day's stories

When in Rome...

2011-06-30T22:56:00.005+08:00

During a recent trip to Rome, John and I stayed at a bed-and-breakfast place run by Catholic nuns. It was towards the end of May, and officially not yet summer, but it was warm. We saw a wall-type air conditioner mounted near the ceiling and therefore out of reach, but the remote control was nowhere to be found. Our room was on the third floor of the building facing the street, which happened to be a main avenue. If we opened the windows to let the breeze in, we would also be letting in the roars from the Vespas and Ducatis - those famous Italian scooters that fill Italian streets, and there was no way that we would be able to sleep.

I considered going down to the first floor lobby to ask for the remote control, or at least to let the nuns know that we found the room warm. However, I balked at the idea since I did not (do not) speak any Italian. Earlier when we were checking in, I discovered that the nuns manning the reception did not speak any English. To my disappointment, one whom I thought was Filipina turned out to be from Madagascar and did not speak any English either.

But it was warm! So I checked the little book “Italian for Travellers” that my nun-friend in a nearby convent lent me for the phrases “air conditioner” and “remote control” but no matter how many times I scanned the pages, the book contained no such words. There was only the word “caldo” for “hot,” and the word “molto” (“very”), attached to another adjective, that I could put together.

A picture is worth a thousand words, we are told, and so I took a photo of the air conditioner in the room and went down with my camera. I remarked, “It’s molto caldo in our room.” In a very stern, but low, voice that reminded me of the nuns in my grade school, she admonished, “No fumare.” I understood that to mean “No smoking,” or “Don’t smoke.” To assure her that John and I were not smoking in our room, I nodded my head and echoed what she said, “No fumare.” Since that did not lead me anywhere, I showed her the image on my camera’s LCD, and asked for the remote control, while I repeated my well-mastered phrase, “molto caldo.” She raised her forefinger and repeated “No fumare” and in quick Italian must have said something about the consequences of smoking (guessing from all the conjugations of the verb “fumare” that I heard her say). I tried to get my message across by fanning myself with my hand and repeating “molto caldo,” and “caldo molto” (just in case, in Italian, the adverb should come after the adjective). It was funny because all sorts of Spanish words- courtesy of Spanish language lessons during college days - were coming to my head in my attempt to explain that it was very warm in our room. I was frustrated and starting to fret, while she remained firm and stern. To add to my frustration that I could not get myself understood, I heard her very matter-of-factly warn me, while pointing to the smoke alarm and vigorously twirling her forefinger, “Fumare – wang, wang wang.” She said something else but all I could understand was “dormir.“ With a simple wave of her hand, while maintaining eye contact, she said softly but with finality, “Buona notte!” I guessed that what she was saying was “Go to sleep, good night,” and that was it – end of discussion. It was frustrating – not only to be unable to communicate but to be made to feel like a grade school pupil in a Catholic school. At 65, I did not think a nun could still make me feel that way. J

Resigned to sleeping in a warm room, I went back upstairs. After an hour or so, I saw that the brochure that I picked up at the front desk earlier contained the phrase “aira condizionata” which I took to mean “air conditioned.” “Aha,” I said to John, "here’s what I can show her." I also wished (maybe prayed is the more correct word) that the nun whom I encountered earlier would no longer be on duty. I walked down the stairs to the ground floor. She was there with another nun – not the smiling nun from Madagascar but someone who looked like the Italian Mother Superior. Hope springs eternal, and I pointed at the brochure and said to them “molto caldo aira condizionata . ” That was the full extent of my Italian in one go. That hope was doused quickly when the older nun said simply, “no funzione,” and all I could do was meekly repeat, “aria condizionata, no funzione.”

I had no choice but to accept defeat. Bowing slightly to the two nuns before me, I whispered, “Buona notte,” and headed back to our molto caldo room.

Motorbike Backrider

2011-06-28T22:49:00.000+08:00

Carless and often cashless, our only means of transportation in the 1970’s was John’s 350cc Honda motorcycle, a gift from his father. It was a cozy way to be riding together, with my arms around him for safety.

Riding the motorcycle was the way we picked up and delivered work. During those days, there were no personal computers (no “Powerpoint” or “Keynote”), and slides for audiovisual presentations were made from photographing handmade artworks drawn on 30”x40” illustration boards. If available, words were made with the use of letter transfers (“Letrasets”) and if not, they were created by skillfully airbrushing them on the boards. The boards are carefully wrapped because the colored inks used on them were attractive to roaches.

Since all we had was a 35mm Nikkormat with a 43-86mm zoom lens, most of our jobs were doing these slides. We would pick up the boards from the ad agency and bring them to our studio to shoot.

John would get up on his motorcycle and I would then gingerly mount the motorbike behind him with the wrapped illustration boards between us, leaving me with no way to wrap my arms around John or to hold on to any part of his big bike. As long as we were not riding over speed bumps or potholes, we were fine, but John would continue to show his concern for me by saying, “Talk to me and keep talking, so I’ll know that you’re still there.”

Wasn’t that sweet? ;)

John in Adobo Magazine

2011-06-17T19:46:00.001+08:00

Here's a very straightforward article by Adobo Magazine's writer, Mia Marci on John and his passions - photography, especially aerial photography; flying; his pet elephant, Maali; his advocacy, Photography with a Difference, that works with special children and persons with disabilities; getting a street in Manila, R. Hidalgo, to become a photographers' haven. John's photo was taken by our daughter, Kathy.

John's Talk: Photography with a Difference - Touching Lives Through Photography

2011-02-01T21:12:00.002+08:00

January 31, 2011

Today, John faced a tough challenge – how to make his topic, "Photography with a Difference – Touching Lives Through Photography” interesting enough to get delegates out of bed for a very early morning (8:30am) talk. Participants in this year's Photoworld Asia Convention came from all over the Philippines and some Asian countries and as far as Qatar, and paid to learn photo and digital imaging techniques. But there was John, getting ready to get them to do photography that John himself says requires no skill, and no special equipment.

This is not the first time for John to be invited by the organizers of this annual event, but normally, they put him in the first slot after lunch. Unlike most speakers who represent a specific expertise or style, John has been called a serial specialist. He is as adept inside the studio shooting food, products or cars, as he is outside, doing aerial photography or photographing buildings, interiors and industrial sites. He shares whatever he knows, and after almost 40 years in his profession, his reservoir of tips and techniques that he readily shares with fellow photographers is very deep. More importantly, they know that his honest and irreverent sense of humor, his booming voice, and many tricks up his sleeve would wake up his audience any time.

He brought, for example, a few bags of Super Lemons, and had them distributed to everyone in the audience, with the instructions that they may pop the candy into their mouths only when he gives the signal. But wait - maybe I should not tell you about this trick, in case you have never listened to John give a talk.

He also brought a lot of goodies, and thankfully, Canon is one of the sponsors. John has been named a “Canon Ambassador,” together with a select group of professional photographers, so yesterday, John approached their marketing department for corporate premium items to give away. He was like Santa Claus today, giving out Canon books, luggage tags, coffee mugs, folding canvas stools and magazines – to early bird attendees, those who asked questions, and at the end of his talk, when he still had leftover gifts, to anyone who happened to be within arm’s reach.

John is very passionate about the topic assigned to him. To ensure that his audience would be enticed to learn about Photography with a Difference, he gave an unsolicited and un-scheduled mini-presentation, and posted a few photos on the wall during the first days of the conference. And even though he had prepared his talk and audiovisual presentation several days before today, he spent the whole night perfecting his presentation, providing more “success stories.”

To establish credibility with those who were going to listen to him for the first time, he started by very briefly introducing our company and presenting our portfolio. Then, he narrated how “Photography with a Difference” as an advocacy was born, after which, one by one, he showed pictures from more than 25 workshops and photo exhibits that have been done so far. He told the stories of how many workshops were started without any funds, and how they were built on the strength of dreams. He spoke of not having any organization, and on running this entire advocacy on Facebook. He shared the story of his “magic notebook,” where he wrote his wish lists, and dream projects. He reminisced about his meeting with the advocacy partners or sponsors - SM Malls and Canon Philippines. That they had no memorandum of agreement, no written proposals, no contracts – just shaking hands to seal their agreement and resolve to continue with this advocacy. Already running late, he ended his presentation by playing a touching video by Joel H. Garcia, one of the regular volunteers of Photography with a Difference. In that short but heart-tugging video were pictures of visually impaired children who were having the time of their life exploring the zoo, and bonding with their parents and their photographer-partners.

There was no more time for questions, so he invited them to follow this advocacy on his Facebook, or to email him. At this point, we could not gauge how well John had succeeded in arousing his audience’s interest in this advocacy, until the audience stood up to give John a standing ovation!

To give way to the next speaker who had been patiently waiting for his turn to speak, we quickly gathered our materials and moved to the side of the room. Not a few photographers rushed to John to ask him to sign their books, flyers, photos, notebooks, papers – anything they could get where John could sign. Then they followed him still when John left the room, to ask how they could join, or how they could lead such advocacy projects. Two of them were Filipinos living in New Zealand, a couple of Filipinas from the U.S., a Filipino who lives in Guam, and a recently retired military man who himself has a special child. Others were members of local camera clubs. We exchanged business cards, as we promised to send them more information on how they can participate in reaching out to persons with disabilities through the “Photography with a Difference” advocacy.

Like a tireless evangelist, John has planted the seed of his advocacy once again. We will wait to see where the seed will grow, and hope it spreads to other parts of the world.

Good-bye, Tatay Harvey

2011-01-30T23:17:00.001+08:00

Today, I say goodbye to my namesake and my late parents' dear friend, Ret. Lt. Cmdr. Harvey E. Jewell, who bade us all a final farewell on Wednesday, January 26, 2011 in Kingsport, Tennessee. He crossed over to his glorious next life while surrounded by his family – children, son-in-law, and grandchildren. He was 87.

A brief tribute to his life appears on http://www.jconline.com/article/20110129/OBITS/101290304/Harvey-E-Jewell-87

I will miss him terribly, but would like to thank God for letting me find him on the Internet in December 2007, which led to my getting to personally meet him and his family in July 2008 in Kingsport, and again in October 2010, when we honored him at a gathering of family, relatives and friends in West Orange, New Jersey.

Dear Tatay Harvey, now that I've met your family, and my family has met yours, we hope to continue the friendship that you and my parents began in 1946.

Goodbye, Tatay Harvey. I love you. As you journey into the next life, please give my love to my parents, whom I also miss very much.

"Bless them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them (Harvey E. Jewell, Ruperto S. Valentino, Dolores Lombos Valentino). May they rest in peace. Amen. "

The Little Boy Who Likes Zip Lines

2011-01-24T20:20:00.002+08:00

Ever since newspapers picked up the story about John teaching Ian, a young man with autism, how to express himself through photography, parents of similarly situated children have been bringing their little boys and girls to him. Some of these children are probably too young to learn photography, so John ends up inviting them to come to Manila Zoo to meet Maali, the elephant that John has been taking care of for the past ten years. Within the main zoo, there is also a wonderful place called Kinder Zoo, where they can touch and be photographed with animals. Recently, it has set up a rock wall, and a zip line for children.

I remember John's story about one such little boy with autism. His name was Carlo. He did not like Maali, so John looked around for something to interest him. He was not keen about snakes and baby crocodiles at the Kinder Zoo, or its tortoises and monkeys. But he got attracted to the zip line, and pointed it to John. That’s what he found interesting, and that’s what he wanted to do.

John has learned that children with autism have no sense of danger, so John did not know if he would hold on to the rope until he was safely at the end of the zip line. He was very young, maybe 6 or 7 years old, and the mother could not reassure John either, as this was this boy’s first time for this kind of adventure.

John decided that to be sure this boy was safe on the zip line, John had to be holding on to him. The zip line was low because it was designed for little children, and John could be on the ground, running the full length of the zip line. That would have been the best arrangement. The line is about 50 meters long- a half of a hundred meter dash, and John thought that was doable. John was game, and so was Carlo. There was no need for anyone to push them from the platform. John simply had to run along with this little boy perched on a round seat that was hanging with a rope from the zip line. Off they went, and John zipped along on the zip line. Just as they came to the end of the line and John, huffing and puffing, was feeling grateful that he/they made it, this boy gleefully said “Again!”. Without hesitation or asking for a break, John said, “Of course,” and ran again. He huffed and puffed again, but he felt good to have satisfied this little boy’s whim to try the zip line. Twice.

He came home tired but happy to tell me the story of the little boy who likes zip lines. :)

Adventures and Misadventures

2011-01-02T12:14:00.000+08:00

There was a time when John wanted to learn how to fly hang gliders. There was no way to stop him. I knew that the more I tried to stop him, the more he would insist on doing it. So I kept quiet, and prayed. Then one morning, he came back early - meaning he did not go hang gliding even though he left for that purpose.

He told me that he was too early for hang gliding and when he arrived at his instructor's place, the guy was still cleaning his kite. The guy was in shorts, and all his scars were visible. He told John about the different scars on his legs and body and what caused them - all from hang gliding accidents. John decided that he did not want to learn hang gliding anymore. :)

Another time, John wanted to go sky jumping. (What’s with this man?) He took all of us, our three daughters and myself, to Tanauan, Batangas, where his friend’s son was teaching it. He already knew I would not do it, but he was able to convince at least two daughters to try it with him.

I’m timid when it comes to adventures, but I made great effort, especially when my children were very young, not to show or transfer my fears, or my lack of courage, to them. I did not want them to be fainthearted like me. I wanted them to have as much fun as their dad was. Although scared, I said yes to the scariest rollercoaster rides, was John’s first passenger on an ultralight, went up to the sky in a glider (not hang, but a real one), was first to hop on cable cars, went scuba diving, spelunking, approached and touched all sorts of strange animals – whatever adventures we faced. I just kept quiet and prayed for our safety, and said my silent “thank you’s” when my feet touched the ground again.

That morning, my children were older and I felt I did not have to show any more false bravado. John greets his pilot-friend, Mannie Baradas, who in turn introduces us to his son who teaches sky jumping. But this young man was in a wheelchair! “My God,” I was screaming silently in my head. He must have seen my reaction to the sight of him, and so he reassured me that he was not teaching today. He had a “little” accident while skydiving, he said, so his other instructor, would take over giving lessons that day. “Oh, thank God,” I said again in my head, “maybe there’s somebody else who has better judgment, or better timing, or whatever it is that you need to avoid breaking your bones while sky-jumping.”

Mannie’s son called the other instructor to come out, and he was in crutches!!! At that point, even John did not think it was a good idea to try sky jumping. I did not have to make excuses for not signing up for lessons, John and the girls took care of that. I think that day we decided to go sailing in nearby Talisay, but when we think of adventures and misadventures, we still talk about our close encounter with sky jumping that day.

Grown Up or Children's Talk

2010-12-22T14:04:00.000+08:00

As a young mother working at home with my husband, John, to build up our photography business, I often felt harassed by my three young children fighting over toys or other domestic issues while I was on the phone with my client. I felt embarrassed because I was in an "unprofessional environment," since I was sure that my client could hear my children screaming and crying in the background. I may not have been as patient with my children as I should have been, but I remember explaining to them that if they were fighting over toys, then they would take their fight to other room and not where I was on the phone - they had to keep quiet because I was on the phone with a client, but if someone among them was hurt, then I don't care if I were talking to a CEO, I would put the phone down immediately to attend to them. Satisfied that I had given my children a good explanation on why they should be quiet, my children asked, "Mom, what's a client? What's a C.E.O?" :)

Discovering Family Trivia

2010-12-19T13:19:00.000+08:00

Since the party honoring Ret. Lt. Cmdr. Harvey E. Jewell, the man after whom I was named, did not afford us quiet time for conversation, we decided to invite Harvey, his daughter Sylvia and son-in-law Gary to lunch. And of course, our NJ hostess - my mother's first cousin and my dear friend, Myra. Another dear friend, Ann Gay, was taking her flight to return to Boston later that day so we decided to meet halfway between West Orange where we were staying and Clinton where Harvey's grandson lives. That half -way point was Morristown. Kathy and John G, who had spent the night in NYC had to return to West Orange in order to join us. Ching and her John flew out of NY to go back to Singapore while my John, Sacha and Wayne went to the city to take pictures so they could not join us.

It was a Sunday and Morristown was quiet. A restaurant that Myra called was not going to open until four in the afternoon. The only restaurant that was open within walking distance from where we parked was a Persian restaurant. We decided to be adventurous. Besides, John G. goes to Iran often for work and is familiar with Iranian food.

We were eight - Gary, Sylvia, Myra, Ann Gay, John G., Kathy, Harvey J and myself. Although there was nobody else in the restaurant at that moment, we still insisted on a quiet corner. As we pored over the items on the menu, John G greeted the waitress and the proprietor in Iranian which pleased them very visibly.

The conversation centered on Harvey (not me, the other Harvey) and his days in the Philippines during World War II. I brought out my red notebook so I could take down notes. He has a throat condition that makes it difficult for him to speak, or sometimes, to be understood. He asked me for my notebook and wrote "'Ship Salvage Fire-fighting and Rescue unit" and then a short while later wrote "Rudy operated the electric power system for the entire complex. He had three Philippino helpers."

Curious, I asked him who Rudy was, and he said, "your dad." "My dad?", I asked wondering if Harvey made a mistake. My father's name was Ruperto and all my life I've always heard him referred to by his nickname, "Piting", but I suddenly realized that Harvey and probably his colleagues in the navy had given him a nickname after Rudolph Valentino, the famous Hollywood actor. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudolph_Valentino. After all, that's my father's surname - Valentino. I was thrilled to learn this tidbit about my father. My father, Rudy Valentino.

Not on Friday the 13th: A Baby I Planned and Prayed For

2010-08-13T18:07:00.001+08:00

When my second daughter was less than two years old, I had a longing for another baby. With the difficulty of two placenta previas and two Caesarean operations still fresh in my mind, I could have sworn that the maternal urge was more hormonal than emotional. But it was very strong.

Since John and I already had two daughters, I consulted my OB-Gyne doctor for tips on how to have a baby boy. She advised me to take my temperature before rising from bed every morning, and to try to do “it” when my temperature rose (which meant that I was ovulating).

My in-laws, who are Chinese, suggested consulting the Chinese calendar. Computing from when I was born, I could find out which months of conception would produce a boy, and which months to avoid conceiving – if I did not want to have a third daughter. Unfortunately, nobody could produce that precious calendar.

Even with the well-scheduled “encounters,” I was not conceiving. After more than year of attempting to get pregnant at the right time of the month, I gave up. It was not fun sticking a thermometer into my mouth every morning, and pulling my workaholic husband from work so we could do “it.”

After coming up “negative” every month for over twelve months, I decided to stop trying hard, and declared that if God could will me to be pregnant, then He could will me to have a son. I left the business of getting pregnant entirely to God, and of course, to John. ;)

Then, in November 1982, I became pregnant! Alleluia!! I was so excited that even before my tummy started to bulge, I started wearing maternity dresses. When people who did not know John or our two daughters, Ching Ching and Kathy (then known as Ann Kay), would ask if I were on my first pregnancy. I would very proudly and confidently say that it was my third pregnancy, but my first boy. To those who knew us, I declared with as much confidence that I was going to have my first son.

I did resist the cliché to prepare baby’s things and clothes in blue. I was not going to typecast my children. I was going to teach my girls not to fear math, computers or mountain climbing, and I imagined myself teaching my son, as well his sisters, how to cook and bake, how to paint and draw.

My baby was due to be born on August 13, but I did not want my son to be teased about being born or celebrating his birthday on Friday, the 13^th (like today). Instead, I asked my doctor if it was all right if she delivered my baby on August 12. She said yes.

I also resisted my doctor’s offer for me to undergo ultrasound tests. I innocently thought that I could will my baby to be a boy simply by declaring it to be so.

Many decades ago, when I was born, there was no such thing as an “ultrasound.” Parents, relatives and friends had to wait until the moment of birth to find out the gender of the newborn – so birth was a much-anticipated event, not only to welcome the new addition to the family, but also to find out if it’s a boy or a girl.

My third Caesarean was scheduled at the Medical Center Manila (MCM). I had an unpleasant experience at the Makati Medical Center where my two daughters were born, and I decided to change hospitals and change doctors. My obstetrician was the sister-in-law of a very close friend, and we often swapped stories about daughters – she has three of her own, and no sons.

Everywhere I went, I kept proclaiming that I was going to give birth to a baby boy. That is, until the hospital orderly was wheeling me into the operating room (Caesarean births are done in the operating, not delivery, rooms). Suddenly, I was filled with anxiety and apprehension about having a son. What if he became disobedient or disorderly, or rough and uncontrollable? I had remembrances of my brothers being scolded for not coming home on time, or being spanked for their mischief, while my sister and I were always conscious of obeying our parents. What if he became a juvenile delinquent, what if he became a drug addict, what if he grew up too short or too frail and his classmates would bully him, what if…

Then at that moment of great doubt, I prayed. I whispered to God to forgive my arrogant and foolish declarations about having a son. Please let me have another daughter. Please, Lord, please.

