Rose Garden

One ordinary, lazy weekend afternoon, as my wife and I talked about plants and vegetation and greenery, my thoughts suddenly drifted to memories of my mom's rose garden. Memories have an uncanny way of intruding into consciousness at the oddest hours and via the most ordinary stimuli.

When the family moved into its own home in Las Piñas in the early 70's, in what was then a sleepy, rural town south of Manila, famous for its salt beds and a church organ made of bamboo, and where one could still see rice fields and grasslands and open spaces, Mom discovered she had a green thumb.

The original house, before it was expanded in 1976, was a small, boxy, two-bedroom affair, but with a rather large lot compared to today's working class houses. Dad, the son of farmers, had a knack for growing vegetables, and so on one side of the lot we had kalabasa and sitaw; at the back we had kamatis and talong. On the lot's other end we had an atis tree, a calamansi, and two prolific trees each of papaya and kamias.

Mom's domain was ornamentals and, naturally, the lot's front was hers. Our front lawn had the nicest, luxuriant grass, similar to what can be found on a golf green. We had an interesting dwarf palmera near the garden tap; two dwarf coconut trees on the left and right sides, a row of santan and a shrub with a name I can't quite recall, with leaves that turned white at the edges, as if they had been painted. And then there was Mom's rose garden.

It occupied a rectangular plot in front of the house, and was about five meters long and a meter wide. A rather small area, admittedly, but during its heyday it teemed with some of the most beautiful red and white blooms. Mom obtained the plantings from kin, with some tips and advice thrown in. The rest was natural ability, which surprised many, including Mom herself, I think. The rose garden turned my brother Benjie and I into celebrities on the school bus. The girls we rode with would often request us for roses, pleading with us for Mom's beautiful blooms. We naturally didn't want to disappoint them and, riding on the wave of our newfound popularity, cajoled Mom into letting us pick some of her prized reds and whites.

Mom took good care of her rose garden, spending many afternoons removing weeds, loosening the soil, and plucking dead leaves from the stems. She also kept a sharp eye out for pests, always preempting them thru careful detection of their telltale signs. Afternoons was when Mom worked in her garden. She always donned work gloves, and used a trowel and shears. While she went about her business, Benjie and I would play on the grass, usually wrestling each other, or playing catch-me-if-you-can. At other times we would just be near Mom, like chicks to their mother hen, and helped her prune her roses when she asked us to.

Benjie and I have the clearest recollections of Mom's rose garden, as our other siblings were very young then. We are from the Popeye, Beany and Cecil, and Gumby era; our younger siblings, from Sesame Street and Voltes Five. They had no idea then who Godzilla and Mothra were, and probably thought The Green Slime was the ectoplasm in Ghostbusters.

The time of Mom's rose garden was the time I was becoming more aware of our own little world: Mom tending her blooms, us children whiling our sweet, carefree time by endless play; Dad getting home from work, and then the family having dinner together. Over steaming rice and Mom's delicious dishes we had a very fluid agenda. Dad talked about office events and gossip; Mom, about what she did at home and, neighborhood gossip. I wanted to talk about my school bus crushes but never dared to, and so told Mom that I had additional requests for her blooms. Benjie listened and seconded anyone when he felt like it; Benson had a timid appetite and would only take in a morsel or two. He regularly dozed off at the dinner table, exhausted from the school day. Belinda loved veggies at an early age, and was Dad's and the family's little girl. Brian always had a good appetite! He sat to my right, and between us were the drinking glasses and the Magnolia Milk bottles or the plastic orange juice containers of ice cold water. We were the water boys at dinner.

Routines. We lived them day in and day out, never realizing, until now, that they were in fact some of the happiest moments of our lives.

Sorry, Jesse.

I must admit, Jesse, that I lumped you with all the politicians I hate. I hate them all, politicians and lawyers. They make life complicated and miserable for a lot of people.

I didn't know you. I'm not a Naga native, nor have I ever been to Naga, or ever cared about it. You and your Naga and your history were totally outside my collective consciousness. "Naga" was a name from way, way back in my grade school days, as an obscure place from Philippine social studies. If you presided over the place at one time, and life for its inhabitants became better, then you must have taken something from it in return. That is how things have always been in this country, right Jesse? Give little things and then take back a multitude. Ask people and firms to donate trash bins and paint, use the paint to paint the trash bins and letter your name on them, donate them to the town or city, have your picture taken during the turn-over ceremonies, making sure not to miss your wide grin and you pointing to the donated trash bins, and presto! A free, effective PR opportunity equivalent to at least a hundred votes for your re-election! Do this thing many times over and the whole town or city will vote for you.

