A Nose For Every Occasion

There’s something to be said ‘bout our sense of smell. Like music, it highlights certain moments in ones life. Freeze-framing a captured scene suspended in time, in our memories, prompt to remind us somehow when that certain scent comes whiffing through our path once again.

It’s the fall season and undeniably a time when the cool, brisk air combined with the scent of weathered leaves and branches fill the air as well as our hearts with memories of harvest, lanterns, sweets and merrymaking.

For kids and young people alike here in Canada, Halloween is the second happiest if not the happiest occasion for some, next to Christmas. Most homes and front yards will be decorated with grinning pumpkins, flying ghouls, thirsty vampires, sweaty Frankensteins and shrieking bats. The night’s eerie disposition will only be interrupted every once in while by screams of excitement and delight as ones loot container has nearly reached its fill.

The warm glow of the lantern lights will cast enchanting rays to the cutest little fairies you will ever set your eyes on adorned with silver wings and diamond tiaras. The most vibrant colored lady bugs in the company of Batman, Spidy and the displaced Arab sheikh will come rushing like waves. House after house, street after street on this the busiest night of the year. And then they are gone as fast as they came with only the contented sound of innocent laughter trailing in the air.

As I sit tonight in front of the house handing out goodies to all deserving sweet tooth, I am reminded of a different time. The smell of candles from the lantern also brings me to this other place. Warm and humid, with less exuberance but a more reverent occasion. It happens exactly a day after Halloween. All Souls Day. El Dia de los Muertos.

The mélange of scents from literally hundreds of fresh flowers of different varieties will permeate the air and slowly swirl with candle wax fumes and hang above like a shroud at this most illuminated area of every town and city in the Philippines, the cemetery.

This is the day we remember our loved ones who have gone ahead. Just like Halloween this could be the second most festive occasion in the country next to Christmas. There will be food and drinks served for well-wishers, friends and relatives who after a while of absence will regale each other with new events in their lives, reminisce the good old times with loved ones who have touched their lives in some big or small way. The bounty of course for every kid on this ambient night will not be how big his loot bag will be but how big a ball of wax he will make from the collection of melted candles he can get his hands on.

Ah, it’s getting late and it has gotten a bit nippy. Beer is not the beverage of preference for cool nights like this. I’ve started a sniffle. Happy Halloween everyone! Keep those candles burning! They light up our journeys!

Running For My Life

At the start of this year I was diagnosed with diabetes. There was no other way to put this mildly. My brain instantly clamped shut into a denial state. I tried to con myself into calling it a borderline condition. I rationalized it by showing normal blood sugar readings as fast as I showed bad ones. I tried all sorts of tricks just to exempt myself from falling under the “sweet” category. But like the good doctor said at the Toronto Diabetes Rehab Center, myself and everybody else diagnosed with the “silent killer”, were, are and will be in Sugar Land. So shut up because I apologized already.

Six months through this wonderful program, I graduated with flying colors. We were told at closing that our team (peach) had finished with the most weight loss, cardio-pulmonary stress test improvements by two levels, body fat level decrease and overall physical condition and the rest that came with it improved by as much as 20 to 35 % and some even at 50%.

My thanks and gratitude goes to the whole staff of the center. I not only have become educated, informed and smart. But they also armed me to the teeth to live and maintain a healthy lifestyle through diet, exercise and medication. Today I am my staunchest advocate, made appointments with myself to show up religiously for my daily exercise because whether I choose to believe it or not, what happens to the rest of the days of my life is totally in my hands.

A little over 10 years ago, I fell in love with running. I became the nut you saw running around the city in the middle of a blizzard or a rainstorm. I progressively joined short 5k and 10k races about town. I was enjoying it so much I started running to and from places I would normally take “the bullet” for. Fate would be unkind it seems and I was diagnosed with having a blocked artery after passing out on a running errand to the video store.

God does work in mysterious ways. But our mind works in self-deceiving ways. I stopped doing any physical activity after that. Fate became the dumb excuse of course but lets not kid ourselves. Junk food rules!

Yesterday was somewhat of a celebration of my escape from Sugar Land. I joined my first race at the Waterfront 5K with my 2 sons after over a decade of absence from physical activity. It was a beautiful day for running. Needless to say I got smoked, but a win-win situation nonetheless. Sprinted and crossed the finish line at 40:30. A far cry from my personal best on track, but you know what? I’m not running after time here…I’m running for my life!

Who dat girl?