I was still praying when they gave me a sedative. I had insisted on being awake, so I was given only regional anesthesia. As the sedative kicked in and the anesthesia that was meant to deaden my body from my feet to my chest somehow seeped into my brain, I just surrendered to God and to the doctor whom I trusted with my life. But just before I went into semi-consciousness, I hastened to remind her of my request to please remove my keloids at my previous CS scar, and oh, could she also remove some of my belly fat? But I am digressing. ;)

Half awake and half in limbo, I heard my doctor declare, “Harvey, you have a baby girl.” I was filled with excitement and became fully awake. She showed me my beautiful baby, and I was happy and grateful (for my baby and the additional procedures). I thanked her, and I thanked God for listening to me.

We named our third and last daughter, Sacha. She was born on August 12, 1983.

Happy birthday, Sacha – today should have been your birthday.

Car Photography: A letter to Randolph de Leon

2010-05-16T09:05:00.001+08:00

Randy is a partially-blind photographer-hobbyist with a passion for cars. We met him at a workshop for the visually impaired that John conducted for his advocacy - "Photography with a Difference (PWD) - Touching Lives Through Photography." We learned that Randy loves cars, and if not for his impairment, would have wanted to be a race driver. Just for his own enjoyment, Randy shoots cars, especially during car shows. We invited him to our studio the other day during a shoot for Mitsubishi.

16 May 2010

Dear Randy,

I’m glad that you enjoyed your visit with us, and saw how car photography for advertising is done. Your own experience in shooting cars – in a photojournalistic style as you mentioned – is a good introduction but is not quite the same as doing photography for advertising, especially studio car photography. Our lighting has to be more studied, so I hope you did not get find our pacing too slow.

I suppose the two main differences between how you shoot cars and how we shoot is in how cars are lit and what angle or perspective they are taken.

Whereas, as you said, you depend on available light (or lights), we carefully decide each light or each reflection of a light that touches the car.

Taking on a photo-journalistic style of car photography, you can afford to choose the angles or perspectives that look good to you, given the lighting condition present at where the car is, whereas our angle is dictated by the client or the art director (AD) in order to meet some advertising and marketing objectives. This is why we cannot even begin to arrange lights until we have set up the car (or part of the car) according to the layout required by the AD. We cannot deviate from that perspective because it is that side or part of the car that they want to "sell." So we can say that you have more freedom in choosing your angle or perspective, since you shoot for your own pleasure while we, on the other hand, enjoy the exacting challenges of specific objectives.

Car photography for print advertising is so precise that it has developed its own jargon. We indicate how we will set up the car by measuring the proportion of the bumper (from the left to the right side of the front or rear of a car, in relation to the length of the vehicle – 1:2, 1:2.5, 1:3 etc.), we indicate the angle – front perspective, rear perspective, full frontal, full rear, perfect profile – the last three also being referred to as dead front, dead rear or dead side; we have to define the camera position - worm’s eye view, eye level (since I am a head shorter than John, we still “argue” which “eye” level), or top view – and the many variations, to the left or right, higher or lower, more head on or somewhat oblique, of all these positions. We have also different terms for the lighting contrasts that we want to achieve.

As you may have noticed, after we set up the car according to the required perspective or camera angle (the AD brings what we call a compre – a guide for the photographer for the kind of image he has to produce), that is the only time that we can add our lights, reflectors, gobos etc. one by one, so that we can produce a beauty shot. Since a car has highly reflective surfaces, we cannot just turn our lights on, as doing so will produce "hot spots." Instead, we often turn our lights towards reflectors (including that giant reflector that hangs from the ceiling, and all the curved walls of the studio), so only the lights’ reflections produce what are seen as highlights on the car. On the other hand, some dark materials are placed at strategic places to help create “shadows.” Highlights and shadows are what actually create the shape or contour of the car, photographically speaking. By painstakingly controlling light, a car photographer is also able to bring out details or provide drama – making the photograph a unique visual rendition of a particular car. As you were able to observe – studio car photography is no mean task.

I remember the first time that we ever shot a car inside a studio (a rented one (RS Video in Paranaque), a few years before we built our own in 1992). The client asked me how many set ups John could do in a day, so they could decide how many days to rent the studio, and added that they had five layouts – all complete shots of cars. Very confidently, John, who had only shot cars outdoors until then, said that he could finish all five set ups in one day.

We went to the studio the day before to assess the situation and what would be required. That studio had a ceiling elevation equivalent to three storeys, and had catwalks all around. It did not have the curved cyclorama or the huge reflector from the ceiling that we now have. In order for us to bounce lights off reflectors, we had to cut our roll of seamless white paper into sheets of 8 feet wide, and maybe 9’ or 10’ long, and tape one end to a long water pipe). We needed about three of those, each being manipulated by two men, according to John’s instructions. Since they were on the 3^rd-story level catwalk, John had to shout his instructions (for subsequent shoots, we later bought several sets of walkie-talkies). In addition, we needed more assistants to help set up lights that would be “bounced” on those reflectors.

We also came prepared with car cleaning materials like chamois (which does not leave lint on the surface of the car), including Armor All for putting a nice shine on the car body and giving tires a rich black hue. We also had several cans of dulling spray for controlling hot spots.

High-end digital photography was still more than a decade away, so we were shooting with 4x5 color transparency films and Polaroid or Fuji instant print films.

We started setting up at eight in the morning. Experimenting with the lighting before the clients came later in the afternoon, we exposed sheet after sheet of Polaroids. They came before we were satisfied with our first layout. They looked at the set up, and looked at the Polaroids, and pointed to several “hot spots.” “No,” they said, “you cannot just use dulling spray on those hot spots because that will take out the sheen or shine of the car exterior.”

So we moved lights and reflectors around. As we did, the controversial hot spot disappeared, but before we could cheer, we discovered it popping somewhere else.

It was close to midnight and we still had not done our first set up. John motioned me to approach him. In a whisper that still loudly betrayed his fatigue and frustration, John asked me to tell the client that he had made a mistake. Shooting cars inside a studio was a challenge too big a bite for him to chew. “Offer to return their down payment, and to pay for damages, offer to pay the studio rental. And tell them, I am sorry but I can’t do this job.” I could not distinguish his tears from his sweat, but the pain of defeat was very palpable.

I approached the client and the art director and repeated what John said almost word for word. To my surprise, the client said no, they would not let John give up. They then told me, holding the latest of the many Polaroids, that it was the best car shot that they had ever seen, and there was just one hot spot that we needed to work on. They asked me to ask John to tell them how many more days we needed to rent the studio, and instructed me to charge extra for all the Polaroids we’ve used.

I returned to the corner where John was – seated on the floor, looking really exhausted. I repeated what the client said, and he could not believe his ears. Something in him immediately lit up, and together we gathered our crew. We explained our assessment and our client’s decision. John told them that since the client was renting the studio for at least another day, they could decide if they wanted to rest and start again the next day or if they wanted to continue. Jun Tolin, his assistant, threw back the question at John. “Sir,” he said, “it’s up to you. If you need to rest, we will rest, but if you want to continue working, then we will be working with you.” John took a deep breath and said, “We’re almost there, so let’s do it – let’s finish this first set up. Let’s not rest until we’ve done this.” With that, they went back to work, with renewed energy and inspiration.

In less than half an hour, they produced a Polaroid that client was happy to sign. YES! “Let’s shoot film,” and John took out the Polaroid adapter and slipped in the transparency film holder for the first of about ten to fifteen sheets of Kodak Ektachrome 4x5 film.

The second wind was blowing. Moving more confidently after that first “accomplishment,” John set up the car for the second layout, and rearranged the lights to match the new angle. Before the crack of dawn, he had finished another set up.

We agreed to return to RS Video to continue the rest of the set ups at five that afternoon. The client only had to rent the studio for one more day.

Fast forward to year 1992 when we built the first studio for still car photography in the Philippines, year 2000 when we invested in a PhaseOne digital back, 2003 for the second car studio on Enrique Street, and on to the present, 2010. John has been doing car studio photography for more than two decades now, and can expertly light a car set up in about one or two hours. He has read books, watched videos, attended workshops, learned from foreign car photographers, and experimented with his car photography to know which combination of lights, diffusers, reflectors, gobos – will give him the exact lighting effect or “feel” that an art director requires. He knows which lens to use to bring the car proportions – sleek or sporty - required for a car print ad or brochure. He is familiar with different car cleaning materials. He jokes that we can set up a car cleaning and detailing shop – except that we only know how to work on the side of the car that faces the camera! J

While designing the studio specifically for the requirements of car photography has greatly helped in reducing the manpower requirement (he can shoot a car with two assistants, instead of 8 to 10), the need for a catwalk (unless he is doing a high angle shot), and the use of seamless papers as reflectors, John has also accumulated tons of car photography experience from years of experimenting with lights, reflectors, gobos, cameras and lenses to make him truly a master at car photography. Yet, he continues to find ways to bring his car photography to a higher level, and surprisingly, to share what he knows with other photographers.

John has taught another photographer, G-nie, all he knows about car photography in the 18 years that she worked with us. Since she has since moved on to work abroad, John is now devoting his time to mentoring our daughter, Kathy. Just as G-nie’s learning curve in shooting cars was reduced drastically by having John as her teacher, we know that Kathy will learn it too – not in a day, a week or a month – but in the right amount of time that John can compress more than 20 years of doing car photography.

There are more challenges to face. John is constantly reinventing himself, in car photography or in other aspects of advertising photography.

Randy, John invited you to watch him and Kathy at work because you had expressed a great interest in car photography. And even though John and I did not want to raise your hopes too highly about shooting at our shoot (John even asked you not to bring a camera or a companion – we are under contract that dictates strict confidentiality – this is after all, advertising), I approached our client and explained who you were, and why you have such a deep interest in cars. I told him what you told me - that as a child you wanted to be a race driver, and that your disability (of partial visual impairment) has not diminished your passion for cars.

Our client, Arlan Reyes of Mitsubishi, must have been impressed with your knowledge of cars that he allowed you to shoot and even gave you permission to post your shots on Facebook. Congratulations. It’s very easy to see that passion has brought all of us together. I hope you enjoyed your visit.

Sincerely,

Harvey

Superb Curb Service

2010-05-04T22:40:00.000+08:00

I was rushing to check in at an airport in the States, when I saw someone in some kind of porter uniform at a curbside counter waving me to approach him. He told me that I could check in my luggage there, so it would be easier for me to run to the gate.

It was my first time to encounter this kind of off-the-curb service and I was glad. He asked for my flight number, gave me my claim stubs, and said that he would take good care of my luggage. I said “thank you” and started to run towards the building. “Madam,” he called out, “I will take very good care of your luggage,” and bowed. Thinking that maybe he mistook me for a Japanese, I also bowed to him, and I said again, “thank you very much.” Meters away from him, he called out again in a loud voice, “Yes, indeed, I will take good care of your bags, madam.” I looked back, smiled and ran to the gate.

As I sat on my airline seat, I wondered why he was so polite and so enthusiastic about his port duties. It then dawned on me that he was hinting at a tip. I regretted not having given him any, and actually worried about my bags since I didn’t leave a tip. There was no reason to fret. He did take care of my bags, which I got them at my destination, but I wished I knew about the etiquette of curbside check-ins. He certainly deserved a tip.

The Ice Cream Conspiracy

2010-03-13T20:43:00.000+08:00

John discovered this most delicious ice cream – Selecta Gold’s Vanilla with Almonds. Yummy. Super yummy. Every spoonful is creamy, and has just the right amount and size of nuts. But, I remind him (and myself) - that's calories, sugar and tons of cholesterol - all the wrong things to be putting into our aging bodies. Let's not eat ice cream! Please, let's not eat ice cream.

He keeps two half gallons of it in the freezer, so there’s at least a full container that’s always ready. He treats himself to a bowl-ful practically every night, and before going to the kitchen, would sweetly ask me if I also wanted some. Even when I decline, he would come back to the room with two bowls of this yummy ice cream – one for him and another for me. I try to say no, but the temptation is strong. I succumb. I surrender. I meekly accept the ice cream. Hmmm, yum, yum. As I enjoy the ice cream, I forget the calories. Forget the sugar. Forget the cholesterol. Forget about nagging John that it's not healthy. It's really yummy ice cream.

Oh, he just handed me some. Excuse me, but I’ll have to put my computer down. J

2009 Annual Report

2010-03-06T09:48:00.005+08:00

The dark clouds of worldwide economic gloom, which started to gather in the last quarter of 2008, ushered in the new, but not very hopeful, year. While we are thankful that we survived it, last year was a year that we are glad belongs to the past. However, if we chose to look at life in 2009 in a more positive way, the slow business calendar actually allowed us to do other things for which we are grateful.

John was able to devote time to his advocacy, started in 2008, which he now calls “Touching Lives Through Photography”. Two Autism Society of the Philippines (ASP) chapters – Cavite and Baguio – joined “Colors of A Spectrum,” a photography workshop for families touched by autism, while Makati’s Persons with Disability and Company (Perdisco) offered it for children with various disabilities. John also helped organized “Skywalk” for the Down Syndrome Association of the Philippines. In all of these projects, Canon (for which John has become an official endorser) was very supportive.

I, on the other hand, made serious moves to do things other than manage Adphoto – not for business reasons but as part of my wish to retire. Perhaps the most major step was teaching “Business of Photography,” to graduating A.B. Photography students at the College of Saint Benilde. I was also able to start researching on John’s 1970’s photos by making a few trips to the National Library. I still have a long way to go in archiving John’s photographs, but as the great saying goes, “the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step…”

A brief but exciting challenge was co-curating a mixed art exhibit, Glimpse of A Soul” by my artist-friends at the Carl Jung Circle, which segued well into my participating in a group photo exhibit, with 18 of my students and one co-teacher. I chose three photos from a recent trip to the U.S. East Coast.

Somehow, having bucked the downtrends during many crises in the Philippines made us confident that we would survive and maybe even prosper, but the numbers were not helping. Billings were very low and collections even lower. Newly hired employees were the first to be discouraged and left. When Weng, our messenger, resigned, we decided not to replace him and instead promoted our cheerful houseboy, Ronel, to do deliveries. Ninfa, who started as Kathy’s yaya (nanny) in 1981 and moved up to fill different office positions, opted for early retirement to take care of her ailing mother. G-nie, our photographer of 18-years, after parrying many offers from abroad, finally made the move to try her fortune in Dubai. Before she left, she garnered awards and international recognition (Cannes Lions, Singapore Spikes and the Philippine Araw awards) for a series of ads done at Adphoto for Boysen Paints/TBWA. Online chats continue to connect her to us, and Ninfa occasionally visits.

With a lean staff and some deft cost-cutting measures, we managed to end the year with all assets intact and even a slim profit. We even managed to do major physical renovations at the studio, and do some meaningful team building activities – to get us ready for when the economy is better (which I believe is now).

All our preoccupation with declining business and the troubled global economy screeched to a stop in October, when floodwaters from typhoon Ondoy inundated all of Metro Manila and nearby provinces. Setting aside normal work activities, we helped affected families – by cooking hot meals, packing rice, instant noodles and canned provisions, gathering old (and some new) clothes, donating towels, rubber boots, mosquito nets, hammers, shovels, saws and some cash to families in Tanay and other places. (Thanks for donations received from Ching and John, Sacha and Wayne, friends Barbara and Sarah, and thanks also to Kathy for leading our very own relief operations).

Throughout the year, there were a lot of “hellos” and “goodbyes” when friends came in batches – former college friends and dorm-mates Aida Reyes (from Davao) and Genie Abiad (from Baguio and U.S.); International Club of the Philippines members who came from various parts of the country and the world; and dear relatives like Tia Remie who hosted a family reunion of the Valentinos, Lomboses and Dumasals. Skype allowed for regular communication between us and Gary and Sylvia Bement, and my dear 86-year old namesake, Harvey E. Jewell in Tennessee.

It was also hello and goodbye for our family. On staggered schedules last December, Ching and her John (from Singapore), Kathy’s John (from the Middle East and Holland) and Sacha (from Canada) came home for a brief but fun holiday – giving us time to enjoy each other’s company in Siargao (the surfing capital of the Philippines). Ching, John V, Kathy and John G showed their form on the surfboards, John C tried valiantly but did not quite make it to standing position, while Sacha and I became the enthusiastic audience (and official photographers) of the surfers in the family. Before everyone left, we managed to pose in color and style-coordinated Columbia outfits for a family picture with all the pets – Lucas, Ginger, Bob (African love bird) and would you believe, Maali (John’s non-resident pet elephant, through the magic of Photoshop).

Looking back, except for the damages wrought by the typhoon, we might have anticipated worse than what came, and thank God, the first two months of this year actually offer us hope that we are back on track. Goodbye 2009. Welcome 2010.

Going Physical

2010-02-21T09:26:00.005+08:00

At 64, I am still hoping to find out more about myself so that my life can be balanced, joyful and productive. The list below is part of a much bigger questionnaire (there are questions on other aspects of life) and deals more with my physical skills. I was shocked to find out that I could not check even one on this list.

Having finger dexterity
Good hand and eye coordination
Gross motor coordination
Having agility, speed & stamina
Crafting, sewing, carving, sculpting
Finishing, painting, restoring etc
Cooking, baking
Assembling machines or equipment
Operating, driving machines/equipment
Maintaining machines or equipment
Constructing buildings or rooms
Gardening
Taking care of animals

How could that be? What did I do with my life? Or with my body? For sure, I was never a couch potato. Except for Oprah and Suze Orman, TV holds no appeal for me. Did I just read, write and do paperwork? I don’t suppose account servicing and managing could be considered physical activities. Did I just sit in front of my computer? Although I must admit that I enjoy long after-dinner conversations, do I just spend my leisure time chatting with friends? Am I essentially a spectator, a passenger, a listener?

Embroidery, sewing, pottery, carpentry, cooking, baking – I’ve tried them all but could not go beyond introductory levels – there was not one that I was passionate about to pursue through the years.

You would not believe how many times I’ve enrolled in driving classes – maybe 5 or 6 times, and yet I still don’t drive alone. But, hey, I have a driver’s license.

I love animals but have not taken care of any of them. One daughter raised a cat; another takes care of our dogs and an African lovebird, while my husband volunteers as an elephant-keeper at our local zoo. Which pet can really be mine to take care of? Not even Tomagotchi, I’m afraid.

Playing a piano? Nope, never learned it, even though I bought a piano for our home, and encouraged my children to learn it.

Boy, I’m starting to feel useless – I love gardens and plants, but don’t do any gardening. My thumb is brown, or maybe red or orange!

Now that I’ve reached six decades and four, I can perhaps offer my advance age as my excuse for not having stamina, agility or speed, but I don’t remember joining any sports or race even in my youth, so I would be unfairly blaming old age for my lethargy. There was a time I tried Tetris but have yet to find a computer game, or a physical activity such as volleyball or badminton, or even ballroom dancing in which I could excel. Oh, no, we’re not even talking excellence here; we’re just talking “do.”

Please help! Where, when and how do I start to acquire physical skills? Do I choose one and not give up until I’ve mastered it? Then which one? I always tell myself that it’s never too late to learn something new, but is this checklist telling me that physical skills are really not in my DNA?

A Chinese Decision

2010-02-15T21:32:00.004+08:00

A Chinese Decision

In 1985, having made the decision to stay in the country, we had offered to buy the house that we had been renting since 1980. It housed our studio as well, while we lived on the second floor that had two bedrooms, one for my husband John and myself, and the other for the children. The living room and a ground floor masters’ bedroom had been converted into photo studios, the library into an equipment room, and we shared the dining room and kitchen with the staff and clients.

When we informed our landlady, with whom we had become friends, that we were interested to purchase her house, she did not want to name a price. Instead, she wanted us to make an offer.

To help me arrive at a fair price to offer her, I decided to look around in the neighborhood to see how much properties were selling for. Then, one day, one of the real estate agents asked me to check out a house in San Lorenzo Village (or San Lo, for short), a first class gated subdivision right next to the Makati Central Business District. Although San Lo was a residential community, they were quite lax and allowed businesses to be established in some of the homes (as long as they didn’t build obviously business buildings). She assured me that San Lo prices were at par with Bautista’s, since Bautista was considered a commercial area.

My only intention for looking around was to get an idea of how much to offer for our house, but I was thrilled to think that there was a possibility that we could live in a nicer neighborhood.

True enough, I found a house in San Lo that met one of the most important specifications that my husband had set – that it must have a living room large enough to be used as a photo studio. I showed it to my husband and he gave his imprimatur. I liked it myself because it had a yard and was near the community park. I envisioned having my young children biking around in this safe neighborhood and making friends with other kids in the neighborhood – something they could not do on busy, noisy and traffic-dangerous Bautista Street.

