Mary Wannabe

Onstage

And just when you thought that was all regarding my stage career, let me tell you when I sang as part of a quartet and played the guitar accompaniment for a singing competition in church.

Pick yourself off the floor.

I did.

I was only maybe fifteen and fearless.

I clearly remember our chosen piece. It was a popular tune called Very Last Day by American folk music trio Peter, Paul and Mary. 

Onstage, the girls and I belted out the three part harmonies emulating the rich tones of trained vocalists while I did the guitar work.

Everybody gonna pray on the very last day

Oh when they hear that bell a-ring the world away

Everybody gonna pray to the heavens on the judgment day.

I could swear that our voices boomed out to the back wall, wove their way through the open door and reverberated through the hall.

When I heard the big ripple of applause after our rendition, I remember how I couldn't keep my face from bursting into a massive, foolish smile. In my heart, I just knew our performance was a winner.

Indeed. 

We garnered first place besting the a capella belting of Sweet Chariot by the MYF Hopeless basketball team. 

Despite that premier singing success, however, I vowed never to wander again into the tricky waters of melodic warbling because I knew singing wasn't my forte. 

But maybe someday, on the very last day.

P.S.

As an interesting aside,  I just recently realized  that I did continue to sing randomly in my adult life.

After a Zoom celebration of Ninang Dan's 100th birthday with former UP Baguio colleagues last year (subject of my November 1st blog), I received these emails from the latter:

     Email #1: I remember you clearly singing while playing the guitar, that

     folk song "The river is wide, I cannot get o’er..." 

     Email #2: u knew me as one who could sing 2nd voice to ur first voice

     rendition of "bro john" with u on the guitar.

I suppose the trumpet didn't have to sound calling my name for me to burst out in song. 

For at that stage of my life, my heart sang of its own accord, longing to be close to someone whose hair had been sprinkled with moon dust by angels.

My spirit hummed on impulse, yearning to traverse the bridge over troubled waters when I had felt weary and small.

Going toward the fair, on the side of a hill bordered by rosemary and thyme, my soul spontaneoulsy intoned a melody for a true love of mine.*

And because I felt the feeling, I found the song.

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* - Lyrics referenced in this and the previous two paragraphs are from my go-to 70's songs Close To You by the Carpenters and Bridge Over Troubled Waters and Scarborough Fair by Simon and Garfunkel. 

Sultana

Onstage

As always, I'm celebrating Mother's Day with a story about Mum, one of many that I fondly remember. 

The most fantastical things can happen, and it all starts with a wish.

Are you ready for this?

Dance-challenged moi, in my mid-teens and a tomboy at heart, volunteered to do the finale for the church Filipiniana night - a solo performance of a Moro ceremonial dance called Kandingan.

I'll do it. 

I wasn't sure where the bravado came from. My brain? A coffee-induced boldness?

Why not? 

I must have been delirious. 

The night of, I looked like a golden peacock, perfectly dressed in Dadee's silk robe and black polyester pajamas and enough borrowed jewelry to sink a boat. A long yellow scarf that was actually our neon-curtain was draped diagonally across my bodice for a sarong. I even had Auntie Tessie's pearl choker hung low across my forehead to complete the look of a Muslim Sultana princess.

The rumbling from the drum started (it was from a 45-RPM vinyl recording of the music). From stage left, I ran out with my arms raised like a needle to the sky.

I proceeded stepping here and there with slightly bent knees turned outward, fingers held stiffly together with the thumb outward and apart.

The audience was rapt.

My movement progressed into repeated frenzied twirls. I was spinning expertly, as if in a trance.

Then, for a dramatic climax, I executed a halt with my right hand up, palm front and upward. I crooked my left arm behind me, palm facing down. My face was upturned. My legs mimicked the lines of the arms.

I steadied my stance as I glanced sideways, enveloped in the rush of a runner's high when I saw my mother in the periphery of my vision. Mie (which was what I called her when it was just the two of us in the room) seemed enthralled, her face lit up with delight.

And I remembered.

At a parent-teacher convocation about five years ago, we watched my fifth grade teacher dance the Tinikling. She whispered to me then, Chon, you can dance like that some day.

