With chin cupped in hand, I stared at the computer monitor.
“Burning your eyebrows with all that musing you seem to be doing?” Mom’s chuckling voice broke into my reverie. “A penny for your thoughts!”
Slowly I uncurled myself on my chair and clasped my hands behind my head. “Oh, I was just wondering how to go about this writing. The topic for this week in Writer’s Challenge is ‘Blue.’ I’m totally dry.”
Again, Mom chuckled. “You’ll get it.”
Hours passed...and yet no inspiration. “Hey, Mitch,” I finally asked my younger sister, “what do you picture in your mind when you think of ‘blue’?”
Mitch pegged up the little boy shirt on the washing line before replying. “Blue? Well, it’s my favourite color. Everything blue catches my attention. If that’s of some use to you.” She chuckled softly.
“Some help.” I teased, feigning a pout.
“There! We’re done.” Mitch stretched out on the grass, and was quiet. “How about the blue sky?”
“What about it?”
“It’s up to your imaginative imagination to find out.”
By evening, I was still tossing around ideas, yet never pinning down one that I was quite happy with.
“Neng,” Jops, the youngest of us three girls, jabbed her tea towel into a bowl and wiped briskly, “d’you figure out something already? The deadline’s almost here, you know.” She grinned at me mischievously, clattering the silverware through her tea towel.
I shot her a humorous glance. “Not yet.” Slowly I swirled the sponge round and round in the sink. Blue. Blue. Blue.
“What about this.” Jops mustered up her most intelligent look. “’Are you feeling blue? Look up at the beautiful blue sky, and you’ll feel like new!’” At this, she broke off and burst out laughing at herself. “Lame!”
Suddenly, a thought came to me. “Well, remember how we used to be fascinated with the significance of flag emblems and colors?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing much, I just remembered how blue also stood for unity and peace, like the blue of the flag of our homeland. I was intrigued when Dad told us that our flag was special.”
“How’s that?” Jops’ black eyes glimmered with interest, yet she didn’t lose a single beat in her energetic drying.
“Well, Dad said that the blue stripe is always above the red stripe during times of peace, and then during war, when our men would stand up for our country, they’d turn the flag upside down, so that the red flew on top. With that in mind, I actually like that meaning of bl—oh!”
At that moment, one of our little brothers had hurled himself at me, grasping at my skirts in wild excitement. Vigorously, he tried to wriggle himself between me and the sink. “Big brother’s getting me! Big brother’s getting me!” he cried. I turned around to see ten-year-old Arnel standing calmly behind me, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Oh, stop it, you two!” I began in exasperation, “I’m trying...to...clean the kitchen.” At the last few words, I couldn’t help my voice softening into amusement. “Go on, now!” I finished off, playfully splashing both boys with a spray of my sudsy water.
Jops leaned back against the counter. “Well!” she drawled coolly, “at least they were happy and playing nicely together, you know. That was a picture of peace.”
I smiled sheepishly. “Yeah.”
Jops flung her tea towel up on the hook to dry. “Hey, Neng, don’t stress; you’ll figure out how to attack that Blue. You’ll get it,” she assured me, heading for her special reading corner.
Carefully, I put away the last stack of plates and wiped down the counters. In the adjoining room, I could hear Mitch playing a meditative Debussy, while the younger children had their last romp before bedtime. I smiled, when I heard Jops’s merry, girlish laugh ring out. Blue—the color for equality. Noble ideals. Unity. I flicked the kettle on to boil. Blue—how about for brotherly peace? I think that just might be a good idea.
Monday, February 15, 2010
My Gabby for Me
“Chaw-kuh-late…Date…Nuh-ut...Skwuh-skwerhs.” Five-year-old Gabby carefully ran her right index finger along the top of my open recipe book. She looked up at me. “Is that what we’re making?”
I leveled off a cup of plain flour and handed it to her. “Yup. Like it?”
Gabby nodded eagerly. “Uh-huh. You make the best squares! You’re my best sister baker! I told Stuart so yesterday.”
“You what?”
“I told Stuart.” Gabby repeated affably. “Why?”
“Nothing. What made you tell a grown person like him that?”
