As kids see it

TO ease her never-ending and ever-revolving daily tasks of taking care of the children and working part time as a distributor of teaching aids for public school teachers, my elder sister trained her three daughters to help in the household chores when they were still at the tender ages of seven, six and four years old respectively.
Ai-ai, the eldest was taught to cook rice, Aireen the second was tasked to sweep the floor and Baby, the youngest was assigned to empty the bedpan every morning. Aside from their jobs, they were also scheduled to wash the dishes.
In the beginning, the kids took pride of their new responsibilities and tried to outdo each other at the tasks assigned to them, particularly washing the dishes (they were to learn a few days later that washing dishes is not that pleasant and has been an immortal bone of contention between siblings in almost all families worldwide).
As expected, the excitement eventually wore off. The dishes used during breakfast would remain unwashed til a little before lunchtime and prodding the kids to follow their schedules proved to be energy-taxing. Dishes will only be washed after much grumbling, mumbling and feet shuffling.
Every day, the quantity of my sister's plates and glasses started to dwindle as each girl took her turn in "accidentally" breaking a plate or glass, and each time each girl would claim that the plate or glass was slippery.
After noticing that the girls are always in a hurry every time they wash dishes, hence the 'breaking' incidents,
my sister finally decided to issue an ultimatum that the next time anybody breaks anything while washing dishes is going to get a good spanking.
The girls didn't take her seriously at first but when she demonstrated that she meant what she said, the 'breaking incidents' eventually reduced. The three girls got each a share of spanking but after a week, my sister didn't have to pick up shards of broken glass from the floor or sink anymore. Each girl tried to be extra careful.
It became ingrained in the girls' minds that whoever breaks any plate or glass will be spanked and that worked successfully.
One day my father came on a three-day visit to my sister's house in Tagum. Having practically grown up spoiled by their grandpa, the girls rarely left him alone. They pressed around him and quarelled who gets to sleep beside him or sit next to him at mealtimes.
While having dinner on the last night of his visit, my father accidentally dropped a glass on the floor during a meal. A deathly silence followed the shattering of glass as three sets of eyes automatically turned to my sister.
The girls were naturally expecting that my sister will give their grandpa a good spanking for the broken glass.
"You'll have to be spanked for breaking a glass, Yong,(the kids call their grandpa 'Oyong' instead of Lolo)," the youngest daughter spoke up after a long stretch of silence.
My sister stood up to pick the pieces of broken glass but Baby stood up too. She then proceeded to the corner where the broom being used to spank them was placed and solemnly handed it to her mother.
My sister was at a loss for words. She had a hard time explaining that what happened was an accident and their grandpa did not break the glass because he was fuming about washing dishes.
Although the girls didn't immediately see the difference, they were relieved that their granpa was spared from spanking.*

Asking Directions

Men are usually labeled as the species who would rather die than ask for directions. I've always believed that to be so, but I also believe there's a problem with the terminology.
Men usually would argue that they are never actually "lost," because deep down they are all explorers.

W. Bruce Cameron, famed author, speaker and syndicated columnist once stated in an article that asking for directions means giving a complete stranger a higher status than you, so he has permission to burn your crops and pillage your houses. Who wants that? A man would rather pull over and yell insults at a stranger than to ask him how to get somewhere.
I firmly believed in that before. Not now, after I went on a short trip to General Santos City a couple of weeks ago.

Best friend Gwen and I who are both unfamiliar with the city streets were in one of the malls shopping for pasalubong for friends in Davao one afternoon. After a few hours, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already six o'clock so I suggested that we get a bite somewhere before catching the last trip for Davao.

As she was also hungry, Gwen nodded and together we went to the fastfood section. Alas, the place was filled to the brim with diners.

"Sa McDonalds nalang ta Gwen! I suggested, so we went out of the mall. It was already dark outside and the street was unfamiliar because we came out of the side entrance.

Having no idea where McDonald's was located in the city, we stood on the side of the street for a few minutes while a persistent trycicle driver kept on pestering us.

"Where do you think is McDonald's here?" I asked Gwen. She simply shrugged her shoulders in an apparent gesture that she too, does not know where.

"We could ask someone before we board a trycicle because who knows it's just very near here," she suggested.

