Happy Birthday, Jach!

17-year-old virtuoso pianist. Quezon City

Many moons ago, when I first met Jach, I thought he was shy, quiet, and reserved.

Was I wrong! He likes to be the life of the party and to be in charge. 

Coupled with that extroverted stint is a trait that's baffling and downright confusing but amusing at the same time. Through the years, he has evolved as an amorphous, unclassifiable, and constantly forking dichotomy of contrary personalities.

To wit. 

He certainly has the brains. He seems to know just about everything, so I don't need Google.

Yet conversely proportional to all that erudition is his at-home vocabulary. Jach has a three-word limit to his conversation, not necessarily spoken in sequence, though he sometimes blows his quota with an additional grunt. When I obsess over incidents, parsing every nuance for the possibility of unfavorable outcomes, his is the calm voice that soothes with an, Eh, incidentally his favorite go-to in the hierarchy of his treble word-stock. 

A thumbs up to Mayon, the world's most-perfect
cone-shaped volcano. Bicol, 2020

Also, with his friends and cronies, I'd say he's ET with the heart light on, listening - for hours! - to every ache and pain, emotional and technical. He will travel the distance and defy the spewed ashes of a raging volcano just to meet up with them.

But driving fifteen minutes, a total of 6.58 miles on Morse Road, to Saraga International Grocery for chocoflan is out of the way.

His wardrobe is sparse but he has enough Other Stuff. Like backpacks, walking shoes, and empty boxes. 

Yes.

Empty.Boxes.

I think he has enough of these stacked up in the garage to supply every major city in the country for the next ten years. And that's not counting the empty, used plastic bags he leaves in the refrigerator bins. I cannot fathom how he squirrels away every crate, case, and carton and bestows the gift of immortality upon each of them. 

To his credit, he is a skilled cook who delights with his bistek (beef steak), Peri-Peri infused broiled chicken, pad thai and a not-shabby-at-all lemon bar dessert.

I'm convinced that life, to Jach, is a blank canvas. That's why he throws all the paint on it that he can. He's a funny chameleon who cultivates his small spark of madness to the hilt.

Once, he heard a doctor on TV say that to have inner peace, we should always finish things we start, and we all could use more calm in our lives now during the pandemic. 

Did he take that to heart!

Heeding the advice, he wrote about it, thus:

I looked through my house to find things I'd started and hadn't finished, so I finished off a bottle of Merlot, a bottle of Chardonnay, a bodle of Baileys, a butle of wum, tha mainder of Valiumun srciptuns, an a box a chocletz.

Yuhaf no idr how feckin fablus I feel rite now.

Sned his to all who need inner piss. An telum u luvum

I firmly believe that his guiding principle in life is to make jokes. No stress. Love. Live life. Proceed. Progress.

Need I say more? 

Actually, yes. 

Don't let aging get you down.

It's too hard to get back up.

                  Happy birthday, Jach!

Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is relax. Zoombezi Bay Water Park, 2020

Silver White Winters That Melt Into Spring

Favorite Things

Is the spring coming? he said. What is it like?... It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine. - The Secret Garden

Winter, it’s been fun.

I love your blustery gales and your dancing flakes and your layers of snowdrifts. I know you have been trying to impress me with all that winter wonderland.

But now, truth be told, my heart has been engaged elsewhere.

By visions of red roses sprouting off the softer ground, with raindrops glistening on their buds.

By warm woolen mittens, still a solace even on longer days with gentler winds.

By home-baked apple strudels, warm off the oven. 

The racket of baby squirrels and blue jays at dawn that have come alive from muted city noises once muffled in whiteness.

Wild geese flying with the moon on their wings. 

Silver white winters that melt into the fluttery skirt of spring.

All my favorite things.

Really, thinking of them no longer makes me feel so bad.

Maybe call me next year?

Good Morning, Alena and Iris

Serendipity: a fortunate happenstance or pleasant surprise. An unplanned fortunate discovery.

So I've decided to add random blogs now and then that have come about serendipitously, by chance in a happy way.

****************************************************************

This was tucked away in a folder stashed in a seldom-accessed ancient-looking filing cabinet that had lost its key. The page was yellowing, but clearly legible in Dadee's handwriting was this poem written on January 27, 1981.

Wild Geese, The Moon On Their Wings

Favorite Things

Drag me to the moon, to catch a star and seize its brilliance as I'm swept up in amorphous dust. - Bradley Chicho

When the nights get chilly with a steady breeze blowing out of the west, I like to think of those warm afternoons on the farm when we waited for geese that had been pecking at fallen rice grains in the neighboring paddy fields.

