Compliment from a Stranger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"

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"

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

Read my VisualDNA™     Get your own VisualDNA™

Love in a "Pan"

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

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"

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.