"You know, nitagam nako mangutana because I really felt stupid when I asked a man in Cebu City one time where Metro Gaisano was and I was standing right near its side door. The man looked at me as though I came from another planet speaking a different language," I said.

She saw the logic in this and so we opted to be wise and confidently boarded a tricycle parking near us (no, its not the one who pestered us earlier but he saw us board the other trycicle).

"Where to, miss?" the driver asked.

"McDonalds lang," Gwen answered.

The driver repeated his question and Gwen repeated her answer. The other drivers looked at us and snickered. As we were both hungry and tired, we didn't pay much attention to the snickers but we soon found out why.

The trycicle made a u-turn and there, about ten meters away, McDonald's red and yellow sign glowered brightly, as if mocking us because had we looked up from the point where we boarded the trycicle, we would have seen the huge sign we were looking for.

I nudged Gwen's side when the driver delivered us right to door but I saw that she was tying very hard to supress her laughter.

Meanwhile, here are some lessons I've learned the hard (and embarassing way):

*It's okay to ask for directions. Don't be embarrassed, and don't worry about other people judging you.

*Remember, getting help when you need it is part of being responsible to yourself.

*most of all, its better to be stupid and ask directions than to prove that you really are stupid.

Meanwhile, I'm assured that men still occupy the higher rung in stupidity about about asking directions because just three days ago, I went to Sultan Kudarat with two male publishers who obviously believed it unnecesary to ask for directions.

After alighting from the bus, we boarded a tricycle to take us to a certain restaurant, which turned out to be just a few feet at the back of where we were. The trycicle driver did not take the fare.

Avalanche in a bookshop

Several years ago, I used to browse at a little secondhand bookstore in Colon Street in Cebu City where all kinds of used books are sold from P5 to 25 pesos each.
I would enter the store as soon as it opens and leave when they close for lunchbreak, eyeing the old volumes hungrily while carrying cartoonfuls of used books to be brought all the way home.

Whatever book would catch my interest I would add to my pile, sneak reading the first few pages, hug it to myself and go on browsing through the shelves minus one hand.
As pile grow higher and I would drag the whole pile with me as I go around the bookstore. Finally, I would sift through my choices and make a selection as to what goes to the counter and what goes back to the shelf. Usually, very few goes back to the shelf.

At bookstores, there are books that I would have loved to buy but I would only look, touch and caress through its cellophane cover, sigh and put back on the shelf because of the extorbitant prices but at secondhand bookstores, its a different story.

In secondhand bookstores, people almost never pay attention to the other people who accidentally step on their feet or hit them with their elbows as everyone is concentrating in browsing and looking for interesting finds.

I've always considered pleasurable spending unmarked hours browsing or rummaging in a secondhand bookshop because aside from the wallet-friendly prices, you can sample a few pages to see if you like the book or not.

You never know what treasures you might meet on the used books shelf as you rummage among old volumes of encyclopaedia to thrillers to self-help manuals and psychology books, romances, health and sports books and even diaries as old as time.

This is how some of my favorite books came into my life. I came from a book-devouring family and I had grown to love books since I was in grade three.

Imagine my excitement a couple of weeks ago when I found that all used books are on sale at Victoria Plaza priced only P35 each!
Forget about browsing comfortably as people squeeze past you all over the small aisles that are literally jam packed its hard to find a spare inch of space to step on. Books are squeezed on the shelves, in cartoons and strewn all over the floor.

Within a few days, I splurged and spent the bulk (I hate to admit three-fourths) of my mid-year bonus on second hand books that I vowed never to step inside the store again while the book sale is still going on. However, I am powerless everyday as my feet would lead me there "just to take a look at the new arrivals" but always leave with my hands full and my pockets empty.

The other day, I promised to go there for the "really one last time" before I'll be tempted to spend my transportation allowance and will be forced to walk to and from work. Again, cartoons and cartoons of newly-arrived books flooded the small area and before I knew it, I broke my promise and again held on to a pile of my new selections. I was kneeling on the floor digging into a cartoon when a thick volume from the stack on the table fell on my head. Before I had time to dodge next book, a whole avalanche of hard-bound volumes came crashing on top of my head and all over me.