Or you can let the roads rot for years in your town or city, let motorists' disgust and tempers simmer, convene the council well before the start of the campaign period which carries a ban on public works and construction, order truckloads of overpriced, inferior quality asphalt, overlay the rutted roads with it, put up billboards with your big photo and name on them: "Mayor So-and-So, in coordination with This-and-That agency, has made possible this project for the beloved constituents of This-and-That town or city." Just a few days of rain "melts" the asphalt overlay, but the billboards are so durable they can withstand an IED. Laudable.

I lumped you with these imbeciles, Jesse. I'm so biased against your kind. You were a politician. You played politics. I now see that you played it differently. A bit unorthodox, but effective and endearing to a lot of people. You hit it right on the mark.

But Fate is cruel and unkind. Death took you away and you've left us behind. You did wonderful things that gave hope to a lot of people. You showed the way to fresh starts. You could have led those starts yourself, and a whole lot more, but many genuinely good men get plucked early from life. I don't know why. It's a question for philosophers to answer.

I think the hundreds upon hundreds of people who believe in you and hold you dear can't be wrong, Jesse. There are those who remain unconvinced or don't care. They don't matter now. But I WAS one of them, and for this I'm sorry, Jesse.

Scavengers

Lately, I've noticed that storm surges have become more frequent along Roxas Boulevard, fronting Manila Bay, especially the area from the Manila Yacht Club up to the American Embassy. Most noticeable in these surges is the trash that get washed up ashore. Tons of them each time. Collectively, they may rival the tsunami debris from Japan's earthquake last year.

Ours is a tsunami of garbage, that poses as serious a threat to life as the storm surges on which it rides. While the surges damage and breach large segments of the seawall, the tons of trash are a national shame. They carry filth and disease, and mirror our wanton disrespect for the environment. Curiously, almost unbelievably, atop the floating, almost solid flotsam are scavengers, blending in with the garbage, like chameleons. These people have elevated scavenging to new heights, over and above a mere survival activity. In the native tongue, they are referred to as "mangangalakal," meaning "trader." They are businessmen then of the most daring kind, comparable to the most intrepid venture capitalist or investment banker. While the latter makes use of other people's money, risking to lose only their egos and reputations, the "mangangalakal" stands to lose his own life or limb should something go awry.

Scavenging is an industry in this country, as are ambulant vending and panhandling; the ubiquitous street food and fruit vendors on makeshift wheeled carts that dot every available space and corner; the "sari-sari" store every fifty meters or so in economically depressed neighborhoods; the barbecue vendors that seem to sprout during the afternoon and well into the night; these are the livelihood of a marginalised populace.

Do we recklessly dispose of our trash to sustain scavenging? I hope not. It can be a convenient justification though, but an immoral one. Scavenging must be difficult in a poor country like ours. I mean, we don't throw away TV's, fridges, computers, etc., as in developed countries. We have them repaired again and again, beyond their planned life. We don't throw away old clothes; they become hand-me-downs, or as donations to charity, or we just stow them until they are overrun with mold and rot, at which time we turn them into rags. What we throw away are almost totally useless scraps; but scavengers, with their sharp, discerning sight, still manage to find items they can salvage and sell, to keep body and soul together.

I'm a scavenger of dreams and things now, sifting through what other people and I have thrown away. One scavenges when the possibility to add to possessions is absent or dim. I went through a time of ambitions and realizations aplenty, considering them as my birthrights. Through a series of miscalculations, recklessness, and imprudence, I've lost most of my good fortune. I now take stock of my material remainders; there aren't much left, just enough to get by, enough to stay in the daily race to remain human, but not enough to be a glittering gem.

I seek solace whenever and wherever, in classical music after dinner on Saturdays; in my weekend afternoon naps on the floor, with memories from happier, better times intruding into that limbo between wakefulness and slumber, persistent, though not annoying, as the hum of mosquito wings near my ear.

Comedian On Leave

One of the family's comedians, my brother Benjie, is indisposed. I don't know for how long. He is waging an uphill battle against a malevolent disease, a disease that saps his spirit and dreams. From sparse accounts I get from other family members, Benjie, the perennial clown who takes every opportunity to practise his heaven-bestowed gift of making people laugh and be happy and consequently have a generally more optimistic take on life, has taken a leave of absence and become withdrawn and contemplative, and certainly very tired from his treatments.


