing me to roil and boil at 5:30 a.m., my usual time of waking. It wasn't a good way to start a Saturday, especially since today is special.

It is the ninth birthday of my granddaughter Kai. I bemoan that I am separated from her by 209 kilometers, and no bus is plying the Cubao to Baguio route so I can't be there to watch her blow an imaginary candle on a small birthday cake. Imaginary because blowing birthday candles is among the no-no's during the time of COVID-19. Small cake because she has no other guests beyond her mother Kimi, her grandpa Rolly Fernandez and our dogs Satchi and Boots.

She was up early, acknowledging text greetings from relatives here and abroad. Apart from "Thank you," she punched in the words, "Stay safe! God bless!" Then we teased her with a video call, singing the birthday song. My daughter Ida, phoning in from Los Angeles, CA, couldn't suppress the schoolteacher in her, asking Kai for the correct spelling of lumpiang Shanghai. In one of her communications, Kai wrote that "lumpiang Shang High" would be among the dishes served at her modest celebration.

Then we asked how she and her buddy Satchi, a golden retriever, were doing. As answer, she brought the phone outdoors to the Baguio balcony so we could see the dog sniffing out the birthday gal.

Baguio girl's carrot cake

A girl and her dog

Earlier in the week, she showed us a drawing of a slice of carrot cake, a manifestation of her heart's desire. She has remained cheery of disposition despite missing her lowland-based cousins and slew of grandaunts and granduncles, they who dote on her, her classmates, her play-date mates and her teachers.

Sadness over the quiet commemoration of her birthday is alien to her. As I write these words, the John Wilson Orchestra is performing Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue," and on this day divided by broiling political forces, I wish you, Kai, a rhapsody in yellow... as in sunshine, sunflowers and sunny smiles. And hope!

The world and its woundedness

"The morning air is all awash with angels."
~ Richard Purdy Wilbur

While my doctor brother Dennis was dressing my knee wound this morning, I had a brief time to ponder on the world's woundedness wrought by Covid19.

(BTW, my stitches have dried and no longer require waterproof bandaging. Dennis sprayed a medical disinfectant, applied some ointment and instructed me to tape Band-aids on the top and bottom parts of the vertical line of stitches. I'm a cooperative patient and after doing as told, I walked within the house a bit, trying on my newly liberated knee. It felt grand!)

I also thought of the opening lines from W.H. Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts": "About suffering they were never wrong, / The Old Masters: How well they understood / Its human position: how it takes place / While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along..."

We spent hours pouring over and discussing that ekphrastic poem in the comparative literature class of Dr. Gemino H Abad in the mid-'70s at UP Diliman. I remember thinking then how a Master like Auden could pull off a stunt like that--open a poem with a prosaic, almost forgettable observation. It led me to think that one doesn't have to always have a lyrical first line.

When super-typhoon Yolanda walloped Southern Philippines, particularly Leyte, in November 2013, poets were also called upon to do their own brand of "relief work" with the composition and immediate publication (uploading online) of poetry that soothed or raised a protest against what was perceived as a slow response from the powers that be.

That calamity enabled me to concentrate on renewed versifying, something the Bard of Pasig Pablo Tariman is doing in the time of today's plague. I wrote "Plane Manifest," partly inspired by Auden and taking off from a photo of a surviving father rescued and evacuated from Tacloban. His farmer's demeanor belied the dark color of years spent under the sun, his eyes a-brim with tears as they grieved for loved ones who didn't make it. The estimate then was 10,000 people dead.

I posted my relief response in FB and when the call for an instant visual and literary anthology called "Surges" was made by Rossana Golez and Joel Garduce, I was prepared with my submissions. Here is that poem in its entirety.