Thankfully, people were so engrossed browsing that I did not get much attention. I learned what it felt to be painfully "buried underneath a pile of books" but I manage to come out of it alive, albeit a few hundred pesos poorer and with a sprain on my toenails.
Think I've shied away from bookshops because of that? You've got it wrong, I'm on my way to another book sale.

Bathing in the rain

I WENT to the house of a friend I was staying with one noontime after conducting an interview for a special assignment, trying to ignore the hunger signals my stomach was sending and nursing a headache from lack of sleep. I was forced to get up early, missed my breakfast and I was feeling grouchy.

The sound of screaming kids playing games in the street right below the house drummed through my eardrums, aggravating the pain in my head.

Although I know it was cruel of me, I prayed it would immediately rain hard to stop the screaming and the noise so I could grab a few hours of sleep before reporting to the office for work.

Looking up at the sky, I knew I was wishing for the impossible because it has stifling hot, but suddenly, as if in answer to my wish, the sky began to darken and it was not long before large, fat raindrops came pouring down

The kids disappeared like bubbles when the rain fell, and albeit feeling a little guilty, I heaved a sigh of relief. I munched on a pack of soda crackers, deciding to eat a full meal after I've grabbed a few hours of sleep.

I was just drifting off to dreamland when noise erupted, drowning the rythmic pitter-patter of the rain on the roof.

The kids again!

I got up, my sleepiness flew out the window and my headache intensified. I peered out, and sure enough, from the surrounding houses children of all sizes and colors emerged, all shouting and eager to take a bath in the rain!
Talk about peace and a rest free from the kids' shouting!

I didn't intend to be mean. I was once a child who grew up in a neighborhood full of children. Maybe family planning was an unheard of thing that time, because every family seemed to produce children faster than we can count. In fact, in our whole neighborhood, mine was the only family that had only four children. The rest had six or more. One even had 13 kids born in rapid succession, popularly termed as 'do-re-mi' referring to the musical scale.

And how we all loved taking a bath in the rain! It was one of the best times of our lives. We enjoyed it so much that even if there's no rain, we splash water on each other.
(I hate to admit that water system was not yet installed at our houses that time and the water we splashed on each other came from a spring located far away from our homes, fetched by our parents or elder siblings, or by somebody they paid to fetch).

I loved the feel of raindrops hitting my body, and the refreshing sensation of coolness the increased speed and movement of each raindrop brings. I enjoyed having my soggy clothes stick to my body and the feeling of having rivulets run down my arms and legs. We would chase each other and play games until our fingers turn blue and our jaws would quiver with cold.

The rains promised us hours of splashing in puddles. But not all children are fortunate to have experienced the joys of taking a bath in the rain. That is out of the question especially for people whose children are always accompanied by 'yayas', whose umbrellas and raincoats materialize as soon as a small droplet of water fall from the skies. They missed a lot.

One day last year I decided to take a bath in the rain again, longing to recapture my childhood days (alas, how long ago that was) under the pretense of cleaning our backyard. Short, fat raindrops tickled down, and I was eagerly expecting for the refreshing feeling I always get when bathing in the rain as a child to come back, but I had barely become wet when the rain stopped.

Just like that. A few drizzles then the rain was gone. I developed a headache, followed by a three-day cold and runny nose instead.

It had been a long time since I have taken a bath in the rain. I guess somewhere along my journey into adulthood, baths in the rain have lost their magic.
My mind has formed new associations with the rain: the complete disturbance of plans, disruption in transportations, neglected garbage dumps, floating filth in waterlogged streets that no one in his right mind would be tempted to wade in, much less take a bath, the eternal water and power problems, and the carrying of umbrellas, a task I have never learned to love.

Instead of offering the bliss of solitude, the rain reminds me of the irrevocable loss of the innocent pleasures of childhood.*

Battle with a cockroach

After staring at the computer screen for seven straight hours, I went home to my rented room at around 4 o'clock one morning, anticipating the prospect of uninterrupted sleep since it was my day off from work.

I muted the ring tone on my cellphone, turned on my bedside radio to an FM station, grabbed my favorite cool 'malong', and hugged my jumbo hotdog pillow. As usual, the world was beginning to wake up just when I turned off the lights and snuggled in bed.