I'm sure he has a lot of things on his mind, among them his wife and two very young children. It can also be surmised that he's thinking of the possibilities that lie ahead. Believe me, brother, the future for all of us is uncertain. No exceptions. Some of us may think that life allows us to see ahead and plan, whereas the truth is we cannot see ahead a minute or even a second from now. This reality is humbling. On close analysis, the things that make life worthwhile are love, hope, and faith. If you have just one of these (two or all would be best!), then you can bear life's vagaries. I'm very sure you have love.


I think of my brother very often nowadays, always returning to the times when we were growing up together. The PC, internet, video games were unheard of then. A blessing, I think, because we spent time playing children's games, including reciting lines from our favorite children's rhymes, and Japanese monster and scifi films: "O Kaka, O Kaka, San Fernandong wawa," "Chichiritchit alibangbang, salaginto't salagubang, ang babae sa lansangan, kung gumiri parang tandang," "The green slime are here! The green slime are coming!" (from the movie The Green Slime). I can imagine the smile on my brother's face as he remembers how we invented a game using these rhymes and movie line.


Simple games, yes, but they produced enough happy memories to last a lifetime. Moreover, the games of old had the finest ingredient, camaraderie, from which sprang forth sympathy, empathy, and caring. Very good for siblings and other people in general. Today's video and online games overwhelm with its technology, and leave very little for the imagination. I have to admit, a few years back I was briefly fascinated with them, preferring a game controller over reading a good book, leading my game character-hero inside an ominous-looking warehouse to blast every villain inside. The virtual blood, gore, and explosions gave me inexplicable thrill. The games catered to my dark, baser instincts. They may be enjoyed on-demand and alone, no fickle-minded playmates required. Online games? No real camaraderie needed. A common goal may bind you with other online players, but where there is only a common objective to accomplish, egocentricity and selfishness can't be far behind. No lasting, wonderful memories there.


There was a time when I was also a comic, quick to spot punch lines in the plainest of situations. But as I took life more seriously, I started becoming morose. It was life's ugly side that showed its best to me, the one with the failures, regrets, treachery, and pretentious people. The harder I struggled, the more distant my dreams became. Or did I actually chased rainbows?


But I'm slowly coming to terms with myself and reality. I'm seeing the futility of too much seriousness. Life is replete with too many unknowns. I'm at their mercy. I'm trying to bounce back, occasionally laughing at life's pranks and ironies, and at my own and other people's follies. This might seem cruel, but it's a quite effective way to deal with the harshness of my existence. If I can't get better deals, then what am I supposed to do? It would be difficult and futile to live the rest of my life sullenly.


My brother deserves this temporary intermission, if only to regain his bearings, to know where he stands; to focus on life's dearest things, without throwing in the towel.

Eternal Rest and The Monsoon

I didn't have to work today, the consequence of the annual monsoon taking on the proportions of a national tragedy. I'm old enough to recall that the monsoon season used to be an annual blessing, awaited to provide a respite from summer's scorching heat, and the promise of bountiful harvests for farmers. Now it's more of a curse, bringing with it relentless rains, floods, destruction, and death. Mother Nature is striking back, I think, after decades of Man abusing and neglecting her. And her fury cannot be restrained or contained.


My father-in-law, now a widower, is again experiencing the attendant inconveniences of a house submerged in flood. He is now temporarily displaced, staying with one of his daughters who lives nearby. The last time something like this happened was two years ago, when his wife was still alive and seemingly well. They went through the inconveniences together. I can't help but ponder on what could be going on in my father-in-law's mind, now that his wife of more than 50 years is gone, and he has to go through life's difficulties alone. My own father's situation is no different. He now has to go through life alone, without my mom's reassuring presence. These are two courageous men, able to move on despite their irreplaceable losses. I'm not certain if I'm made of the same strong material as these two. I could be. But they were soldiers of their time: My father-in-law was an officer in the Reserve, while my father was an Air Force jock. They're old school, born before the last world war; witnesses to human suffering, and the slow,, painful progression of life from the ashes. Underneath their strong, willful personalities is a rare gentleness they shower upon those whom they love. And in dealing with others they observe the tenets of fairness and unassailable integrity. They stock up on riches not of this world.


I, on the other hand, was born during a time of great optimism, strong purchasing power, and relative ease. My generation saw the rise of the service industry, essentially people doing things for other people, things too mundane or monotonous or messy. I never learned, and will never learn, to slaughter a live chicken for the dinner table, a commonplace skill of my two fathers. I am a spoiled brat compared to them.