That long corridor with shiny terra cotta floor spanning both the college of nursing and engineering department housed in one building might as well be a landmark in my psyche. Actually, it is. Were it not for the roofed walkways on the ground that connected the admin building from the south and the arts and sciences from the north, I surely would not have gotten a glimpse of her. But I did, from the shade and into the light.

There were always these other bodies around her. Walking in synchronized cadence as if polished from the weekly ROTC training I had to endure every weekend. The only difference is theirs had a certain gait, poise and charm you might see on fashion ramps in Milan or Paris. I could have sworn they sported similar glossy hair style that just added glitz to their look. Day after school day I would sit strategically around three in the afternoon by the ditch hoping to catch the late afternoon show that has become my favorite pastime. Ogling.

So one day I popped the question to my friend, who by the way was also a member of this ogling club. “Who’s that girl?” Of which he promptly replied, “Which one?”

She was not the tallest in the group yet she stood out. I suppose that comes from an innate dramatic skill of projection. Bright and self-assured, she could sell you a whole wad of fund-raising raffle tickets leaving you feeling like a philanthropist. She’d look at you with those wide, penetrating brown eyes and you’d confess to having spent your semester’s tuition on cigarettes and booze.

One day we were introduced. Her dark, olive toned complexion was the perfect setting for those white pearly’s that twinkled when she smiled. Kinda like that old commercial on TV. Except in this scene, I was willfully looking at the painting on the wall because I could not bear the thought of meeting her gaze allowing her to see through my cool façade. I ended up getting branded as a snob for my desperate effort to say the least.

But fate would smile once again upon those who wish it the most. Remember the saying…”Careful what you wish for”…I would join her and my friends in reviving the institutions dramatic guild through some elective courses. So auspicious was the timing that we decided to produce several plays to be staged during university festivities.

I am not really sure what happened at this point to change her opinion on her first impression about me. Yes, it lasted a while. Could it have been the Vic Silayan aura I exuded on one play or could it have been the De Niro ambivalence I portrayed on another? Needless to say it started with an argument as she boycotted rehearsals for my directorial final exams. The argument ensued somewhere over a bowl of the blandest tasting noodle soup I would ever have in my entire life.

As I rode the bus home that night with the moon shining on my wind-swept face, I was still sporting the same catatonic, silly grin look just hours before I gave my girl our first hug and bid her goodnight with the promise that I’ll see her in the morning because we have agreed not to argue anymore.

After 30 years I find myself sometimes walking through those same corridors. That familiar tropical scent vivid as if they were yesterday’s mowed lawn. A rush of anxiousness and excitement rifles through my chest as I assume my vantage spot. Then all of sudden something catches the corner of my eye, I turn and as my eyes adjust to the soft morning light in the bedroom, I reach out to hug her and I say; “Good morning!”

Our Fathers, The Big Guy

It’s interesting that after all these years, I find myself writing about my old man. The Big Boy. Yeah, that’s right. That’s exactly what they called him. Big Boy.

I am not absolutely sure about the reason for the moniker but it might have been because of his stocky physical presence walking around town or most likely that he had this authoritative air about him that demanded one’s attention. A 38 calibre revolver hanging perennially on his hip helps the whole impression aspect of it, I suppose.

Now this is not a bio write up about him nor is it an attempt to serialize his life and times.
Unlike most people that hung around him, I unfortunately did not get enough time to spend with him as he passed away one ill-fated day. He died doing what he loved most; playing tennis with his closest friends. I’ve always told myself after, that if there’s a nice way to exit the big stage - that would be it.

So I really did not know the man fully well to accurately describe him. My sisters would probably know more but for the most part of my adolescent period and even today, they have always lived elsewhere distant. What this is, is an attempt to piece together fragments of what I do remember as a young boy of eight and tie it up with what I understand and know of him now.

I have just turned 40 something and I am intrigued by glimpses of my father by my own mannerisms, physical appearance, taste and most of all facial expressions that reveal one’s state of mind at certain moments. This gets more affirmed by the fact that although he was not around anymore to attend and guide my way through the pains of growing up, his influence was always present through the watchful eyes and caring hearts of my mother and sisters.

It is with deep appreciation then that I write these thoughts about him. The other day I showed an old picture of him to my two sons who do not know much about their grandfather except for the fact that he was known about town as Big Boy. “He looks like a tough guy,” they said. “I know, but he would have loved to have met you, apply pomade on your hair and combed it back just like he would with his,” was my reply.