Plane Manifest

in the quieter network
where i get my news feed
for the day
where members
aren't so overwrought
and telling others
what to do
what to think
in a calamitous country

this image
and description
of a man
spoke for all
who had lost
someone
(never mind the some things
that are always replaceable
in some ways)

but to lose someone?
or maybe three four
six seven eight?
and see them
on some broken pavement
laid out straight?

the horror the horror

the awareness
that here he was
left with this one life
and some clothes on his back

haunted perhaps
by the thought
that he would've
given it all up
for a wife
a child not yet fully weaned
a mother who raised him up
to be as hardworking as she

he trembles
while seated
in this freight plane
of human cargo
flying him where?
to what sort of new life
in some strange place
will he rebuild
without those he knew
and touched as

love
made
manifest?

Truly, we are called whether it's in a time of crisis or a time of increasingly elusive peace and wellness in the world. To paraphrase the filmmaker Stanley Kubrick, the darkness is vast so we are all called upon to supply our own unique light.

All the things I miss during this state of siege

How wonderful to get back to old-fashioned correspondence using pen, carefully selected sheets of paper and stamps! But times dictate against the sanitary aspect of this practice--the handling and delivery of postal mail.

So I will just journal religiously and hope that in this meditative practice, I expunge the anger I feel for the state of siege we find ourselves in. Anger also focused at an inept Leader who's hellbent on locking us down. Are we handing over our basic human rights to movement and peaceful assembly, even to observe one's faith, just like that? I can't even take a leisurely walk in the neighborhood with my walker or cane to flex and un-flex my new knee and breathe fresh air without fear of being accosted for aimless loitering.

Over breakfast, my siblings spoke how we're experiencing World War III but with an invisible enemy. Our grandchildren's formal education has been disrupted. Thank heavens for small graces like Robert Alejandro's almost daily online drawing and crafts sessions. We just pray that each time he goes online, the wifi signal is strong. I tried something different while drawing a unicorn yesterday--I turned the volume of his talking down, then played my YouTube mix featuring pianist Dame Mitsuko Uchida playing a series of Mozart concertos. Pablo Tariman, in an earlier incarnation, has interviewed this exceptional artist, one of the world's best interpreters of Mozart.

Last night, while tossing and turning, I scrolled down my FB feed and found recent videos of tenor Mher U. Nival and pianist Ma Elnora Halili uploaded--in fine performance states, singing and playing their blues away. Mher was scheduled for a song recital near the end of this month at Manila Pianos Makati in Magallanes, but that has been cancelled along with other events there. Elnora, if I'm correct (do correct me), played movie themes, including "Windmills of Your Mind" from The Thomas Crown Affair. For some reason, I can't share the videos of Mher on my wall, but Elnora's is there for your delectation.

I miss the simple act of pushing a grocery cart in the once near-empty aisles of Unimart Estancia. Usually, I just put in a container of Pastelleria de Mallorca's argellanas and barquillos, packets of dried green mangoes or Cebu's rosquillo biscuits. I don't know if these simple pleasures of the tongue are still available. Last time we were at that mall was March 8 when I hosted a gratitude lunch for my siblings who took turns visiting or acting as watchers during my five-day stay at the hospital. We even brought our pug Bruno for the occasion, and he sat in his stroller quietly observing us chewing and talking at the same time.

In a few weeks, my Baguio-based grandchild Kai Mykonos is turning nine, and I won't be by her side as she celebrates, in quiet family fashion, that milestone. Baguio, which was brought nearer by Scitex and Tplex in recent years, has become nearly unreachable with bus lines stopping their North-bound services temporarily during what I call this state of siege.

Unlike Pablo, who has turned to the poetic muse the past weeks, I cannot find it in me to discover morsels of lyricism in the unusual silence we face these days, mine broken by Mitsuko Uchida or Martha Argerich to keep me sane. I keep running my hands through my hair, not touching my face, and wondering if there's still reason to return to article, or what we call livelihood, writing. Like many freelancers, I belong to the "isang kahig, isang tuka" group--no output, no pay. As Pablo said, we don't earn from poetry, and we just must keep moving on no matter the oppressive circumstances.

