The pic does not do justice to the art.

It’s about texture. Children’s toys appended helter-skelter on the edges of the wall clocks that The Beauty lobotomized to get the desired effect. You should see the feet and the hands of the fruits. A sculptor is born!

Every fruit slice was lovingly recreated, every detail considered and immortalized. The first time I saw the orange slice, when the work was in assembly, I almost grabbed it, having the kind of appetite I have, the kiwi, strawberries, banana slices! I’m out of my wits trying to explain to my practical mind how an artist could conceive these fortunate objects with such precision, and such deliciousness.

Thinking of the bygone days when I tried to imitate real world with my model airplanes, and Tatay would look at them and wonder too. That was our father-son conversation, for Tatay was as quiet as a fully-fed bear. But this time it’s different. Everything looks edible. Everything is tongue-in-cheek in typical Maudie fashion. Everything is original. Imagine a whole orange sprouting a face and a pair of legs! And a woman in a banana wanting to extricate herself from glorious cream. It’s all a father can do, to just let the art flow from a divine source. Yes, finally, the word is divine.

Money. I’ve been in the money business for 31 years. I’m in the money business not only as insurance provider, to which I have devoted 20 years, but as plain provider for my family, being married for 31 years. The kids are grown now, with monies and lives of their own. I’m more focused at insurance now. Oh, what a beautiful tapestry we weave, when first we practice insurance (borrowed from “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,” by Walter Scott). It’s not only money, folks. When you talk about “dying too early or living too long,” you touch a chord in your prospect’s symphony of concerns. First you talk about earnings, savings, estate taxes, final expenses, money left behind, then you talk about love for their children, entering the inner sanctum of their hearts. Money is a means to an end, and the end is always love for others. I thought I missed my calling when I didn’t enter seminary in second year high school. I didn’t. My calling is alive. My calling is life. Jesus instructed us to love one another because we will die if we don’t. Life happens when you tune in to others who are just as loving, just as scared as you, and we strengthen one another in mysterious ways. We were designed that way. — Will
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Lorenzo A Buhain Jr., Jess Gonzalez, Freddie Bautista and 15 others like this.
Anita Cruz Well said.
Thursday at 10:49pm · Like
Jose P. Cabalu I was in the engineering/project management field for 30 years. But God had better plans for me – to be in this vocation of loving my neighbours. LOVE – is there a better reason for buying life insurance? Doing this for more than 8 years and counting. Thanks for this piece kabatch.
Thursday at 11:26pm via mobile · Like
Renée Will Villanueva Thanks, likers!
Friday at 9:10am · Like
Renée Will Villanueva Thanks, Anita Cruz!
Friday at 9:10am · Like
Renée Will Villanueva Thanks, kabatch Jose P. Cabalu! Brod, we can do this for as long as we can talk, walk a little, gargle with mouthwash, sign and say thank you with a smile. Oh, and put on cologne, para ‘di amoy lupa. Hahaha!
Friday at 9:13am · Like
Jess Gonzalez Thanks for sharing!
Yesterday at 1:32am · Like
Renée Will Villanueva Hi Tito Jess Gonzalez! You are most welcome!
15 hours ago · Like

Maud our youngest child is 21 today, also the anniversary of the eruption of Mount Pinatubo, dormant for 600 years, the reason why the Americans are physically out of Clark Air Force Base, and the birthday of enfant terrible Miriam Santiago.  The eruptive power of both her birthday mates encourages me that we have a daughter who will not be a pushover.

But that is only half of the reason for this essay.

It’s prostitution.

Why?  The innocence of our bunso, coupled with the only act in the Bible that merited death by stoning?  It’s like this.  Yesterday, I was stage father to Maud as she was interviewed by a company in Paragon Plaza on Epifanio delos Santos Avenue near Crossing-Shaw Boulevard in the morning, and Hinge Inquirer Publications, sister company of Philippine Daily Inquirer, at one o’clock in the afternoon. Since I had no appointment for the day, I drove for her, as a pre-birthday gift and for bonding.