I was expecting of thoroughly enjoying the deepest kind of sleep one can enjoy during the day but I was just drifting off to dreamland when I felt something scurry up my legs, into my stomach and towards my neck.

Alarmed, I immediately jumped up off the bed, threw away my malong and pillows and took on a combatant stance, ready to face my attacker head on. Only to find out a big cockroach (yucks) scrambling to safety towards my bookcase.

I mean it was a real cockroach! The ones who spit, scatter their legs around, get drunk on my leftover coffee, juice or beer, know what's inside my locker and in my trashcan.

I shuddered with revulsion. On an impulse I took a broom from the corner and pulled out all my books and papers to catch the culprit, who disappeared almost simultaneously as though it had an instant premonition into the workings of my mind. I didn't give up until I saw it seek cover under my locker.
I poked it with the broom and began throwing things around until the whole room was in a hopeless mess. I didn't give up the chase, intending to win this battle until I had it cornered. I wacked the cockroach with the broom (not so hard because I had other plans) and it fell to the floor.

I got out a Raid chalk, drew out a perfect circle and pushed the still alive cockroach into the middle of the circle.

"Haha, let your companions see your die," I gloated because I knew that the cockroach could not escape from the thick circle alive. Satisfied, I went back to sleep but it was no longer as sweet as I intended it to be, my dreams filled with cockroaches.

Ever seen the film "Joe's Apartment"? It's a story about out-of-towner Joe (Jerry O'Connell) who moved into a filthy apartment in New York and be a roommate to more than 50,000 cockroaches. Moving in with Joe would be my death.

Waking up hours later, I saw him (or her I have no idea which), still on the floor where I left him (or her), face up, head turned 20 degrees to the left. I left my room feeling victorious that afternoon.

The cockroach (I swear it was the same one resurrected from the dead) got even with me one morning as I rushed to the bathroom to take a hurried bath. It was still six a.m. (practically midnight for my body clock) but an out-of-town appointment prodded me out of bed.

With eyes still half-closed, I made my way to the bathroom, took off my clothes, groped for the 'tabo' and poured cold water over my head to fully wake up.

As soon as the water made contact with my hair, I let out a blood curdling, fear-induced scream that awakened my next-door and next-house neighbors, for scrambling down my body, thankful of their freedom were two cockroaches (he's got a partner this time to get even with me!) whom I've unconsciously saved from the water.

I rushed out of the bathroom, barely managing to grab the towel and wrapping a small part of myself with it only to find out that a handful of audience had come out to investigate what caused the commotion.

It took about 35 minutes for my breathing to get back to normal. Another 20 for my heartbeat to settle down. And then about 12 more minutes before I realized that my neighbors had a grand time laughing at the fuss I made over a pair of cockroaches, including showing my butt for the world to see in my state of 'undress'.

Blessing by accident

LIFE'S blessings come in many ways and let me tell you how a blessing came to me in a unique and unexpected way.

I was having lunch in a restaurant in Cotabato City one day, and as I have missed my breakfast, I decided to make up for it by ordering a huge meal. It was not one of those pay-as-you-order establishments where you have to blink your eyes many times at the enormous figure flashed by the cash register before you shell out the amount to the cashier, thus spoiling your appetite. Rather it was a resto where waiters hover near your table, ever ready to refill your water glass or serve whatever you wish just to justify the extorbitant prices they charge. (You have to wait for the shock to happen when your bill arrives).

Halfway through my lunch, the door opened and in breezed a young lady in body-hugging jeans, high-heeled shoes and tight-fitting, see-through sleeveless shirt that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. She sat down at an empty table, studied the menu for a while before giving her order to a hovering waiter. Her face was heavily made up while huge loops hanged on both ears.

She swept a cursory glance around. When she met my eyes, she was suddenly all smiles as she stood up and headed for my table.

"Hello, where have you been hiding yourself all these years? Can I join you?" Before I was able to blink my eyes and without waiting for my answer she motioned for the waiter to bring her order to my table. I frowned, trying to place her face among my acquiantances but came upon a blank wall.

"I must be getting real old," I told myself when I couldn't recall who she was. And she was quick to notice it.

