Baubles, Bangles & Beads

 

J.S.Bax c.a. 2008

Stray Cats and Dogs

            Five children born of a marriage long since gone to the rocks is a mighty tale to tell, albeit sentimental and blatantly “corny”.  It is, at best, episodic in the telling and plot-challenged in the reading. So what is there to say of a life spent cleaning bathrooms and picking up toys?

There’s much, as in plenty. And because you know the storyline, you brace for the story where omnipotence is the mantle that the reader wears.

            20 km. south of the premier city of Manila , this brood lives.  These five children with ages ranging from 16 to 32 have their eldest sibling working as an OFW, the 2^nd eldest aspiring to make it as a local Iron Chef, the third as a future Dr. House, the fourth as Penelope Garcia incarnate and the youngest as Ronaldinho understudy.

The relationship among members is always volatile, sometimes, violent but never fragile. As in the barbaric clans of old, they are fiercely loyal to each other. In other words, they are normally aggressive and furiously insubordinate towards established behavioral idioms and especially defiant of authority figures like parents and school officials. Arguments ensue and territorial fights are regular spectacles. Pocket rebellions are always lurking. Nobody worries.  It is as good as it gets.

In a sprawling and sprawled four-bedroom abode, the family grew their roots, with intermittent chapters that focused, not only on intra familial dealings, but also on a variety of interaction with friends and relatives, that spell, well, hysteria.

In this atmosphere of apparent parental non-control, anything right can go wrong and vice-versa.

This was confirmed when the eldest daughter decided on mountain climbing as her after-office activity. She, with 12 years of ballet training, of suits and promotions as financial analyst, wanted to scale Mt. Apo ! Her dad registered his negativity when he asked why the guy who brought her home after an expedition had earrings.

It took her a few days but she said it: “I will not marry a man like my father.”

Her father is a businessman who plays the classical guitar. When she said it, nobody batted an eyelash. It was as regular a quip as anybody can deliver in the mayhem of that rambling bungalow.

In whatever context she meant the quip, she remained true to the normative practice of being impeccable with the Word. She married a tri-athlete who wore earrings and with whom she encounters the perils (and joys) of mountain climbing.  The couple’s latest caper is multi-peak hiking in South America , where they visited the ruins of Machu Pichu. With braids, khaki shorts and mountain climbing gear strapped to her petite 5’3 1/2” frame, she is, physically, the opposite of Angelina Jolie’s tall and long-limbered “Lara Croft” version with obvious similarities in pursued activities. A good friend calls her “Lara Croft” anyway.

While the eldest sibling was on the threshold of a career path, the youngest was only 5 years old.  Everyone thought he was a prodigy when he started writing stories at age five. He was, then, intensely academic, asking questions like: If worth, price, value are synonyms, why is it that the meaning of worthless is the antonym of priceless? Would anyone care to be his English grammar instructor?

At this writing, his bathroom reading is the Encyclopedia Americana. As to what volume beats me. Dare I ask?

 

Studying at the University of the Philippines was a long-standing dream of Daughter # 3.  On her first term, she met and befriended the first stray cat in this story. 

Her name is Kathy. She hailed from Palawan ; did some travels in the US of A for a year and promptly, when she returned, came to visit.  According to her, she missed the Philippines very much in the year she was away from home. Momentarily, according to her, she was in the process of rekindling the fire of patriotism by reading local literary giants like F. Sionil Jose and Renato Constantino.

At the terrace, alongside the pocket garden that I was watering, she sat, poring over the pages of a hardbound copy of ‘The Pretenders’.

 “Kathy,” I called.

When she looked at me, I asked:  “WHY are you neck deep in Philippine literature and history when you have a thesis in genetics due for submission in 4-months time?”

She answered, “ Because I think love of country is more important NOW than my thesis. It can wait.  I can finish it in time, auntie. Please don’t worry about it. At the moment, I have to figure out why Philippine society is the way it is and what I can do about it.”

Excellent answer, you might say. Very nationalistic, too, I might add. It is also the party line you would expect of a card-carrying, bonafide and certified denizen of UP.  The fly in the ointment was that I was not convinced.

Back in the days when Plaza Miranda and the whole Quiapo area accommodated a hundred thousand politicized students chanting and shouting:  MAKIBAKA, ‘WAG MATAKOT!,’ I was there and done that.  Not that I love my country less. It’s just that   nowadays, mine is the studious perspective of the compromised adult.

Towards Kathy, I sashayed.

 I sat down beside her.  Gently, I told her that the accomplishments as a Filipino geneticist would make one whole country proud as compared to the dubious progress of a street parliamentarian arguing about the demerits of the culture of corruption.

 

“Time enough for history and cultural anthropology, in the aftermath of thesis defense”, I added as epilogue to my unsolicited advice.

Kathy began to complain, loudly, that each time she came to visit us, she gets to change her mind.  With her light brown curly hair, fair skin and 5” structure, she called on everybody within shouting distance to commiserate with her while I finished my chore of green revivification.

She is now into quantum physics, graduating with a Chemistry degree.

His real name is Gerardo Salazar.  He is another stray animal in this tale.  I met him when he was a green and stripling 16-year old. He also met his first girlfriend thru me. We lost touch for years, and, perchance, we met at a mall, where the beginning of his marital bliss began to unfold. Alas, he could not marry me.

It might as well be a scene from a movie where characters forget their manners while hugging and talking and laughing in the excitement of finding special people. Jolted by the realization that he was with somebody, Gerry introduced me to his beaux. 

A week after this meeting, Gerry appeared at our doorstep, obviously forlorn. He had just broken up with his girl friend. While nursing his broken heart, he visited often.  In one of these visits, he confided that he really wanted to marry this girl. So we sat down to properly ponder the issue of romantic relationships. 

“You really love her, huh?” I queried.

“Very much!” he replied. 

“ O.k.  So you love her.  But do you lust her?” I queried some more.

 

“I do!” he emphasized.

 

“Go and f… her.  But do it legally!” I advised.

They printed my name as primary sponsor, whatever that means, and they now have two kids.

It is not accidental.  It is never incidental. Each one that seeks filial warmth is welcome in that rambling scenario.

As for the five siblings, it is learning about love and caring.

In the candor of youth, these experiences are good reminders of the oft-said verity: it takes more than food, clothing, shelter and education to grow as a person that abides by his/her individual choices and its consequences.  It also takes a lot of stray cats and dogs that pass thru fences and garage roof to appreciate the kennel that you live in.

At each passing, the bits and pieces of a meal are also shared. The sounds and silences of one’s life are gently swathed in sighs and stored in cumulative and accumulated personal and family history.

So it goes – another day, another stray cat or dog, whichever comes first.