Since I had a friend in the real estate business who lived in San Lo, I took her to the house to get her advise on how to negotiate with the owners. To my chagrin, she immediately said we should not get that house. I asked her why, and she said “Tumbok yan, and that’s malas” (“tumbok” is the Tagalog word for being at the intersecting point of two roads connecting like a T, and “malas” means to be capable of bringing misfortune). It was my first time to hear the word “tumbok” and I certainly did not believe in superstitions. I argued that my husband and I work very hard and can offset or overcome whatever “malas” the house would bring. “That may be true,” she said, “but many people believe that houses like this are ‘malas’ and if and when you need to upgrade, you would have a hard time selling this property.”

I went home frustrated that we could not push through with buying a house because it was “tumbok” and “malas.” I went to bed early, very disappointed and slightly depressed at seeing all my happy dreams and visions of this San Lo house going pffft, and at the thought of doing house hunting all over again.

All of sudden, a thought came to me that pulled me out of the pits. My inner voice was saying – “Why feel bad? In 1970 when you started the business, you had nothing and hardly any money, and today, you almost bought a house in an exclusive community in the city. You’ve come a long way, Harvey.” That thought was enough to perk me up, and I went downstairs to the studio to reassure my husband that I was feeling okay and not to worry about me.

I saw him working overtime in the studio with a Chinese client. We talked about the house and he (Felix Wu, formerly of Ajinomoto) said he would like to share a story with us of two businessmen – a Chinese and a Filipino.

Here was the story:

There were two entrepreneurs, one Filipino and one Chinese. They both had a “sari-sari” store (a humble variety store that sells, in retail, only small low-priced everyday items).

After a year, the Filipino used the profits of his store to buy himself a TV set. The Chinese man reinvests his money into the store, and turned his “sari-sari” store into a mini-grocery.

After the second year, the Filipino bought himself a second-hand car while the Chinese continued to commute using public transportation. He expanded his store, while the Filipino still had the same “sari-sari” store.

After the third year, the Filipino bought himself a house in BF Homes (a medium-level suburban subdivision) while the Chinaman continued to live in a tiny room above his store, which was by then, close to looking like a department store.

At this point, my husband butted in and said, “You see, the Chinese way is better,” to which I replied, “Better for the business but look at the two and see who is smiling.” It was easy for the three of us to reach the conclusion that the Chinese knew how to do business, while the Filipino knew how to enjoy life.

“Let’s have a Chinese decision,” John said. “Let’s offer to buy this house. After all, the studio is here, we won’t need to transfer, we might lose clients if we transferred, we won’t have to change business forms and stationary, etc.”

“Okay”, I said, “for now, we will have a Chinese decision, but I hope someday, we can enjoy a Filipino decision.”

We offered to buy the house, our offer was well received, and for the next 20 years, we lived and worked here, raised our children and grew our photography business, combining home and business as many Chinese families would. We continue to live our Chinese decision, while waiting for the opportunity to enjoy a Filipino decision.

Telepathy

2010-02-14T22:41:00.002+08:00

Harvey V. Chua John went north to the HAB fest. I'm going south to Alabang so I can write, check my students' works and prepare for Tuesday. Will pass by MMP to visit my dad's grave - it's his death anniversary today. He passed on in 1978. I wish he were still alive to tell me family stories.

Harvey V. Chua John just called. He's driving back from the HAB. He told me to prepare the house in Alabang as he does not mind spending a few days there. That's mental (or emotional) telepathy. :)

These were my updates on Facebook yesterday morning. John had invited me to go with him to the Hot Air Balloon (HAB) Festival in Pampanga, two hours away from here, but going there meant waking up at three in the morning. I told John “thanks, but no thanks.” Unlike John, I don’t like walking up early.

I woke up at 8:30am and after breakfast, I turned on my computer to check emails, Facebook and a couple of photography forums. It was Saturday - my schedule for going to Alabang. Since we don’t really live there, I had our landline and Internet disconnected, so I had to finish all my Internet tasks before leaving for Alabang. Just a couple of minutes after I updated my status on Facebook, I got a call from John – he was on his way home, and would like to spend the night in Alabang. Wow, is that mental or emotional telepathy or what!

It was thrilling (in Tagalog, nakakakilig) to hear that John was thinking of the exact same thing I was. Maybe it comes from being in tune with each other. I remember one incident in the 70’s when we were courting (this is the politically correct way of saying it now but in my time, we would say, “when he was courting me” – I don’t know why women allowed this change), and he invited me to go to an air show. True to the way he is, he wanted to be early, while I needed to attend to other things first. By the time I got there, there was a big crowd and I did not know where or how to find him. As he would be busy taking pictures, I did not ask him to stop shooting to be waiting for me at a certain place, and of course, there were no cellphones or even pagers then.

So I put my personal “radar” on, sent a telepathic message to John that I was there and where could I find him - and maneuvered my way through the crowd, going straight to the center of what was “happening” while John was leaving that center to look for me. John and I were both thrilled that we located each other right away!

P.S. This status update came after the ones above.

Harvey V. Chua John and Kathy came to Alabang, but decided not to stay (because we have no Internet or Cable TV here). Instead they asked me to join them for dinner and a movie "Dear John" but I need to be back at home for a 10pm Skype date with Harvey E. Jewell. So I'm back here in Makati. It's okay.

On Getting Old

2010-02-07T22:06:00.003+08:00

Tomorrow, I’m turning 64, just a year shy of the SSS-decreed retirement age.

Sometimes, I feel old and out of synch.

I may remember a name after the person has left. Or, hours later.

My energy is completely zapped, and it’s still morning.

I misplace a lot of stuff. If it’s my cell phone that’s missing – that’s usually easy to solve – just ask somebody else to ring it for me. But what if I can’t find my keys, eyeglasses or laptop? When will there be an invention that could ring them?

When I meet friends, we discuss illnesses, medicines and home remedies. Or aches and pains. One friend suggested that a bar of soap anywhere on my bed would save me from muscle pains. I’ve been trying that, and it seems to work – but I have no explanation for why it works. But hey, at my age, I’d gladly trade relief for logic.

I used to be embarrassed to bring out my senior citizen’s card, but now it’s a card of entitlement. It gets me free movies, discounts at restaurants and salons, or on my medicines. Or to get on an exclusive MRT car – reserved for seniors. It’s also a great pass to skip long queues at government offices and some commercial establishments. After queuing for a taxi for 1-1/2 hours at SM Baguio the other night, I’m going to write Congress for a special queue for seniors at taxi stands.

A friend reminded me not to knock getting old, because the alternative is dying young.

So I talk to myself about the virtues and benefits of getting old, accept a few compliments on how I “have not changed,” and I turn around and actually feel younger than 64. Tomorrow, I’ll sign up for dance lessons or exercise class.

Now, where did I leave my keys again?

Chet, My Writing Buddy

2010-01-30T22:56:00.003+08:00

A Malaysian friend, Chet, reminded me that she has been waiting for me to resume writing my blogs, while at the same time admitting that she is going through a writer’s block herself. Needing someone to nudge me every now and then to write, I offered to be her writing buddy so she could be mine.

She posted a message for me on Facebook (one of those diversions, together with emails, that actually keep us from doing serious writing) asking me two questions that got me stumped.

She asked me what my writing goals are, and what are my schedules for writing. Even though I have read a few books by Julia Cameron that emphasize the need for writers to write their journals in the morning, I had not thought of my own writing goals or writing schedules. Well then, last night was as good a time as any to write my goals and schedules.

Hmmm… Writing goals? That’s easy. I’m not very ambitious or confident about my writing, and all I really want is to write family stories. So there! That’s my writing goal! And writing schedules – oh no, when do I find the time?

Well, why not now? I will write one family story, right now. Sacha and I were talking earlier about wedding photographers and I remembered a story about her not wanting any photographer other than her papa to take her picture – that’s the story I will write about. But wait – this is such an old story – maybe I had blogged about it before?

I checked my site if they contained this story. Scrolling down to check the table of contents and browsing through my old blogs provided a good excuse to be procrastinating instead of writing. The site listed three measly stories in 2009, six in 2008 and 41 in 2007. Wow, did I really write 41 stories in 2007?

What happened in 2007? I was spending weekends, and sometimes 3 days out of every week in our house in Alabang. That’s it- I like writing when I am in Alabang. I should spend more time in Alabang! But a little voice inside me reminded me that I should write no matter where I was. It was a lesson I learned from Julia Cameron that needed to be applied.

And dutifully I obeyed that little voice and went back to finishing my story about Sacha, and posting it on my blogsite. Done. Fini. I felt good about myself as I posted my first blog for 2010.

Now I can bug Chet, my writing buddy, to help her get over her hump.

Sacha's Favorite Photographer

2010-01-28T23:22:00.005+08:00

When my daughter Sacha was 3 years old and preparing to graduate from nursery class, her teacher called for me frantically. She had her young students in their togas, queueing to pose for their graduation pictures with the school photographer, and Sacha was upset. Normally a very cheerful and cooperative child, Sacha was crying and refusing to be photographed. She would not tell her teacher what was wrong.

I rushed over to the school, just a couple of blocks away from our home cum photo studio, and found Sacha sitting in one corner, pouting and visibly upset. I knelt down so I could be face-to-face with her, and asked her gently what was bothering her. She murmured between sobs – “I don’t want him to take my picture, I want my papa to do it. Papa is my photographer.”

I tried to explain to her in the simplest terms possible that we don’t do school photography, and that the school photographer was better equipped to do this job, but she was adamant. “I want my papa!, ” she said with such loyalty. (How I wish all our clients would show their preference for us with the same conviction. ☺)

Her teacher understood and offered to lend us the toga. I watched the school photographer do a photo of one child so I could explain the set up to my photographer-husband.

Sacha and I walked home where she had her exclusive photo session with the photographer of her choice. She smiled sweetly for her dad - her photographer.

P.S. Thanks to my Malaysian writer-friend Chin Chet Mooi for reminding me that I have not blogged in a long, long time.
P.S. @Sacha - Can you look for that graduation picture and post it here?

Suburban Breeze

2009-07-25T22:19:00.001+08:00

I am here now in Alabang, enjoying the quiet of an empty house. The tenants left two weeks ago but I have not been able to come, except to do an inventory and accept the keys from them on their last day, and very briefly last Saturday just to water the plants. Today, I brought the driver/maintenance man, a houseboy and a maid to help clean and make it attractive for prospective tenants who may come to check out the house next week.

The electric fan is not even turned on, but nature provides the breeze that I need to be comfortable. I sit at the dining table trying to write about this feeling of gladness to be here. The sounds I hear are sounds of a quiet life – the neighbors’ little boys playing basketball, the driver scraping off stubborn epoxy from the kitchen sink (I did not like that orange epoxy was spread all over the rim of the stainless steel sink – it was that way when we bought the house and never found time to fix it until now), the houseboy plucking dead, dried leaves from betel nut trees at the front yard, and the maid moving the aluminum ladder as she moves around in a methodical manner, dusting the windows and furniture.

Just for comparison, over in Makati where we live and work in the same house/building, the cacophony of sounds that predominate are those of buses and cars that run on our busy Bautista street – the street that our house directly faces, without benefit of a front yard to serve as “buffer” or “sound barrier” - and the constant ringing of phones interspersed with someone’s insistent voice on hurried paging announcements. Add to this auditory cocktail the stillness of the stagnant air, trapped within the confines of each of the rooms, artificially brought to a comfortable level by almost 24-hour air-conditioning.

I am not asking for the pristine air of the mountains or the sea. I know that Alabang is not an idyllic rural paradise. Once in a while, but thankfully not too often, the purr and spurts from motorcycles of men who come to deliver pizzas or provide maintenance service to us or our neighbors compete with muffled but nevertheless revving engines of neighbors’ cars negotiating the rise in elevation of our slightly hilly street. So I know I am not in dreamland and that I am not too far from the city.

All that I am wishing for, really, is some suburban breeze – that rhythmically weaves in and out of trees and into the house to provide me with a natural balm from the tropical heat, and as an additional treat, brings in the music it creates by rustling leaves. Today’s slightly active breeze undeniably resonates with my heart’s longing for quietude and comfort in a home.

Naturally, even if only for a day.

Happiness Mapping

2009-04-28T22:07:00.002+08:00

Here's something Sacha did that you might want to try doing so you can identify what makes you happy. And when you know what makes you happy, then you'd know how to get to that feeling.

http://sachachua.com/wp/2009/04/23/mapping-what-makes-me-happy/

Empty Nesters' Christmas Holiday

2009-02-28T02:23:00.003+08:00

For the first time in 32 years, John and I were spending Christmas and New Year holiday alone, without at least one of our three daughters. Maybe it’s because of my being a mother, that I seem to be more affected by the “empty nest syndrome,” than John is. Sensing my loneliness, he stayed close to keep me occupied, entertained and reassured.

John’s diversionary tactics included two nights at Ridgewood Residences in Baguio, a leisurely 3-hour outdoor lunch at Cantinetta in Camp John Hay, a candlelit dinner at Mario’s (one of our favorite restaurants), and a productive morning meeting with the Baguio chapter of ASP (Autism Society of the Philippines).

Coming down to Manila to fulfill a promise to join the ASP UP Diliman chapter’s photography workshop, we spent a full day with children with autism and about 20 volunteer photographers.

The following day, we went ultralight flying in Pampanga, a thrilling activity he has not done in a long time. He took me up and we flew over the rice fields of Pampanga, He spent more time flying while I chatted with old friend and former flying club manager, Mel Troth.

On the day before New Year’s, he took me to Serendra which offers many choices for restaurants, and the promenade mall that I prefer over big shopping centers. We chose Chelsea, where we opted for something light - a salad and a pizza - and a long conversation. Then we strolled over to Fully Booked, our favorite bookstore. We grabbed the books that we fancied, sat on chairs that faced each other, and managed to read and talk without disturbing anyone. When we got tired of sitting down, we went out to have a stroll on High Street, getting in and out of shops, fully content just to look. Characteristically, I waited while John checked out Recreational Outdoor Exchange. On the other hand, John was very uncharacteristically patient and even joined me in browsing at furniture and homestyle shops. To cap the day, we went back to Fully Booked for Starbucks coffee and tea. He never once rushed me, and seemed indeed to enjoy having a slow day for a change.

We promised the household staff that we would join them for a New Year’s eve dinner. Norma cooked our favorite stuffed chicken, and served chestnuts and round fruits - grapes and small oranges - which to Filipino-Chinese families signify prosperity. By 8pm, we were done with dinner and just needed to wait for midnight to come.

I was tired and feeling a bit blue (must come from spending the holidays without my children, no matter that they are grown), and decided that I would nap for a short while. I asked John to wake me up at 11:30 but at 11, he, too was ready to crawl into bed. He told me to put my cellphone to silent, and he did the same with his.

Half-asleep, I could see my phone’s light flashing on and off, which it does when there were incoming calls. I turned the lamp on and saw that I missed three calls by Kathy, and one by Sacha’s friend Clair. I returned Kathy’s call and she said she was on Skype. While I turned on my computer, I called up Clair. We greeted each other Happy New Year, and she told me that Kathy had called to tell her that I was not answering my phone, and asked her to find out what was happening.

Kathy and her John came online to greet us at the stroke of midnight (plus half an hour before and another hour after), and witness the fireworks in the part of the sky that was visible from our window (as picked up by the built-in webcam on my computer).

The following day, the first day of the year, I was filled with tremendous sadness and loneliness. Neither Ching nor Sacha had called to greet us, and I felt totally devastated. I felt so bad that I did not want to get out of bed - and John saw right away that the monstrous feeling he kept trying to protect me from had succeeded in invading my heart. I felt unloved, unappreciated, and unworthy. It was a painful emptiness. As I was beginning to bash myself with crucifying questions like “where did I fail, did I not raise my children well,” John just very quietly held me in his arms and whispered, “Don’t feel alone, I’m here.”

To keep me from feeling blue, he asked me to dress up and we went out to look for a restaurant that was open on New Year’s Day. Even nearby Cash and Carry was considered far enough as to distract me from our empty and quiet house. The supermarket was closed and so was the food court, but the fastfood restaurants were open. We had lunch at Pancake House, a family favorite.

All through out New Year’s Day and for the next few days, whether we were at home or visiting favorite places, John’s glance would come my way, and if I showed the slightest sign of loneliness, he would come near me and whispher, “I’m here.”

John’s strategy worked. His schedule of events for us, his patience and reassuring message all helped us (actually, me) survive Christmas and New Year’s as emptynesters. And now that regular work days have resumed, there’s been little time to feel lonely. In addition, Ching and her John came to visit twice (in January and in February), our Skype sessions with Sacha are back on regular schedule (every Sunday night), and Kathy and her John are back from Holland.

We’re back on track.

P.S. Now, before anyone makes the same mistake I did, let me tell you what happened on New Year’s eve (something I did not discover until two weeks later) - it turned out that something went wrong with my gmail, preventing it from delivering mail addressed to harvey@adphoto.com.ph. I discovered greetings from Sacha, Ching and many, many friends and relatives when I checked our server and saw more than two hundred undelivered and unopened messages.

Footnotes:

Ching, 32, lives with her husband in Singapore, and could not come home, as they had planned a holiday vacation in Sarawak, Borneo.

Kathy, 28, and her John, were in Holland to spend Christmas and New Year’s with his parents and to arrange for their wedding there in the spring. Kathy was a bit worried that we would be too lonely all by ourselves, so up to the last minute, she tried to persuade us to spend Christmas in Holland.

Sacha, 25, said she could not afford a third trip to the Philippines this year, having come home to visit us in March and August, but promised that she would be here on Christmas 2009.

Finding Harvey Jewell

2008-11-29T19:01:00.003+08:00

Have you ever lost contact with someone special in your life?

I was named after my father’s friend, an American navy man named Harvey Jewell. As a child, I grew up hearing stories of my dad’s friendship with him. According to my father, they were such good friends that he had wanted Harvey to be his future child’s “ninong” (godfather). Unfortunately, Harvey J. had to leave the Philippines the night before I was born, but not before receiving a promise from my father that the baby, boy or girl (no ultrasound tests in those days), would be named Harvey. And so it came to pass that a Filipino baby girl was named Harvey.

Immediately after getting back home, he did write my father. With his letter came a picture of him and his bride, Norma Jean. They were married in Lafayette, Indiana in 1946. My father had kept that picture and letter through the years, which he would show to relatives or friends when he had to explain how I got to be named Harvey.

For many years, I was resigned to the fact that I would never get to meet the man after whom I was named. My hopes were raised with the introduction of Internet, and especially Google. I would “google” his name but finding no real leads, I soon gave up.

However, last December, a friend urged me to search for Harvey again, reminding me that new information is being added to the Internet everyday. I followed her advice, and googled for Harvey Jewel (I had mistakenly thought that his family name had only one L), but nothing came up. I searched for “Harvey Jewel Lafayette Indiana” and again nothing. I tried Harvey Jewel Norma Jean Lafayette Indiana and boom… an entry in the Lafayette Gazette appeared… Harvey E. Jewell and Norma Jean, married March 23, 1946. Bingo!

From there, I tried one of the best sources of information if one is trying to locate a person. I went to 411, and entered his name and Lafayette, Indiana. There were other Jewells, but not Harvey or Norma Jean. I decided to expand my search, and simply put Harvey E. Jewell. Quite a few Harvey Jewells were listed, but one entry said “Lt. Cmdr. Harvey E. Jewell. My heart skipped a beat, and with my fingers shaking with the exciting thought that I had found him, I clicked on his name.

Then, lo and behold, there it was. His age was listed as his 82 – a very plausible age. But, there was no email address – only a home address. I wrote him a letter and mailed it on December 2, 2007. In that letter, I told him that I was leaving the U.S. on December 8, but gave two cellphone numbers and all my landlines in the Philippines, plus, of course, my email and home address.

On December 14, I saw an email from a Gary Bement that I almost deleted because I did not know him, and I thought it was spam. I was very thankful that I went on to read his email, and discovered that he was Harvey Jewell's son-in-law.

Since Harvey did not do emails, we communicated through Gary. We soon had an exchange of emails going back and forth. Gary would write for his dad-in-law, based on letters that Harvey would write on paper. He had many stories about my father, and it did not take long for me to decide that I wanted to meet Ret. Lt. Cmdr. Harvey E. Jewell in person!

To be continued…

David's

2008-06-08T11:16:00.004+08:00

It was still early enough so my husband, my daughter and I could go our separate ways in the mall and then meet up for dinner. My husband asked – “Where do you want to have dinner?” It was important for my daughter and I to agree on a place because whenever we were undecided or could not agree, our default place was my husband's favorite (maybe perennial is a better word) restaurant, David's Tea House.

I wanted us to decide it then, but my daughter, who was still not ready with her choice, said – “Let’s call each other when it’s almost dinner time.” My husband agreed.

