My Chair

Come And Sit A Spell

Put your buttocks in that chair

Then put some words on that page. - Nordic Inspirational Quote

Welcome to my world.

See that chair? That's where all the thinking and writing begin.

It’s where I dream. It’s where I create. It’s where I sit and wonder why farmhouse decor is full of shiplap board signs advertising, Fresh Baked Pies or directing you to, Sip. Eat.

You might notice that the screen display is blank.

I haven’t filled it up yet.

For the nth time, I failed to finish any new pieces of writing. (Aside: thank God for crappy first drafts that have been on stand-by so all I've had to do when a deadline comes is to edit.)

Why the so-called writer's block? The short answer is, Life got in the way. (Whom am I kidding? What life? In this era of the pandemic?) 

The honest answer? I’m unsure where I want my writing to go.

But I’m working on it.

Pinterest says, Don't think. Just write. Maybe, I'll try that really soon right after I finish my red hibiscus tea and binge on YouTube Anthropologie dupes.

Let's see. Perhaps, tell more stories? My heart always has been and always will be with stories. That’s why I write the blog because this is where the stories find a home.

Remember those about the foods of my childhood? I love to eat, so anything about food will have to be on my top stories of all time.

I've always had a soft spot for pets, both furry and feathered. What about those? And for sure, family.

In the three years and seven months I've been writing this blog (yes, I counted), you have taught me so much. That I just needed to be me. 

Thank you for encouraging and helping and suggesting and laughing.

Thank you for cheering and recognizing that shopping at Goodwill for decor can be a full-time profession and that Omek and Yelfred are the epitome of true friendship. 

I am SO LUCKY to write this blog and have amazing readers.

Just.Like.You.

As I have learned, blogging is a little like a snowball. You start small. You roll and roll and roll and feel like you’re not getting anywhere. But then, one day you get a little traction. And a little more. And a little more. And before you know it, you are chasing a giant blogging snowball down the hill.

I know that there are more exciting next chapters and blogs to come. I still haven't written about the Eiffel Tower or Morocco or the Red Square in Moscow, but all this talking has me a little worn out.

It's a perfect day to sit on the divan under the crabapple trees and relax. Or curl in a rocking chair to think. Maybe I'll come up with some really simple ideas to write about... 

….and  tomorrow, I'll sit on this very chair again.

And w-r-i... Z-z-z-z...

Under The Crabapple Trees

Come And Sit A Spell

When you realize nothing is lacking,

the whole world belongs to you. - Lao Tzu

It is like stepping into a fairy tale.

The sun has just set and an orange glow lingers on the horizon. It is not yet night and no longer day but some whimsical in-between. The insects have just begun to swarm and the light to change.

See that spot with the loveseat and divan underneath the crabapple trees? It has such a storybook quality to it that I half-expect the seven dwarfs to pop out, singing as they head back home from work. 

Doesn't that setting make you want to scream, Summer is here! 

Come and sit a spell.

Listen to the story those chairs are telling.

You see, they came from our southwest home 1,919 miles away and traveled twenty-seven hours non-stop with the Home Team Affordable mover. 

Now they have found a home. 

The scenery is like a postcard. Very Hemingway-esque. Like being in an outdoor cafe in Paris where you can sip a café crème and watch the world pass by.

It is a perfect afternoon. Dusk at its dramatic best. The sky a quilt of a thousand different colors. 

I take a deep breath, getting my fill of the fresh air. This, I'm thinking, is glorious.

No, change that. 

This feels like the way things always should be.

Like a wink from God.

Dadee's Chair

Come And Sit A Spell

I fondly remember my quirky Dad this Father's Day.

The soul in repose grows wiser. - Mark Mills

Let me start off this story with the general fact that my father was amazing. 

Not like a little amazing. A lot amazing.

Definitely a 10 on a scale of 1-10.

He let me go with him to his office at Erlanger and eat egg pie afterward before we headed home.

