retro momma

Holy Wednesday

2010-04-05T23:16:00.009+08:00

As a child, Holy Wednesday was my least favorite day during the Holy Week. For what kid would love seeing a bloody-faced Jesus? A crown of thorns on a the head of a pitiful Christ? A heavy cross forced on the shoulders of a helpless Messiah?

Trikes ground to a halt to give way to the Lenten tradition

Little altar boys led the procession

St. Peter

Agony in the garden

Scourging at the pillar

Crowning with thorns

Carrying of the cross

Jesus and the evil-looking Roman soldiers

Townsfolk attending the procession

St. John the Evangelist

The "mambabasas" and their megaphone

Closer look at the "mambabasas"

Veronica

Mary Magdalene

Image unknown to me

Blessed Virgin Mary

Last of the procession-goers

Engines sprang back to life after a 30-minute wait

Grease Lightnin' (Circa 1960's)

2009-10-12T13:29:00.005+08:00

My father was a good-looking feller. He was born with a pair of beautifully arched brows that required no intervention from tweezers, a perfect mestizo nose that any vain person would pay good money for and thick, straight jet-black hair that refused to turn grey nor fall in the face of old age and cancer.

But more than anything, my father was the epitome of cool...

Cory In My Mind

2009-08-04T22:34:00.021+08:00

I still remember that Saturday afternoon in January 1986. It was the day Cory Aquino, standard bearer of the United Opposition, was motorcading though our town in a Southern Batangas campaign sortie. She was speaking at the patio in front of the parish Church. With my childhood friend beside me and my father's yellow "Ninoy Hindi Ka Nag-iisa" band round my head, I listened intently and passionately raised my right fist in a seemingly grown-up show of support for my candidate despite the fact that I was a mere fifteen-year old, obviously powerless to show that support by means of the ballot.

When she left the patio, my friend and I ran after the van she rode, wanting for one last glimpse of our hero in the flesh. She did not disappoint us. Cory appeared through the window and flashed the Laban sign. It was my Cory moment, one that still runs very clearly in my head after more than 20 years, after undergoing general anaesthesia, after a bout with hormonal imbalance that all interfered with my memory bank. But then I guess a Coryista will never forget.

* Image grabbed from Google search.

Good Fridays

2009-04-13T14:52:00.044+08:00

Last Friday was a good time to go back to the Good Fridays of my childhood.

I remember we would almost always start the day with flagellant-watching. The flagellants were men with covered faces who would repeatedly hit their bare backs with sharp objects, drawing blood in the process. We would stare mouths open and wince when someone poured vinegar over these men's open wounds. Last Friday I waited the whole morning to take pictures but not a single flagellant passed by our house. It was obviously passé in the town where I grew up.

Then there was Visita Iglesia. Seven churches to visit, usually Calaca, Lemery, Taal, Nasugbu, Lian, Calatagan and Tuy. If we didn't go church-hopping, we would more often than not spend the day in front of the boob tube for reruns of bible-based films and docus, most notable of which was Jesus of Nazareth. We were not allowed to turn on the radio. Oh and never forget the fasting! Or should I say abstinence? Lunch and dinner meant fish, crabs, shrimps or lobsters when available. But I was never into seafood even as a kid and making do with a cheese sandwich every meal was my annual little Lenten sacrifice.

The highlight of the day was the 6 o'clock procession led by the parish priest that went around the poblacion like a funeral parade of the dead Christ. This year it was attended by hordes of people, young and old alike, that appeared to be thinning as time went by. When I was quite small I used to go with my sister Pie, my aunt Nading, my cousin Ron and his dad Ninong Paeng. It was playtime for us kids as we made balls from melted wax coming from the candles that we held in our hands. I also never missed a procession as a teenager. It was the "in" thing to do on a Good Friday.

St. Peter, easily identifiable by the rooster by his side (though not seen in this photo), was always the first saint in the long procession. The saints were garbed in expensive-looking velvety garments with golden appliques and placed atop flower-decked carrozas brightened by generator-powered lights.

Next in line, without fail, was St. John the Evangelist.

I'm afraid I have no idea who this saint is. I never saw it before among the ranks of the other saints in this Lenten tradition.

Veronica of "Veronica wipes the face of Jesus", which incidentally, I heard from my mother, has been excluded from the new version of the Station of the Cross.

Mary Magdalene with perfume in hand, actually a very beautiful statue.

The Blessed Sacrament, also a new addition.