Concerned about how we were all being spoiled by technology, I reminded my techie family that before the days of cellphones, we would agree on where and when to meet before going separate ways. “We are too dependent on our cellphones, and calling is expensive!” I exclaimed.

Just our of curiosity, my daughter asked, “What did you have before cellphones?”

“Pagers”

“What did you have before pagers?”

“Beepers”

What did you have before beepers?”

Feeling defensive at this “interrogation”, I said sarcastically “Smoke signals”

“Before smoke signals?”

Now, getting a little peeved but determined to keep my upper hand, I just insisted: “Let us agree on the time and where to meet, and make sure our watches are synchronized.”

“Before you had watches?” There she goes again!

I was determined to win this argument “We would look at the sun and define the position of the sun to tell the time, and agree to meet at…”

“David’s,” my husband chirped in.

End of discussion! We all laughed at that very clever move.

Compliment from a Stranger

2008-05-20T15:22:00.002+08:00

Sometimes, we get compliments from strangers that affirm what we already know about the people we love.

The other Sunday, John, Kathy and I were attending Mass at the Greenbelt chapel, a modern, circular structure surrounded by ponds and gardens. Families with young children usually listen to the Mass from this grassy area outside the chapel to keep their noisy youngsters from disturbing people quietly praying inside the church. We, too, prefer to stay outside so John could easily walk around the chapel when he gets restless, as he is wont to do when he sometimes finds the homily uninteresting.

John had stayed through the end of the homily when we noticed a Caucasian man scolding an Asian woman who was carrying a child who looked like the baby could be their child.

He was very agitated and told her to stay put at that spot, which happened to be near where we were standing. Then he left her and we wondered if the woman was his wife or his baby’s yaya (nanny). We wondered what she did that earned his ire. Moments later, he was back again, mumbling something at her before leaving again, weaving in and out of the big crowd that attends the 4:30pm Mass. He was still huffing and puffing when he came back again, and continued to scold her. We were not sure if they were having a marital spat but when we heard the man say, “You should have looked at where he was going,” we knew right away that he was concerned about a missing child.

John approached him immediately and escorted him to a security guard who quickly notified other guards in the area. I saw both John and the man walk back and forth, passing in front of me several times as they scoured the area both inside and outside the church. Kathy left me to do her own search until I could not see her anymore. (Based on her own insight – there were at least a couple of instances when she was separated from us when she was a child - she went a little farther from the church, going to the places where she thought little children would be attracted to go – to the fountain, the pond where ducks swam, and to the restaurants).

When it was communion time, and people were queuing to receive the Holy Sacrament, I thought I should look for John and this man to suggest that they make the announcement using the public address system of the church, but John was already on his way inside the church with the missing child’s father.

The mass lector made the announcement about a missing three-year-old boy, describing him as wearing blue pants, blue shirt and white slippers. The priest, an elderly American by the name of Fr. Jim Perry, made an additional appeal to anyone who may have seen the boy and offered a short prayer for them to be reunited, and then finally, the father himself appealed to the mass goers, describing his son once more and adding that he did not speak any English or Tagalog as the mother is Thai (He did not say where the mother was at the moment). Just a couple of minutes later, before the final prayers were said, Fr. Perry announced that the little boy had been found. The mass goers clapped their hands in hearty cheer. (He was found by the park security, wandering - unfazed and not crying- near Café Breton, more than 50 meters from the church).

While this afternoon drama was going on, an elderly woman who stood beside me, noticing what John was doing, faced me and remarked, “Your husband is a good man. I hope there will be more people like him.” After the father and the son were reunited, John and Kathy came back to where they left me, and I asked the elderly woman to repeat to John what she said to me. Lightly touching him on the shoulder, she said, “You are a good man.” I proudly nodded in agreement, whispering to John, “I’ve always known that.” But as she probably did not notice Kathy join the search for the missing boy, I whispered to Kathy, “I’m proud of you, too.”

Padasal for My Mother

2008-04-21T00:22:00.002+08:00

Today, I went to my hometown of Paranaque, now part of Metro Manila, to commemorate my mother’s 30th death anniversary.

During death anniversaries, the tradition here is to have a “padasal,” a prayer session for the dearly departed, usually conducted and participated in by some of the oldest women from our part of town. This we held this afternoon at my cousins’ house (my parents’ house burned down a few years ago and was never rebuilt).

While waiting for old relatives to come for the padasal, my cousin suggested that we honor my mother by talking about what we remember of her, and this is what I shared:

When I was a child, we were poor and could not afford electric fans or air conditioning. During summer months when heat was unbearable, my sister, two brothers and I would all sleep on a banig (women mat) on the living room floor so we could take turns being fanned by my mother.

Unlike my siblings, I had a hard time going to sleep, or staying asleep when I was feeling too warm. My mother would lie down next to me and she would stay awake most of the night to fan me with an anahaw hand fan. As soon as she noticed me tossing and turning, and probably while she herself was half-asleep, she would raise her arm and swing her fan to and fro to create a breeze over my face.

This is one of my fondest memories of my mother, who passed away thirty years ago of ovarian cancer at the age of fifty-five.

Dear Nanay,
I thank you for taking care of me when I was growing up. I miss you. I will always love you.
Your daughter,
Harvey

Language of the Heart

2008-03-30T13:07:00.003+08:00

Should we speak in our native tongue, the language of our heart, or in a second but more universal language, such as English, even though we have not mastered it?

Different people reacted differently to Filipina beauty contestant Janina San Miguel’s fractured English. Some people in the audience heckled, as she struggled to speak in English, confusing her p’s and f’s and committing many mistakes (her interview is on You-tube (http://www.dlisted.com/node/24445) but the judges must have disagreed with the less-than-kind audience because they declared her a winner here and named her as our official representative to the Ms. World 2008 pageant in Ukraine.

When she goes into the question-and-answer portion again, some say she should speak in Pilipino and ask for an interpreter. My own humble opinion is that she can do as she chooses – to speak in her own mother tongue, or make the valiant attempt to speak in a language she has not mastered. (I liked the way she laughed at herself when she realized she was having a hard time trying to answer in English). However, since the contest will be held in Ukraine and not in an English-speaking country, trying to speak in English may not matter, and she just really might be better off speaking in the language of her heart.

This language issue brings to mind a recent conversation with my future son-in-law, John.
John is Dutch and wanted his parents and himself to follow the Filipino tradition of “pamanhikan.” (http://www.weddingsatwork.com/culture_traditions.shtml)
Unfortunately, his mom is too frail to travel, and he asked me if it would be alright if his parents wrote to us instead, to ask for our daughter’s hand in marriage. But since his parents speak and write only Dutch and a couple of other European languages but not English, (and my husband and I only know Pilipino and English), he wanted to know if we were okay with receiving his parents’ letters in Dutch.

I said “of course.” I explained that to me, what is important is not the language we use but the message that we want to put across. Even more important is the fact that we want to connect and communicate. (We don’t have to look far for an interpreter -John being the best for this task). If they chose to write in Dutch, to me that would mean they are speaking from their hearts, and that would make it very special. But if they chose to try to put together a letter in English (or get someone to translate for them) I would take it to mean that they want us to have an easier time understanding what they want to say, and that would be sweet, too.

Earth Hour

2008-03-29T17:05:00.002+08:00

An environmentalist group is organizing Earth Hour to happen tonight from 8 to 9pm. During the hour, we are supposed to turn off all lights, to let the darkness serve as our reminder that we need to protect Mother Earth and her resources from abuse and overuse.

I thought – it may be difficult to do that in one of our studios because we have a photo shoot that might go beyond 8pm, but surely, we can easily turn off lights, even air-conditioning, in our Alabang house.

Well, I came home to Alabang to find that whether I like to or not, we’re participating in Earth Hour. It has been almost two weeks since we came home (got too busy and stayed in the studio), and I found the front yard littered with newspapers, flyers and, horror of all horrors, – bills! One of them was actually a termination notice from Meralco, the electric company. I looked at the date of the termination notice – March 28. That was yesterday! They cut off our electricity yesterday!

Rushing out of the house to go to Meralco to pay our bill and request for reconnection, we got there at 12:25pm. To my dismay, a sign on the door says “Office Hours – Monday to Friday 9am to 5pm and Saturdays, 9am to 12 noon.”

There is nothing I can do until Monday.

In the meantime, we are joining Earth Hour, which to us, will be Earth Weekend. My husband, who is still at the studio, just sms’ed: “just put up a big sign that says ‘We support Earth Hour 24/7.”

Airports and Angels

2007-12-03T04:18:00.000+08:00

December 1, 2007

I came back to Boston today, after having known the helpless feeling of possibly being stranded at the Los Angeles (LAX) airport where I was coming from and maybe having to spend the night and probably even the next day there. When I saw the crowded departure lounge and learned that the flights were fully booked, and that many flights were either delayed or cancelled, I knew my chances to find a seat on a low-priority, non-revenue buddy pass that I received from a friend were slim.

In my mind, I was trying to imagine Tom Hanks in the movie “The Airport,” and strategizing what I would do to make my stay as comfortable as possible. I checked out the eating-places – Starbucks and an unfamiliar deli offered not very appealing food and beverages choices (for me, anyway). The most accessible ladies’ room was under renovation, making me feel that my “bathroom” facilities were not “ensuite” – another inconvenience. There was wireless Internet, but to be used with a prepaid card – so that was an activity I could not do that night. Besides, my computer needed recharging and I didn’t know where I could plug for electric juice. I also surveyed the chairs at the departure lounge to choose one where I could park my body for the night, if need be. They did not look comfortable and were not the kind that could be reclined. How I wish I were at the Changi Airport instead - the Changi airport has a special lounge for air travelers who may need to spend the night at the airport which has fully reclining chairs with alarm clocks and all sorts of bells and whistles (my vote for the world’s most user-friendly airport readily goes to Singapore’s Changi airport but that’s another story altogether). But I settled in to wait and, despite the possible discomfort, accepted that it might be an adventure worth writing about if I got stranded.

I approached the ground crew at the gate every now and then, just to remind them that I was still there waiting to be accommodated, but at the same time, making sure I didn’t appear to be a pest. Knowing how important it is to be on their good side, I did what I could do to earn their sympathy, and avoid their ire.

Aliz, my friend Gay's friend, who gave me this free ticket, called at 11:00pm, worried that I may not get on. She asked if my friend from LA (Henry) was still there and I said no. I told her that I had asked him to just drop me off. She had been monitoring the flights and was told that it was almost impossible for me to get on. (She works with ground crew at the Boston airport and knew the real score). I assured her that I was fine and more willing to wait than to go back to the city and then go through the hassle of airport security screening again. Besides, it was a good hour driving to and from the airport, and I didn’t want Henry to have to go through that. She had called everyone she knew at the LA airport, and there was nothing more that she could do. Again, I re-assured her that I was fine, and that there was nothing to worry about.

While I believed that being stranded at the LA airport is not going to be my worst nightmare come true, still, I believe in prayers, and I prayed to get on the plane. I alternated between meekly pleading and having complete faith that my request would be granted, remembering to say thanks as if God had already given me what I was asking for, and scolding myself for now and then doubting. I tried some visualization techniques too, imagining myself receiving the boarding pass, going through the tube, going through the aisle, and finding my seat.

The plane was delayed to start with - it was supposed to leave at 9:10pm but the announcement at the gate said ETD 9:40, then 10:40, and then back again to 9:40pm. The ground crew finally started to board passengers at around 10:30pm. Before they could assign me a seat, they had to call some other passengers who were on the list but failed to board- maybe their connecting flights were not yet in, or they were wandering around in the airport. There were quite a few of us "stand-bys," including a pilot still in his uniform (there was no way I could get on before he did!). I could have a chance if passengers would not show up, so as they called out the names of the missing passengers, and as they trickled in, my chances dimmed. But my prayers were answered, and after they packed everybody in, including all the other stand-bys, there were two seats left on the plane, and I was told that I was free to choose which one I wanted. When I got in a little after 11pm, there was not even space in the bins for my carry on. I tried to stuff them – my computer bag and my silver photo-display bag under the seat in front of me, but the two 26” high angels that I was carrying in one of those bags were too long to put under the seat. (The angels are “pasalubong” for my two Boston angels – Aliz and Gay).

The plane was not given immediate clearance to leave. The weather was fine at the LAX airport, but the Las Vegas airport - where we needed to make a stopover before going to Boston - was heavily backlogged due to weather delays. We were told to wait, then told to refuel, so we would have enough fuel to fly at a higher altitude, in case we needed to fly above the troublesome wind and clouds (not sure if Nevada was having thunderstorms). At 11:15pm, the pilot acknowledged that some passengers had expressed their intention to leave the plane, but asked for their patience. No one moved to leave, but after another 30 minutes, some passengers actually started opening the bins to claim their carry-ons, and walked out of the plane. Aha - I suddenly had space for my own. Not only that, one of those passengers who left was my seatmate (I had the aisle seat, he was in center). After another 15 minutes, we were done with refueling and just had to queue to take off. We flew out at midnight. Too bad for those who opted not to wait. Now, I know, patience is truly a virtue.

As for the connecting flights from Las Vegas, we were told that most of the flights were also late, and there was a great probability that our connecting flights - wherever passengers were going after Las Vegas- were waiting for us (or late themselves), but our plane crew did not have information for all the connecting flights of the passengers on this plane. There was nothing I could do but to wait until we got there.

As soon as we arrived in Las Vegas, I inquired about the flight to Boston and was told to go to gate 14. I rushed from Gate 10 where we landed to Gate 14 (another cluster, not quite that near) and found the other Boston-bound passengers still waiting to be called. The board stated the scheduled flight and the new estimate time of departure – about two hours late. Thankfully, Gate 14 was not as crowded as the one at LAX.

Now, the Las Vegas airport's departing lounges are like no other. At the center of each cluster of gates are slot machines! Not that I would be enticed to gamble, but it would have been entertaining to watch people play (if we were stranded). We left at 1:50, about two hours later than originally scheduled.

By the next morning, we were taxiing in at 9:30, instead of 7:59am, our cumulative delays shortened by the force of tail winds. There, as soon as I exited from the plane, at the entrance to the tube, was Aliz, who gave me a big hug and was demonstratively excited that I managed to fly on that flight. She had monitored the flight as late as 11pm the night before (before I was called to board) and as soon as she reported for work at 7:30am and knew by morning before I flew in that I made it. Aliz was excitedly chatting with me, all the way from the tube to the baggage claim area. One of her colleagues at the gate reminded her to "hold it in" - I suppose that meant to keep her voice and excitement down, but it felt good to be so warmly welcomed.

It was also the right time for Gay, with whom I am staying, to fetch me at the airport, as she gets off from work at 9am (from 5:00am!). Those two gave me royal treatment, with Aliz escorting me from planeside all the way to Gay’s car, on the driveway just outside the arrival area. The two would not even let me carry my luggage. Talk about red carpet treatment! Friends and relatives have received me warmly at many airports around the world before, but this morning’s welcome was the warmest ever. Maybe it had something to do with the drama of almost missing my flight, and possibly being stranded at an airport.

My plane pass may have been low-priority, but you would never suspect that from the royal treatment that I received from my two angels, Gay and Aliz, at the Boston airport. Their welcome really warmed my heart.

Sacha's Graduation

2007-11-23T09:04:00.000+08:00

November 16, 2007 in Toronto.

It was a cold morning, and too early to be getting out of bed, but we were all excited to troop to the Convocation Hall where Sacha will be receiving her diploma – Masters of Applied Science at the University of Toronto.

I wore a long woolen skirt that hid my leggings, and on top of my thermal undershirt, I had my knitted shirt, a sweater, a jacket and a knee-length winter coat, plus a red scarf to either put around my neck or over my head. The black pair of velvet gloves that I bought at a bazaar in Manila came in handy, and helped me to feel warm. I carried a large bag – with “windows” that held photos of our family and scenic spots in the Philippines - to hold the winter clothing accessories that I had to put on and off.

It started to snow, very gently. Sacha said that it was the first snow of the year and season. She pointed at the round convocation building as the place where we should be while she dashed to go to Knox Building to get her toga. We found only one lady who was there ahead of us, waiting for the doors to open. She had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in another, and we chatted. She assured us that we were at the warmer side of the building, as the wind was blowing on the other side. She turned out to be the Convocation Officer, and offered to take us where Sacha was.

We found Sacha (thanks to cellphones) at Knox in her full regalia. Aida – the Convocation Officer whom we met earlier– taught her how to wear the toga, and gave us tips where to take her pictures –stairs, hallways and courtyard of Knox building. We decided she was truly the expert on graduations at the U of T, and followed all her suggestions.

We had a few minutes to take pictures before Gay and I had to queue to enter the Convocation Hall, while Sacha looked for other graduates from her department.

We got good seats (for Gay, Wayne and myself) – right behind one row of seats reserved for those in wheel chairs. It was warmer inside so I started peeling off some of the warmer clothes that I was wearing – coat, jacket, sweater, gloves, scarf – but had to wear them again when the ushers opened the main doors to let the graduates in.

A man next to me complained of the cold draft, so in a friendly tone, I remarked, “At least you’re accustomed to this cold.” He said – no, he never liked the cold, and everyday, he said, he would imagine himself in a tropical island, sitting under a palm tree. At that point, I brought out my bag that showed pictures of Boracay and Cebu and he exclaimed – “That’s the place where I want to be right now – where is this place?” Beaming with pride, I replied, “The Philippines.” (We learned later that he was at the Convocation Hall with us because his wife was graduating with a Masters in Nursing).

It was not a very long ceremony – since they segregated the graduate students from the undergrads who had a much longer ceremony the night before. The main speaker – who gave a short, sweet and simple speech - was a professor at the University. So, in no time at all (about 2 hours), it was over.

We did a lot more picture taking before proceeding to one of the buildings where they were holding a reception for the new graduates. All alumni were given small gifts (chocolate) and letters exhorting them to be active members of the alumni association. Wayne excused himself to go back to work, while Gay, Sacha and I decided the food there was good enough for lunch.

Sacha then took us to her building and we met her adviser, Marc Chignell, and other colleagues.

After we left her campus, we went back to the inn, and then downtown for a quick visit to IBM where she now works. Sacha had invited her friends to a vegetarian dinner in the evening, but before that, we met up with Scott Ramsay, a friend of the family. Scott helped Sacha get oriented in Toronto and to find winter clothes when she first arrived in Canada a little over two years ago.

We met Scott at World’s Biggest Bookstore (now, no longer world’s biggest bookstore), and walking around the block – we found a nice coffee shop/bar, and chatted there until it was time to go to the vegetarian restaurant.

Scott dropped off Sacha at the restaurant (so she could be there ahead of her guests), and then gave Gay and me a short city tour, on our way to Cabbage Town to fetch his girlfriend, Nathalie. The four of us then went back to the restaurant where we found a large group (from U of T, Toastmasters and other people she met at conventions) of Sacha’s friends. Wayne and his daughter, Jessica, came shortly after. There was a stream of friends – some leaving early, some arriving late – but all toasting, praising and congratulating Sacha on her graduation.

It was fun evening. What a full day!

Remembering the Dead

2007-11-01T16:45:00.000+08:00

Today is All Saints Day, and while almost everyone is at the cemetery or memorial parks, for practical reasons – (there will be less traffic tomorrow than today) - I choose to go tomorrow, which is All Souls' Day. Because of horrendous traffic jams on all roads leading to cemeteries and memorial parks, more and more people are choosing to observe the day for remembering our departed loved ones on November 2, while some even spend two full days (November 1 and 2) to honor their dead. I hope that I would meet with relatives and friends when I visit there tomorrow.

These occasions - All Saints Day or All Souls Day - are more than for remembering our beloved departed. These are days for reconnecting with family, relatives and town-mates. We meet at the graves of those with whom we share an affinity - by blood, family or personal history. This explains the annual exodus to the provinces on these dates, and why these occasions take on a festive, rather than solemn, nature in the Philippines.

When we troop to the cemetery, we bring not only candles and flowers to offer to our dead, but also food to share with the living. Lots of food, for what is a Filipino gathering without food? It’s a major picnic, yes, even a fiesta with food and drinks laid out over tombs and gravestones. There are tents to shield us from the sun or rain, and to define our space from those in neighboring plots who are not related to us. There are food stalls selling hotdogs or lumpia, halo-halo or fruit shakes, pizza or palabok. Children are running all over the place, gathering candle droppings, and competing with other children on who can form the biggest candle wax balls. To complete the party atmosphere, some even bring playing cards, scrabble or mah-jong, and we do not think playing them is irreverent. There is lots of storytelling – how life was when we were children, how life is now, and what our plans are for the future. We tell our own stories, but we also inquire about those who did not come. There are conversations about the living and the dead, and as we go home from the cemetery, we bring with us cheery or sad updates on a great number of people in our lives.