He never told me I was too young to pursue my ambitions. He was my steady rock who wholeheartedly went with me when I was thirteen to audition as radio announcer for Student Canteen.

I'd always wanted to be a journalist. He was my advocate and companion when at fourteen, I presented a feature article to Manila Times editor Bunao for critique.

All my life, I'd seen him win people with his charm, his bottomless optimism. When he said serious things like, The only way to achieve something magical was through work and discipline, people around him listened.

But sometimes, he struck me as remarkable...  in the weirdest way.

Like I couldn't figure out the equation of work and discipline with his lounging in a chair while staring at the ceiling and the few dusty cobwebs hanging in the corner of the living room.

So on that day, he sat, lost in thought. 

Still as a statue, almost as though he had been frozen. 

His eyelids slowly slid halfway down over his eyes as he pondered. 

Then I saw him squeeze his eyes shut for a few seconds, trying to concentrate, mumbling under his breath. What thoughts, like butterflies, were darting through his mind?

I paused and looked at him and then looked again and then tilted my head to the side and wrinkled my nose and stared at him sideways, biting my lip in concentration. What was he up to?

Teasingly, I poked into his ribcase, intruding upon his quietude with a rattling, Intong! Little Boy! (for that was what I called him when no one was around). Tulog ka ba? Are you sleeping?

It sounded, peculiarly, like a genuine question.

He blinked looking like a man who had awakened from a deep sleep with no idea where he was. He looked at me with raised eyebrows, rolling his eyes with theatrical exaggeration. He thought for a moment and appeared to choose his words with care. 

Can't you see? He said, leaning forward and staring into my eyes. I'm thinking. 

He continued, And studying. The way to doing everything deeply is to do nothing. Then gave a slightly guilty chuckle.

Wha??!! I stared at his face, trying to maintain eye contact, but it was difficult because he was flashing a kooky smile.

Maybe because I experienced something this strange, this outrageous, it bonded us forever. 

I grinned from ear to ear and nodded encouragingly even though I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

Didn't I say he was amazing? ... 

In his uniquely quirky way.

Lolo Gorio'S Chair

Come And Sit A Spell

This series is an invitation for you to sit a spell - to stop, rest your feet, and visit for a while. 

All you have to do is write the truest sentence that you know. - Hemingway

Today, we're taking the diagnostics essay writing test to determine our proficiency in Freshman English composition.

I had known it was coming so I prepared for it by keeping current on local and world events and reading sample essays on academic topics and learning issues. I was sure the topic, which was to be announced the day-of, would be one along these lines.

I was ready.

Poised with my brand-new Bic ballpoint pen and college ruled paper, I waited to see the topic that the instructor was writing on the chalkboard. At first I couldn't make out what it was. It seemed but a short word. 

Then she turned around and said, You have the rest of the hour to write.

CHAIR.

What??!!

Seriously?

I was perplexed. Surprised. Lost in thought. What intelligent and impressively interesting things in 300-500 words or so could one possibly say about a chair?

The cane and rattan weaving of the set in our living room? The rough planks of the dining room benches? I knew they each had four legs and a seat and they looked like they were fluent in 'furniture.' But really?

For heaven's sake, What? Which? How?

In my mind, I scanned images of anything chair that I could possibly write about. Okay, there was Lolo Gorio's oversized rattan rocking chair, the wrought-iron children's chairs, the makeshift bamboo seats in the garden...

Hmmm... let me back up. I may have found my writing muse.

How about that rocking chair?

It was my grandfather's.

Large.

Unoccupied, for he had long been gone.

I remember standing on tiptoe, reaching up to its tattered corner and climbing up on it. Ensconced within, I felt so small and insubstantial, as if some melancholy breeze could just blow me away.

Sitting there, I began to think of my grandfather. 

My memories were nothing more than cloudy dreams from his faded photograph on top of the piano, for I never knew him. I had often wished I could see him just once in the flesh. He had grown so mysterious to me that he took the place of someone like the Holy Ghost, one that was never seen but whose presence was felt. 