The significance of my piddling amateurish performance dawned on me.

My Mum who had kept her best wish close to her heart was now watching it happen. 

I had just danced.

For.

Mie.

Mum at 18 years, Manila, 1934

Peter The Rock

Onstage

Those of you who know me, please pick your jaw up off the floor after I say this.

I actually performed onstage in an earlier lifetime.

It’s true. I’m serious. Please don’t laugh.

But that was years ago when purple nail polish wasn't really a thing.

YEARS, y'all.

Yep.

It seems like yesterday and foreverago all at the same time.

This is what I remember about my premier performance. 

It was prep week for Vacation Bible School. Just-turned teen girls who were to serve as VBS teachers trained at Harris Memorial, a school for deaconesses (the Protestant equivalent of a convent for nuns).

I remember the theme for that year, the story of Peter and John from the book of Acts. 

Learning the songs and the stories and the crafts was no biggie, but we also had to perform a skit at the end of the training period. I was assigned the prime role of Peter. (Aside: it was an all-girl cast, as you may have guessed.)

So be it.

Garbed in a one-piece tunic belted at the waist and a white cloth wound round my head as a turban, I additionally improvised with an eyeliner to simulate a moustache and a beard.

I guessed that Peter would have the kind of presence that turned heads when he said something. He would be broad-shouldered, with a calm and confident air that made him serene even in crisis.

Having thus internalized his character, I deemed myself psyched up for the role.

The curtain rose as the narrator began with the premise.

On the ninth hour which was the hour of prayer, Peter and John went up together into the temple.

Then he went on.

And a certain man lame from his mother's womb was carried, whom they laid daily at the gate of the temple which is called Beautiful, to ask alms of them that entered into the temple; who seeing Peter and John about to go into the temple asked alms.

That was my cue.

Waving my hands hurriedly as if trying to chase away an invisible fly, I began to recite Peter's lines with gusto, Silver and gold have I none.

I paused and forced confidence in my voice as I continued, But such as I have give I thee.

I was breathing heavily as if I had just sprinted a mile as I braced myself for the climactic part. I firmed my mouth into a straight line and delivered the finale as boomingly as I could in a voice that could have filled a cathedral. 

In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk.

I took the beggar's right hand and lifted him up.

The hitherto 'lame man' must have felt so immense a feeling of gratitude for having been strengthened in his bones that he shouted, Praise God! Then he leaped up, stood, walked and ran falling into the arms of an astounded Head Deaconess seated upfront in the audience. 

The curtain went down at that dramatic and unexpected ending. Applause rang and we came out to take our bow.

Needless to say, the skit was a success. I heard folks asking, Who played Peter's part? He was so good-looking! 

Well, what do you know? 

I was on stage! I was in the here and now.

Take A Break

 Insights

I had planned on presenting the perfectly profound insight for this series finale. One that befitted a Socratic conversation with evaluative questions. Perhaps a Cartesian thought, or maybe a Sartreian existential idea of authenticity.

Rocky basks in the sunset next to a seawall
of basalt rocks. Photo: V.E.V. Waikiki Beach,
April 21, 2021 

But three days ago, I chanced upon Rocky.

When I saw her seven-and-a-half foot long and 500-pound body with its light-colored belly and gray lanugo fur-covered back plopped on the sand behind our Waikiki condo...

... I realized that all this blog needed was this simple yet prudent insight.

No day is so hard it can't be fixed with a nap.

Rocky is a Hawaiian monk seal, an ilio-holo-i-ka-uaua, which means "dog running the rough waters."

       

The thick fold of skin around her neck which resembles the hood of a monk's robe gives this web-footed aquatic mammal the monicker monk seal.

Rocky is famous. Some four years ago, she had a pup on this very same spot. Since then, she has come back yearly, staying for days to molt on the beach.

Just look at her. Undisturbed. Literally laid-back. For her and would-be Rockys, I offer this accolade in haiku form.*

Snatch winks when you must,

Tune into the soul-soothing

Rhythm of the waves.

Betwixt sky above,

Sand below, stillness within,

Sink in oblivion.

Like flowing waters,

Let peace flow in the ocean

Of your restless soul.