I brought down from Baguio books to read and review, now piled up beside my bed. Today, I must pull up my large panties, be brave, soldier on and wrestle down the muse of writing. Good luck to us all!

Sunday feels

As soon as I saw the Facebook announcement that Robert Alejandro was going to conduct an online drawing class, I prepared my Mercury Drugstore journal and Pilot Hi-tecpoint V10Grip for the purpose of being a student before the master again.

Our teacher's pacing was just right so this always newbie-at-things was able to catch up. I didn't feel conscious, unlike in Fine Arts school when we would do live drawing in class and I felt the most inferior to classmates who had been doodling since they were in diapers.

Here are the results of my first drawing class with Master Robert. Photos were taken by my sister Ellen Suzy Lolarga, my companion every time I'd go to the Medical City for physical therapy and rehab of my new knee.

Interesting thing about the just concluded class: I didn't notice the pain of my stitches because I was fully concentrated on letting the lines flow.

Thank you, Robert, for sharing your enormous gifts. God continue to bless you more! And yes, anyone can draw.

Meanwhile, tada!!!

Tuldok the dinosaur

Patty the Pangolin. I failed to add the baby pangolin on its back because I had to go to the toilet mid-lesson.

Pablo Tariman, Joseph Uy, here we are all dressed for the audience-less opera veerus.

How the week was won

Guess how? Through the inevitable lunches with friends the most recent and undocumented of which was a meeting at Mary Grace Robinsons Galleria with old pal Jenny Llaguno. We exchanged stories, she gave me a book for my husband Rolly's collection and before we knew it two hours had passed. What a lift after the gray morning weather.

Earlier in the week, on a Monday, it was sunny and dry, perfect for the now yearly reunion of our unnamed group of amigas y amigos. The amigos, Pablo Tariman and Isah V. Red, were indisposed (subtext for rushing to meet writing deadlines). But I was just too glad to take a break from writing and editing and stretch my lumbering body a bit.

Meeting place was Cafe Juanita in Kapitolyo, Pasig, the kikay resto in my 'hood. I thought I'd make it ahead of everyone, but Joy Buensalido's car was parked outside--I recognized her driver. Next came Jingjing Romero who pulled a roll-on luggage behind her. She had just come from a staycation at Marco Polo Ortigas Manila with Margie T. Logarta. But where was Marge? She was still taking a shower when Jingjing checked out of the hotel.

Clockwise: Ester Dipasupil, Babeth, Joy Buensalido and Jingjing Romero

Our usual Do Re Mi picture. I like the "prints" on Margie's dress. She's standing at the bottom of the stairs (left).

Second to the last to arrive was Ester Dipasupil wearing what Margie described as a Dennis the Menace outfit (denim overalls with striped red and white tee underneath). We were almost done with lunch (ampalaya salad, puso ng saging sisig, beef ribs adobo, callos, fried fish whose exact name I've forgotten not being a fan of anything beyond bangus) when Margie strode in with her own bag on wheels.

Generous Joy had a bag of Maya goodies for everyone (Pablo, you still have to pick up yours at our house). She also had a printed voile blouse for Jingjing. But the latter was still in mourning for her mother so she didn't want to wear something so colorful. I claimed the blouse for myself when I saw how roomy it was. Sorry, too much girl talk and gestures.

Much of the content of our conversation deserves to be heard in a confessional box so I will fast forward to a Thursday lunch at Victorino's Restaurant on the intersection of Scout Rallos and 11th Jamboree streets, Kyusi. My reasons for going there was to interview Anton Juan and to meet up with another group of friends. And to wear, nay, flaunt the gift blouse from Joy and Jingjing.

With ageless enfant terrible Anton J. Photo by Niña Simunek

After we finished with official business, I was taken aback by Anton's question: "So, Babeth, did you ever marry?" My girlfriends, including his niece Niña Simunek, all burst out laughing. I put to rest his wrong impression, saying, "I am married and have two children and one grandchild."

He clung to his impression, adding that "you look pure and virginal. I cannot imagine you having that look of desire."