I began to imagine that his embrace like everything else about him, including his rocking chair, would be massive. 

I would picture squeezing by him in the tumba-tumba as he told stories about the farm and the poultry house. I'd look at his craggy face that looked like a crumpled road map, each line a rough road taken or a detour that went somewhere.

I'd envision how it would be to lie down with my stomach on the floor as I listened to his jokes. And visualize him rocking the chair in rhythmic cadence as he laughed at his own joke. Old men must be the same everywhere. They laughed harder than anyone else in the room at their own jokes.

Sitting alone in his chair, perhaps he would pull his chin when perplexed or deep in thought.

So that was what I wrote.

It didn't overwhelm with big words and complex thoughts.

It was a celebration of the everyday, the often overlooked, and the ordinary. 

I can sit on that thought.

Happy simple.

Happy more heart.

Gigit

Women In My Life: The Tie That Binds

She is my second child. Not the first, that much is true, but she is my favorite child.

My sampaguita flower. 

Gigit. 

My rainbow. A promise of sunshine after rain.

Her firsts were lasts for me - last crawl, last rock-to-sleep, last cry to hush. 

She was the last lullaby I'd ever sing. 

Endings are generally sad, but she was such a joy that I wanted to preserve  something of hers for the next world and beyond.

Her quilt.

It smelled of her. That one with the chipmunks and their toothy smiles. 

So, what was a mother to do? Grab the threadbare quilt and cut off an image from the least tattered part of it. Should it be that of the mischievous troublemaker Alvin, or Simon the bespectacled intellectual, or chubby Theodore? 

I really wasn't sure which one it was, or if this was actually Chip or Dale. Regardless, it was a delight blanket stitching around his pudgy cheeks, large, glossy eyes, and that ever-present goofy overbite - immortalized, sort of - on a new piece of baby blue fleece. 

That was ages ago.

It is amazing how time barrels along when you're not doing much of anything. The hours are passing so quickly that I sometimes forget what day it is because days are all the same without school or schedule.

I hang on. I wait.

No more tooth fairy. No fighting in back of the car that was hushed by Hubby's short but stern, Girls! No giggles from Ali as she sits n' spins. No more of Gigit's bandaged knees to heal.

Only my voice saying, Why don't you grow up? and the silence echoing, We did.

My shoulders slump as I realize that I have come full circle. My whole life has started to make sense to me - a story with a beginning, a middle, an end. 

As it had been for Fat Mother and Mum, sewing has been a way to mend my soul. Like them, I want never to drop my stitches.

Like four-year-old Ali who, bright-eyed and with a lisp excitedly suggested, Mama, the sweethawts can sing Awky-awky together, I'd like to be attuned by stringing my blessings into chords of thankfulness so they don't unravel.   

I try to keep my yarn stash plentiful and should I run out of fabric and my bobbin need re-threading, I stay assured, as a two-year-old 'Git told me once, Mum, it wiw be o-wight.

I'm grateful for a life bound by family, the thread that ties us all together.

P.S.

And what do you know?

A seven-year-old fifth generation cutie is following sooth. 

One.

Stitch.

Two Bone Pillows for Sam. Photo. L-R: sewn by 
Grandma and Second Granddaughter, respectively.

At.


A.


Time.

Ali

Women In My Life: The Tie That Binds

Ain't nothin' so precious as a firstborn child. - Paul Congress

She is my camia flower, fair and pretty. My favorite child.

Ali. 

Named after a dark-eyed, long-tressed, tall, and beautiful model and actress.

I love her best because she was our first miracle. She was the beginning. A fulfillment of love, the promise of our infinity.

I wanted to remember that moment like a snapshot I could go back to whenever I wanted. So, why not preserve something of hers, like her name, perhaps - for all eternity.

Maybe have it engraved on a brass star that would be embedded in the sidewalk along the Hollywood Walk of Fame.  