The Blessed Virgin Mary with a dagger piercing her heart, an image that I always found disturbing as a child.

The dead Christ in a glass coffin always came in last. Among the carrozas, it attracted the biggest crowd of followers. There were people who pushed the carroza in a somewhat frantic manner, determined to fulfill their panata, a promise made in exchange of a miracle. It was a bit reminiscent of the mad scramble for the Nazareno of Quiapo, only there was no madness here.

After the procession, we would always go to kalbaryos to take a look at the decors and the spectacle that was the pabasa. But there were no kalbaryos to visit last week, maybe for quite a number of Holy Weeks past already. No one must have been willing to shoulder the cost of setting up a place for pabasa during these hard times. Nor fill in the shoes of yesterday's mambabasa during these modern times. The only pabasa I witnessed lately was this scene I captured on video from last Friday's procession—the "grandma singers" as my 11 year-old nephew called them, probably the last of the mambabasas in our side of the world.

* Flagellation photo grabbed from Google.

Life's a Beach

2009-02-02T16:10:00.034+08:00

One look at this picture of my Indie and her cousins and I was immediately transported back to the 70s. The beach in the town where I was born was not made for pretty pictures. It was never the white beach on the verge of becoming a major tourist destination. Its shoreline was long but covered with dark unremarkable sand; its waters, clear but certainly not crystal.

Even so, we kids were big fans of our very own beach. It was another venue for play. A huge one complete with water for wading or swimming for the adventurous among us. There was endless supply of sand for building sandcastles for which none of us had any talent. And the sea breeze! Yes, even that one could make us happy.

By the 80s, we had all grown into adolescents and the beach had lost all attraction whatsoever. Aside from the changes in hormones and preferences that happened in all of us, we had every reason not to go anymore. What used to be our favorite haunt had turned into some, I'm sorry to say, God-forsaken place in the span of a decade. The water was not just dirty, it was dangerous given that a power plant was just close by. It literally stank. There was litter everywhere. And where there was none, there were dog poops and human waste lying in wait like booby traps for the next unsuspecting beach goer.

Oh yes, life could be a bitch sometimes.

Mad Hair Days

2009-01-29T16:08:00.031+08:00

Those were the days. When big hair was the rule rather than the exception. When female crowns rose to dizzying heights they could have sent hairsprays to the endangered list. When teasing reigned supreme anywhere in the world, pushing past the confines of moviedom and catwalks, enslaving ordinary mortals like, well, my mom.

It was the 1960s, fresh out of the bouffant and beehive movements of the 50s and my mother, true blue fashionista that she was, made sure that her clothes—including her hair—always kept up with the times. The mountainous puff on top of her head was elevated enough to require maybe half a day of prep work. But my mother, the college instructress, must have been very talented with the teasing comb she fixed her tresses that way even during ordinary school days and still managed to come to class on time.

By the late 60s, my mother had not let go of her favorite comb. The towering hair was gone, replaced by a short bob. But the teasing did not stop.

Some decades later when she was into her 50s, my mother's crowning glory had been relegated to a wash-and-wear style—cropped, cut to reveal her natural curls and dyed a dark shade of brown typical of ladies of a certain age—signaling the close of a hair-raising era long gone.

Que Horror!

2008-12-09T00:02:00.013+08:00

My grade school and high school years were spent studying in what used to be a burying ground that became a place where prisoners of war were tortured, killed or left to die.

And nothing could be more horrific for a girl blessed (or cursed?) with a wild imagination. According to old townsfolk, my school was a cemetery during Spanish times and later used as a garrison during the Japanese Occupation. Its main building was a very old structure, maybe almost as old as the Immaculate Conception Parish Church to which it was adjacent.

Like any old building, the mere sight of the school's aging adobe walls would tell you there was something there, something weird, something... In this 1950's photo that belonged to my mother, the walls looked even spookier back then without any trappings of modernity such as paint. Beyond those windows was my classroom when I was in 1st Grade. And on the floor directly above was part of the convent used as living quarters by the Sisters who run the school. Legend had it that at night when everything was quiet, the sound of heavy chains being dragged on the floor could be heard. It was said that those chains were attached to the feet of a headless nun bearing a candle in each of her hands who did the rounds as soon as the whole convent fell asleep.

