PINATUBO Ch.7--Life Encapsulated In Pict

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SEVEN

Life Encapsulated In Pictures

         What is it about coming home that makes us want to walk through memory lanes and resurrect some childhood experiences that might only bring more pain and tears?

         Mount Pinatubo’s eruption has made me think of the friends I’ve known since childhood. Where are they now? How come no one’s banging on my door to welcome me and invite me to a Hail Mary homecoming party? What happened to those people who could never wait to see me again whenever I came back to visit? Did Pinatubo drive them away from our city like it did to thousands of people? This pondering, however, is somewhat frustrating because as I complain of no reception from these old buddies, some of the names elude me now. It’s scary that at 32, I am already becoming forgetful of names. I need some Ginko Biloba!  Ahh, but this is when visual aid becomes quite important -- to enable me to connect faces with names and events.

         Inevitably, old photo albums are exhumed from their resting places --the photo cemetery located somewhere in Malia’s attic. After the sticky cobwebs and dusts are swept off the album covers, the ghosts of yesterdays are released from the pressed pages. Now I am ready to stroll down foggy lanes of memory.

         Viewing old photographs makes me wonder where time has gone. Has it really been that long ago since I last saw--what’s their names? We all look so young.  I don't feel a day older than when these pictures were taken, yet, as I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and then back at these pictures, I see the truth. Reality rings with stinging clarity, for there they are--the star witness photos that carbon-date my generation. Pictures don't lie. They have the power to check our level of humility and admit that we are much older than we feel or think.

         Here’s a group picture with my closest friends in High School. Six schoolgirls in white and gray—Holy Angel Academy’s uniform--but only two of them can I identify with a name. Where have all these girls gone? I have shared so many memorable moments with them while in school, and now, only washed out, yellowing and brittle pictures can attest to that period in my life with them.

         I really appreciate the way my sister Malia has collected, arranged, organized and maintained our family photos. She has created an album for each of our brothers and sisters. But why do we file pictures away without taking the time to identify the subjects? Do we think we’d never forget the people who have made a significant difference in the quality of our lives? Do we assume that our mind will always remain sharp as we age?

         So many pictures; so many faded photographs that look as though they belong to a former life. Was that really me in micro-mini skirt with a waistline to die for? What happened to that girl they used to call waist because of her 18-inch waistline? Well, she went from size 2 to 6, and depending on the make, maybe an occasional size 8. Too much hamburger, French fries and soda pop in America before she had the sense to quit. Granted that I feel healthier now with my athletic pursuits, such as tennis, running, volleyball, and other physical activities, and I can still demand some heads to turn as I walk into a roomful of people, or when I walk down the streets; but I wish I still had that waistline. I dread the thought of never seeing a smaller size again; in fact, I have a feeling that as my metabolism decreases with age, chances are greater that I would someday be wearing a larger size.

         Gee, look at my sister Malia being crowned by Imelda Marcos at a beauty pageant. When was the last time any one saw the former First Lady of the Philippines with a figure still fit for a beauty queen? I remember vividly where I was that very moment -- behind the stage -- watching the first lady crown my older sister as Miss Angeles City. Four very handsome men surround my sister in her court, one of whom is Romy, the tall and handsome guy with whom I shared a lot of love letters in our youth. I so loved his crisp handwriting and the sweet wings of poesy he had sent my way. If only they were meant for me.

         The creaky stair steps to the attic announce an intruder’s arrival. Who else could be awake at this ungodly hour? It must be 1:30 in the morning.  Malia’s face emerges from behind the door.

         "I thought that might be you. May I come in?" she asks.

         "Great timing! Come on in. I was just looking at your pictures with Romy."

         "Your childhood secret love!" Malia exclaims laughing as she sits down next to me.

         "Just a childish crush," I reply sheepishly.

         I’m only kidding. But I got to hand it to you. I couldn’t believe that my younger sister almost stole my boyfriend away from me. He was really falling for those letters you wrote him."

         "Can you blame us? We wrote each other lots of love letters. I was beginning to feel that his letters were for me instead of yours."

         I credit Romy in planting the first spirit of romantic letter-writing in me, inspiring me to find the appropriate words that can make a heart flutter with dreamy delight. Malia would pay me a few pesos for each love letter I wrote Romy under her name. Eventually, I branched out to other customers—my sisters’ friends. That’s when I realized that one could make money by stringing words together to create mellifluous letters. Not long after that, I got one of my short love stories published in a Comic Magazine. Not bad for a 14-year old girl who was yet to experience romantic love.

         "Do you know whatever happened to him?" I asked.

         "We saw each other a few years ago in Manila. He introduced the woman next to him as his wife. She looked much older than Romy and didn’t look like his type, but I guess her money as a medical doctor makes up for the stark contrast in their appearance."

         "Why did you two break up?"

         "Well . . . I think it’s clear. He opted for the financial security."