She breezed through the first interview and off we went to Hinge in its new building near the corner of Don Chino Roces Avenue and Pablo Ocampo Sr. extension near Onyx Street in the less tony side of Makati.  We made it a point to be early, so we had Mickey Dees Big and Tasty sandwiches — burger with lotsa veggies — pineapple juice (no soda) and unsalted French Fries.  Together with us on queue is a group of three people, a rotund gentleman (or so I thought) in brown barong Tagalog, the kind I would wear, a shadowy third person and a pretty young lass, so pretty and refined she can come straight from graduation in the University of Santo Tomas, same batch as Maud.  She squinted when she read the menu on the wall, which made her look, well, kinda pretentious, like someone trying to appear scholarly, which made me start my suspicion meter.  But I had no idea then what kind of craft she was engaged in at the time of the squinting.

Anyway, Maud and I chomped on our sandwiches, we just looked at each other’s eyes, no need for conversation for a father and daughter who talk too much and do things together too much anyway.  And then it happened.  A flash.  From the corner of my eye, where the squinting girl, let’s call her Karen, and let’s call the barong-clad guy, Attorney, were seated, a flash from Attorney’s pocket-sized digital camera circa 2000.  He was taking pictures of Karen’s face.  Once, twice, thrice and then too many to count in succession, as they were conversing.  Karen didn’t mind the flashes at all, just kept on talking, which made me wonder because it wasn’t normal for a girl her age (or of any age) not to take a peek at the digital pics.  Suspicious, I swivelled my chair towards their table, the better to catch sounds clearly.  ”Japanese…” said Attorney, mumbling his words and clicking away.

I turned back to Maud.  When we locked eyes, I said:

“The girl’s a prostitute.”

Maud said, “So that’s why.”  She was listening in, too, probably caught the flashes, and had the same suspicion, although maybe not in the same league as mine.

“The guy’s a pimp,” I continued, using the Tagalog street word, which can translate to “shoo away.”

“What’s a pimp, Dad?”

“Someone who pushes the product, who has a bigger take of the money exchanged for such a service,” I said.

“Oh,” Maud said, her bright eyes with curly eyelashes widening.

“In the old days, I can kill the man,” I said, trying to appear heroic.

“For all you know she may be hard up, and he sells her a profession which is a dead-end job, with her soul thrown in for effect,” I explained.

I alerted the guard, who said, “I can’t arrest them, sir, they’re not doing anything, but it’s the first time this has happened.”

“If we are not affected,” I said in Tagalog, “then what kind of a society do we live in?  They should be hiding in the shadows, ashamed of their deeds.”

“And you should be concerned, because they will use this outlet as nest, and you won’t like the likes of them.”

There.  I wanted to share this because many thoughts came flooding in, such as:

We, Boys of ’69, used to be customers of this industry, and by the grace of God we have asked for forgiveness, have been forgiven, and we are now washed of our sins and have become fathers for our families.  Reform is possible.

Fathers would beg, steal or borrow just to send their daughters to school so they don’t have to sit down with Attorney and sell their souls to the devil for the next meal.  What kind of a father would Karen have, if he is still alive, or what kind of relatives would she have that it makes it easy for her to pose for photos non-stop, to appear cute and nonchalant, oblivious to hell?

What kind of a girl would do this, to meet someone in a restaurant, dress up, and allow herself to be photographed as a commodity, in street parlance, as a piece of meat?

What kind of a man would Attorney be, trying to appear respectable while catching virgins off-guard to be fed to the lions of immorality, feigning professionalism?

Sex with love.  Which brings me to that point.  Knowing what I know, would I still engage in sex without love?  Seeing the fruits of an orderly life for the last 30 or so years, would I still be tempted, asking Attorney to send me pics of his girls, so I can choose in the web the girl I can take to bed, having been vetted by Attorney in a meeting resembling a job interview?