When I was a lot younger, I couldn't bring myself to raise my eyes higher than where this photo was cropped. I was afraid the headless nun would peer out the window and my friends and I won't be able to run in time. This was like a movie sequence that would replay itself again and again in my little head. Poor me. (Picture courtesy of an aunt, Tia Nene, who was a college student in the 1950s.)

The thick adobe walls that belonged to the Church seemed like a good choice for a background in this 1950's class picture. It also looked even more perfect as a backdrop for a horror flick. I remember when I was in 3rd Grade, our classroom was just across this wall. There were a tall ancient-looking tree standing close by and its branches would cast eerie shadows on the ground even in broad daylight. The window was home to a large group of bats that I would always see hanging creepily upside down from the grills. There seemed to be too many of them and their number was good enough for a scene from the Dark Knight.

This was a gated grotto to the right of the wall in the previous photo. I was actually surprised to find this picture and see my young mom, who was now a college professor in her alma mater after graduating from a university in the city, posing in this scary corner of the school yard. During our time, nobody went to this place. Only the Sisters—who believed, as their faith dictated, that God would protect them from whatever evil lurking in that place—had the guts to go past the gates. Many of my classmates insisted there was a kapre who lived there. Others said there were duwendes. Whatever it was, I never ventured anywhere near the grotto.

This covered walk that connected the old school grounds to the new college building was the setting of one of the creepiest legends in town. The utility boys who used to spend their nights nearby were said to have witnessed the galloping of a knight on horseback right on the walk's roof. Like the chained nun, it was also said that the ghost knight was dismembered, without a head on its body.

As I write this, chills are running down my spine. And I'm seeing flashes of the headless nun sequence again. Gotta run!

Let's Volt In!

2008-12-04T20:26:00.028+08:00

The year was 1978. There should have been rallies and protest marches staged by the Philippines' diminutive citizens. There should have been widespread display of contempt for the blatant oppression of our human right to watch Voltes V and, yes, to see it to its very end. It was the cruelest thing any President could do to any underaged constituent. (Of course, we were not aware at the time that each of us young children already owed the World Bank some millions for some luxuries we never enjoyed and never will. And what could be worse?)

But we were powerless against Marcos and the group of parents who pushed for the ouster of our favorite robot-hero from national TV. Powerless to go out in the streets and let our little voices be heard—"Let's volt in!"

They thought children would quickly forget. We didn't. We never forgave Marcos for his transgression. By 1986, some of those kids of 1978 were old enough to flock to EDSA and fight back. Along with the multitudes of People Power heroes, they succeeded in ousting Marcos from a position that he had no intention of letting go of. It was revenge at its sweetest.

The Piano

2008-12-02T22:11:00.012+08:00

As I said many times before, my family was very traditional. There were certain things that we children had to do and one of them was learning how to play the piano. My mother’s family, which had more influence on our growing years, was never the musical kind. Very few could carry a tune. Almost none could play an instrument. And most were tone deaf. The turntable in the living room was used only during weekends when my father, who at least had an appreciation for music and who could sing well enough, was home from the city where he worked. But I’m digressing.

Anyway, our piano teacher was the wife of a great-uncle (who was long dead before we kids were born) from my mother’s side of the family. Everything was sort of informal; there were no such things as Grades 1 or 2 or any higher level for that matter. Classes were held in Lola Pepang’s living room where her antique piano proudly stood. There were kids around my and Pie’s age from our neighborhood who went with us to piano school. There were older girls and very young ones and I think my sister Odie, who was about 5 at the time, was the youngest of them.

My heart wasn’t into it but I had to admit the solfeggios were fun. Plus, the fact that we went to class with groups of friends made leccions always enjoyable. I went from John Thompson to “The Harebell” to Edna’s colored booklets to American classics.
But before long, our friends dropped out one by one, followed by Ate Margie, then Pie, then Odie. By 1981, I was the only one left in my batch. But I didn’t mind going solo because by then, I already had hopes of becoming a virtuoso. Despite my lack of musicality, Lola Pepang seemed to believe in me too. I had mechanical hands and they could hit keys with an agility I never knew they had. My mentor must have noticed it too so she made me learn nifty finger exercises from a book called Duvernoy.
I was a high school freshman and into my next concerto by the time I stopped going to Lola Pepang’s. I knew I’d never be good anyway. Besides I had grown into a teenager who couldn’t squeeze piano lessons into her increasingly hectic “social” life. But at least I found time to do some self-study. I had my cousin Ate Chona teach me how to read notes. I tried to play pop, which my teacher never approved of and some other pieces like “Fur Elise” and a few more till my interest waned.
I haven’t touched any piano since I was in my mid-20s. Then one day, I fell in love with an antique Schmoller & Mueller in a shop selling pre-loved furniture from the US. It had a very handsome case that was quite imposing. I sat on the bench and run my rusty hands on its keys and before I knew it, I was playing “The Harebell”, my very first piece which I learned many years ago and still knew by heart. And oh, it made this beautiful grand music that could only come from old pianos of its kind.