For many years, I was out of the loop for these occasions for family reunions. I live in the city, busy with the business and not too concerned with following traditions. However, I am almost 62 and there must be something with being at this age that has made me appreciate being in touch with my past and the people who make up my personal history. On All Saints’ Day or All Souls’ Day, I look forward to meeting the relatives whom I know – aunts and uncles (the few of them who are still alive), and first, second and third cousins – and the distant relatives I get to recognize and acknowledge only when we trace our common affinity with the dead whose graves we visit.

This is the Filipino way – and now my way - of remembering the dead – by reconnecting and enjoying joyous moments with the living. I am sure the spirits of our dearly departed are also partying in heaven and smiling on these Filipino traditions on All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day.

It Pays to Ask

2007-09-30T23:00:00.000+08:00

I had offered to treat my two daughters and their Johns (Ching and my son-in-law, John Valdezco and Kathy and her boyfriend, John Grimme) to a trip to Batanes, which my husband seconded. (A third daughter is starting work in Canada and cannot join us).

Kathy had booked the six of us (herself, myself and Ching and our 3 Johns) on Asian Spirit to go to Batanes in December. She told me that I would have to go to the Asian Spirit office myself if I wanted to take advantage of the 20% senior citizen’s discount, so I did. Kathy told me that she had asked about the airlines promo fares, and that the prices quoted us were the lowest.

When I approached the counter, I asked if they had loyalty or frequent flyer programs. She said no, but they had the “VIP” deal. What’s the VIP deal? She said that if I bought 5 tickets, the 6th was free, but that I had to choose between that or getting the senior citizen’s discount. Hmmm… should I go for the 20% discount on my ticket alone (I’m the only senior citizen in our group of six) or the 100% discount, if I counted myself as the 6th passenger? Did she have to ask? I saved more than P13, 000!

P.S. When Kathy called the airline, she asked for the frequency of flights, and the sales person answered, “We fly daily on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday.” When asked to compute the fares, he asked Kathy, “May I hold you for a moment?” and she answered, “I don’t think so. My boyfriend would not like that.”

A Daughter's Independence

2007-09-21T08:09:00.001+08:00

Do you sometimes feel that you know the exact moment when a milestone happens in your life? In 1981, on the first day that my eldest daughter entered a big school, I knew it was the beginning of the process of letting her go.

My eldest daughter was 4-1/2 years old when she entered St. Scholastica’s College as a prep student. She looked great in her blue and white uniform, carried her own school bag and lunch box without help from me, ready to face the challenges of grade school.

I joined the 40 or so parents (mostly mothers, some fathers) and nannies who were watching the class from outside the window of our children’s classroom, each of us just watching our own daughter or ward. Every now and then, the teacher would come out and ask us to please leave the children and wait at the designated waiting areas – which were far from the classroom.

It was like a dance, and we were moving to and fro. When the teacher got busy attending to the children – some of whom were crying and some did not want to be left in the classroom, we parents would inch our way to the windows, some even crowding at the doors. Then the teacher would shoo us away, and we would move away. At least, for a little while. Then one parent would dare move closer, positioning herself where the teacher would not see or notice her. If she succeeded, another parent would follow suit, and another. Then, the teacher would come out and talk to the parents, pleading with them to let the children settle down in class. At first, she would be reassuring, but later everyone could see that she was getting annoyed.

I was one of those parents tiptoeing back and forth until my daughter marched out of the room, and said to me in a reprimanding tone – “My teacher said you should wait there.” – pointing to a place several meters from her classroom. I think that was the first time that I felt my four-year old daughter was actually scolding ME, her mother.

It was at that precise moment that I knew that someday soon, she would no longer be mama’s little girl. My little daughter was ready for the big, wide world, and I knew I had to prepare myself to let her go. It was the day I learned to say goodbye. The day I knew she would succeed in life. I was a proud mother that day. I still am.

Preventing Alzheimer's

2007-09-01T10:44:00.000+08:00

I have learned that one way to delay memory loss is by doing mental games – crossword puzzles, Sudoku (the numbers game), or even playing chess. I was prepared to do that and had bought a chess set when my husband and I attended a seminar on Corel Painter – a software that allows one to convert photographs into what look like watercolor, pastel or oil paintings.

Except for MS Office and a little bit of IPhoto, I have stayed away from computer software, especially graphic applications, because my poor brain cannot tackle the complicated steps. So maybe, learning Painter is the right challenge for me.

Also, I need to decorate my house with paintings and since I run a photo studio, and my husband and daughter are both photographers, I did not think I would be right in buying and displaying real oil paintings or watercolor drawings. I wanted pictures with more personal connections to us. But to display photographs – especially since we are in advertising - would be like turning my home into a studio, and that is something I would not like to do. Looks like converting their images into photographic paintings would do the trick.

Today, I will try Corel Draw’s Painter. It looks like I have found a way to decorate my home as well as to exercise my brain to stave off or prevent Alzheimer’s.

Teddy Ruxpin

2007-08-06T21:56:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, a visit to Metro Manila’s newest mall, Trinoma, led to our discovery of the first Philippine store of Toys R Us. Although John and I are empty nesters, with three grown up daughters but without any grandchildren yet, we went inside the store to try and relive those days when our children were children.

Toys R Us has always been a big thing in our family. Every foreign trip would not be complete without a visit to a Toys R Us store. In 1986, when we traveled to the United States for the first time, we went to one in Los Angeles. It was exciting to be in such a huge store, with an overwhelming array of choices, but our budget was tight. We had picked out three different toys for our three daughters when we chanced upon a new toy – Teddy Ruxpin. He could talk! And move his mouth and eyes as he talked! Being the first animated toy, he was expensive. We simply could not afford him on top of the individual gifts we had already chosen for our girls. Sadly, we put him back on the shelf.

We went around the store looking at other toys but we could not get our minds off Teddy Ruxpin. We had really fallen in love with him. We thought, if we returned all the toys we’d carefully picked out for each of the girls – 10-year-old Ching Ching, 6-1/2 year old Anne Kay (now nicknamed Kathy) and 3-year-old Sacha, maybe we could afford to get Teddy Ruxpin. And maybe, the girls would not mind not having their own personal “pasalubong” if they had Teddy Ruxpin instead.

Teddy Ruxpin was such a hit with the girls that they did not mind sharing him among themselves. We agreed on the particular days when Teddy would be assigned to Ching Ching, Kathy or Sacha, but at unassigned times, they would have to co-own Teddy.

The sharing scheme worked well! In a way, it was a good thing that we could not afford three Teddy Ruxpins – one was all we needed to teach and learn about joint ownership, waiting for one’s turn, and sharing. Teddy Ruxpin may not have been intended to teach about sharing, but that’s what he taught us.

What memories going to a favorite toy store can bring!

The Runaway Elephant

2007-07-15T12:21:00.000+08:00

Last night, Dr. Romulo Bernardo and Tita Ming of the Manila Zoo came to visit us at our Alabang house, after they gave a bird-and-animal show at the Palm Country Club which is near us. Since animals are what they have in common with us (Kathy founded the MyZoo Volunteer Group Foundation while John still takes care of Mali, the female Asian elephant at the zoo), the conversation over Yellow Cab pizzas and San Mig Lites naturally focused on animal stories.

One of them was when an Asian elephant (not Mali) escaped and walked down Quezon City roads. It was a male Asian elephant, which was part of the Elephant Show near the Araneta Coliseum. It was musking, and could not be contained. Somehow, it got out of its enclosure and wanted to explore the city (I don’t blame him).

News traveled fast, and one of our friends who knew that John was doing volunteer work taking care of Mali, sms’ed me. His wife had called him to share the exciting news that she saw this huge elephant sauntering down Kamuning Street, going towards Tomas Morato (restaurant row). He called me because he didn’t have John’s number and because he thought that John would be the best person to know what to do. He told his wife that his friend, John Chua, was the elephant expert. I corrected him – John was not an expert on elephants. He was an expert on one – Mali.

John had a shoot, and could not be contacted, so I told Kathy so she could in turn inform the people at the zoo. Thankfully, the vets at the zoo had been informed, and one of them had rushed to the site. This was the first case of a runaway elephant for him (and for everyone), so there was a lot of excitement to go around, even for people from media.

Kathy called friends and contacts in zoos in three countries. She first called Johannesburg Zoo where she had previously done volunteer work, but they told her that they had no experience with Asian elephants. She remembered and called an Indian mahout at the Singapore Zoo (who also trained John at some time), but he preferred to refer her to a vet and elephant expert in Malaysia.

You would have to be here to listen to Kathy recount her phone conversations so you can join in the suspense as well as in the comedy. The Malaysian expert asked Kathy, “Describe the elephant,” and Kathy answered, “It’s big and grey.”

“I know what elephants look like. Tell me what it is doing.”

“It is tied to an Indian...” and realizing she was talking to an Indian, and didn’t know if he would be offended promptly corrected herself. “It is calm now and tied to a small tree.” He asked what tranquilizers were available and rattled off some scientific names. Kathy said no, and offered the names of what was available – which turned out to be tranquilizers for cats and dogs. Moving on, they finally found something suitable.

The local vet knew he had to tranquilize the elephant but he didn’t know with how much or with what. So, there was Kathy, without any degree in veterinary medicine, dictating names and dosages of tranquilizers to him. You can imagine that he was not very pleased, and very reluctant to follow Kathy’s instructions. But he probably had no choice, and somehow knew that Kathy’s information was coming from a foreign expert (Kathy lost no time in naming him and reciting his credentials).

The zoo had no tranquilizer gun, so he tied a big syringe to a pole (not a good idea but there was nothing better). He bravely approached the elephant – as far as the pole could separate him, and poked him, making sure his aim was on target. Then, he ran. Really fast. The fastest he ever ran. He knew the elephant would not be happy, and he had to be away, at least until the elephant was fully sedated.

Kathy told us that the right way was to sedate the elephant so it would be groggy , but not asleep. Then, it could be led to the truck. But it was given a bit too much (there was no time or opportunity to weigh the elephant to see how much would be the right dose) and the elephant went to sleep, and therefore had to be lifted to the truck. In the process, the harness broke, and the elephant fell on a taxi that was following the truck.

The taxi was the only casualty. Fortunately, nobody was hurt, and the elephant was successfully returned to its enclosure. They soon thereafter closed the Elephant Show, and returned the entire herd to Thailand, where they originally came from. I hope going home was a happy ending for the elephants in this story.

Since our visitors share our love for animals, we had a really pleasant evening, and swapped many animal stories. I hope I can write all the stories told so that they can be shared with you.

Here's One of Those Aerial Photos

2007-07-06T01:21:00.000+08:00

We found at least one aerial photo of Banaue, and still need to look for one of the Hundred Islands. This photo was taken in 1976 or 1977.

Copyright/Photography by John K. Chua. All Rights Reserved.

Short Ride, Long Drive

2007-07-06T01:08:00.000+08:00

Once upon a time, John was in Banaue to take pictures – not for any client, but just for himself. He drove eight hours in his yellow Ford Fiera (see photo with our Adphoto staff in the late 70’s – we all looked very young!) and was busy photographing Ifugaos on the rice terraces when he saw a helicopter land on the parking lot of Banaue Hotel (the only place where it could land). Two sounds are music to John’s ears - the click, click, click of his camera and the sound of a helicopter propeller whirling. Hearing them both at the same time was like heaven to him, and he was ecstatic.

He ran to chat with the pilot, who volunteered the information that he had room for one more passenger. Like an eager child, John asked him, “Can I come? Can I come? Please, please, Can I come?” The pilot was ferrying some foreign guests and would be flying back to Manila through Baguio that same day. “Sure, hop on,” said the pilot to the photographer, and away they flew. They flew low so John could take photos of the Banaue rice terraces and the Ifugao villages, the geometric rice paddies and thick pine tree forests of Mountain Province and the vegetable and flower terraces of Benguet. They made a stop over in Poro Point, La Union to refuel, and continued on to fly over scenic Hundred Islands in Pangasinan and over the rice fields of Pampanga and Bulacan and back to Villamor Air Base, in Metro Manila. John clicked away with his camera, loading roll after roll of film.

The flight took just slightly over two hours, but John still needed to go back to Banaue. His clothes and vehicle were still there. As soon as he hit Metro Manila, John immediately grabbed a cab and asked to be taken to the Pantranco Station in Quezon City, so he could have a bumpy ride on a non-aircon bus (that’s all there was then) all the way back to Banaue.

His yellow Ford Fiera was still parked where he left it. He gathered his clothes and threw his bag into the Fiera. He grinned ear-to-ear, and whistled happily while driving alone all the way from Banaue through Nueva Vizcaya, Nueva Ecija, Bulacan, Metro Manila and finally to his home in Makati – over eight hours to travel 350 kilometers. 700 kilometers of road travel and I don't know how many air miles in less than 24 hours!

His take from this joyride? Priceless photographs to show a bird’s eye view of the Ifugao rice terraces and Hundred Islands.

(Note: Our archivist is still looking for those vintage aerial shots).

A lesson to be learned: Scan those film images now before they fade away.

"I'll Take the First Circus"

2007-06-13T21:51:00.000+08:00

I suppose that every family has “in” expressions, mottos or slogans in much the same way that they have “in” jokes. While you may hear only a phrase -the family knows the entire story behind those few words.

For our family, we all understand and get inspired by this expression, “I’ll take the first circus.”

It came from an anecdote that my husband and I read in the Readers’ Digest about a little girl in a town soon to be visited by three circuses. Her father explained to her that the family was not financially able to take her to all three circuses and could take her only to one. The first circus would be just a small one, while the third would be the best and biggest, and presumably the most expensive. “I’ll take the first circus,” she said, and so her parents took her to the first. A few months later, when the second circus came, the family’s finances had improved and they were able to take her to the second. And finally, they found that they could afford to get tickets to the third and most expensive circus.

In 1989, my husband had a photography assignment in Germany. It was going to be his first trip to Europe. While he was there, I faxed him that I could go when his job was finished so he and I could travel together. We had very little money so he said that maybe it would be better to wait for another time when we could afford to visit other European countries as well. Pleading, I faxed him again “I’ll take the first circus.” Remembering the story, he said yes!

Like the little girl who chose to take the first circus, I have managed to go to Europe three times - to Germany and France in 1989, then again in 1992 (six countries) with my eldest daughter, and in 1996, in a trip with the entire family – my husband and three young daughters.

In our family, a prospect of limited opportunity will not be turned down. Instead, you will hear us say, “I’ll take the first circus.”

"Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal"

2007-06-08T19:05:00.000+08:00

It's a New York Times bestseller by Rachel Naomi Remen M.D. It is one of the most inspiring books I have ever read, and should make a great gift to family and friends. I've already given a copy to a medical student whom I know, and I will get a few more copies to give to doctor-friends. I think it should be required reading for all doctors, nurses and caregivers no matter how long they have been practicing. The lessons, truths and insights contained in the stories that she shares are not only for those in the medical profession, but for anyone who calls himself or herself "human."

Visual DNA

2007-05-22T23:55:00.001+08:00

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Love in a "Pan"

2007-05-21T23:11:00.000+08:00

In the 70’s when John and I were courting, one of our favorite restaurants was Casa Marcos, which specialized in Spanish food. Our favorite dish was called “Pan de San Isidro,” a Spanish version of Cordon Bleu. A thick slice of cheese and ham are wrapped in a thin slice of veal, breaded and deep-fried. Since I was a light eater, John and I usually shared one order.

One evening, I was home (home then was an apartment owned by my parents that I was sharing with my younger brother) when the doorbell rang. At the door was one of John’s mother’s employees, an all-around helper whom John occasionally borrows as his driver or messenger. (His name was “Tabâ” because he was very overweight). He handed me a paper bag, with something wrapped in aluminum foil. Since it was still warm, I guessed what it was – Pan de San Isidro! How sweet of him! Thinking of John but not of my brother, I decided to send John half of the Pan. I asked Tabâ to wait while I divided the dish into two. I sent half back to John, with a thank you note.

The following day when I saw John (I didn’t have a phone at home and this was decades before the advent of cellphones), he wasn’t smiling. He appeared aloof and didn’t seem glad to see me, and of course, I wondered why. When finally I was able to coax him to talk to me, he said that he was very disappointed that I sent him half of the Pan. This was perplexing, as I thought he would be glad that I did.

He went on to explain that he went through a lot of trouble to surprise me with the Pan. The night before, he personally went to Casa Marcos and pleaded with the restaurant manager to allow him to talk with the cook. After he explained what he was planning to do, he was allowed to go inside the kitchen. John handed him a love letter that he had written, asked him to wrap it in foil, and to insert it between the ham and cheese. He told me that both the manager and the cook, and even the waiters, were thrilled to be part of this romantic conspiracy. While he was waiting for the Pan to be ready, they were all trying to guess how I would react. They were also challenging each other to think of ways to surprise their own wives or girlfriends. He left Casa Marcos with a big grin on his face.

But that night, when he ate the half of the Pan that Tabâ handed him, he found his foil-wrapped love letter in the portion I sent back to him. He was very disappointed, to say the least. While he knew that I had no way of knowing what I missed, still, he said, it was such a let down. All that effort was for naught, he said, and I said no, not for naught. I thanked him for what he did, and apologized for sending him back half of the Pan de San Isidro.

P.S. Since the element of surprise had been lost, John didn’t want to give me that love letter anymore. I wasn’t, but he was also too embarrassed to take me again to that branch of Casa Marcos, so we dined at their other branches instead. Casa Marcos closed down a few years ago.

Tulips on Mothers' Day

2007-05-13T22:36:00.000+08:00

The beautiful bouquet of yellow and yellow-orange tulips came on a Friday, a full two days before Mothers’ Day, which is celebrated, annually, on the second Sunday of May.

It created quite a stir in the office, as the staff thought that the flowers came all the way from Holland. They know that Kathy’s boyfriend is Dutch and it was easy to assume that the flowers were flown in from Europe. Well, in a way, they were, (they must have been imported from the Netherlands) but they were arranged and delivered here by our favorite florist. It seems Kathy and her boyfriend, John, went to see Gina de Guzman of Petals Galore months ago when he was still here.

I took the bouquet to the other studio where Kathy was working overtime with her dad. The clients (Campaigns & Grey) who were at the studio for the car shoot thought the same way as the staff, and were told about the special arrangement with the florist.

Kathy wanted to take photos of the flowers but had to wait until the next morning since she and her dad didn’t get to finish work until past midnight. After taking photos of them in the studio, she took the flowers to our house in Alabang, so she could take photos of the tulips with a pair of Dutch wooden clogs that she got from her John on her birthday (March 3).

So now, photography has made it possible for those beautiful flowers to be immortalized. Long after the fresh tulips are gone, we can still look at Kathy’s photo of those beautiful yellow and yellow-orange flowers, and be reminded of today’s Mothers’ Day when I received that beautiful bouquet.

P.S. Kathy researched on tulips and found out that the yellow ones are called Yokohama tulips while the orange ones with yellow edges are called Kees Nellis.

Writing Exercise: "Hear/Listen"

2007-05-06T20:12:00.000+08:00

Every Saturday, I attend a writing class with Barbara Gonzalez, a Philippine Star columnist whose writings I admire. Our exercise for this Saturday was to pick a pair of words and to write something using those words. To encourage us to write poetry, she said to write without worrying about rhyme, cadence, stanzas etc. Just write the two words, and “cluster” around those two words. So, here’s one of my first attempts at writing a poem. I chose the words “hear/listen.”

We are in love.
You love me, I love you
We listen with pure ecstasy
As we hear our hearts beat as one.

Sometimes we only give a hint
Sometimes not even
We understand and feel as one
And words need not be spoken.

Your eyes speak, my eyes listen
Your arms speak, my arms listen
Your body speaks, my body listens
Your heart speaks, my heart listens
In the deepest recesses of our souls
To each other, we listen.

But, sadly, years pass,
Somehow love passes, too.
We speak words, we wail and cry
But wounded hearts do not listen.

We hear the sobs of anguish and pain
We hear the doubt and disbelief
We hear the silence between us
But our hearts no longer listen.

Will love come again?
I put my ears to the ground
I raise my ears to all around
I strain to hear you above the noise and din.

Hush, I hear a tiny whisper
Reaching out through time and space
Across loneliness of yesteryears
Our hearts striving to listen, not just hear.

We can love each other again
Lost love can be regained
Our hearts will teach us how
Once more, to hear and listen.

We will listen with ecstasy
From now till we breathe our last breath
We will hear our hearts beat as one
Each day, each moment, until death.

My Paternal Grandmother

2007-04-21T20:01:00.000+08:00

I’m trying to remember whatever I could of my grandmother, but I do not have much to go by.

My father’s mother’s name was Liberata Santos. Although she lived to be 85, and I was already in college when she died, I had very scant memories of her, of which very little was based on my own personal experience with her. Most of the stories that I heard about my grandmother were from my aunt and my cousins, with whom she lived, in the big house next to ours.

