Scents
Haiku: Japanese poem that contains 17 syllables,broken up into three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables
lost inside myself,
long after i'd given up,
i still search for you...
longing for your scent
to freshen, fall tenderly
on my barren heart.
thence i simply wait,
neither chasing nor running
but simply breathing;
that I may capture
that quaint, unmistakable,
precious smell of you.
Scents
For Little Boy, On Father's Day
Nothing brings to life again a forgotten memory like fragrance. - Christopher Poindexter
Old Spice Cologne, as I've recently learned from an internet search, was originally launched in 1938. It's described as a classic fragrance with a warm, fresh, and musky scent reminiscent of masculine rooms filled with tobacco and new leather. The top opens strong, featuring the scents of aldehydes, orange and lemon blended with the spiciness of nutmeg and star anise, its ad touts.
But all this is incidental to what I'd like to talk about. If anything else, Old Spice reminds me of Little Boy (Intong, in the vernacular), which was how I called my Dad.
It was his go-to fragrance, a yearly gift from his boss at Erlanger and Galinger.
I remember how he would squirt just a tiny bit on his palms, then rub his hands together in a swish-swash movement and ceremoniously dab on his cheeks.
Kaunti lang, just a bit. It was his frugal way to make it last until the next gifted bottle.
Watching him, I couldn't help giving him a thumbs up, as he had always been my steady rock, my ally.
He willingly trudged with me to the Araneta Coliseum for a Neil Sedaka concert. He was the one who acquiesced to buy me my most-coveted coin purse from the corner Chinese sari-sari store. He was my Bible Study teacher, my listening ear, the one who solved my word algebra problems.
When I asked or proposed an idea, his ready answer was, Let's go and do it. There was never anything impossible that he didn't try to tackle. Having just moved to our new home on Fountain Street, I asked him why we didn't have a church. He gave my hand a small squeeze, then simply said, Then we'll go look for one tomorrow. Your choice.
He didn't wear a cape and hide in phone booths. Neither did he shoot webs and climb walls. Instead at nights, he sat contentedly at home, sipping his favorite after-dinner yucky tepid tea with milk and later annoyed us with his muffled but unmistakable sound of deep snoring.
He didn't venture toward lands unknown. Rather, he preferred to spend weekends at home over-watering the plants and scolding Voltaire for nipping his mayana plants.
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Left: Dad during his heyday as manager of Erlanger and Galinger. Right: Escorting a VIP during an office tour. Escolta, Manila
But growing up, in my eyes, he was somewhat of a superhero.
I loved watching him get ready on weekdays, crooning softly as he smoothed an invisible wrinkle from his pant leg. As he strode out the door, I couldn't help thinking that perhaps he'd meet up with Batman and Robin.
Then fly off to fight crime in the city.
Leaving in his trail the pungent whiff of Old Spice.
Scents
And just as you think I'm out of my tirelessly repetitious childhood stories, here's one that has thus far not been told.
It's about My Embrace.
You know how kids have favorite stuffed toys, like First Daughter's Toto and Jenny?
Toto was named after Dorothy's pup in The Wizard of Oz. Jenny had to be a girl and thus embellished with eyelashes and red lips for a feminine look.
Although the pillows looked identical, I somehow knew which one it was. There was just something about it that was impossible to explain. So soft, so comforting. When I held it in my arms, I got a whiff of love and security.
I remember when I would say, My Embrace can’t sleep without me. Well, truth was, I couldn't sleep without My Embrace. I can swear that it knew all my secrets, and that it kept them.
When creaky starapple branches and lizards slithering through the window slat kept me awake at nights, I would shrink down into the creases of my special pillow. When I awoke in the deepest dark of night and heard the rumbling thunder, I would cling to my pillow's delectable softness. I would whisper silly stories into it in the darkness until I finally succumbed to sleep.
For me, My Embrace was a delectable amulet that brought forth repose.
And snugness.
And the warm scent of home.
Scents
I woke up this morning to the smell of summer. At no other time, it seemed, did the earth let itself be inhaled in a single whiff.
All at once, there was the co-mingled scent of lazy days and green grass and blooming purple irises. Peonies bowing down in a spirit of mockery to the newly-sprouted blue lobelia underneath their bough were bursting with a dizzying fragrance.
And ah, the aroma of summer food.