“Oh, ‘cause he played with me after church, and told me something funny, about when he burned a whole tray of cookies! Then I remembered, and told him how you’re a good baker, except for that one time you burnt my birthday cake.”
“Then what did he say?”
“He said he wants to taste your cooking one day.”
“Oh, I see.”
There was a pause. “Why are your cheeks so red, Natalie?” Gabby wondered innocently.
“It might be ‘cause of the heat in this kitchen, Gab. Here, can you mix this for me, please?”
And with that, the topic was dropped.
Around the dinner table, the ten-year-old twins quizzed Dad and Mom with their new-found jokes.
“What do you call a baby kangaroo that can’t jump?” one of the twins asked.
“I know! I know!” Gabby suddenly made up for the poor joey’s lack of bounce.
“Gabby, don’t!” I tried to stop the little girl. I would probably have had more success in slamming on the brakes at the sudden appearance of a kangaroo on the road than trying to stop Gabby.
“It’s offspring!”
Micah glared at his little sister across the table. “Gabby, you spoiled it! I’m gonna tickle you!”
Morris looked perplexed. “How did you know, Gabby?”
“I read it!” Gabby replied indignantly. “The joke book was on the couch. So I read it myself.”
“Gabrielle Hope!” Dad began, quite severely, though I thought I could detect laughter in his voice. “I know it’s fun to know the answer of a joke, Gabby, but if the joke is not asked of you, don’t answer it, okay? Answer it only if you’re asked to.”
Gabby’s brown ponytails nodded repentantly. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Gabby’s reading real quick now.” Dad murmured to Mom and me above the children’s chatter. “We’ll need to make sure she always has good material to read.”
An hour later, the twins gladly escaped from the kitchen, while I put away the last plate. With a sigh, I settled down at the dining table. Beside me lay my draft encouragement letter for my “baby sister” at church. This ministry of letters, gifts, and prayer was one of the ministries at our church, where each girl and woman would “take a paper out of a hat” and so have a “baby sister” to “adopt” for that whole year. The fun part was that this was to be done anonymously by the “big sister.” That’s why Rhianna didn’t know that it was I who was praying for her this year.
“January, 2010…” I carefully wrote on stationery in a disguised hand.
“Natalie, what’s this word?” Gabby tapped my elbow.
“Hmmm...?” Absently-mindedly, I glanced at the book she had pushed across the table. “It’s ‘beckoned.’”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Gabby moved one chair closer.
Suddenly she broke the five-minute silence. “Is she your secret sister, Natalie?”
I started. “Wh-who?” I stammered confusedly.
“Rhianna. See? There.” Gabby pointed to the top of my draft letter.
NO!! Gabby you didn’t read it....
“Huh?” I tried to stall the inevitable. I was silent for a while, and kept on writing. Then, “Did Mom call you to take a shower now?”
“No. Is she, Natalie?”
I sighed. “Well...yes...” I admitted reluctantly. “But you mustn’t tell anyone, okay?”
Gabby’s ponytails bobbed eagerly. “I won’t tell anyone!”
How about everyone? I thought.
Dad’s eyes twinkled above his newspaper. “Oops.”
The twins looked up from their joke books. “Gabby!” Micah scolded. “I’m gonna tickle you!”
“Don’t, Micah,” I warned. “Gabby promised she wouldn’t tell.”
Micah frowned at Gabby.
“Micah.” Dad said.
Gabby suddenly remembered something. “Rhianna’s gonna be my Sunday school teacher this year!”
I groaned inwardly. A five-year-old with a secret eleven months long, to keep from her Sunday school teacher? Quite an interesting predicament. Especially for Gabby.
Dad looked at me significantly. “Oops.”
“Dad!” I cried helplessly. “Don’t rub it in, please.”
Dad buried himself behind his newspaper again, choking.
“Sorry, Natalie,” he managed, “that’s Gabby for you!”
Gabby was baffled. “What does that mean?”
I leveled off a cup of plain flour and handed it to her. “Yup. Like it?”
Gabby nodded eagerly. “Uh-huh. You make the best squares! You’re my best sister baker! I told Stuart so yesterday.”