I do remember that before I started going to grade school, I would go with her to help her peddle fresh fish that she carried on a bilao on her head. Usually, we would not go far, as she had her “suki” (regular patrons) in Don Galo, especially the Pulo area, who regularly bought from her, fish and sometimes some tomatoes, kangkong and labanos for making sinigang. I would be her only grandchild who was available to accompany her as all my cousins were going to school, while my sister and another brother were too young. My older brother was not someone she counted on, and in those days, probably not someone expected to help.

I do remember her long white hair that she regularly treated with coconut oil. She would get the coconut milk (derived by squeezing grated coconut meat) from the maid or her loyal houseboy, Polonio, but would cook it herself to extract the oil. The coconut while being cooked this way was very aromatic, but what we would wait for was the brown “latik” that was formed when coconut milk was cooked. That was delicious. She would transfer the coconut oil to a small bottle and wait for it to cool, and then apply it to her hair. Her straight white hair reached almost her knees, but since she was shorter than 4’10”, that wasn’t too long. She was a bit plump and very fair. Although she spoke a little Spanish (just the prayers and the cusswords), it was obvious from her facial features that she was not Spanish.

For reasons I never got to find out, we addressed and referred to her, not as “Lola” which is the common way, but as “Grandmother” (pronounced the Filipino way – granmader). Her younger relatives called her "Lola" or "Nanang Berata."

I do remember that she was diabetic, and she used to “steal” spoonfuls of sugar from the sugar container, which was kept in my aunt’s trusty GE refrigerator. When caught in the act, she would fight off my cousins who would try to take away the sugar from her. In the physical struggle over a spoonful of sugar, she would always lose, as my cousins were taller and stronger, but that would not stop her from cursing them and her illness, in a flurry of Tagalog and Spanish expletives. Soon, she developed a gangrenous toe that would not heal, and when that was amputated, she finally acquiesced to not having sugar.

When she was too old and sick to sell fish, she kept herself busy by sweeping their front yard with a walis tingting, and sometimes, squatting alongside the asphalted main street (there were no concrete sidewalks then) to arrange the pebbles and stones on the ground. She did not find television (then in its early days – black and white, no remote control, and only two or three channels) entertaining, but would try reading newspapers in English, by syllabicating the words, as English was not a language she knew.

I remember the stories about her because my cousins often teased her about them. She was 16 when she first got married, and had a daughter, my aunt, Kakang Salud (Salud Gutierrez), before she was widowed at age 20. At 24, she married a widower, my grandfather Alejandro Valentino, who had one daughter, Kakang Floring (Florencia Valentino). Lolo Andoy was a cochero. Their union produced my father, Ruperto (“Peting”), but it was, again, a short-lived marriage. At 28 she was widowed for the second time and never remarried. She continued to take care of the three children, two of her own, and her stepdaughter from her second husband.

Although I never saw her wear them, I did get some occasions of seeing her bring out her baro’t saya with matching panuelo. She must have valued those clothes, or why would she keep them when she had no more use for them?

At six o’clock every evening, she prayed the rosary, in Tagalog, and some prayers in Spanish, before an image of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, which she kept in an altar in her room. After my grandmother died, this antique image of the Virgin Mary, about sixteen inches in height and encased in glass because she was dressed in a beautifully beaded white and blue dress and made valuable by her ivory hands and face, was transferred to the main altar of my aunt’s house. It was treasured as a family relic from my grandmother.

My “granmader” died in her sleep, in 1966 at the age of 85. I was 20 years old then.

I never thought of keeping a picture of my grandmother, but last week when I visited my cousins, I asked if they were able to save any pictures of her. Unfortunately, a fire gutted my cousins’ house and my parents’ house a few years ago, and nothing was saved – not any photos, not her “baro’t saya” and “panuelos,” and not the image of the Blessed Virgin Mary of the Immaculate Conception, which was her most prized possession.

Deprived of any physical reminders, I would just have to keep an image of her in my mind, and hope that this story would help introduce my grandmother to my children, especially when I get too old to remember correctly.

My Maternal Grandmother

2007-04-15T22:26:00.000+08:00

My maternal grandmother, Matilde Jimenez, was born on March 14, 1905. Her children called her “Inang” (a derivative from the word “ina” which, in Tagalog, means mother) while her grandchildren called her “Inang Tilde.” Her youngest daughter was only eleven months old when her husband, Antonio (or Antonino, but nicknamed “Meno”) Lombos, a caretela driver, died in 1936 of a ruptured appendix, while playing football. For information on my maternal grandparents, I can only ask my only living aunt, Tia Remie and uncle, Kuyang Ben.

Of the little that I actually remember, I know that I was fond of her, and she of me.

I always remembered her to be a hardworking person, selling rice and pan de sal in order to support herself and her five children, my mother Dolores, and her siblings, Felicisima, Ricardo, Benjamin and Remedios. She maintained her own household, with her then unmarried children. Her only brother, Melquiades (Quiades), could not help her much as he earned very little as a taxi driver and had his own family - a wife and six children - to support. While she died at 55, her younger brother died only recently, in his 90’s.

When I was in first grade, she had a sari-sari store situated on her brother’s property, which faced an “eskenita” (alley). My school, the Don Galo Elementary School, which was a few blocks away, and her house were on the same side of the main street-, which as a child I was not allowed to cross - so I could go to her store on my own after class. It was there where my parents would pick me up later in the day as soon as they had time to fetch me. I remember that she would offer me a Coke and whatever bread or candy was available in her store. One of my favorites was a wafer - similar to a Chinese fortune cookie - that had tiny toys inside, including rings that I could put on my little finger. She generously gave me rubber bands and “peks” which I used as toys when playing with the neighborhood children.

For some reason that I never knew, she gave up that store, and instead started selling pan de sal, pan bonete (similar to pan de sal) and rice from her house. My job was to use a wide, flat wooden stick to keep each variety of rice in a neat pyramidal shape apart from the other rice varieties (Milagrosa, Wagwag), which were displayed in the other compartments. There were three such compartments in one big six-legged rectangular box, with sometimes a fourth compartment for mongo. I would help measure the rice to sell, using a scooper that looked like a gallon can of paint sliced diagonally, with a wooden handle at the center of the closed, flat bottom part. The scooped rice was placed in a wooden box called the “salop,” which was open on one side where rice grains were poured. The flat wooden stick was smooth with age and frequent use, and had a rich patina, and I liked caressing it with my hand, like a sword that would not cut, but could swipe away across the top of the salop all rice in excess of the intended measure. Rice used to be sold by the salop, or “kalahating-salop” (1/2) until the government required that rice be sold by weight.

A dress that she gave me has not survived the years, but its memory has. My grandmother was very proud that I was finishing my third grade school year with honors. Although only the top three honor students were called to the stage (as first honorable mention, I was fourth) she took delight in the fact that her first granddaughter (I have a brother older than I) showed promise. As a gift, she gave me a dress. That was very special because in those days, I would receive new dresses only on two occasions a year – Christmas and my birthday – sometimes not even.
I remember it vividly. It was a maroon dress, with small black-checkered design, with a round neck, without a collar, and with covered buttons at the back opening. The neck and armholes were decorated with tiny “C” piping made from the same cloth, sewn in half-moon fashion, one by one, like scallops. The skirt part was sheared, and had a pocket on the right side, the top of which had the same scallop accent.

It was the practice in those days, especially when one is poor, to buy larger clothes and shoes for children so that they would not out-grow them before they got worn out. Since I had few clothes, and it was my favorite, the top got worn out right away. My mother knew how to sew, and so did my grandmother, so one of them replaced the top and sewed it to the old skirt, loosening and lengthening where needed. After a couple of years, the top was still okay but the skirt needed replacing, and it was replaced. Technically, did I get a new dress?

When I was in high school, my grandmother became very sick. This was the first time that I heard about cancer, an illness that would befall at least three members of my mother’s family, including my own mother. My grandmother had breast cancer, and could not afford whatever therapy was available in those days. They could not even afford to give her painkillers. In December 1959, I knew she was dying. Instead of celebrating the season, my mother and her siblings would be huddled with their dying mother in a dark and stuffy room, where she lay writhing in pain on a banig on the floor. I would hear my mother and especially my youngest aunt cry along with my grandmother when she was in pain, but I was afraid to disturb them and stayed outside the door to her room. I prayed fervently that my beloved grandmother would not die during the Christmas season and begged for God’s mercy to let us still have her until after the holidays. When she died on January 7, a day after the Feast of the Three Kings, which then marked the end of the Christmas season, I worried that maybe I had offered her to God sooner than God would have wanted to take her. It was also then that I learned that my youngest aunt’s birthday was on January 8, and I was filled with remorse for not asking for a longer reprieve for my grandmother. It was the first time that I felt the terrible pain of separation that death brings.

My grandmother’s life on earth was brief, but I remember her fondly.

Teaching the Love of Reading

2007-04-14T12:23:00.000+08:00

1. Share reading time with the people you love.

When my children were still babies, toddlers or in preschool, and occasionally, when they were in early grade school, I would put them on my lap to read to them. It was still fun to do even when they could read on their own. Now, they’re all grown up and they’re voracious readers. My husband theorizes that maybe the warm and fuzzy feeling of their being close to my body when they were young had become associated with reading, and while they no longer sit on my lap -the eldest is 30 and the youngest is 23 - ;), the association remains, albeit unconsciously. Unfortunately, my husband and I were at our busiest at work when our second daughter was growing up, and we did not get to spend as much time to read with her. It is sad but no wonder that she did not take to reading as much as the two other daughters did, but she caught up with it on her own later (more on this later).

If you are just going to start with reading together when your children are too old to sit on your lap, try sitting next to each other and reading the same book. I think that as long as you are still physically bigger than they are (say, they’re 7, 8 or 9 or a even bit older), you can still put your arms around them so you can look at a book together.

At times, I could be in bed with a book in my hand and my husband a few paces away, working at his hobby table, and I would try reading some passages from the book that I was reading – at one time it was John Grey’s “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, at other times some snippets of stories from Readers Digest – with him, and we would share a laugh - which goes to prove that no one is too old for sharing the love of reading.

Spend time reading together. Usually, this is before bedtime, although it could be anytime. I remember that before my children learned to read on their own, they would ask me to read book after book after book to them. Since I dramatized the reading (changing voices for each character in the story), it was fun but tiring, and my jaw would hurt from reading so much, but my heart was full.

2. Get books that your children are interested in.

As I mentioned earlier, one of our daughters did not readily take to books, until we discovered when she was two years old, that she had this fascination for horses, and at bookstores, she would pick out books that had pictures of horses in them, especially if the pictures were on the book covers. It was the same with the toys that she would ask us to buy for her. Although I could not explain where this fascination came from, I latched on to that and bought all the children’s books on horses, or containing stories about horses. Until recently, she remained in love with horses, and we keep buying her books on horses.

Find out what your children (or spouse) are interested in – mystery, airplanes, dinosaurs, football, cooking – anything at all, and make books on them available in your home. The beauty of books is that there is something on everything for everybody.

3. When reading is really difficult, ease them into reading.

When they were in high school, they all seemed to have trouble reading in Pilipino, especially Philippine literature. One of their teachers suggested taking them to watch movie and play versions of the Rizal novels that they were supposed to be studying, so that they could get the plot, meet the characters and have an overall feel of the stories without having to struggle with learning all that while reading in a language they were not at home with. I also looked for comic books (the same way I found cartoon books on statistics or physics), and looked for book versions of Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo that had better, more readable fonts. (I do not understand why publishers insist on using archaic fonts). In short, I wanted to make reading easy and pleasurable.

When they were older, I learned that there are different learning styles, among them the visual and auditory ways. One of my daughters prefers auditory books (cassettes, CDs, DVDs), and we said, by all means. Now, she seems to be picking up a few books for her own reading pleasure, or for learning (her current interest is anything and everything about the Netherlands, as her boyfriend is Dutch).

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Reading is fun. For me, I can pick up instant information by going to the internet, but I can’t get from the internet the same wonderful, warm and fuzzy feeling that I get by sitting on a comfortable sofa, propped up by soft pillows or snuggling with someone I love with a book of my choice.

Moving some posts

2007-04-08T21:32:00.000+08:00

I'm moving some posts from another blogspot. I still have a few more to move to this site. When I am done transferring them, then I will drop the other blogspot, and will exclusively update on this site. Please be patient if you are reading some posts for the second time.

Conversations with a Cobra

2007-04-07T21:24:00.000+08:00

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2006
Conversations with a Cobra

Kathy welcomed a group of 35 students under Ms. Judy Sibayan, her former thesis adviser who came on a field trip to visit our studio. Aside from showing them around, she regaled them with stories of how she not only survived Ms. Sibayan, but also actually learned how to be a better photographer because of her. (Incidentally, although she did not receive the highest possible grade, her thesis was adjudged best thesis of her batch’s).

Although Kathy’s assignment was to photograph endangered Philippine endemic animals, her thesis adviser wanted her to include the Philippine cobra, which is not an animal on this list. Kathy thought that Judy just wanted to see her dead.

To top it all, her adviser wanted her to use a film camera. It would have been easier to use a digital camera which would allow her to see right away if she got the pictures right.

Reluctantly and fearing for her life, she set up her photo session with the cobra. The Zoo did not have any anti-venom in the premises, and the nearest one was at the San Lazaro Hospital, just a few kilometers away but an agonizing three-hour ride in Manila’s horrendous traffic.

Judy wanted it photographed on a white background, with its wings flared – all poised to attack. With one eye looking through the viewfinder, and another eye watching out to see if her subject was aiming for her, and her hand shaking, Kathy tried to photograph the cobra. Because she was using film, she had no way of checking if her pictures would turn out alright and had to use up the entire roll of 36 exposures and hope that at least one would be sharp, properly exposed and with the cobra within the frame, and doing what was expected of him! It was a tall order for both the photographer and the cobra!

“Aren’t you done yet?” asked the cobra.

“Just one more, please,” pleaded the photographer.

“Okay, hurry up, I’m busy.”

The students laughed at Kathy’s funny way of storytelling, and Kathy continued with her narration.

She presented her photos to her thesis adviser, who thought that it might be better to use a black background. Unable to argue her way out, but convinced that her teacher was resolute in seeing her dead, Kathy cried all the way home but went back to the zoo to re-arrange for another shoot.

“You again? What do you mean, you have to re-shoot?” was the cobra’s reaction. Kathy pleaded with the cobra and explained that her adviser wanted a different background.

“Make it snappy. I get angry when I get too tired. Or impatient.” So Kathy rushed through another roll, careful not to displease her subject.

She then faced her thesis adviser, whom she feared as much as the cobra, and presented her with the second set of contact sheets. Briefly browsing through the new images, Judy chose the very first portrait of the cobra – on white background!

After narrating the story of how she survived her ordeal with her subject and with her thesis adviser, Kathy turned to the students and declared “Whatever does not kill you, will make you…” and she waited for all 35 of them, and Ms. Sibayan, to say in chorus, “…stronger.” “I would like to reassure you that you would live through Ms. Sibayan, as I have.” And with that, they applauded her. More than a talk on photography, it was probably what they needed most to hear.

A Holy School

2007-04-07T21:18:00.000+08:00

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 2006
A Holy School

My eldest daughter was in prep and I was eager to attend my first PTA meeting at her school, St. Scholastica’s College, a Catholic school just a few blocks from where we live.

Before the meeting started, I sidled up to her teacher and asked in a whisper, not wanting to let other people in on my ignorance – “May I know who St. Scholastica was? You know, I went to a Catholic school myself and I thought I was familiar with names of saints, but I never heard of her.”

“Mama!” In a hushed and embarrassed tone, my daughter chastised me – “St. Scholastica was the twin sister of St. Benedict. She was a holy person. When she died, she became a school.”

Home is Where the Internet Access is

2007-04-07T21:16:00.000+08:00

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 10, 2007
Home is Where the Internet Access is

Kathy had already set up a G5, two monitors and her laptop on a temporary computer workstation in the house in Alabang because we were getting better Internet connections here than in Makati. A strong earthquake that hit Taiwan seemed to have damaged Internet cables that connected Manila to the rest of the world.

She worked here for three days and three nights, and never leaving for Makati. But on Sunday, when we came home from a party with relatives, she found to her horror that we had no Internet in the house, but there was in Makati. So, off she drove to Makati, even though it was past midnight.

Sacha was too sleepy to care but needed to connect to the Internet in the morning, but found it not working still by then. I had to make an emergency call for the driver to fetch her so she could rush to Makati. She left grumbling about the inconvenience of Alabang (something that did not bother her while we had internet connections).

I stayed home to tinker and fiddle with the wires, modems and wifi but could not get them to work. I tried connecting directly from modem to laptop, but still nothing. I frantically called the telephone company three times, and still nothing. I called Smart Communications to inquire about using my phone to log online but no, that’s not going to work for what we wanted to do. Then I remembered about dial up ISPs – and voila – I connected to the world.

Seeing how we all scampered to where we could connect online, I remarked to my husband that it’s no longer “home is where the heart is,” but “home is where the Internet connection is.”

Home-home

2007-03-31T22:57:00.000+08:00

Thursday, November 09, 2006

“If we would go home to our “home-home” no matter how late, I will come to work no matter how early,” was my offer to my husband to persuade him to take us home to our new house as often as possible, hopefully everyday.

Just a few months ago, we bought a 15-year old house in the suburbs after living in a combined home and photo studio on a busy and noisy main street of Makati for the past 26 years (plus another 4 years at another Makati address that was also both studio and residence). Although I have always been longing for it, I have only belatedly experienced the joy of living away from work. We did not really transfer residences, but instead maintain two homes -one in Makati where we work, and the other in Alabang, which I call our “home-home”).

There are many advantages to living where we work. Having the house above the studio means that all we need is a 2-second commute between one and the other. Living there also meant that we were accessible to our children (when they were young and still living at home) even at our busiest times, and we didn’t have to worry about children we left at home, if we had lived elsewhere. Our children also grew up exposed to the work that we did, and often took interest in them.

It is also a convenient location. I can grab a cab just by stepping out of our house/office. We are very near the country’s primary business district. The supermarket, wet market, church, banks and our favorite bakeshop are all within walking distance, or an accessible, easily available (by tricycle, taxi, jeep, bus) short ride away.

But, there are also distinct disadvantages. It is difficult to decide when to stop working, especially since our work numbers are 24/7, not 9 to 5. It is also very easy to bring office problems into the home, and vice versa. As for attending to the family, we would be physically present and accessible even while at work, but often caught in the middle, torn between demanding children and equally demanding clients competing for our attention.

Our studio/house can a busy place – and on especially hectic days, it can be as noisy as grand central station. One can get auditory overload just hearing the buses and tricycles on the street, and the telephone ringing or paging at any odd hour. Music can be loud – to put talents in the mood, or to keep photographers from falling asleep when they need to work overtime.

The house in the studio is still here, and I suppose we will continue to maintain it. We somehow still find the studio the most convenient place to start from when we have early morning shoots, or to come home to when shoots last well into the night. Living away from work is bliss, but I must agree, working away from home is inconvenient.

But we are getting used to driving after work to our home-home and we like it there. It is in a quiet neighborhood. We have a little garden. We can relax in this house – the atmosphere is really tranquil. Sometimes, we even find time to write -John in his photography online forum, and me, doing blogs, such as this.

Even the commutes do not bother us – spending time on the road on the way home from work allows us to unwind, while being caught in slow-moving traffic is, to our sweet surprise, an extended and unexpected “bonding time.” (Except on some nights when traffic on South Superhighway or even the Skyway is bumper-to-bumper and hardly moves – like last night. We were on our way to our “home-home” and U-turned because traffic was horrendous!)

Even friends like our new home - that is, when they can make the long trip to visit us. When they do come, they no longer need to wonder if they’re interrupting us at work. Long and relaxed conversations with family and friends are now possible.

Gradually, we are spending more time in our new home. When we first acquired the house, we only spent weekends there, and sometimes not even. We have progressed to spending about 3 or 4 nights a week at home. My short-term goal is to spend all the nights of one straight week here, or one full month. We will probably celebrate when we are able to come home everyday for a full year! I don’t mind the coming and going, the commute to and from the city and our home - leaving the home to work, and leaving work to come home. It is a small price to pay to enjoy our “home-home.”
posted by Harvey at 12:01 AM

Dealing with Roommates

2007-03-31T22:55:00.000+08:00

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Roommates
Dearest Sacha,

Today, you wrote about a roommate who does not seem to like you, and you wrote, “I sometimes wish I could have something like the close roommate relationships my mom had when she was in college.”

I’d like to tell you that not everyone I roomed in with became a friend. I remember being miserable with three roommates who were already roommates and friends by the time I joined them. I suppose they were not too happy with me because they all came from the same province and spoke the same dialect and I didn’t. I also kept borrowing a portable typewriter from one of them – no wonder she was pissed off with me - because my family could not afford to buy me one. Obviously the solutions were to buy my own typewriter, (my mother borrowed money to get me an Underwood portable typewriter) and to change rooms. Well, I could have tried to learn to speak their dialect, but I didn’t.