Questions, questions.  In the end, the fingers were pointing at me.  If not for God, I would still be in Attorney’s client list: “I have a new one, Sir Will, sending you the pics,” he would email me.  Perhaps that would be my life today if I had followed my career path, something that started in school when my buddies would normally talk about the last lay.

Product.  Meat.  Soul-less.  Business.  Cold.  Money.  Patay mali.

These words come flooding into my brain, and I, washed by the Holy Spirit, forgiven many times over, take a look at my daughter Maud, so serenely munching on her fries, about to have the interview of her life to launch her career, thinking of my other daughters in their chosen fields, thinking of Baby my dutiful wife, thinking of “all the girls we loved before,” and yes, it’s been a great life.

Our bunso is 21 years old today.  Were it not for God, I would be with a 21-year-old, reeking of cologne, beer and tobacco smoke, without a wife of my own, no children to call me Dad or to scold me for dissing their mom, drifting to the next lay.

I have a high regard for mothers. I’m sure it’s because I have a good mother, Aurora. It’s also because I am surrounded by good mothers: Baby my wife, Reineria my mother-in-law, Mother Mary, our mother, and another mother whose identity I will keep as a surprise.

As I write this, I’m recovering from what I think is a case of mild flu. What is it with me, that when I get sick, the whole house is sick? Every one takes care of me, especially Baby. It’s good that Baby hardly gets sick. She is simply immune from viral infections. At the height of my sickness yesterday, I kept asking Bian, “Where’s Mommy?” Bian kept giving the same answer: “In the market, Dad.” But I still kept asking the question, feeling relieved when she is around, and when she isn’t, the mere mention of her name will make me feel better.

Baby, mother. Mother not only to our daughters Dawn, Agee, Bian and Maud, but mother to me, too, when I need mothering. I recall when I had hemorrhoidectomy in 1996. The operation was in Manila Doctors hospital. She was always there in the room, abandoning her brood of daughters to Odette their erstwhile yaya. She never hinted that she had other things to do like, “I wonder what’s happening to the girls,” or “Naku, I have to attend to a myriad things in the house!” No such thing. When mothers are needed, they give the impression that you are their only baby.

Same thing with my mother, Aurora. Deogracias, my father was chronically ill with asthma. His condition was so prevalent that I thought all fathers inhaled Asthmador (please highlight the word, right click on it and select “Search Google for the word”). My Nanay never once complained, never once was bitter, never looking for a better life. Mothers are like that. Loving to them is complete and absolute acceptance.

My mother-in-law Reineria has Alzheimer’s. We have to remind her in every turn of conversation who each one is. But she always remembers me. “Si Willie,” she would say when I step into her condo in Quezon city which she shares with Milo my brother-in-law, and Merly, her caretaker. Why does she remember me, when she has to be reminded of the identity of a particular child of hers—11 born, nine surviving? Let me venture an opinion. I did not have an easy time with her when I asked for Baby’s hand in marriage in 1982. The Quito family had plans of living in the United States. I was a hindrance, because Baby cannot go there as married. I persisted and we proceeded with our wedding. Alz patients have no short-term memory but special events of the distant past remain intact. Perhaps the high drama of my fighting tooth and nail for Baby—who is named after her, having been christened Renée, and the eldest of her five daughters—left an indelible imprint in a loving mother’s mind.

Most of all, Jesus gave us his mother on Calvary before he breathed his last. Widows in Biblical times who were without a son to support them were the most helpless in a pastoral and agricultural economy. Jesus issued the first-ever life insurance policy when he said to Mary, “Woman, behold your son.” And to John, “Behold your mother.” With that, we as Mary’s sons have as much responsibility for her as she has for us. Jesus the dutiful son taught us that mothers are nothing without sons, and sons nothing without mothers.