“You what?”
“I told Stuart.” Gabby repeated affably. “Why?”
“Nothing. What made you tell a grown person like him that?”
“Oh, ‘cause he played with me after church, and told me something funny, about when he burned a whole tray of cookies! Then I remembered, and told him how you’re a good baker, except for that one time you burnt my birthday cake.”
“Then what did he say?”
“He said he wants to taste your cooking one day.”
“Oh, I see.”
There was a pause. “Why are your cheeks so red, Natalie?” Gabby wondered innocently.
“It might be ‘cause of the heat in this kitchen, Gab. Here, can you mix this for me, please?”
And with that, the topic was dropped.
Around the dinner table, the ten-year-old twins quizzed Dad and Mom with their new-found jokes.
“What do you call a baby kangaroo that can’t jump?” one of the twins asked.
“I know! I know!” Gabby suddenly made up for the poor joey’s lack of bounce.
“Gabby, don’t!” I tried to stop the little girl. I would probably have had more success in slamming on the brakes at the sudden appearance of a kangaroo on the road than trying to stop Gabby.
“It’s offspring!”
Micah glared at his little sister across the table. “Gabby, you spoiled it! I’m gonna tickle you!”
Morris looked perplexed. “How did you know, Gabby?”
“I read it!” Gabby replied indignantly. “The joke book was on the couch. So I read it myself.”
“Gabrielle Hope!” Dad began, quite severely, though I thought I could detect laughter in his voice. “I know it’s fun to know the answer of a joke, Gabby, but if the joke is not asked of you, don’t answer it, okay? Answer it only if you’re asked to.”
Gabby’s brown ponytails nodded repentantly. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Gabby’s reading real quick now.” Dad murmured to Mom and me above the children’s chatter. “We’ll need to make sure she always has good material to read.”
An hour later, the twins gladly escaped from the kitchen, while I put away the last plate. With a sigh, I settled down at the dining table. Beside me lay my draft encouragement letter for my “baby sister” at church. This ministry of letters, gifts, and prayer was one of the ministries at our church, where each girl and woman would “take a paper out of a hat” and so have a “baby sister” to “adopt” for that whole year. The fun part was that this was to be done anonymously by the “big sister.” That’s why Rhianna didn’t know that it was I who was praying for her this year.
“January, 2010…” I carefully wrote on stationery in a disguised hand.
“Natalie, what’s this word?” Gabby tapped my elbow.
“Hmmm...?” Absently-mindedly, I glanced at the book she had pushed across the table. “It’s ‘beckoned.’”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Gabby moved one chair closer.
Suddenly she broke the five-minute silence. “Is she your secret sister, Natalie?”
I started. “Wh-who?” I stammered confusedly.
“Rhianna. See? There.” Gabby pointed to the top of my draft letter.
NO!! Gabby you didn’t read it....
“Huh?” I tried to stall the inevitable. I was silent for a while, and kept on writing. Then, “Did Mom call you to take a shower now?”
“No. Is she, Natalie?”
I sighed. “Well...yes...” I admitted reluctantly. “But you mustn’t tell anyone, okay?”
Gabby’s ponytails bobbed eagerly. “I won’t tell anyone!”
How about everyone? I thought.
Dad’s eyes twinkled above his newspaper. “Oops.”
The twins looked up from their joke books. “Gabby!” Micah scolded. “I’m gonna tickle you!”
“Don’t, Micah,” I warned. “Gabby promised she wouldn’t tell.”
Micah frowned at Gabby.
“Micah.” Dad said.
Gabby suddenly remembered something. “Rhianna’s gonna be my Sunday school teacher this year!”
I groaned inwardly. A five-year-old with a secret eleven months long, to keep from her Sunday school teacher? Quite an interesting predicament. Especially for Gabby.
Dad looked at me significantly. “Oops.”
“Dad!” I cried helplessly. “Don’t rub it in, please.”
Dad buried himself behind his newspaper again, choking.
“Sorry, Natalie,” he managed, “that’s Gabby for you!”
Gabby was baffled. “What does that mean?”