Watermelon redolent of the sun, the lemony tang of rhubarb pie, the aniseedy bouquet of frosty root beer, the perfume of ooey-gooey mac and cheese. But most specially, I would never get tired of the vibrant resin-like essence of a favorite childhood snack.
Maruya or fried plantain bananas is a sweet melt-in-your-mouth local dessert.
I remember watching Aling Nena at her corner stand. She would first peel the bananas, slicing them into one-inch pieces. After generously coating each piece with fluffy batter, she would deep-fry them to golden perfection in an iron skillet.
Within minutes, as the sizzling crescendoed, she would scoot the pieces around, letting the fat pop over.
Then, as a dramatic finale to the gourmet concoction, she would smother each intoxicating piece in sugar.
I recall closing my eyes as I breathed in the smell of the fried dessert. I couldn't wait to pick one up, gulp a bite of its crispy coating, then lick my sticky fingers one by one to savor its caramelized lusciousness.
Step aside, funnel cake and bubble gum cotton candy. For me, here was the only promise of the afternoon: fragrant happiness right there, wedged awkwardly in the skillet.
Fried maruya.
A sublime snack infused with the balm of an invincible summer day.
Excerpted verses are from Oh, The Places You'll Go by Dr. Seuss
It's funny what happens when you're a grandparent. You start to act all goofy and do things you never thought you'd do.
Six years ago, we bade goodbye to mainland friends as we prepared to head back to Honolulu. When asked why, since we had just come back a few months earlier, we said, Grandson's graduation. They said, Congratulations! From college?
We said, No, pre-K.
It was a milestone we wouldn't miss for the world.
First Grandson at five-and-a-half years said he wanted "to be a construction worker." Hawaii Kai Church Early Learning Center Graduation. July 16, 2015
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| First Granddaughter, dressed as Elsa, three years old |
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Fifth grade graduation, at 11 years. Kamiloiki Elem School, May 28, 2021 |
Two days ago, we gathered yet again for another major ohana event, First Grandson's elementary school graduation.
We said our good wishes then, and say it again.
Congratulations!
You make us proud, First Grandson.
You have made our world a little softer, a little kinder, a little warmer.
Hats off to you! You did it.
Your mountain is waiting.
You're off to Great Places!
So...get on your way!
Onstage
The process by which the inanimate becomes animate seems to the audience to be a real miracle. - Anonymous
A glove puppet in hand, I patiently waited for the signal for my persona.
At the church service that Sunday morning, I was to be Sister Marie Clarence who along with her singing nuns would perform I Will Follow Him, a remix on the Sister Act movie soundtrack. It was my premier performance as a puppeteer.
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| Franklin Park Conservatory, Fall 2020 |
Come join the puppet ministry.
Puppet ministry? I asked. How? Why? When?
They explained the puppets would simply lip-synch to familiar songs.
What? A chance to cutify without being seen, so no makeup? Choose our character and dress it up? No lines to memorize?
I was in.
Earlier, I had fitted my hand into my puppet's hollow cloth body, carefully fitting my thumb into the mouth's lower opening and the other four fingers into the upper lip.
Hold on, Sister. We got this, I whispered reassuringly.
She could only be seen from the waist up, but I wanted Sister Marie Clarence to look her best. So with the other free hand, I straightened out my puppet's habit, ensuring that its coif is safely secured by the wimple, ironing out the few wrinkles of her veil and sleeves.
I was all smiles as the opening tune began.
Center stage was the open space just above our head height. It was on there that we would hold our hands up and allow the puppets to perform.
Ready, Sister? I whispered. I won't let you down. You know you have my heart.
To the spectators' delight, we wiggled our puppets upstage.
There was no long explanation, no descriptive scenes and painful dragging in of the plot. We simply swayed, singing in harmony.
We will follow Him,
Follow Him wherever He may go.
Our puppets had come to life with movement. Singing high, singing low, singing loud, singing softly.
There isn't an ocean too deep,
A mountain so high it can keep,
Keep us away, away from His love...
My fingers were moving up and down, matching the climactic tones of the song. My arm was agile and quick in rhythmic consonance with the song's cadence.
I love Him, I love Him, I love Him,
And where He goes,
I'll follow, I'll follow, I'll follow.
I was unseen, but I liked it that way.
It was magical. A primitive sense of illusion. I had made an inanimate character come to life.
Singing.
Dancing away.
A whimsical validation attached to my hand.