Lastly, I have with me another mother, although with four feet. She is Liz the Belgian Malinois. She whelped ten puppies last August 3, 2006. One died during suckling. The other nine survived and were sold off. Liz is a different kind of mother. She didn’t fret that her offspring were taken from her. She expected that I suppose. I believe she looks at me as her master, her handler and trainer, her friend, and in some metaphysical way, her offspring as well. She mothers me with her protectiveness. When we jog, no dog can approach me, Jock the Whippet and her within five feet. She has hair-trigger reaction and attacks when that perimeter is breached. In the house, any noise from the farthest corner will elicit her barking. She is bipolar in this sense: like a two-month old puppy to our family members, but like a grizzly bear with fangs and claws ready to serve havoc to anyone outside our circle.

I have hopefully drawn the elements which make a mother. A mother is always around. A mother doesn’t question her mission, looks for what’s best, protective to a fault, and yet not nearly as formidable as not to be in need of a son or a daughter or someone to lean on, for she is, in spite of all indications, not a superwoman.

Happy mother’s day to all the mothers in my life!

Nakatayo ako nang binababasa ko ang text galing kay Leo. “Patay na si Tatay,” sabi ng text. Napaluhod ako at tinakpan ko ang mga mata ko. Kusang nahugasan ang aking mukha, parang Hinulugang Taktak.

Ngayon, habang isinusulat ko itong huling tamis ng alaala, iniisip ko bakit para yatang katulad din nang pagkalungkot ko sa pagkamatay ng aking Tatay, ang pagkamatay ng aking Tito Doming. Bakit?

Hindi ko alam. Hindi ko alam kung bakit gayon na lang ang pagkalungkot ko.

Siguro, kung sasamahan ninyo ako saglit sa aking pagtahak ng nakalipas ay sabay-sabay nating maiiintindihan ang aking pighati.

Ang mga una kong litrato ay kasama ko ang Tatay, ang Nanay at ang aking Ate sa Iloilo. Nandoon si Tito Doming. Sa Iloilo, katabi ko.

Nang pinalabas ang Magnificent Seven sa Odeon, andun kaming dalawa, blow out niya. Eh, hitik na hitik ang tao. Wala akong makita. Pasilip-silip lang ako sa pagitan mga baywang ng mga nakatayo. Ang ginawa ng Tito Doming, inangkas ako sa batok niya. Halos buong sine, nakaupo ako sa batok niya. Ngayon, bihira na akong makakita ng ganung tiyo. Usually, pag may-edad kasama ang bata ngayon, ano ang tawag? (Pedophile.) Iba na talaga ang panahon ngayon!

Bano ako sa cupping saw sa Industrial Arts sa Singalong Parochial School noon. Ibabagsak na daw ako ng teacher ko kung wala akong maiisasabmit na Mickey Mouse cut out sa plywood. Nandoon si Tito Doming, nilagare niya ng pinung-pino ang tagiliran ng hugis ng mukha, tenga at katawan ni Mickey Mouse, at kinulayan pa. Pumasa ako sa Industrial Arts.

Minsan, piyesta sa Tondo. Nakatira kami sa San Andres Bukid noon. Sabi ng Tito Doming, “Halika, pupunta tayo sa crush ko.” Hindi naman niya talagang sinabing crush, at wala namang crush crush noon. Basta dinala niya ako doon, sa may tulay. Ang akala ko, pupunta kami sa bahay ng irog niya, uupo, kakain, papakinggan kong dumiga ang Tito ko. Hindi po yun ang nangyari. Sinulyapan lang po niya ang bahay. Parang ang saya saya na niya. Alam ko pa po hanggang ngayon ang ngalan nung sininta niya, si Perla. Since idol ko ang Tito sa lahat kasi ubod ng pagkalalaki, eh, ang akala ko ganun po talaga manligaw. Masulyapan lang ang bahay, ayos na. Eh, di ginaya ko po ang istilo ng idol ko. Kaya naman po matagal-tagal bago ako nagka-girlfriend. Kumuntik na nga po ako maging matandang binata kung hindi ako binambo ng aking Nanay.