Mom's Tea Party
Stifling a yawn, Thea placed Little Women face down and glanced at the clock. Two-thirty. Only. When would the day ever end? Saturdays were fun in general, but this one day was unendurable for some reason. She didn’t exactly know why, but plain languid and restless suited her mood exactly.
Thea sighed. “Doesn’t the heat bother you, Regine?”
Regine looked up. “No,” she replied, vigorously brushing her doll’s hair. “I didn’t notice it. Wanna play?”
“No, it’s all right.” Thea walked over to the kitchen. Klink, klink, klink. Thea poured lemon iced tea into a jug and sent the ice cubes swirling. “Tea, girls.” She carried Mom’s glass to her.
“Why, thank you, Thea!” Mom gratefully reached out for the proffered drink. “This sure is refreshing. How’s your afternoon going?”
“Boring.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really. How come? Besides, you know bored people don’t exist in this household.”
“I wish Dad were here. Weekends are more fun with him around.”
Mom smiled sympathetically. “Yeah, I miss him too. Don’t worry, the pastors’ conference is only a couple days, you know. He’ll be back by tonight.”
“I know; but it’s like, with Dad gone, plus this awful heat, the day’s not going right. And I don’t feel like reading anymore.”
Mom pinched Thea’s cheek. “You funny girl! Sounding like you’re already sixteen; finding so much to complain about. Not that it’s a good attitude; but enjoy being thirteen for a bit longer, and play with your sisters, eh?”
Thea couldn’t help laughing; Mom had always poked good fun at her grownup ways. Mom spiced up life. Always had.
Mom snapped her fingers. “Tell you what. Let’s have a little tea party, us four.” She pulled herself up with some difficulty. “Us five, I should say. Um, let’s see….” She threw open a kitchen cabinet. “Hmmm…ah, let’s lay out this pretty yellow tablecloth. It’s linen, too, so that’ll be elegant.
“Now, what shall we have?” Mom wondered aloud. “How about a yellow tea party? You know, to spruce up our mood. Yellow’s like sunshine, so let’s see what yellow food we have. Mightn’t exactly be a healthy option, but it’ll be fun anyway.”
Mom’s pantry produced a much finer meal than expected. Regina and Lenore soon stopped their play, in their wonder what the clattering in the kitchen was all about. After thirty minutes, they all stepped back to admire the table. The main meal consisted of curried rice, with a sunny side-up beside each scoop, served up on yellow plastic plates (the girls had wanted to use the white porcelain plates, but Mom mischievously insisted in using the yellow plastic ones). These were accompanied with matching yellow plastic spoons and forks (“Just imagine they’re sparkling silverware,” Mom had teased). One thing Thea had persuaded Mom on was that the fresh mango shakes were served in glasses; so in glasses they stood, just beside each plate. In the center of the table, Mom had arranged a large yellow platter of bananas, sliced pineapple, quartered New Zealand kiwi, and cheeks of ripe mango. These all complemented very nicely with the yellow linen tablecloth and sunflower placemats.
“Look, Thea!” giggling, Lenny pointed to the fruit platter. Thea laughed. Mom had just had to add those yellow capsicums! By now, Thea had even forgotten that the word “bored” ever existed.
Regine sat down with a sigh of contentment, plopping her elbows on the table. Lenny wriggled in excitement. Being the oldest, of course Thea merely folded her hands in her lap; but secretly she wouldn’t have minded giving a little squeal of delight herself.
“Where’s Mom? I’m getting hungry!” Lenny eyed her plate wistfully.
“Ta-da!”
Thea twirled around in her seat. Lenny bounced up and down in six-year-old glee, and Regine clapped her hand over her mouth. Despite this, the giggle escaped her.
There in the archway Mom stood, grinning with girlish pleasure. Her yellow Sunday dress fell in soft, sunny folds about her and her large tummy, and fluffy yellow slippers peeped out from underneath. Mom’s chestnut hair was daintily tied with a silky yellow ribbon, which Thea thought was pretty. But what completed the outfit was something that was typical Mom. Her dangly, yellow capiz shell earrings that were shaped like little T-shirts!