The present-day curse of the monsoon, and life's other difficulties and uncertainties, are among the best reasons why I look forward to my "graduation," the term I use to refer to death. While most people view the subject of death as unsettling and unpleasant, and therefore a topic to be skirted in discussion, I look at it as an option to and a liberation from life's triteness. I've never entertained the thought of staying around for a very long time. There isn't sufficient happiness to go around here. Perhaps it abounds somewhere else.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

It's my mom's birthday today. She would have been 73. This is the first time she isn't around for her birthday.

More than half of my life, I've spent away from my mom. They migrated to the States when I was almost 25, a new husband and father. After that, I saw her a total of three times before she passed away last year. Time flew really fast, and took with it the moments I could have spent with my mom. I kept procrastinating, kept thinking that plentiful time to spend with her was always available for the taking. I was mistaken, of course.

A loved one's passing away opens the eyes to the importance of seemingly trifling, everyday things, like sharing meals, a good laugh, fears, tears, and most important of all, time. I still have dreams, I guess, but they're much simpler now. They're more like getting from one day to the next, happy and in one piece. None of us will be around forever, and we can take along nothing of what we have, save for love and memories. And for some, even this is not possible, like when they die surrounded by the hatred and loathing of people they have mistreated and abused; or when they pass on while afflicted with dementia.

Two months back, I sent out e-mail invites to family and selected friends about my blog post and photos related to my Mt. Pulag climb. I sent one out to Mom. I have not deleted her from my mailing list. Never. I want to keep it this way. E-mail was just about the only way we kept in touch, and deleting her name would be quite difficult. I can easily delete other people's names, but not my mom's.

If I had gotten a reply to my e-mail, then that would have been wonderful. And initially mysterious, too. To other people, it would have been frightening. But not to me. Mom was a firm believer in the supernatural, especially ghosts. I believe she held the record for having seen the ghosts of all our kin who passed on ahead of her. Each time we had kin pass away, Mom was equally worried and certain, as she was sad, that the dead kin's ghost would make a stopover at our home on its way to the eternal beyond. And indeed there were many instances of these ghostly visits, if I believed my mom's accounts. Our dead kin's ghosts said hi to her at the most inconvenient times: Like when she went to the toilet to pee in the middle of the night; or when she was on her way to the kitchen very early in the morning to make breakfast, and she thought she saw the ghost of our recently dead kin sitting on the family couch, wearing his burial clothes. Terrific. After this episode, it was Dad who cooked breakfast, and this arrangement remained in force for the rest of their life together.

I often told her not to worry about ghosts bothering her, as about real flesh and blood humans out to do others harm, like robbers and muggers. And professional politicians, and those who simply play politics. I kept telling her there were no such things as ghosts, and that when people die, their souls are not permitted to terrorize those who still survive; that a quick judgment is handed down a few hours after death, and the soul is swiftly dispatched to its eternal destination. But Mom would have none of these. She clung to her beliefs with enviable tenacity. And while she was deeply religious, she was also steeped in superstition and ritual. I think she embodied the Filipino psyche well, and it is something that I can be proud of. I think it is this mindset that endows Pinoys with their renowned resiliency. It could be one of the reasons (the other being our continuing love affair with slapstick humor) why we do not have (not yet, anyway) incidences of people going to movie houses, campuses, and workplaces, to shoot everyone on sight.

And so it was that when Mom died, I was hoping that she was right about the ghost stuff. I longed for her to pay me a visit, to say hi before she took off to her eternal beyond. I waited for anything unusual or supernatural, like the sudden waft of flowers or a candle going out, or an apparition in a darkened corner of our home, or maybe even in a dream. I waited in vain. Mom never paid me a visit. I was right about ghosts not existing. I was actually disappointed. It was one of those instances when I actually wished I was wrong. Mom probably grudgingly conceded defeat, but at the same time, was relieved and thankful that she didn't have to pay the customary ghost visits to family and kin. Mom's and Dad's families are quite big families, and it would have taken her some time to pay everyone a ghostly visit. It's different when you're on the visiting end, hey, Mom?

And then, again, if I had received a reply to my e-mail, I would have suspected, after a brief period of incredulity, that my brother, Benson, was playing a prank on me. I'm quite certain he assisted Mom with setting up an e-mail account, and if Mom didn't bother changing the original password, then Benson, one of the family's comedians (the others being Benjie and Bennett), would have found the perfect opportunity to practise his craft.

Here's a toast to you, Mom!