Pray my husband gets it for me!

Old School

2008-11-27T09:23:00.017+08:00

I come from an old family. As in very old. My grandparents were old enough to be my great-grandparents; my aunts, to be my great-aunts; and my mother, to be my youngest sister's grandmother. Their values and belief systems were even older than their years. And they imposed their old-fashioned ways on us children who were born so much later than their time.

Let me just give you a few examples of their rules...

No loud voices. Anytime. Anywhere in the house.
No sitting with feet, legs apart.
No elbows on the dining table.
No talking while eating. (It didn't matter whether your mouth was full or not.)
No running.
No slouching.
No butting in when adults were engaged in conversation.
Oh yes, no cokes.

And a lot of other no-nos...

We were little girls with the big responsibility of behaving like ladies, like yesterday's Maria Claras. It seemed to me they wanted us to act like nuns in a convent! Come to think of it, my folks were far more strict than the Sisters who ran the Catholic school where Pie and I were students.

Wedding of '67

2008-11-22T21:27:00.069+08:00

It was the typical Tagalog or, to be more precise, Batangueno wedding of its time. I mean, groom or his parents paid for everything—the feast, the flowers, gowns for the bride and her entourage, etc., etc. Exchange of vows took place in the parish church. Reception followed at bride's home. And so on and so forth. But what happened before the ceremony and the after-celebration? Say 24 or 48 hours before the big day? I was so lucky to chance upon a few very old photos that gave me a picture of some of the preparations that were carried out for my parents' wedding that early morning in September more than 4 decades ago.

I imagine that part of the street fronting our motherhouse must have been closed to traffic to accommodate guests. (I remember we closed that same street for a good 9 days before when my lolo and lola were hermanos mayor during a town fiesta—the one with the famous parada ng lechon—when I was around 8.) There must have been more than a hundred guests. Because that’s our head count for major present-day family gatherings and to think so many relatives were still alive at the time.

The woman with the laddle in the background was the cook obviously. And there seems to be quite a big group of ladies assisting her. See all that meat? Kilos and kilos of different kinds of meat, suggesting that the wedding was quite en grande. By the way, all these were cooked in giant wok-like utensils called tulyasi.

The chop-chop women must have been friends of my lola or maybe some were neighbors. That was a time when the spirit of bayanihan was still very much alive among people living in proximity to each other. The svelte lady in the foreground still managed to look fashionable in spite of her unglamorous surroundings.

How many pigs were slaughtered? How many chickens? How many goats? (Take a closer look at the background.) In my hometown, having one goat dish served during a social event was like some sort of status symbol or some indication of the importance of the occasion. The goat, usually in the form of calderetang kambing, always occupied the same prominent position as the lechon on the banquet table.

Are those really lifeless goats hanging in the background, you may ask. Yes. Exactly how many of them were sacrificed for my parents' union? I bet just enough to warrant protests from PETA had the pro-animal rights group been in existence at the time. I remember when I was 10 I witnessed the slaying of a helpless goat in our backyard for my sister Odie's 7th birthday. It was a pitiful sight and, believe me, there were tears in the poor animal's eyes. But then that didn't stop me from eating goat meat. I still do up to now. Okay, stone me. But hey, this isn't about me, right?

Retro Manila Tours

2008-11-19T11:06:00.051+08:00

Back when I was still unaware that Luneta used to be called Bagumbayan where our national hero Jose Rizal was shot to martyrdom in 1896, we would go to this vast park of greens and playgrounds during the summer and spend the morning exploring its open spaces. The gardens were made for tireless children like us who would run and run to our hearts' content and pause only to pose for pictures deemed shutter-worthy by our adult companions and to munch on chips and sandwiches when our little stomachs were finally devoid of the breakfast we took.