At this point, my girlfriends started agreeing with him, saying, "It's because you're hardly seen together with your husband."
Anton's Manang Jenny agreed and in all seriousness said, "It's because, Babeth, you never seem to be in a rush to hurry home to cook for anyone. But your nurturing side is very strong."

Well, after 35 years of marriage to Rolly, this is just about the second time someone like Anton mistook me for a singleton, much less a virgin (sabay ilag). The first ones who thought I was single, and this was only a few years ago, were Nympha Sano and her hubby Stef. I also had to correct their "misimpression."

Later, as we had our picture taken together, I told Anton pointedly, "My husband happens to be tall and handsome." His eyes grew wide. Somebody piped up, "He wears a beard, too, and he's a good provider."

I hope that settles that. Love you, Anton. Working on my follow-up questions but please get over your jet lag first.

Meeting Damodar Das Castillo

Young cellist at the PPO Youth Concert last week

Experience has taught me to be wary of prodigies. Sometimes they don't live up to their early promise.

But I am a grandmother who dotes on her only grandchild, a violin student in Baguio. So when the opportunity to watch a free young people's concert at the Cultural Center of the Philippines Little Theater presented itself, I didn't want to let it go. The featured soloist was 11 going on 12 cellist Damodar Das Castillo whose instrument still looks huger than him.

I first heard him play at the 2016 Baguio Summer Music Festival, dubbed by Jeffrey Solares as Summer Out There. The boy was Maestro Jeffrey's pride and joy.

Damodar needed a special diet which the kitchen of the ICM House of Prayer was just willing to accommodate-- he was a full vegetarian. Even his table was set apart from the other members of the Manila Symphony Junior Orchestra.

On the last day of the week-long summer camp, the boy played solo in the chapel which had perfect acoustics since it was built with wood, bricks and glass. Sister Perla Macapinlac, then head of the House of Prayer, was part of the attentive audience.

I would have other occasions to listen to Damodar, mainly at the Ayala Museum And particularly when the MSJO returned from its triumphant performance in the Summa Cum Laude Youth Music Festival in Vienna, Austria. It was at the homecoming concert that Maestro Jeffrey announced that Damodar was accepted at the Mozarteum University in Salzburg.

The good news is our Ilonggo countrymen and women will have a chance to listen and watch as this young talent performs with assisting artist Dingdong Fiel at Nelly Garden on Aug. 17, 6:30 p.m. This outreach project is made possible through the herculean efforts of Pablo Tariman, he who made it his mission to chronicle the rise and rise of another former prodigy, pianist Cecile Licad

Post-concert meet and greet with Damodar Das Castillo, third from left, Pablo Tariman, violinist Adrian Ong, me and little Kai

Photos by Babeth Lolarga and Kiko Cabuena

Missing Linc

Lincoln Rex Q. Drilon with his guitar Photo from the Facebook of Chit Drilon

Already the sting of his sudden departure--dying peacefully in his sleep yesterday morning--is beginning to sink in. I'm writing this as fast as I can to catch the whirl of memories Linc left behind while it's still fresh.

Lincoln Rex Quimpo Drilon was more than a friend and extended family member. He was companion and troubadour to many of life's milestones. He sang "My Foolish Heart," the theme song of my parents, at Mom's 75th birthday, bringing her to tears. At Rolly Fernandez's and my silver wedding jubilee in 2009 he emceed the program of songs and piano music, sitting beside writer Pablo Tariman so the latter could get through the song "Some Enchanted Evening." At my daughter Kimi Fernandez's baby shower in 2011, Linc was there to croon "Moon River" to the infant still in the mother's womb.

But Linc was many other splendored things besides being a fine emcee and crooner. He was a terrific fundraiser for quixotic causes, whether it's for an ailing friend or for keeping the environment clean and green. He was there, ready with the mic or his guitar. He even had a short-lived project called Club Nostalgia where like-minded individuals with a yen for singing old songs gathered for a drink and a turn at the mic.