Or why not stitch it on her baby tee?

Embroidery was both fun and relaxing, plus it was an easy way to create beautiful art with fabric and thread. Mum showed me how to select the needle, snip the bit of string, and find the eye. I could certainly start with that.

I chose to use the stem stitch, perfect for creating smooth outlines but would work as well for both straight lines and curves.

Carefully following the penciled outline of the letters, I began taking dainty little stitches with a two-strand red DMC floss. First I followed the curve of the A, looping its end across and back around. With the next lowercase letter, I knew that I was halfway toward a finished project.

Embroidering the i was a cinch. It was the French knot that capped it that was the challenge. This stitch involved wrapping the needle to form a knot on the surface of the fabric. It could be tricky, as I had earlier learned in sixth grade Home Ec, but I remembered to hold the working thread taut, but not too tight.

And voila! I was done. Spare and simple.

Time had inched by since then. Limped along. Then it slowed and stilled, focusing back on that time in my life. Suddenly, I could see clearly, as through a looking glass, and I couldn't help gushing.

Delicate.

Precious.

So was the embroidered tee.

Mum

Women In My Life: The Tie That Binds

The best things in life... are made by hand.

It was siesta time. 

Unlike the boys, I always managed to get away with not taking the requisite nap because I was old enough. Plus I knew what today's forecast would be.

100% chance of sewing.

Mum always used this time to go over her stash of fabric to patch a hole on the brothers' shirts or just mend socks. Or she would pick up one of my dresses, hemming the skirt with a neat blanket stitch. 

We had developed a routine of sorts. Like a royal subject, I would stay by her side on the floor while she presided over her Singer sewing machine.

As she altered shorts and sewed ripped pockets, she would lecture me on good manners and health habits. She always said the words slowly in separate chunks so I'd be sure to understand. 

Ab-so-lute-ly no giggling during the sermon. No answering back, clean hands, clean hair, always up, no scraggly bits.

That particular day, I remember interrupting her and pleading, Mummie, can you make me an H-line dress? Like Vickie's. 

The silhouette of the H-line had two clean and straight sides with a slight accent on the waist (the bar of the capital letter H). It was the fashion rage among young teens.

Her hands slid up to her face and she brushed straying hair out of her eyes.

My chatter continued, Jeanne Young wears them all the time. (The latter was a Filipino actress and movie star known for her roles in I Dream of Jeanne and Boom! Bang-A-Bang.)

Hala, stand up and let me measure you, she conceded.

She spent a long time making sure, over and over, that the measurements were right. 

Then she stitched. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, as if protecting her heart. And she sewed. And stitched some more - the whirring of the machine's foot pedal being the only sound on that quiet afternoon.

I patiently waited. It was getting late, still light, but the sun had dipped. The brothers had awakened and seeing that merienda was not ready yet, they went outside to play. Night would soon fall, but Mum had continued to do some finishing touches. 

Now, just the hem, she softly said.

When it was finally done, she declared, clasping her hands together, beaming an abrupt, brilliant smile. Isukat mo. Try it on. 

Christian Dior, who introduced the silhouette, would have been proud. It was the most amazing outfit. 

An ensemble for the ages.

I had planned on hiking my hair up to the ceiling to complement its sleek line. The crowning glory to an incredible ensemble. 

She dipped her glasses slightly, but only slightly, down her nose, and studied me carefully. A soft gray light showed down her face, revealing a smile like I hadn't seen in a very long time lighting her even brighter. 

The days had seemed to pass by in a kind of blur since then. But I still remember that moment.

Kind of.

I have dim splashes of memory of that time like an unfinished watercolor. I remember a soft voice in my ear, her arms around me.

Bagay sa 'yo, 'Chon. (That was how I had pronounced my full first name when I was young and the nickname stuck.) It looks good on you. 

A warm glow spread over me as she spoke. 

Like being wrapped in a cloak of invisible warmth that was home that was Mum.