(From this experience, I learned to try to draw people into my circle, but will not persist, if they insist on staying out).

But I did form friendships with many whom I met at the dorm, some roommates and some dorm mates, and I am thrilled to think that 40 years later, we are still friends.

Living with other people is quite a challenge – and you can imagine why it is a challenge of a lifetime to marry someone and share the same bedroom for years and years. ; )

I suppose sharing a room or apartment follows the rules of physics about friction. You can’t have friction if surfaces don’t touch or rub together. So the more your lives intersect, the more chances for friction. When you live together, surface contacts can’t be helped. Trying to avoid each other can make life difficult for either or both of you.

Following this analogy, friendship, respect for, and acceptance of each other are like oils that prevent sparks (negative ones) from being thrown off by the friction of living together. In day-to-day living, respect may mean cleaning up your own space and common areas and not intruding into someone else’s space. Don’t give up the opportunity to form friendships with people you live with without trying to use those lubricants.

Please also remember that many Westerners like to define and claim their own personal spaces (physically, I think it’s an arm’s reach in front, beside and behind). They tend to be more private people who prefer to set boundaries around their personal air, visual, auditory and even emotional spaces. They like these spaces respected even when forming lines (whereas Asians don’t really mind if there are no airspaces between queuing bodies) or sitting on park benches (often occupied by one person or at most two, sitting at either end, even though there is room for three). However, there are differences among them as well, some being warmer than others in the way they relate with other people. Just understand the differences and respect them. Hopefully, it’s just a cultural barrier that personal friendships can transcend.

Now, if your roommate’s attitude turns out to be more of a personal dislike for you, don’t worry about it. Sometimes, we just have to accept that certain people do not get along, and are not meant for each other. There are more than 4 billion people on earth. I wonder how many a person meets and interacts with in a lifetime? Definitely, you cannot possibly be in good terms with everyone, and there will be people who would prefer your company while there are others who will intentionally move away from you.

If extending your hand in friendship and showing respect still fail, then the best way to avoid friction is to avoid each other (tough to do when you are roommates, but it can be done). If the relationship becomes explosive, then maybe she can ask to be transferred to another room or suite.

It will be her loss not to have known or counted you as a friend.
posted by Harvey at 2:50 PM

Virtual Dating

2007-03-31T22:42:00.000+08:00

People in love will find a way to connect, no matter what separates them.

In the 70’s when my husband and I were still courting, he had to leave for Iloilo, leaving me behind in Manila. Neither of us had access to telephones, as my family was poor and could not afford a phone, and cellphones were 25 years away into the future. Before he left for the province, we vowed that each night at precisely 7 o’clock, we would drop whatever we were doing to look up at the sky. We identified our constellations, narrowed them down to our favorite group of stars (Orion’s Belt) and prayed that the sky would be clear enough to allow both of us to focus on the same thing. We were making a spiritual connection that made physical separation bearable.

Fast forward to the 21st century, year 2007. Oceans, continents and a 6-hour time difference separate my daughter and her Dutch boyfriend. They just have to find ingenious ways to get together, including virtual dating. She here, and he there, they prepare popcorn, DVD players and their favorite movies. They set the alarm clocks on their cellphones and at the pre-agreed moment, they each insert a DVD disk to start their virtual movie date. Conversations – hushed, as they would be if they were in a theatre – are conducted through their computers, with the help of Skype.

Whether connecting the old-fashioned way by looking at stars or the electronically advanced way through Skype, it’s all the same –it’s called virtual dating. It’s about connecting, and bridging the distance that separates people in love.

Sacha and U.S. Consul

2007-03-11T16:53:00.000+08:00

When my youngest daughter was 7 years old, I needed to take her to the U.S. Embassy to apply for a visa.

I brought with me all the documents that I was expected to show, if and when asked, to prove that we have ties to our country that would make us come back – land titles, business papers, bank statements etc. I had two briefcases of such documents.

When her name was called, we approached the counter. The interviewing consul very formally asked – “Your daughter’s name is Sandra Jean Chua?” I said yes. “Do you have her birth certificate?” So I looked in one briefcase and then another, frantically shuffling through the papers, but could not find it.

While I was in panic-mode, my daughter tiptoed and asked with a sweet smile on her face - “Why do you need my birth certificate? I’m proof that I was born.” The consul smiled at her, and asked, “Where do you want to go?” “Disney” was my daughter’s quick reply. “Well, then, have a nice trip” and stamped her visa application – “Approved.”

posted by Harvey at 8:23 PM Friday, September 29, 2006

A Mother's Persistent Plea for Gifted Education

2007-03-11T15:41:00.000+08:00

Mrs. Lala Castillo, now directress of the Philippine National High School for the Arts and formerly principal of the grade school (St. Scholatica's College) where all my three daughters went, loves to tell audiences at Parent-Teachers Conferences the story of how, when I was pregnant with my third (and youngest), she and her teachers would try to avoid me and pray that I would give birth to a baby boy.

You guessed it – St. Scho is an all girls’ school and they were not too happy with this very persistent parent. I still had another daughter who was about to enter pre-school, and the prospect of having three Chua daughters at St. Scho must have been a daunting thought.

I suppose they were getting tired of my pushing for a gifted education program. My eldest daughter was in second grade, and from the time she was in prep, I had been pleading for them to introduce this special program at their school. I was not proposing the segregation of bright girls from the rest of their classmates, but I could see that a uniform teaching plan was not beneficial to those who were ahead and to those who were lagging behind. I argued that since they had a program for the slow ones, then they should also have a program for the fast ones. Their needs were just as real. Besides, I got into St. Scho because they boasted of "group instruction with individualized pacing." I felt that the needs of my daughter and other girls like her were being overlooked.

After a few years of pleading with them, and showing them all sorts of literature on gifted education, they did try but the teacher they sent for training had to resign and relocate when her father got sick and eventually died. With due respect to the departed, St. Scho’s program on gifted education seemed to have died with him. But eventually, they tried again, and in the ensuing years, more and more teachers were sent for training, including sending the principal and assistant principal to the U.S. to attend conferences on gifted education. In time, they had a full-blown program across all the grades that went beyond even my own expectations.

Now that my girls have all graduated from St. Scho’s grade school and their gifted education program is firmly in place and making the school proud, Mrs. Castillo and I can joke about the time when they wished I had a son instead of a daughter.

Funny, But Still Contrary

2007-03-11T10:49:00.000+08:00

My husband, John, is a workaholic. He gets by with little sleep, and if he is working, may even forget to eat. Recently, he has been having spells of dizziness and nausea. Friends are quick to suggest that it’s vertigo and quicker still to relate their own dizzy spells. I’ve had to insist on his seeing a doctor but after a few tests, we still don’t know what is wrong with him.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he says with a grin, “I’m perfect.”

I told him that his MRI results indicated negative findings. He said he was afraid they’d find nothing because there is nothing up “here,” pointing his forefinger to his head.

His ear and balance tests showed nothing remarkable, except maybe a very slight loss of hearing in his right ear. Not enough loss to explain why he does not hear what I say.

I told him that he should listen to his body, as it is telling him to rest. He said that his body and he speak different languages, so even if he listened, he still cannot understand what it is saying to him.

“Maybe you should take up yoga,” I told him, “so you can learn to relax.” He said yoga people are still learning how to fly, and he already knows how (he’s an ultralight pilot). Besides, he said, they only fly 6” from the floor, and he wants to fly higher (he’s an aerial photographer).

He insists that the only reason he is feeling dizzy and nauseous is because he may be pregnant. He is 59, so I reminded him that he’s post-menopausal (like I am), so that rules out pregnancy. ;)

It’s difficult getting him to see a doctor and even more exasperating getting him to take care of himself. Like many men, he is stubborn, but I have a hard time hiding a smile when he says something funny. Now, if only he would get a good rest as he does a good laugh, then maybe the dizzy spells would go away.

Capricciosa

2007-02-27T23:35:00.000+08:00

Friday, November 17, 2006

Kathy insisted on trying a new restaurant, so we went to Capricciosa in Greenbelt 3. They just opened, and it was half an hour before lunchtime, so there were not many people there yet.

We chose a booth and I had to slide in. John sat next to me and Kathy was across us. The waiter came and introduced himself as Jeffrey, while handing us brand new menu cards. Since it was an Italian restaurant, we naturally ordered pasta and pizza, and bruschetta to start the meal.

“Would you like soup?” Jeffrey asked. Although we had not thought of having soup, he obviously was trained to “push” their products in a smart and pleasant way. “You might want to try our Italian beef and vegetable soup? It’s very good.” In the split second that he saw that we were a bit undecided, and might be persuaded, he gave it a final push by saying “It’s my favorite.” John, who is just as quick on the draw, replied, “If we ordered that, then you would have to sit down and join us.”

That cracked us up and we, including our waiter Jeffrey, all had a good laugh. He looked like he was totally unprepared for that kind of a reply from a customer, and all he could do was join us in hearty laughter.

P.S. Verdict: the staff was friendly, the prices were a bit high, and the food was okay but not fantastic.

The Wedding Garter Game

2007-02-27T23:27:00.000+08:00

The wedding coordinator eyed the bevy of bachelors and bachelorettes. She glanced at the bride and groom furtively, and having received what seemed like a conspiring signal from them, proceeded to play the games that would choose one lucky bachelor to receive the bride’s garter and one special bachelorette to catch her bouquet.

The lucky pair looked like an odd couple, but the bride, groom and their coordinator seemed to have handpicked them for each other. Although they’re about the same age, the young man was short and slim, while the young lady was a head taller and much heavier than he. He had a serious but docile look on his face, and she looked like she was a good sport.

She was more than game - she was funny! When the groom was about to hand the garter to the winning bachelor, she grabbed the garter, and stretched it before handing it to him, eliciting laughter from the crowd.

She sat on the chair so the bachelor could put the garter on her, but offered her arm instead of her leg. The audience howled, “No way,” so she demurely acceded. She lifted her foot so he could slide the garter on her leg, but rested her hands on her knees so he could not bring the garter any higher. When the crowd screamed “higher, higher,” she allowed him an additional inch above her knee. Then he stopped. The guests again howled “higher,” but she stood pat. Seeing that she was serious this time, the people at the wedding reception kindly agreed that it was okay to stop there.

As they posed for photos with the bride and groom, the wedding coordinator motioned the bachelorette to kiss the bachelor. She shook her head to say no, but offered her cheek so he could kiss her, which he gamely did. He even escorted her to her chair. Hmmm, we wondered - is this the beginning of a true romance?

As they later joined the newly-married couple in a wedding dance, they held and looked at each other like we were not there, and we wondered, will they be the bride and groom in the next garter game?

(Based on observations at Rainier and Iris Camille’s wedding on February 20 at Oasis in San Juan, Metro Manila).

About Visual Floaters and Getting Old...

2007-02-19T00:28:00.000+08:00

At 61, I do notice myself getting old, and one of the most telling ways is how my vision has deteriorated. It is getting more difficult to read fine print (especially telephone books) and recently, I had my first encounter with floaters.

On Valentine’s Day, I was doing paperwork on the dining table when I saw something a bit blurred in front of my eye. Thinking that I had a stray eyelash or hair in front of my eye, I brushed my eye with my hand, but the “vision” stayed. After I washed my face and it was still there, I suspected that I had “floaters.”

The first time that I heard about “floaters” was when my husband John experienced them a few years ago. I remember how worried he was about his eyes then, which is understandable because, after all, he is a photographer. All we knew about them then was what his doctor told us. Now, with Internet, my first recourse was to “google” and there was quite a bit to learn about floaters.

(http://www.allaboutvision.com/conditions/spotsfloats.htm)

As soon as I saw my husband, I told him about my experiencing floaters. Before I could impress him with the information I culled from the Net, he said, “You’re getting old.” His quick-on-the-draw remark was not meant to hurt - it is characteristic of him to be simple, precise and direct to the point.

Seeing a slight worry frown on my face, he did a double take and told me that his own floaters no longer bother him. “Go see an eye doctor,” he said, and gently added, “Don’t worry, we’ll grow old together.”

Two Pillows

2007-02-14T12:26:00.000+08:00

At our age, it is common for internists and cardiologists to ask us how many pillows we use when we sleep. (I’ve always answered but never asked why we’re asked – I should when I am asked again).

I suppose it indicates our capability to breathe comfortably (does that make sense?), and maybe that’s how doctors know if we still have good lungs. I’ve always answered “one,” but last night, I realized that I use two. Come to think of it, I have never slept with one pillow.

There are many reasons for using an extra pillow – to elevate the head or to hug something soft and warm - but last night, the reason why I use a second pillow became obvious to me. I put my head on a pillow (pillow number 1) and I put a pillow on my head (pillow number two).

It is to muffle the sound of a husband snoring. ; )

Of course, in the middle of the night, I may not need those pillows.

P.S. 1 I sms’ed a friend who is a medical student to ask him why they ask and here’s his reply:

“Haha. Funny that doctors forget to explain. When hearts enter a failure state, fluid can collect in the lungs because of the increased pressure in the lungs. Patients try to use pillows so fluid stays lower in the lungs via gravity, so they can breathe easier. Ü”

P.S. 2 It must be true love that has kept me sharing the same bed for 33 years with a husband who snores. =)

Blogging Confusion

2007-02-10T20:17:00.000+08:00

My first blog was about family and I posted one story there, while my second attempt at blogging was to chronicle John's involvement with the town of Banaue. I decided to separate it from the story about the family and created another site for it.

Recently, after two years of not blogging, I tried writing again about the family, but I could not find my first blog. I could not remember the title, my username or password. So I was advised to just start from scratch and I did. I wrote quite a few posts, and thought that I was really getting the hang of blogging. I knew how to get to Dashboard and to add a new post. I was proud of myself, and my youngest daughter was proud that her old mother knew how to blog.

Then Blogger switched to their new format, and I could not access my old Dashboard. I could go to my three blogs and managed to combine the first with the second (not what I wanted. It was the second that I wanted to combine with the first so I could drop the second blogspot). I could not go to the Dashboard of the blog that mattered - the most recent and the site that had the most stories.

I searched for help and tried the many suggestions to combine blogs or to find lost usernames, but to no avail. After struggling and failing to find the right away, all I had was a headache. So today, I cut and pasted from my favorite blogsite to my first site. I also made the mistake of transferring some family stories to the blog on Banaue.

I'm confused but I hope you will bear with me. My most recent post, "My Date with Carl Gustav Jung," is buried among the cut-and-pasted stories of my old posts. I also hope that someone can help me put my posts in order, at least chronologically. But I will not be defeated - I will try again.

Dreams Do Come True

2007-02-10T20:13:00.000+08:00

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Dreams Do Come True
Paolo Coelho in his book, "The Alchemist" promised that "when you truly want something, the universe will conspire to give it to you." I have only recently read this book, but it seems John (my husband) and I have been living according to this precept for most of our lives.

In 1975, we needed a four-wheeled vehicle for use in our photography business. Since we couldn't afford to buy a car, we traded in our motorcyle for an owner-type jeep that was old and decrepit. One time, John was driving and the stick shift came off from the socket! It was a frightening experience but we somehow laughed it off.

A couple of months later, we started doing editorial and coverage photography for General Motors. John wanted to have a car - not a car to buy since we didn't have money to buy one - but he wanted to convince GM to give him a car to use. I didn't know then about the power of dreams and asked John "Nahihibang ka na ba (Have you gone crazy?), why would GM give you a car? Will you do all your photography for free use of a car?" Being the partner in charge of the business, I didn't want such an arrangement. John reassured me that we would get paid and still get a free car to use. The volume and value of work that we were doing for GM then was quite low and so I found it hard to imagine that GM would agree to this proposal. I was still full of disbelief, and John pleaded "Just believe. Trust me, they will give us a car." John dictated the proposal to me and I typed it on our letterhead.

Guess what, GM agreed! They even took care of maintenance, all we had to do was spend for gasoline. If anything was wrong with the car, John could take it back and come home with another car! Our neighbors thought we were rich.

That was our first big dream, and we have been chasing and realizing dreams ever since. Thank you John for teaching me, before Paolo Coelho did, that dreams do come true. Thank you, universe.
posted by Harvey at 10:54 PM

Dramatic Reading

2007-02-10T20:10:00.000+08:00

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Dramatic Reading, Part 2
I started to imagine myself doing the actual dramatic reading. In the TDRs (technical dress rehearsals), there will only be family members of the cast, and I expect them to be supportive. In the actual performance, the audience will be composed of only about 30 people – mostly sponsors who are generous with their time, money and readiness to acclaim the efforts of a non-professional group such as ours. This is probably the most gentle and reassuring way, as Lala said it, “to get your feet wet.”

On the way home, Lala congratulated me, and said that I did fine. She pointed out the fact that Tita Naty did not correct me even once. (That was a great confidence-booster because I had heard my children and their classmates speak of how much fun theater could be but how strict Tita Naty was). I told her that the last time I read that way was when my children were young and I read to them, dramatizing the characters from fairy tales, or stories from Dr. Seuss to keep them entertained.

I’ve had good practice then.
posted by Harvey at 8:24 PM
Monday, November 27, 2006

Dramatic Reading
A few days ago, Naty Crame-Rogers (whom we all call Tita Naty), 83-year old 2006 National Artist for Drama, sms’ed me an invitation to join her group in a dramatic reading of “the Cradle Song.” She would ask our mutual friend, Lala Castillo, to bring me the script. I was to play Sr. Maria Jesus. The first meeting of the group will be on Friday, November 24.

Lala sent the script on Thursday, which I didn’t get to receive until Friday morning. So it was only then that I discovered that Sr. Maria Jesus was supposed to be an 18-year novice at a convent. “How on earth can I be a convincing 18-year old?” I asked myself. I am 60 and maybe I look 50, but sometimes my voice quakes and quivers like I am 70. But I had not seen Lala in a long time, and it would be nice to chat with her on the way to Tita Naty’s house. Later, I can always make excuses why I could not join.

Through Manila’s traffic, the ride took about an hour – a good amount of time for a chat with Lala. I told her how I felt about playing an 18-year old, gave her the whole slew of excuses that I had prepared. She said not to worry, there is always a double cast, and reassured me that I could quit if I wanted to.

At Tita Naty’s house, I met her motley group of volunteers that does dramatic readings, plays and musicals in her sala (living room) or garden theater. Of course, I already knew Tita Naty. I first saw her perform in the much-heralded Filipino play, Nick Joaquin’s “Portrait of An Artist as Filipino,” when I was a student at the University of the Philippines. She was until recently, the indefatigable drama coach at St. Scholastica’s College where my three daughters attended grade school and where Lala was the grade school principal. Lala retired from St. Scho but was immediately invited to be directress of the Philippine National High School for the Arts. Other participants included Mrs. Mabanta, her 76-year old neighbor who was introduced as the wife of a former government official, Cathy, a tall woman in her mid 30’s who works at a call center, and the only man in the group – Danny Escasa, who I learned works with computers and had met my daughter Sacha in one of meetings of the Philippine Linux Users Group.

After some small talk, Tita Naty started talking about “Cradle Song.” She told the story, and gave some tidbits about previous presentations, including the fact that it had been made into a movie. After learning that the role assigned to me was that of Sr. Maria Jesus, an 18-year-old novice in a convent, I was just about ready to back out. “I’m 60, and my character is 18,” I protested but Tita Naty said she doesn’t really assign actors according to the age or personality of the characters to be portrayed. “But I can’t memorize scripts anymore,” I protested again, to which Tita Naty said, “you don’t need to memorize the script – this is dramatic reading, so you’re allowed to read, well glance at, the script.” “But it’s December already next week, and I won’t have time to rehearse with you,” I reasoned to wriggle my way out of this commitment. “Oh, that’s ok. Everybody is busy in December, so we’ll start rehearsals in January.” “But I may be too busy at work to come for rehearsals or the actual performances,” I tried again, and she said “Oh, but this is relaxing and just what you need to have after work.” Running out of excuses, I surrendered to her persuasive ways and picked up the folder that contained the script, in a way glad to have been “pushed” into trying something I have wanted to do for a long time.

The folders that held the scripts were fastened at the bottom instead of at the top, I suppose to make it easier to “drop” the finished page and move on to the next.

There were more characters than actors so Tita Naty, Lala and Danny doubled up, with Danny actually reading a part for a female character. When the script came to my part, I read, almost cautiously, half expecting Tita Naty to correct how I read. But she didn’t! I know that Tita Naty’s ears are trained to hear if lines are read properly – right pronunciation, enunciation, tone, inflection, emotion – whatever it was that we were supposed to do with our voices to make the characters come alive, so it was with relief that she didn’t correct me, or point to any error in the way I read. At some point when the conversation among the characters was supposed to be excited and animated, she must have noticed that all our voices were going the same way and pitch, and she gave us a short informative lecture on the three pitches – high, medium and low. She advised us to listen to each other, and to change the pitch from the one used by the previous reader. “If she’s high, go medium or low.” Like a choral director, she harmonized our voices while keeping intact the identities of the characters.