Rolly recalls how Linc and his best friend-sidekick Rey Maceda, a geologist, camped for many weeks at the then uninhabited Potipot Island in Candelaria, Zambales. The island's owners, Nany and Nancy Fernandez, tasked Linc and Rey with listing down the flora and fauna of the place. This meant literally counting even the coconut trees. They took their work seriously. The occasional visitor would feel surprised to see numbers on tree trunks.

After a hard day's work, the two settled down to drink. For pulutan Linc skillfully filleted and deboned fish which he turned into sashimi. Whatta layp it was!

One of the few things I am proud of is introducing Linc to the great photographer of the Cordillera, Tommy Hafalla, another of my favorite guys. The two struck up a unique friendship while climbing mountains in the Cordi on a Museum of Man project.

His devotion to wife Maria Esperanza P. Drilon, nicknamed Chit, is the stuff of legend among us. If memory serves, during a marital spat, he wooed her back in Lincoln fashion. In a restaurant or club in Cubao, he "conspired" with Bobi Valenzuela to have "Seventh Dawn," apparently the couple's theme song, played over and over in the sound system as Linc danced a slow drag with Chit. That paved the way for a reconciliation.

You haven't really lived until you've heard Linc do a heartfelt rendition of "Seventh Dawn," a song made famous by The Lettermen. The voice is gone, but I hear it still.

Death and life in a day, plus a nightingale comes home

If it's Wednesday, the 9th of January, it must be Manila with all its traffic woes and attention on the Feast of the Black Nazarene.

My husband Rolly Fernandez and I arrive at the Cubao terminal of JoyBus at 5:30 a.m., but hustler cab drivers are ready to pounce on two senior citizens shaking off the weariness of travel. Finally, after three tries we find a cabbie willing to take us and our baggage in at only the cost of what's stated in the meter.

Dr. Florentino "Jun" Martin a.k.a. Kentucky

Where we head at that hour is for a future story. What brings us to the lowlands is the death of our brother-in-law Florentino Martin, husband to Rolly's elder sister Thelma. She and Kuya Jun, as we called the late urologist, are American citizens who had long decided to pour their savings into the Philippines by settling in Puerto Princesa City, Palawan, and building a modest hotel. Already in his 80s, KJ (shorthand for Kuya Jun) continued to practice medicine there.

Also known as Kentucky because he loved to bet at the Kentucky Derby and he practiced his profession in that state, KJ suffered a heart attack on the fourth day of the New Year. He had told relatives earlier, who had quizzed him if he had a life plan, that he wasn't all that ready to go. He wanted to die at age 94. But at age 88, his wish wasn't heeded. And so he went.

So Rolly, myself and my sister Suzy Ellen Suzanne D. Lolarga find ourselves the first visitors of Kentucky at 10 a.m. on a hectic Wednesday as he gloriously lay in state in a white coffin at the St. Alphonsus Chapel in Magallanes Village, Makati.

We say our prayers for his soul's repose quietly, and at a quarter to 3 p.m., Suzy and I take our leave to avoid the EDSA carmageddon exacerbated by the rerouting of vehicles due to the Quiapo feast.

By 4:30 p.m. friend and fellow music lover Joseph Uy is texting me, urging me to come to Oriental Pearl Kapitolyo where "tito is already waiting." Tito is Pablo Tariman, and the occasion of our reunion is a belated celebration of his 70th orbit.

Shall we call them the usual suspects as far as eating well is concerned? Here we are still awaiting our orders. Thank you for hosting, Joseph!

Joseph is just a few years younger than me, but he enjoys addressing me as his "tita." I don't know if it's because of the dust of white hair on my head or the cane I use to assist me when I stand or walk.

What I think is merienda rapidly segues to a simple lauriat dinner (no meat dish as we are groaning from it from the holidays) of birthday noodles, shrimp balls, mushrooms, cold cuts, fish fillet with veggies and Yang Chow flied lice. :-)

The stories are uncorked like bottled champagne and plans for intimate concerts in the New Year are laid.