Sa Naga, nagkaroon ako ng aso. Malungkutin ang aso ko, sapagkat gustong makipagharutan, eh, hindi ko naman alam mangharot ng aso. Akala ko pag binuksan ng aso ang bibig niya eh mangangagat na. Andyan na naman si Tito Doming. Pag dating niya sa bahay, galing Maynila, nakita ang aso kong mestizong German Shepherd, tuwang-tuwa siya. Nagharutan sila. Kagat dito, kagat doon ang aso sa tao. Naglaro sila. Pinakilala ni Tito Doming sa akin ang aso, na hanggang ngayon ay hilig ko. Isa na po akong matuturing na dog whisperer kung nakatira tayo sa Amerika. Nakakausap ko po ang mga aso ko. Maski po asong kalye kaya kong pagsabihan.

Sa Naga rin, minsan napaaway ang Nanay. Yun naman kasing isang negosyante, eh, nung nakitang successful ang Nanay sa gift shop ng mga Hong Kong goods, eh, hindi lang gumaya, tinabihan pa yung puwesto namin. Eh, siyempre galit na galit si Doña Aurora. Doon ko nakita ang pagmamahal ng Tito ko sa kanyang Ate, ang Nanay ko. Alam ninyo ba ang ginawa ng Tito kong macho? Hiniram yung gulok ko na ginagamit ko sa pag-Bo-Boy Scout at ibinalot sa dyaryo. Ang sabi sa akin ng aking mahal na Tiyo, “Boy, pag may nangyari, ha, tatakbo ako sa istasyon ng tren. Huwag mong sasabihin kung saan ako nakatira.” Ala eh, ang Tito ko talaga! Hindi talaga papahuli ng buhay! Siyempre, nakatanga lang ako, ‘di ko naman na gets kaagad na pupuruhan niya ang kalaban ng Ate niya! Mabuti na lang, eh, huminahon ang Nanay. Huminahon na rin ang ating bida. Ibinalik sa akin ang aking inosenteng jungle bolo.

Macho ang Tito ko, pero maaalahanin. Nung first year ko sa dormitoryo sa UP Diliman, eh, nag-birthday ako. Wala ang mga magulang ko, nasa Naga. Sila ni Tita Deling, dumating sa dorm para batiin ako. Binati lang talaga ako. Yun lang, ‘la namang dalang regalo. Akala talaga ng Tito ko, napakaganda niyang lalake na masilayan ko lang siya eh mapapanaw na ang homesickness ko.

Nung nag-break kami ng unang girlfriend ko sa UP, pumunta ako sa bahay nila ni Tita Deling, para, alam ninyo na, humingi ng payo. Dinatnan ko siya, nag-aalaga ng baboy. Ang sabi ko, “Tito, break na kami ni Bella.” Ang payo niya? Ang sabi niya, “Anong sabi mo? Tingnan mo tong baboy ko ang taba.” Malalim ang Tito ko. Binigyan niya ako ng payo pero hindi naman niya ako binigyan ng payo. Pero naintindihan ko nuon ang ibig sabihin ng move on. “’La yan!” sabi ng macho.

Nung nag-asawa ako at nagkabahay, siya ang taga-martilyo at taga-barena. Hanggang may mga anak na siyang lalake, tinatawag ko pa rin siya. Hanggang sa pinagaliltan na ako ng Nanay.

Nitong mga nakaraang taon, ng lumipat na ng tirahan ang Ate Auring niya na Nanay ko, nang nag-ibang bansa na ang kanyang mga pamangking si Connie at Tina, na Ate at bunsong kapatid ko, nang di na niya mapipisil-pisil ang kanyang mga apong sila Carlo, Brian, Monchito at Francis, na mga pamangkin ko, nang di na niya makainuman ng beer ang kanyang mga kaibigang si Vicente at si Pepe na mga brothers-in-law ko, parang nanlumo ang aking Tito Doming. Di ko naman matapatan ang kahalagahan ng mga mahal niyang ito na yaon na sa ibang lugar.