         "Isn’t he an engineer?"

         "He was an engineering student when we were going out.  I don’t know what he’s been doing since we broke up."

         "I don’t think you would have been as happy with him as you are with Theo, though."

         "No. You’re absolutely right. Theo is a great guy. I never thought I would marry a former actor. I’m lucky to have found him."

         "I think he’s much luckier to have found you."

         "Thank you! That praise just earned you five more of the biggest prawns for tomorrow’s breakfast omelets.  Your favorite."

         "Yum. Thank you.  Thank you."  I turn the album page and there is an old picture of our oldest brother at 12 sitting under a tree. I can hardly make out his face. He was playing mahjong with Tita Milarosa and Tito Ben. My sisters and brothers and I never played with him because he was kept away from us.

         "Just think of the wasted time that we could have spent with him," I lament. "We could have made his life a happier one if only we were not prevented from getting near him."

         "It wasn’t our parents’ fault," Malia says defensively as she has always reacted every time I brought up the subject in the past. "Unfortunately, at that time, even the doctors did not know what kind of a disease kuya Narcing had in his neck that made it grow out like a goiter. They just wanted to protect us from what they thought was a potentially contagious disease since the doctors could not tell what it was."

         "I did feel very bad when I put Ma on the spot. I will never forget that day in Cincinnati when you came to visit me. You remember?"

         "How can I forget? You drilled her about it. Poor Ma, I had never seen her look so remorseful and guilty as you were interrogating her."

         "It wasn’t an interrogation. It was more like an interview. You know how I like to gather facts for these kinds of family stories."

         "Well, it was a little cold and insensitive of you. It was as if you were castigating her for not knowing any better.  I felt so awful for her. You did hurt her feelings very much. "

         There’s that word again: insensitive.  My family thinks that my corporate persona has made me cold and unfeeling sometimes.  Maybe they’re right even though I don’t mean to project such characteristic.

         "Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Now you’re making me feel bad."

         I recall when Malia, Ma and I were discussing the matter of my parents’ first born. As far as I know, it was the only time ever that my brother’s illness and ultimate death had been discussed in the family. I was only four years old then, but certain aspects of my brother’s life and eventual death are forever engraved in my memory. It is unimaginable what kuya (older brother) must have thought and felt the whole time he was sick. He was denied of the kind of childhood that his brothers and sisters all enjoyed in life. To me he was always someone to view from afar and to love from the distance. At his deathbed, he made a last, desperate attempt to make us come a little closer to him. He held a Baby Ruth candy in his hand and tried to lure us into the room. We stayed outside the door peeking in. He died shortly after that.

         The family would find out much later that the disease that killed my brother turned out to be not contagious at all. But no one spoke about it . . . until many years later in my house.

         Ma, Malia and I were having such a great time at the dinner table enjoying our desserts after supper and reminiscing about the happy past. Then the fun stopped when I started asking questions about kuya Narcing. I should have stopped when I noticed her usually poised manner slowly collapse, her face dimmed, her breathing quickened, her lips pursed.

         "I am so sorry," my mother cried. Tears now rolling down her face. "We didn't know. We just wanted to protect you all."

         "I think this conversation is over," Malia had said looking at me with consternation, circling her arms around Ma.

         "Why do you keep bringing back bad memories?" Ma said painfully. "Why can’t you just leave the past alone?"

         Malia grabbed Ma gently by the elbows and escorted her to the living room.

         Family guilt trips: they become so embedded in our conscience that we could never be free from their emotional tentacles.

         Old photographs are a great vehicle to sentimental journeys down memory lanes. We make occasional stops to pick up some of the pieces in our past so we could come to terms with the present. We reflect upon the choices we've made and wonder, what if. . .? There are times when the memory trips produce some unexpected remembering so painful that we wish we never embarked on the journey. In a family such as ours that has traversed a lot of rocky roads, encountering many obstacles, tribulations and tragedies along the way, there is an unending windfall of disclosures from the pages of family albums and journals. As a diarist I have learned to deal with life’s harsh realities and family secrets in my attempt to savor all memories and to chronicle events to archive for our future generations.

         Malia startles me by gently slapping me on the forehead with a photo.

         Hello! Malia calling Mary."

         "Sorry. Where were we?"

         "I’ve been here all along. I don’t know where you went."

         Malia holds up a picture of our father at 18. "Look how handsome he was," she says. "No wonder women went crazy over him." She shakes her head from left to right. "Such a waste. I wonder how life for us might have been if he hadn’t died so young. Do you know that there were rumors that a woman’s husband was behind the murder; that it wasn’t political or business at all?"

         Rumors, rumors, rumors.  I hate these rumors that have plagued the family forever.  "I don’t believe it." I snap. I take the faded picture from my sister’s hand and examine it.

         Indeed, what if Pa had not died so young?  Where would we be now? 

(End of Chapter Seven)

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