The statue is headless (must be the norm when it comes to our old pictures) so I can't really tell now if it was a famous personality in Philippine history or just any Juan riding our national animal, the carabao. I didn't know what possessed my sister Pie to pose with her hand on the statue's foot. It looked dirty! Oh by the way, I'm the one in fuschia pants, Pie in olive and the lone boy is our cousin Ron.

Posing with some creature, obviously long extinct. Or did it ever exist at all?

Our photographer got carried away cropping the shot so it's not very clear now that we were actually standing on the tongue of a humongous hippopotamus. Only Ron seemed happy here. If I remember correctly, it was a bit stinky inside the hippo. Someone must have had difficulty finding the toilet the day before.

I was such a cow when I was little girl, would you believe? The adults had to spend some time convincing me that nothing bad was going to happen if I hopped on the giraffe's back. Take note: I was holding on to Pie as if for dear life.

It also didn't take much to send me into bouts of dizziness before. Look at me here. It was a wonder I was able to stand upright to think my eyes were multiplying everything by two already.

See, I was so dizzy I didn't get to slide!

Snack time. Note that I was able to have a Coke here. The oldies in my life were too far away in Batangas after all. Pie must be counting the number of Cokes she was able to drink while she could! (Also in this picture is our cousin Kuya Totie who is more than ten years older than all of us.)

A change of shirts and the three of us were in Manila Zoo. I wonder what animal was inside that cage. Perfect "souvenir" shot.

And here is a suggestion of a giraffe. I told you headless pics were the in thing in my family those days.

Finally, the perfect zoo shot. It certainly took a long time coming.

I have not seen the zoo since the 70s; Luneta, since college. That last visit was a Manila-by-night tour with two of my friends, Boone and Uncle, during which I had quite an unnerving encounter with a very dubious VanDamme-ish character who asked me for a Marlboro. I hastily threw the whole pack in his direction thinking this was far more horrifying than my ride-the-giraffe experience when I was five years old.

Recycling: 70s Style

2008-11-13T21:50:00.041+08:00

Long before the advent of global warming and environmentalism, recycling had always been fashionable in my family. No, it had nothing to do with saving the world we lived in, but everything to do with saving moolah at every opportunity.

My elder sister Pie was an angel in one of those Santacruzans in the town where I was born. She wore my mother's old dress that was reworked into a little girl's gown. Lovely.

The next year, Pie and I were Ave Marias in the same Santacruzan. Our gowns were rehashed from used frocks straight from my grandmother's ancient baul. I wasn't very sure if these were my Lola's, my aunts' or my mother's. But one thing was sure though, these were freaking old, probably as old as time itself. The sewing was taken care of by my two old maid aunts—yes, the same aunts from Children of the War—who were very good with the sewing machine. Our gowns were not bad at all, really. But to wear them when all other kids were decked in new ones at a time when vintage was still uncool! Okay, so we were different. (Together with us in top photo are our cousins Ron, now based in Canada, and Ate Margie, also known as Little.)

The following Santacruzan, I was again an Ave Maria. This time my mother bought applique flowers and beads and I was only too glad to finally see her buying new stuff for my new gown. But lo and behold! the new materials were for last year's outfit. My ever resourceful aunts were merely replacing the blue trimmings with red ones. That's the picture on the left. Take note, I was headless here but the pic still managed to find its way in the family album. Sayang daw e. The two photos on the right were taken when I was among the angels in another Church celebration a few months later. There were no major rehashings or reworkings for this occasion. My mother simply made me "re-wear" my old recycled gown.

Pie was a hila, like some sort of sagala, in one of those religious feasts in August and my mother asked an artist friend to create a gown for Pie and handpaint it. It actually turned out very nicely. Besides it was new—not previously owned, not previously worn—as in brand new. (That's the picture at the bottom.) Come December, Pie was chosen as class muse. What my mother did was to have the same friend take out the poncho and sew in a pair of the mandatory butterfly sleeves. (Top photo.) My mother was becoming creative.

Nah, not really creative. She used the same idea twice, right? Just look at the two pics of six-year old me above and see a re-application of the sew-in-butterfly-sleeves-to-old-gown technique. It's what ad people call two executions of the same concept. Maybe that's why I ended up in advertising...

The World According to Coke

2008-11-12T11:55:00.006+08:00

It was the hippie heaven of the early 70s. It was life as I saw it through rose-tinted glasses. Hey, I was just a kid, remember? Besides my own little existence was a rose garden in some ways anyway. It was a beautiful wonderful world as captured in the best ever tv commercial of my childhood.