I found myself flowing through some 15 pages of script, and Tita Naty was right. Except for the first part when I was nervous, the rest of the practice session was quite relaxing. And fulfilling. I committed to attend the rehearsals in January.

Conquering Childhood Fears

2007-02-10T20:06:00.000+08:00

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Conquering Childhood Fears

Some childhood fears persevere into adulthood. Mine did, but I wanted to save my children from “inheriting” those fears.

The house where I grew up in was just a couple of houses away from the river, and three or four blocks away from the sea. Since my own mother did not know how to swim, she always worried that we might drown, so we were never allowed to play in or near the river or sea. We also lived along the town’s only avenue, so biking was out of the question. My mother's voice, though not loud, was clear - "Keep off the street. No biking."

Now, fast forward to the time more than 20 years later: At one point, my husband, John, tried to teach me how to ride a bike, but I was afraid that it was something I was to old to learn. I was afraid of falling or of hurting myself, and I could almost hear my mother’s voice in my head warning me that a bus or jeepney might hit me.

It was at that time that I learned that I was pregnant for the first time, and I found a convenient excuse not to continue with the biking lessons. After the baby was born, he would ask again from time to time, but I would make up all sorts of excuses and after some time, he gave up asking.

When our eldest daughter, Ching Ching, was 5, John taught her how to ride a bicycle. She learned quickly and John and she would ride together and leave me with my younger daughter, Kathy, then 1-1/2. When Kathy was five, she also learned how to ride a proper bicycle. A third daughter, Sacha, was born, and following tradition, learned to ride a bike at 5 (Ching Ching was then 12, while Kathy was 8-1/2). So it came to be that all three daughters and their dad would ride their bikes to go as far as Fort Santiago and leave me behind at the Cultural Center Complex to watch over their bags of food, water and towels.

Even with a book to keep me company, it was getting lonely and boring being alone while they biked around town the whole morning. They would return with exciting stories about what happened to them or what they saw and I felt bad that I was not there to share the experience first hand with my children.

It was then that I resolved that I would learn how to bike. I told myself that anyone can learn how to bike – why, I even see chimpanzees ride bicycles in circuses. If a chimpanzee can do it, hmmm, so can I.

There I was, in my early 40’s and my goal was to ride a bike (of course, without trainer-wheels) ; ) . I told my husband about my intention and he was very encouraging. I was determined to learn and went practically every day at the Cultural Center Complex where I could rent a bike. As I mount the bike, I would see that there would be at least 5 others – between the ages of 5 and 10, learning how to ride bicycles. Some were even younger, but their bikes had trainer wheels.

One of the bike-rental stall owners assigned a young boy to teach me. As to be expected, I fell a few, no, many times, but each time I fell, I would get up again and again and ride my bicycle, determined to outgrow my childhood fear. Eventually, I did learn. John taught me how to do figure 8’s, and was very patient in encouraging me to venture a little beyond the square where bikes were being rented out.

I was proud of myself, but still afraid to try biking on the main street. To this day, I still cannot get myself to ride a bike and compete for street space among buses, jeepneys and pedestrians. I may never fully outgrow my childhood fears, but I am grateful that my children- who ride bicycles confidently - have done better than I.

Learning to Spell and Do Math

2007-02-10T19:59:00.000+08:00

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Learning to spell and do math

Learning to Spell

When you are having fun, learning becomes easy. When Kathy was in first grade and learning to spell, she had a hard time. It was a frustrating experience for her. To help her out, we taught her a fun trick – which was to imagine each letter as a person. An “O” would be a rotund person, letter “I” would be a thin person, letter “T” has his feet together but arms outstretched at shoulder-height, letter “A” is standing with legs apart, letter “X” has his feet far apart and his arms outstretched above his head, etc.

As she spelled each word, she imagined the letters marching out one by one joining the others in the right sequence. We started her with short words, but pretty soon, she was spelling long words. Sometimes, she would laugh, imagining how awkwardly certain letters would walk to their position in the word.

Just recently, my husband was trying to write something but couldn’t get right the spelling of a certain word. He kept asking Kathy to repeat the spelling. Getting tired of doing so, Kathy, who is now 26, said, “papa, just imagine people as letters and they are marching one by one. Now, what do you see in your head? Who comes after E?”

Learning Math

Whether doing additions or subtractions, mental arithmetic is not much fun for a 5 year old. When Ching was in prep, she had math homework to do, but she was not in the mood to do them. I asked her to bring out her math worksheets, and we struggled with the first one. She was not paying any attention at all to what we were doing, and counting on our fingers did not do the trick, since our fingers, hers and mine together, only reached up to 20. (I wish I had heard of “Finger Math” then). I was really challenged to make math fun for her to do. I looked around the house for things that she could count, but there were hardly any that reached 21 to 99, until I happened to glance at a jar full of coins (to save money, I throw all my coins into the jar at the end of each day). I gave her some coins in different denomination, and we pretended to be buying and giving change to each other. Sometimes, when she did not have the exact change, she learned to combine different coins to reach the required amount. It was fun, and it took us only a few minutes to finish several pages of homework.

To add variety to things for us to count, I bought multi-colored popsicle sticks and beads, and we often laid them out on the entire floor of the children's room so we could see how much space a thousand sticks occupied when grouped in 5’s, 10’s, or 100’s. I think it helped in understanding math that we were touching them as we were counting. Math was real and physical, not just abstract and mental.

Kathy, on the other hand, learned math the easy way because her school had interdisciplinary programs – meaning, they did activities such as going to the zoo, cooking or doing stage productions, and through these activities, they learned math, writing and other subjects. At the zoo, for example, they helped in preparing food for the animals – and they learned fractions – mix 1-½ cups of chopped carrots with ¾ cup of sliced beans. For theater production, they learned the height, width and depth of props to take onstage, or length and width of costumes to sew.

One of the best-loved books in our family library is Mathemagic, part of a series of books called Childcraft. One of Ching’s early questions as a child was “Is there a number smaller than zero?” I told her yes, but I was befuddled as to how to explain the concept of negative numbers until I read Mathemagic. In one chapter, the book explained negative numbers in a way that a child could understand, by instructing the child:
a. Draw a line and step on it – that’s zero.
b. Take a step forward, that’s one.
c. Take another step forward, that’s two
d. Now, return to zero.
e. Take one step back, that’s minus one.
f. Take another step back, that’s minus two.

When third and final daughter Sacha came along, it was easy. We still had the coins, beads and popsicle sticks. She was playing and counting them even before she went to school. We had Mathemagic, and that was one of the first books she herself read.

Math is easy when it is fun.

Cold Knocking

2007-02-10T19:57:00.000+08:00

Friday, December 15, 2006

Cold Knocking
From a post on www.digitalphotographer.com.ph/forum"

Quote:
Tap your "network" Mom, Dad, cousin, classmates etc.

We live in a country that's it's who you know and not what you know anyway. *sigh*
End Quote

I beg to disagree with the above statement, so I wrote this and posted it on the same thread.

Cold Knocking:

That may be true for some people you will meet, but many you can meet through a process called "Cold Knocking."

Before graduating from college, I sold encyclopedias. We were told NOT to call on relatives or friends but to do "cold knocking" which meant going door to door, knocking on the doors of people we did not know.

When John and I started, we did not know anybody. Although he's Chinese, he was not connected with the Chinese community. Because I went to U.P. and did not join any sororities, I did not have a "network" of college friends. So I did what I had learned before - I did some "Cold Knocking." I picked up the Yellow Pages and started calling ad agencies. I told them that we were interested to do advertising photography and may I present our portfolio to them?

I prepared a portfolio. We did not really have an advertising portfolio (a simple clearbook with black cartolina inserts) but lakasan lang ng loob (what's the English translation? -* "we had guts"*). Most of the items in the portfolio were shots that were obviously amateurish. I included an article on John called "The Magic Eye of John Chua" that Asia Magazine (now extinct) had published.

John would always say that whether you approach a big agency or a small agency, the effort is the same, so I approached one of the biggest ad agencies - J. Walter Thompson. (Sabi ko na, lakasan lang yan ng loob!). Since all we had was a 35mm camera, one of our first projects was for an audiovisual presentation. Mostly, repros. But we got our break.

We also approached Nation Ad - former partner of Grey Advertising (now partnered with Campaigns), plus a few others that have now already disappeared from the advertising scene.

We were getting all minor assignments, but we made sure that our clients were happy with our work. With money saved, we bought a 120mm camera. The brand was "Kowa" and it was a Hasselblad wannabe. (One established photographer asked me what John's medium format camera was, and I said "Kowa." "Kowa-wa naman kayo" was his reply). *Translation: kowa-wa, take off from "kawawa" which means pitiful.*

I continued to do cold knocking. Tiyaga lang *I persevered*. I cold-knocked on the doors of Ace Comption, now Ace Saatchi and Saatchi. The AD asked me what lights we used. I said "available lights." He asked me how John would control highlights and shadows and I said "magaling siya *he's good* with available lights." I called every now and then but did not get an assignment from them until 7 years later.

When I was selling encyclopedias, I learned to persevere. We were told that maybe in the beginning, the number of rejections compared to acceptance would be higher. Maybe in the beginning, we would have to knock on a hundred doors before we got in. If we quit on the 99th, we would never meet our first customer.

We were told to work hard to improve the ratio - to bring down the number of rejections, but to accept that rejections were part of the game - that every rejection brought us closer to the sale. I also learned this from Tom Hopkins (Official Guide to Success) who welcomed every rejection because they brought him closer to his success. 1, 2, 3, ...96, 97, 98, 99.. hurray! here comes the 100th. Finally, a sale!

33 years later, and I am still asking our people to do cold knocking.

There are a lot of clients waiting to meet you. If you don't call them, how would they know where to find you? Buti nga ngayon may internet. *it's a good thing that now we have internet* but that is not enough.

Sure, go ahead, check out your friends and relatives but do pick up the phone book, buy trade directories, join online fora, print your business cards and give them away.

Zig Ziglar (author of various books on selling) said he would give himself a quota of 20 cards a day to give away. At the end of one particular day, he was about to go home. He loaded gas and saw two cards still in his wallet. So he handed them to the gasoline attendant and requested him to give his cards to two customers of the gasoline station who look like they needed new cars. The following week, he got a call from someone who said he received Ziglar's card from the gas boy. He made a sale.

Once I tried doing that. I was at the Enterprise and saw one food stall that looked like they could use better photos. I bought my lunch there and offered my card to the cashier, and said, "if you need good photos of your food, please ask the owner to give us a call." She said, "Mam, si boss po ang nagshoot nito." *Mam, my boss did the photos."* When I was no longer within hearing distance, I gave out a sigh, and told myself, "you can't win them all" and counted "no. 99."

Good luck. Sorry for the long post. I just wanted to help inspire you to just keep on knocking.
Online
posted by Harvey at 9:26 AM

A Chinese Decision

2007-02-10T19:50:00.000+08:00

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

A Chinese Decision

In 1985, having made the decision to stay in the country, we had offered to buy the house that we had been renting since 1980. It housed our studio as well, while we lived on the second floor that had two bedrooms, one for my husband John and myself, and the other for the children. The living room and a ground floor masters’ bedroom had been converted into photo studios, the library into an equipment room, and we shared the dining room and kitchen with the staff and clients.

When we informed our landlady, with whom we had become friends, that we were interested to purchase her house, she did not want to name a price. Instead, she wanted us to make an offer.

To help me arrive at a fair price to offer her, I decided to look around in the neighborhood to see how much properties were selling for. Then, one day, one of the real estate agents asked me to check out a house in San Lorenzo Village (or San Lo, for short), a first class gated subdivision right next to the Makati Central Business District. Although San Lo was a residential community, they were quite lax and allowed businesses to be established in some of the homes (as long as they didn’t obviously build business buildings). She assured me that San Lo prices were at par with Bautista’s, since Bautista was considered a commercial area.

My only intention for looking around was to get an idea of how much to offer for our house, but I was thrilled to think that there was a possibility that we could live in a nicer neighborhood.

True enough, I found a house in San Lo that met one of the most important specifications that my husband had set – that it must have a living room large enough to be used as a photo studio. I showed it to my husband and he gave his imprimatur. I liked it myself because it had a yard and was near the community park. I envisioned having my young children biking around in this safe neighborhood and making friends with other kids in the neighborhood – something they could not do on busy, noisy and traffic-dangerous Bautista Street.

Since I had a friend in the real estate business who lived in San Lo, I took her to the house to get her advise on how to negotiate with the owners. To my chagrin, she immediately said we should not get that house. I asked her why, and she said “Tumbok yan, and that’s malas” (“tumbok” is the Tagalog word for being at the intersecting point of two roads connecting like a T, and “malas” means to be capable of bringing misfortune). It was my first time to hear the word “tumbok” and I certainly did not believe in superstitions. I argued that my husband and I work very hard and can offset or overcome whatever “malas” the house would bring. “That may be true,” she said, “but many people believe that houses like this are ‘malas’ and if and when you need to upgrade, you would have a hard time selling this property.”

I went home frustrated that we could not push through with buying a house because it was “tumbok” and “malas.” I went to bed early, very disappointed and slightly depressed at seeing all my happy dreams and visions of this San Lo house going pffft, and at the thought of doing house hunting all over again.

All of sudden, a thought came to me that pulled me out of the pits. My inner voice was saying – “Why feel bad? In 1970 when you started the business, you had nothing and hardly any money, and today, you almost bought a house in an exclusive community in the city. You’ve come a long way, Harvey.” That thought was enough to perk me up, and I went downstairs to the studio to reassure my husband that I was feeling okay and not to worry about me.

I saw him working overtime in the studio with a Chinese client. We talked about the house and he (Felix Wu, formerly of Ajinomoto) said he would like to share a story with us of two businessmen – a Chinese and a Filipino.

Here was the story:

There were two entrepreneurs, one Filipino and one Chinese. They both had a “sari-sari” store (a humble variety store that sells, in retail, only small low-priced everyday items).

After a year, the Filipino used the profits of his store to buy himself a TV set. The Chinese man reinvests his money into the store, and turned his “sari-sari” store into a mini-grocery.

After the second year, the Filipino bought himself a second-hand car while the Chinese continued to commute using public transportation. He expanded his store, while the Filipino still had the same “sari-sari” store.

After the third year, the Filipino bought himself a house in BF Homes (a medium-level suburban subdivision) while the Chinaman continued to live in a tiny room above his store, which was by then, close to looking like a department store.

At this point, my husband butted in and said, “You see, the Chinese way is better,” to which I replied, “Better for the business but look at the two and see who is smiling.” It was easy for the three of us to reach the conclusion that the Chinese knew how to do business, while the Filipino knew how to enjoy life.

“Let’s have a Chinese decision,” John said. “Let’s offer to buy this house. After all, the studio is here, we won’t need to transfer, we might lose clients if we transferred, we won’t have to change business forms and stationary, etc.”

“Okay”, I said, “for now, we will have a Chinese decision, but I hope someday, we can enjoy a Filipino decision.”

We offered to buy the house, our offer was well received, and for the next 20 years, we lived and worked here, raised our children and grew our photography business, combining home and business as many Chinese families would. We continue to live our Chinese decision, while waiting for the opportunity to enjoy a Filipino decision.

My Date with Carl Gustav Jung

2007-02-10T17:41:00.000+08:00

Two weeks ago, I signed up for the four-day “Exploration of Self” workshop, which is based on the ideas of Carl Gustav Jung. The first day would coincide with my 61st birthday, and I thought, “how appropriate that I should give this as a gift to myself.”

But a day before the first day, I received a call from one of our biggest clients – asking us to quote for several projects that could take us a year to accomplish. On top of that, we needed to make a portfolio presentation to them as they have new people on their team.

I was torn between work and self. I gathered my staff – two photographers including my own daughter who now works as photographer-account executive, and a new management trainee. I discussed with them what client needed, and guided them through the discussion on how we would pitch for the project. They had a day to put together a portfolio of impressive color prints, write a persuasive cover letter and gather enough materials for an audiovisual presentation. I told them that I would not be there to work with them, to check their work, or to lead in presenting to client. I would be out of the office during those two crucial days, and I trusted them to do the job.

By the time my photographer-husband, John, heard about the scheduled meeting with client, the team I gathered was already working on all the materials that we needed to try to convince our client that we are the best company for the projects they have in mind. As expected, he plunged in, and offered to not only lead the group in preparing the materials for the pitch, but also to be there at the actual presentation.

Then, he turned to me and asked, “Will you be there?” I hesitated but said no. “Why not?,” he asked. “I’m attending a workshop.” “What workshop is that?” “It’s a Jung workshop – on self exploration.” Now, my husband has learned through the years that I believe in continuing education and attend classes on a variety of topics, some about business, some about creativity, or on writing, or knitting, pottery, relationships, successions in family businesses, or core energy – so it no longer surprises him when he hears me mention something or somebody unfamiliar. I don’t think he has ever heard of Carl Jung, although Sigmund Freud’s name would have rang a bell but would have elicited more questions as to why I would be in a workshop like that.

On my 61st birthday, I spent the first of a four-day workshop luxuriating in a wonderful self-journey. John loves to work and would not think birthdays are occasions for not working but for me, it was wonderful to be away from the stresses of work and business, and freed from guilt for not working on a regular workday. Since Jungian workshops are not an activity that many men appreciate, I am even more thankful for this gift of time from my husband.

In my next few blogs, I hope to share what I will learn from this workshop and how I hope understanding Carl Jung would help me understand myself and the people around me, including my own husband, who very generously respected my need for this journey on self-discovery.

***

If you want to know more about Carl Jung, this is what I picked up from Wikipedia.

Carl Jung - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Jung's unique and broadly influential approach to psychology emphasized understanding the psyche through exploring the worlds of dreams, art, mythology, world religion and philosophy. Although he was a theoretical psychologist and practicing clinician for most of his life, much of his life's work was spent exploring other realms: Eastern vs. Western philosophy, alchemy, astrology, sociology, as well as literature and the arts. Jung also emphasized the importance of balance and harmony. He cautioned that modern humans rely too heavily on science and logic and would benefit from integrating spirituality and appreciation of the unconscious realm. Jungian ideas are not typically included in curriculum of most major universities' psychology departments, but are occasionally explored in humanities departments.
Source:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Jung

Being with the clan, on your papa's side

2004-12-06T15:44:00.000+08:00

Just testing...unfinished... will try to start writing journal earlier so I have time to finish. Must try to write at least 15 minutes everyday.

Dear Sacha, Ching and John

Today, there were many reasons to come together and celebrate kinship.

In addition to three birthdays (Tito Ric will turn 72 on December 18; his grandsons, Ron Ron and Ranz have recently turned 17 and 5, respectively), we were celebrating a homecoming. Your cousin, Polen, is visiting from Australia with her husband Dennis and infant-son James.

Kathy, Papa and I came almost two hours late since we had to wait for your papa to finish photographing the Marian procession at Intramuros. When we arrived in San Juan, "everyone" was there. Tita Francy wore a pretty red Chinese blouse. Even at 60+, now that she has learned to dye her hair, she remains attractive.

There was a lot of food on the table, but the entire clan seems to prefer to feast only on Chinese lumpia. It was good, but not quite as good as the way Auntie Nica used to cook them.

Auntie Nica could not come to the party. She had a little accident this morning. Tito Jon (John Tan) was busy heating some water and told Auntie Nica to wait for him to assist her in coming out of her room. But I suppose she was eager to see if she could walk unassisted. She did manage to reach the living room. Unfortunately, she leaned on a plastic monobloc table which was not heavy or stable enough to carry her weight, and she fell to the floor. Fortunately, it was not a major fall, and she did not break any bones. She's 70+ and her bones are fragile, as fragile as her health, and her memory. Ate Opu was there but it was obvious she was worrying about Auntie Nica.

Tita Betsy came with Christine, Lexine and Nicole, who came with her husband (I remember his family name - Moro - but not his first name) and her infant daughter, Nikki.

Tita Nancy came with her twins, Charlie and Edward, and their respective spouses and children.

Jo An, Kuya Aboy's daughter, told us about how she "won" her visa to the U.K. When she first applied for a visa she was denied because the consul did not believe that she could afford the trip and that she would come back. She tried to explain her side but she said when she tried to explain, she was always being interrupted by the consul who would say "I don't believe you" or "that's not believable." Very irked, she argued with him, but he was the consul, and at the end of the interview, he announced that he was denying her a visa. But, fortunately for Jo An, British foreign service law required him to tell her that she could appeal her case by writing to the government in U.K. She did, and U.K. ruled in her favor.

She'll get her passport and visa on Monday, but she does not want to leave for England now because she does not want to be there in winter. She's requesting that she be allowed to arrive in April or May instead. I guess that's proof that she does not intend to stay there - she can't and won't stay in England during the cold months. She's still Pinoy.

to be continued...