Paminsan-minsan ay binibisita ko siya. Wala na ang dating mala-Paquiao na pangangatawan niya. Tuwing makikita ko siya, para siyang isang kandila na paunti-unting gumuguho ang kabalatan. Haaay…

Maraming naituro sa akin ang aking Tito Doming. Ang magmahal ng dalisay at buong katapatan. Ang tumindig sa tingin niyang tama. Ang maging matiisin, maaasahan. Ang maging simple at mapagkumbaba. Meron pa siyang huling ituturo sa akin.

Mahal na mahal niya ang kanyang mga anak at mga apo. Walang relationship na perpekto, pero di siya tumitiwalag. Matigas ang ulo niya, maskulado siya, pero pusong mamon siya.

Sana ay maintindihan ko rin ang huling leksiyon niyang ito.

O, ayan, naiintindihan ko na kung bakit napaluhod ako nang malaman kong wala na ang aking Tito Doming. Sana, kayo rin ay may napulot sa kakarampot na kuwento ko.

Salamat po sa inyo, sa inyong pagdalo.

Hi everyone,

I had only a few winks last night on account of my Belgian Malinois dog’s delivery of a litter of ten coffee-colored puppies, her first.  She delivered over a span of 12 hours from 10 pm last night to 10 am today.  She would give a sound that is a combination of a belch, a grunt and a fart and out comes a balut looking pup rolled up fetus like and covered with amniotic sac which the mother would gobble up with relish because if it looks like balut it must taste like balut.  To prevent her stepping on the puppy, I would pick it up saying koochie-koochie to the mother to signify my intentions and she would let me take it away but not without a fight.  She doesn’t really fight, she only makes it hard for me by walking around the cage with the puppy in her mouth, after all the puppy’s hers.

When I finally get the puppy, I would wipe it dry, and cut the umbilical cord two inches from the abdomen, squeezing the part near the body to stop a blood spurt.  All of these were witnessed by Baby my wife and Agee and Maud, with photo coverage and the sound of upended stomachs.

When the puppies were laid it on the holding pen, they all looked alike, and I figured while I was thinking of what to write here that we all looked alike in Naga from afar, puppies of the same color, same sounds, practically the same until you pick one of us up and you will notice that this likes this and that one dislikes this, this one has a spot here, that one doesn’t.

With the advent of the twin muses Glenn and Naty and the vigor of Alenn and Mags in whipping up a guffaw, and the wise interventions and summaries of the Modie, this e-group has returned us to the same litter where we all came from.  The same humor, the same hidden meanings, the same language is used as if we were back in the litter, laughing to our hearts’ content and watching each other grow.

With one difference.  We have become more demonstrative with our feelings to each other.  In the prayer community where I belong, every time we have a time of affirmation, most of us would even cry for we would hear sweet somethings from unexpected sources, saying this and that that would send our hearts soaring with the spirit of appreciation.

In this e-group, we affirm each other left and right, up and down, front and center.  The puppies in the litter at home would lick each other and huddle close to one another as soon as the umbilical cords were cut, a picture which pleases God, and we do the same thing.

This writeup is a tribute to our spirit of togetherness and, I’ll say it, love.

Thank you, everyone.

Love matters,

1. Grace

Good manners and right conduct. Good breeding.
The ability to win and not to be proud, to fail and not to
lose heart. Grace under pressure. The mark of a true
leader who can pull herself and her people out of crisis
against all odds.

2. Grades

Success in the academe. Not merely in the classroom
but in campus life. The ability to be competitive in all
fields where her talents lie. The key phrase is maximum
push.

3. Guts

Courage to face challenges, the will to believe that
reaching a goal means taking a risk. The ability to put
everything on the line so that victory may be achieved.

4. God

Without Him nothing in life is worth undertaking. Prayer,
meaningful and heartfelt, makes all the difference.
For truly, life is futile, “like chasing the wind,” if we do not
live for God.