The blogger and soprano Myramae Meneses

Joseph always has a surprise up his sleeve. A little before 6 p.m. who should walk in but soprano Myramae Tapia Meneses, back from her two years of studies at Guildhall School of Music & Drama, looking trimmer and smiling sweetly as we last remembered her.

No, she doesn't sing an aria for her Tito Pablo, but she does something better. She commits to an outreach concert in Baguio details of which will be written later when everything is ironed out, including a program that's guaranteed to make the most stoic and most hardhearted swoon in delight.

Wednesday isn't so bad. God allowed me to glimpse death (Kentucky's) and a celebration of a life (Pablo's) in a day.

May your Thursday be as meaningful!

Conjugal account, or our 'daughter' Cecile

Look what my grandchild Kai dug up from the box where Rolly Fernandez stores negatives and prints from long ago and far away? One of the rare photos of myself with my LODI, Ms. Cecile Licad.

This picture was taken in the vast garden of surgeon Joven Cuanang in Antipolo City where the pianist performed another set of Chopin etudes in the early 2000s. During the socials following her performance, a lady came up to Pablo Tariman and me and asked, "Are you the parents of Cecile?"

Of course, Pablo gave his signature guffaw. But the question has been the origin of the joke between us about a mythical conjugal account where we are supposed to earn from every concert where we're involved. As I said, the account is mythical. And the reality of an impresario's and a cultural worker's lives is we really have a tough time keeping a maintaining balance in our respective banks.

That is not to say we have woebegone lives. Au contraire, hearing Licad and following her through several concerts like we did in the past, from Philamlife Auditorium to Antipolo to St. Paul University in Tuguegarao City, are immeasurable rewards in themselves.

Mary Grace-ing once too often

It seems Mary Grace is the bakery-restaurant of choice among friends who agree to meet at either Greenbelt Makati or Trinoma, the Ayala mall in Quezon City. When I'm early and waiting for my lunch companions, I like reading the little handwritten stuff under the glass-topped tables. I've often wondered if those are real notes addressed to real persons or they were just made up to add to the place's homey ambience.

While looking at these photos, the first taken sometime August, the other just at the close of this past month, I noticed how I ballooned and grew in heft. Well, you caught me there--enjoying once too often Mary Grace's deceitfully lightweight ensaymada and cheese roll!

With Pablo Tariman, Vergel Santos and Chit Roces Santos

Even Althea Sarmenta seems to say of Mary Grace, "I love you this much!" Others in picture are former colleagues and lifetime friends Bob Navarro, Amadis Ma. Guerrero, Cynthia Alberto Diaz and Althea's dad Joel.

Knucklehead Nelly

While watching soprano Nelly Miricioiu's animus and duende take over her at Monday's press conference, I was reminded of a fictional character that I've always identified with in my pre-teen years when St. Paul College of Quezon City mounted the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical South Pacific. There before me at Cravings Restaurant's function room at the Shangri-La Plaza Mall was a living, breathing, laughing Nellie Forbush, the cockeyed optimist herself.

After her two-hour or more "recital" of her life from childhood to today, I called the Emile De Becque of my life to gush about La Nelly, what a force of life she is, how her statements apply not just to singing but to writing and the living of a creative life and how she deserves wider coverage in mass media. At which point, Rolly, my husband, started singing phrases from the song "Volare", and I doubled up laughing. The cab driver must've thought I had gone insane!

Below are photos of Ms. Miricioiu, alone, with her husband Barry Kirk, with our friends in media and the music world. Thank you, Pagcor, Amara Resort, Cravings and all who're making Ms. Nelly's visit an occasion for her to think about returning in the near future. Cue for me to die happy.