Gansa, we called them.

My cousins and I would venture past the bamboo grove toward the rivulet. Near the river was a small marshland covering some three hectares. There the geese, their clamor almost deafening, would gather. 

Then at dusk, two or three birds would take flight, squawking as they flew overhead. Another one would lift noisily into the sky, its flapping wings sending vibrations through the still air. 

I liked watching a whole squadron of them rise from the cattails patterning in a tight formation against the sky. 

It was so beautiful that I oftentimes yearned to sprout wings and join them in their flight.

I loved listening to their wild, throaty honk when the crickets got silent.

I liked how seen in silhouette, the birds appeared to skim the tips of the trees.

And my favorite thing of all, I liked how they soared overhead, oblivious to the scene below, chasing moonbeams on their wings.

Wanderers all.

Drowsy with dreams.

(To be continued)

Crisp Apple Strudel

Favorite Things

We could have been in a traditional Salzburg market or a kantine in Munich - I really don't remember where. 

I do recall that there was a slight chill to the air and that I was hungry, focused on one of my points of interest anywhere on the globe. 

Food.

For a few moments, I ran my eyes over the culinary options in silence. 

An enticing chain of bratwurst sausage hanging from the ceiling.

Fresh local gooseberries and vegetables along with exotic treats, Bergkase          cheese, pastries and more.

Crisp apple strudel oozing with a sugary filling displayed on a shelf behind the window.

Did I just say, crisp apple strudel?

This is one of my favorite things.

I was coveting a slice of the sweet confection.

I wanted to be bathed in the fragrance of the just-baked warm strudel, wedged awkwardly on a cutting board.

I  imagined drawing my plate forward and sticking a fork into the flaky crust. Twirling it teasingly around before piercing through its filling of juicy, spiced apples.

Then gulping a bite, letting crumbs disintegrate from the dough as I bring it to my mouth.

Feeling my cheeks bulging, my mouth slimy around the corners.

Smiling, neither griping nor fretting. Loving life.

Savoring the pastry's enticing goodness, for this is the answer. Who cares what the question is.

 

(To be continued)

Warm Woolen Mittens

Favorite Things

I'm weird in many ways. My hands get ultra-cold so I wear mittens all the time, even to bed.

But who cares about being weird?

Warm woolen mittens are one of my favorite things.

They feel welcoming and wonderful and make me want to put on fuzzy socks, enjoy a toasty mug of hibiscus tea and snuggle up.

Cozy warm.

That’s how I feel like when I have my mittens on.

Like all is calm and all is bright.

Like the world has stopped for a moment and is shining a little brighter.

Like even when eight thousand miles away, I'm back in my tropical home.

And that though the days are colder, my heart is warm inside.

(To be continued)

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

It seems like just yesterday when you were brand new. 

Chicago, 1973

Your life had only just begun. 

Soon after, there were so many things you could do. 

First you rolled over, then you crawled.

You learned to laugh and sit.

And stand straight and take your first steps.

Chicago, 1974

After a year of being zero, you 'blew' your first candle on a birthday cake almost as big as you.

And excitedly opened presents.

Since then, you've grown up to be sweet, tenacious, and wise - soaring confidently in your own sky.

Honolulu, 2020

Today you are you,

That is truer than true

There is no one alive

Who is youer than you.

And on this special day,

your birthday,

 I wish you, First Daughter, 

double of the best of everything!

Raindrops On Roses

Favorite Things

O my luve is like a red, red rose that’s newly sprung...

O my luve is like the melody that’s sweetly played in tune. - Robert Burns

So what else is new this month?

Nothing.

Just dreary days and a little snow and cloudy skies. All I want to do is sit under a blanket and watch Roman Holiday and Funny Face on Hulu and come out when the sunshine shows up.

So what do I do when I feel a little sad and gloomy?

As the lilting song from The Sound Of Music intones, I simply remember my favorite things.

And today I want to share them with you.

Yep.

You.

Just in case you're having a hard week.

Just in case you're a little sad.

Just in case.

Starting with raindrops on roses. 

I like watching a fine drizzle, falling shyly to wet leaves and branches, then gather into big drops that plop onto the rose florets.

I love the intoxicating scent of roses blended into the musky smell of rain. 

At night, I like that the kiss of rain in the breeze and on rose petals would hang soft and cool in the air.

I can't imagine anything else that could top the perfection of this imagery.

It speaks of luv like a red, red rose. 

Like the melody that's sweetly played in tune to the gentle murmur of the rain. 

(To be continued)