Found: Glimpses of Heaven

I finally climbed Mt. Pulag last May 26-27, after months of dreaming it. My resolve was made stronger when Mom passed away late last year, and after numerous personal setbacks. I'm still on my emotional rollercoaster. I've noticed that the more turbulent and despondent my life becomes, the more committed I am to doing foolhardy and risky things, testing my limits and tempting fate. Could a similar circumstance be behind those men who always crave to be on the precipice, with death just a few miscalculations away? We look at them with awe and admiration, and yet if their inspiration is no different from mine, then we should empathize with their misery. I'm entirely on my own, though, and I want neither sympathy or empathy. Whatever I do is my own decision, and whatever sad and ugly consequences I create, I must suffer alone.

*****

The trek on foot was steep and long and arduous. It gradually became apparent that I was a bit overconfident of myself. I was often running out of air. In the lowlands I'm in great shape, but high up there in the mountains, it's a different story. The option of quitting became attractive at times, like some ravishing devil offering me the pleasures of letting go. But I persevered, partly because this whole affair of a climb was a long-time dream, and partly because of encouragement from my kindred souls, for whom the climb was not just some sort of a jaunt up the mountain, but akin to a spiritual pilgrimage.

*****

We set out for the summit at about 3:30 Sunday morning. The cold was biting. In every direction one looked, it was dark, except when one gazed upward: An almost unimaginable dome of hundreds upon hundreds of stars! They didn't twinkle as much as in the lowlands, and in the crisp, pure air, they were more like blobs of light. It was the first time I had seen so many stars. Those stars alone would have been sufficient to make the climb worthwhile, but there was the summit to reach.

*****

We trekked on rocky, muddy, slippery, and bone-jarring trails. In some parts, the trails were narrow enough to make me feel like I was trying to balance myself on a wooden plank. Others were precipitous on either side, their abyss hidden by the darkness.

We walked single file, and the lights from our headlamps and flashlights reminded me of a scene from a movie about explorers in an inhospitable and forbidding alien landscape. All the while I could see the mist from my labored breathing partially obscuring the beam from my flashlight.

*****

I was fortunate enough to belong to the second group that reached the summit before the coveted sunrise. The first group broke away at a continuous, blistering pace; too much and too fast for my lungs unacclimatized to high altitudes. I wondered how they adjusted so quickly and well. Or was I experiencing the limitations of my age?

Those who left camp last, and who were likewise bogged down either by physical limitations or the challenges of the trails, or both, had to content themselves with awaiting the sunrise on the lesser peaks of Mt. Pulag. However, if not only for the certain pride you feel on reaching the summit itself, the view from the lesser peaks was of the same undiminished magnificence.

*****

When I reached the summit, I sat on wet grass and ground. That act of sitting, with its attendant heave of a sigh, was relief unlike any other, after the long, labored ascent. It didn't matter that the ground was muddy and wet, I just had to sit down.

Waiting for the sunrise was, I felt, like waiting for a miracle to happen. Some set up elaborate camera equipment. Others, like myself, had cellphone cameras and ordinary cameras. Some were standing, and others were seated. I alternated between standing up and sitting down, trying to decide which provided the better perspective. Thinking back, I realized that when one is on the summit, there was only one perspective to one of life's most spectacular views.

*****

Then the miracle slowly unfolded. First, a hint of gold on the horizon, above the rolling, puffy clouds. It gave hope. Then, slowly but surely, guided by unseen hands, the curtain of full splendor was raised. The hint of gold grew, with its long, slender arms, embracing first, nearby clouds, then on to more distant ones. It gave wonder.

The sun rose dramatically for all of us to see. It rose on its own terms, unaffected and unhurried by our excitement and impatience. Its pace was perfect. It gifted us with time to ruminate on why we so much wanted to be there. For the majority, it was only another summit to climb, another place to be. I had my own reasons. I was looking for something unidentified, without form or feature. I brought dreams with me, those still intact, and some already broken. I also brought along hope, this tenacious thing I sometimes despise, that makes me cling to dear life. I brought all these with me to the summit, for Heaven to see; perhaps to seek admonition, then mercy, then reward.

*****

The majestic sunrise was unstoppable. The golden, slender arms now turned into wide swaths of gold, and slowly crept towards us, bathing the rolling clouds, turning the grey into blue and white. The sunrise then held the summit and the surrounding peaks in its unmistakable warmth. It touched my face, momentarily looking at the dreams and hopes I brought along. It left me with inspiration. Then it went on its way to touch and hold other mountains, other souls.