I'd like to buy the world a home
And furnish it with love

Grow apple trees and honey bees
and snow-white turtle doves

I'd like to teach the world to sing
in perfect harmony

I'd like to buy the world a Coke
and keep it company

It's the real thing
Coke is what the world wants today.

Yeah, it was the real thing. Though a little unreal to me at the time. The oldies at home had this thing against carbonated drinks. And Cokes were major no-nos.

Twin Issues

2008-11-11T12:22:00.004+08:00

My middle name should have been “Issue”.

You see, I had always been full of issues even as a kid. Issues about my apple cut hair. About vegetables and vitamins. About anything, everything. But my biggest issue was this idea of making me look like the other half of twins, the other half being my sister Pie. It was awful. Anyone who saw us bought it. We were of almost the same height, the same build, the same hairstyle (or lack of it!) and our facial features were more or less the same. We had every appearance of being twins which we were absolutely not. And I hated it.

It was my mother’s doing, of course. She garbed us in matching outfits, sometimes even at home and most times when we were out. At Church, people would always have something to say about our supposed twin-ness. It was a good thing I was but a young wide-eyed girl who had no inkling her middle finger had certain uses or I would have flashed my small one left and right.

My mother was, naturally, innocent. She did not mean to offend my childish sensibilities — I can see that now. Maybe she thought it was cute, completely harmless. But for me it was just plain horrible. In the first place, Pie and I were as different as night and day. She was all girly whereas I was more of a tomboy. Meaning, we were not made for the same type of clothes. Second, most of those dresses looked pretty on Pie and almost always not on me which was just great for a five-year old’s self-esteem! Third and most importantly, I wasn’t cut out for assimilation. Clothe us as one. Strip us of our individuality. Of course, this was not how I put it back then.

So, at some point, I couldn’t take anymore of this look-alike-dress-alike crap and thereupon put my little foot down. The last time my sister and I were made to wear identical frocks was at a cousin’s wedding when I was 7, after which I refused to have another haircut similar to Pie's. And so it was.

Wonder twins… de-activate!

Children of the War

2008-11-10T22:10:00.001+08:00

My maternal grandfather was born in the late 1800's and his first three children were born in the first quarter of the 20th century. By the Second World War, the three had grown into adolescents who already knew enough and understood enough not to be untouched by the war that hit them hard.

No one emerges from a war without being broken in any way. And where my uncle and two aunts were concerned, this brokenness came in the form of this fear of losing everything and ending up with nothing. Perhaps this was the reason why they always had this overwhelming need to hold on to all things possible as if there was value in every little thing and it was a mortal sin to throw anything away.

My sisters and I grew up in our motherhouse. And a large part of the first ten years of my life was spent with my two aunts — who were old maids by the way — who also lived with my grandparents.

My aunts' stinginess went from silly to downright outrageous. They kept scraps of paper that belonged in the waste can more than anywhere else. And there was, of course, nothing anyone can use them with except as paper money when we children played bank. Disposable cups and cutlery were not disposed of but washed then stored in a cabinet full of precious plastic junk collection. One time one aunt gave me a mild scolding when she caught me putting away the Chippy bag I just finished. I was baffled and later mortified to find a frozen fish in the fridge wrapped in my Chippy foil!

They were also very skillful with the sewing machine which was a bad thing for me and my sisters. Come summer they would take piles of their old clothes from an ancient glass aparador in my grandfather's bedroom and start sewing away. And there would be new cases for our pillows which was fine with us. But then there would also be new pajamas, shorts and skirts for us from those worn pieces of cloth which was deplorable for any young person, naturally.

We were in a state of having and not having, of being with and without. For some time, I had this notion that we were kind of rich. We had kasamas (tenants who worked my grandparents' land) who came in and out of the house on a regular basis. I was pretty sure none of my friends' families had their share of kasamas. But hey I was the only one in class who wore clothes made from old ones at home, who brought baon, pandesal with varying filling and lemonada, to school as to be always short of allowance. So at one point, it eventually dawned on me that I was not the rich kid I thought I was. Destitute was more like it.

But if we were so hard up, why was there so much food on the table? The mandatory soupy vegetable, 2 kinds of meat (poultry, pork or beef), seafood and fruit were always there. We ate three big meals a day and three small meals in between. We were always eating it seemed. I remember my aunts would get all fired up about us girls leaving morsels on our plates and I always thought they were a bit over the edge. It was only when I was a little grown-up that I realized that it was never about the money. It was about the war. Even the abundance of food on the table was about the war.