Quotable Nelly: "It's an amazing feeling to be back. I didn't intend to leave Romania. I felt I could be an artist and a patriot at the same time." She defected from Romania and was granted British citizenship, but she still sings at events that benefit Romanian charities. Photos by Babeth Lolarga

The Miricioiu-Kirk couple chooses their first meal for the day. The evening before when they had just arrived from London, she passed the drinks menu to Barry and said, "Darling, choose the wine. You're the specialist."

She's also a screwball kind of comedienne in the Lucille Ball mold. She always manages to keep writer Pablo Tariman in stitches. She calls him "a quiet boy from the province." Now that sets those of us who know him laughing.

A conductor once told the young Nelly who was a bundle of nervous energy: "You have expression in your little finger. That is enough." She considered that a good tip because it enables the music's simplicity and elegance to emerge.

With film critic Mario Hernando

With soprano Glenda Velasco Liao who won't be in the masterclass at Ayala Museum but will be part of the technical staff operating the supertitles

With Al Andres, one of the hardworking associates of Culture Arts Events Organizers who doesn't look like he has lost his entire shirt wardrobe from risking all to push and market concerts like tomorrow's "Nelly Miricioiu: Live in Manila" at 8 p.m. at Meralco Theater

With small but terrific soprano Myramae Tapia Meneses whose solo voice soared at the Manila Cathedral and Luneta Grandstand during the visit of Pope Francis

Romania's and the Philippines' soprano greats Nelly and Camille Lopez Molina, respectively. Love Nelly's polka-dot stockings!

With Angel Reyes Nacino of the Manila Chamber Orchestra Foundation

This guy's dopamine level will remain at a high level for the rest of 2015. This is all the loving he needs.

When Monday meant Nelly

Boosted by a breakfast of vitamins and hopia and a late lunch of Hizon's ensaymada and hot chocolate at its main branch in Ermita, Manila, I managed to make it to EDSA Shangri-La Mandaluyong City to welcome Nelly Miricioiu.

Al Andres and Joseph Uy of Culture Arts Events Organizers, the guys behind the production "Nelly Miricioiu: Live in Manila", assigned me the role of flower girl (never been one in all of my childhood). I gladly accepted with aplomb!

I am counting the hours until I hear her voice live. I don't know if I'll ever be content again with YouTube videos or music CDs after the March 6 experience at Meralco Theater.

The virtue of being punctual is rewarded. Otherwise, Pablo Tariman would've done the honors of offering this lovely bouquet from Market! Market! to another of his soul mates, the diva Nelly. When Al clicked my camera, he said, "O, di parang nasa Panagbenga ka rin? Mas maganda pa!" I wanted to hum Ravel's "Bolero" into his ear.

Not wanting to be upstaged, Pablo rushed home earlier to shower and change costume. The extra trip home paid off. He pulled off the fresh-from-my-Caribbean-secret-hideaway look.

The hug and reunion. Ms. Nelly's cry of "Oh Pablo, oh my God!" sounded like a line from Bellini

That's Nelly's husband of over 20 years, engineer Barry Kirk, behind her while she kisses Pablo.

Flower girl's voice goes high pitched in excitement as she requests one of opera's greats to turn to the camera, please.

Ms. Nelly hugs the Teddy Bear of the music world, Joseph Uy.

In her mother country Romania, Nelly was given an honor that is equivalent to the royal title of "Dame." And a gracious dame she is. After the initial hugs and kisses, she invited everyone for a drink and said it was on her. Of course, Joseph and everyone else refused the offer. She was, after all, in the country that had enfolded her as one of its own when she left Romania during its troubled times.

Vital, animated, expressive--that's how Dame Nelly is in person.

She accepts the gifts from the flower girl: food for the body and soul--taisan cake from Hizon's and a copy of the first Philippine PEN Journal which has "healing" for its theme. My essay "The Strength of Roots or the Need for Flight?" is included in it. When she saw the word "healing" on the blue cover, she said, "I believe in these things." She told us of a hard time in her life, how she wandered into a bookstore, discovered a book on the Tantric form of healing, how it changed her and deepened her spirituality.