"You don't remember me, do you? I'm not surprised. After what happened, I went through a lot of changes outside but inside, I'm still the same old Sophia," she beamed as her order was served by a waiter.

"So how're you?" she asked as she started eating. I smiled hesitantly before telling her I was fine. With a tremendous effort, I summoned all the memory 'cells' in my brain just so I could recall her face among my former classmates or acquaintances but the blank wall persisted. She took care of the talking, laughing a lot as she ate while I just smiled, nodded my head and answered her questions as briefly as I could.

"How's your brother?" She suddenly asked me, and for a fleeting second I saw a bitter expression replace her brilliant smile.

"You know, it took me sometime to recover from our break-up but I guessed right from the start that he wasn't the marrying kind. Anyway, I survived the heartache and here I am, alive and coping well," this was said with a punctuating laugh.

So! She must be a former girlfriend of my brother (I only have two but it was hard to figure out who could have been this girl's boyfriend because both hate make-up). I also couldn't recall her name being mentioned in our house in the past.

I was grateful when we finally finished our lunch.

When our respective bills arrived, she grabbed mine and insisted that she'll be the one to pay for it. I refused but she was very adamant so I let her have her way.

We went out together and she apologized that she had an appointment, otherwise she would have loved to talk to me more.

"Bye, Luz, nice seeing you again!" she waved cheerily and boarded a passing passenger jeepney outside the restaurant.

The mystery was solved. I couldn't recall having a friend named Sophia because I never did have one, my name is not Luz and I saved P245 by accident.

Boomerang

AS part of his actual lesson on independent living, my youngest brother was sent to study in a remote school somewhere in the hinterlands of Pigcawayan, Cotabato when he was in third year high school.

It was a newly-installed, religiously-run institution where a lot of rules and regulations would make the students feel like strangled prisoners. Rules like 'no going out of the campus without filing a campus leave, no going home more than twice a month, no absences, no smoking, no worship absences, no singing of rock music, no courting (yucks!), and a lot more of those no-no's exist in the campus.

The school is surrounded with mountains on one side and vast
ricefields on the other side. There was practically nothing for the students to do after school. Electricity was not yet installed and at night, all one can hear is the chirping of crickets and the croacking of frogs on rainy nights.

To get to the school, one has to patiently wait for a tricycle to be filled with passengers before it will leave the terminal (popularly termed as alas-puno) and from the stopping point of the tricycle, one has to walk more than a kilometer between rice paddies under the scorching heat of the sun.

My brother only goes home twice a month to get food supplies. Without any knowledge of budgetting, he and his dormitory roommates who also hailed from different distant places would have a feast everytime they arrive from home, then go hungry the following days until the next food supplies come.

Coming to the dorm very hungry from school one noontime, my brother found that his last two cups of rice inside a bowl was overturned and a big fat hen was busily pecking at the grains. Provision day was still four days away and he was hungry.

He was furious but a delicious form of vengeance formed in his mind. Calling the other dorm occupants, they caught and killed the chicken, cleaned and prepared it for adobo.
They knew that the hen belonged to the dean of the girls dormitory, so they posted a 'guard' or a lookout at the door. They used the last few drops of oil, the last soy sauce, the last clove of garlic and the last onion to marinate the chicken with.

An hour later, the heavenly smell of chicken adobo wafted into the air and straight into the nose of the dean of the girl's dorm, who immediately went out to investigate where the appetizing aroma came from, knowing that none of the students brought or owned any chicken in the campus.

The boys were ready for her, though. Somebody had already burried the feathers, the carajay of chicken adobo was skillfully hidden under my brother's bed amongst smelly shoes and socks, unwashed clothes and a lot of other junks, all traces of cooking gone.

They of course denied cooking anything when the girl's dean asked them. They went back to their classes afterwards, planning to eat their adobo later. My brother could hardly concentrate on the aftenoon's lessons, his mouth watering at the heavenly feast awaiting them at the dorm.

That night, they cooked rice left from one of their dorm mate's diminishing supplies and eagerly gathered in my brother's room to eat. My brother dramatically pulled out the carajay from under his bed and licked his lips in eager anticipation but a surprise awaited them.

Lo and behold, the carajay was licked clean, only chicken bones remained as a sign that while they were away, the cat had been busy!