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* - Haiku: a Japanese poem of seventeen syllables in three lines of five, seven and five

Read The Fine Print

Insights

Marriage has no guarantees. If that's what you're looking for, go live with a car battery. - Erma Bombeck

Philippine Wedding, 1971

It has been said that getting married is like a class on Shakespeare. You get some romance, a few tragedies, and lots of comedy.

True.

We've had it all and more.

 

Alongside this smorgasbord of marital genre are lessons I've learned along the way. 

Marriage, as it were, is like twirling a baton or eating with chopsticks. It looks easy until you try it. 

25th Anniversary. Star Princess Cruise, 1996

Early on, I came to figure out that love was blind and marriage was an eye opener.

Thus, if you're thinking about making the walk down the aisle (or into city hall), protect yourself against unexpected disclaimers by bringing along a magnifying glass and reading the fine print of the marriage contract.

On a positive note, I've realized that a happy marriage is when one snores and the other one does not hear it. 

27th Anniversary. Natchez Cruise, 1998

Overall, marriage has taught me loyalty, forbearance, meekness, self-restraint, forgiveness and a great many other qualities I wouldn’t have needed if I'd stayed single.

Three months short of 49th Anniversary. Waikiki Beach, 2020

Today, I'm proud to say that despite the odds, Hubby and I made it to fifty years without one of us either ending up dead or in jail. I call that a win.

Four months to Golden. New Year's Eve. Ohio, 2020

Just as we've enjoyed the awesome perk of annoying each other all this time, wish us luck that we may find it exciting to keep doing so in the future. 

50 Golden Years. Waikiki, April 17, 2021 

A Joyous and Colorful Greeting. "happy 50th Anniv esseary!" [sic]. Watercolor print by First Granddaughter, 9 years old. Waikiki, April 17, 2021       

Greet The World Like A Princess

Insights

Sometimes we tell our stories. But sometimes our stories tell us especially if it's a beautiful one like the classic children's Cinderella, or as two-year-old Eldest Daughter used to say, Cindeweia.

She loved it so. 

I understand the appeal. Cinderella is sweet and kind, and her story is one of true triumph. And not only that, it teaches important life lessons.

Be kind.

Especially to animals. They have feelings, too. And besides, you never know when you’re going to need those mice to pull your carriage.

Always help others in need.

If an old lady with a scarf around her head and glittery eyes extends a gnarled hand toward you and asks for water, offer her some dinner, too. You never know. She could be your fairy godmother in disguise. And make sure you have some pumpkins lying around in case she wants to turn one of them into a carriage.

Have courage.

Life can get a little overwhelming. Your stepmother will make you clean the floors and you have stepsisters who wear matching dresses, bad attitudes, and totally random hairstyles.

I get it.

But one day you’ll be at a ball with someone special who turns out to be a prince and your waist will be eighteen inches and your dress will be sweeping and your hair will be sparkly and you will be dancing like a princess.

Be true to who you are.

Even when the magic ends and you are back home in the attic, ignore the fact that you are having a really bad hair day and that you’re in a torn gown with soot on your face.

None of that matters. True beauty comes from within.

Through the years, I've seen Eldest Daughter grow up, a princess at heart, from whom I've gleaned these life long insights. 

To this day, she daily teaches me. 

Hold your head high.

And greet the world like a princess. 

Wartime Wedding

On April 9, 1942 Filipino and American officials in command of Bataan, a province in the Central Luzon region of the Philippines, formally surrendered to the Japanese. Through a radio broadcast, the announcement was made to the world.

Bataan has fallen. 

The date has lived in infamy as the Fall of Bataan.

I'm not sure why, but my parents decided to wed on the same date a couple of years after. Thus, it had been a family joke that their marriage foreboded a fall. We were not sure for which one of them (LOL).

Here's Mum at 26 years and Dad at 24 on their wedding day.

Standing behind: Nanay Ching (Dad's youngest sister), Auntie Tessie (Mum's sister), Nanay Taba referred to as Fat Mother in previous blogs (Dad's mother), Lolo Gorio (Mum's father), and two groomsmen whom I don't know.

The die had been cast.

The rest is history.