I started writing this thinking that this was going to be hilarious. But it did not turn out to be. Because no matter how funny my aunts' efforts at frugality were, I did not have it in me to laugh at these two dear women who had to suffer a devastating war at a very vulnerable age.

Lessons from Voltes V

2008-11-09T20:00:00.000+08:00

One late afternoon when I was about 8, my cousins, my sisters and I were watching Voltes V on TV. So intent were we that we didn't hear the toiling of chuch bells announcing Angelus. My mother's family was terribly old school; we were supposed to kiss the hands of all elders in the house as soon as the bell struck six. Well, it was the episode when Mrs. Armstrong died and kissing hands was the last thing on our minds. Suddenly, my grandfather, God rest his soul, started hitting us with his cane. Everybody, including my teenaged cousins, sprang to their feet to kiss his hand. For the longest time, I did not move. My old maid aunts urged me to do what I was supposed to do. I refused. It took several minutes and one aunt to drag me by the hair to finally bring the top of my head down to my grandfather's waiting hand. I was young. I was small. There was nothing I could do but take my seat and go back to Voltes V.

Re-posted from my Multiply journal.

Bags from the Past

2008-11-08T19:53:00.001+08:00

My love affair with vintage bags began early in childhood when I was about five years old. My old maid aunt had a small treasure of some very beautiful bags in her closet and she would let me toy with them from time to time. I always found it fascinating to run my little fingers over them, especially the beaded ones. They were so lovely, even to my young, unknowing eyes. Most were evening bags and the one that I would hold in my hand again and again was a fully beaded golden clutch with yellow silky lining inside. Made in Japan, my aunt would say with a teeny-weeny hint of pride.

When I was around ten and living in the new house my parents built, I discovered my mother's bags from the 60's and 70's hidden in a big drawer under the bed she shared with my father. There were two different reversible beaded purses. There was a slim bag strewn with mid-sized, pastel-colored pearly beads. All very unique and eye-catching pieces. But the one that I coveted most was an interesting square-ish handbag of cowhide leather.

When I went to college, I asked my mother for one of the reversible purses. One side was of black and red beads on velvety black fabric and the other, of multi-colored beads on white. I also got one bag from another old maid aunt. It was a foldable handbag that doubled as a shopper with amber handles and material with prints of a charming old-world feel. I carried these cool stuff from another age to school and matched them with my mother's vintage blouses that I had her modista update into sleeveless tops. My bags, years older than me, were subjected to the wear and tear of collegiate life and, sadly, did not make it to my last year at university. I remember I also borrowed a small silver evening number with a long worn out but still graceful chain that belonged to a great aunt to use for some ball that I attended with a frat man friend. The loaned bag was never returned as I lost it somewhere moving from one apartment to another.

When I was in my early 20's, my mother took the bags of her youth from under her bed and gave them all to me. I was an underpaid copywriter and freebie vintage bags were highly appreciated and absolutely needed. My three sisters never showed any interest in old paraphernalia such as these — all made in Hong Kong according to their original owner — so I was very lucky to have them all to myself. The inside of the cowhide bag that I loved so much showed signs of falling apart but that was of no consequence to me. My old bags though were not spared from the harshness of modern times. I was a chain smoking ad person and I accidentally burned a small circle on my dear, dear cowhide. But I kept it anyway. The second of the two reversibles, of black beads on black and the other side of white and transparent beads also on black, suffered another fate. My sister borrowed it one time and loaded the poor thing with all her daily work essentials and my prized possession came back to me sagging, with lots of missing beads to make things worse. I carefully wrapped it in paper, sealed it in plastic and declared the last of the reversible purses officially retired.

Many years later when I was pregnant with Indie, my old maid aunt called me to her bedroom and showed me all the bags she kept hidden in the same spot all those years. She told me they were all mine to keep. Among them, a black patent clutch which I believe belonged to a great aunt, another one of white leather and yet another one with white beads all over. The golden beaded bag that I so adored as a little girl was also there, my all-time favorite now finally mine. I was at once moved and something told me my aunt wanted to say more but didn't. She passed away a month after. Of course, she was trying to say goodbye.

Though I still use them from time to time, I have carefully preserved my precious bags as I did with the retired reversible purse, hoping to pass them on to my daughter Indie the same way my mother and aunt passed them on to me like the family heirlooms that they were.