Thea couldn’t believe Mom had taken her tea party that far. But then, that was just like Mom: she spiced up life. Always had.
Thea sighed. “Doesn’t the heat bother you, Regine?”
Regine looked up. “No,” she replied, vigorously brushing her doll’s hair. “I didn’t notice it. Wanna play?”
“No, it’s all right.” Thea walked over to the kitchen. Klink, klink, klink. Thea poured lemon iced tea into a jug and sent the ice cubes swirling. “Tea, girls.” She carried Mom’s glass to her.
“Why, thank you, Thea!” Mom gratefully reached out for the proffered drink. “This sure is refreshing. How’s your afternoon going?”
“Boring.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really. How come? Besides, you know bored people don’t exist in this household.”
“I wish Dad were here. Weekends are more fun with him around.”
Mom smiled sympathetically. “Yeah, I miss him too. Don’t worry, the pastors’ conference is only a couple days, you know. He’ll be back by tonight.”
“I know; but it’s like, with Dad gone, plus this awful heat, the day’s not going right. And I don’t feel like reading anymore.”
Mom pinched Thea’s cheek. “You funny girl! Sounding like you’re already sixteen; finding so much to complain about. Not that it’s a good attitude; but enjoy being thirteen for a bit longer, and play with your sisters, eh?”
Thea couldn’t help laughing; Mom had always poked good fun at her grownup ways. Mom spiced up life. Always had.
Mom snapped her fingers. “Tell you what. Let’s have a little tea party, us four.” She pulled herself up with some difficulty. “Us five, I should say. Um, let’s see….” She threw open a kitchen cabinet. “Hmmm…ah, let’s lay out this pretty yellow tablecloth. It’s linen, too, so that’ll be elegant.
“Now, what shall we have?” Mom wondered aloud. “How about a yellow tea party? You know, to spruce up our mood. Yellow’s like sunshine, so let’s see what yellow food we have. Mightn’t exactly be a healthy option, but it’ll be fun anyway.”
Mom’s pantry produced a much finer meal than expected. Regina and Lenore soon stopped their play, in their wonder what the clattering in the kitchen was all about. After thirty minutes, they all stepped back to admire the table. The main meal consisted of curried rice, with a sunny side-up beside each scoop, served up on yellow plastic plates (the girls had wanted to use the white porcelain plates, but Mom mischievously insisted in using the yellow plastic ones). These were accompanied with matching yellow plastic spoons and forks (“Just imagine they’re sparkling silverware,” Mom had teased). One thing Thea had persuaded Mom on was that the fresh mango shakes were served in glasses; so in glasses they stood, just beside each plate. In the center of the table, Mom had arranged a large yellow platter of bananas, sliced pineapple, quartered New Zealand kiwi, and cheeks of ripe mango. These all complemented very nicely with the yellow linen tablecloth and sunflower placemats.
“Look, Thea!” giggling, Lenny pointed to the fruit platter. Thea laughed. Mom had just had to add those yellow capsicums! By now, Thea had even forgotten that the word “bored” ever existed.
Regine sat down with a sigh of contentment, plopping her elbows on the table. Lenny wriggled in excitement. Being the oldest, of course Thea merely folded her hands in her lap; but secretly she wouldn’t have minded giving a little squeal of delight herself.
“Where’s Mom? I’m getting hungry!” Lenny eyed her plate wistfully.
“Ta-da!”
Thea twirled around in her seat. Lenny bounced up and down in six-year-old glee, and Regine clapped her hand over her mouth. Despite this, the giggle escaped her.
There in the archway Mom stood, grinning with girlish pleasure. Her yellow Sunday dress fell in soft, sunny folds about her and her large tummy, and fluffy yellow slippers peeped out from underneath. Mom’s chestnut hair was daintily tied with a silky yellow ribbon, which Thea thought was pretty. But what completed the outfit was something that was typical Mom. Her dangly, yellow capiz shell earrings that were shaped like little T-shirts!
Thea couldn’t believe Mom had taken her tea party that far. But then, that was just like Mom: she spiced up life. Always had.
A Purple Reminder
When I was a young kid, the aunties called me adorable. I didn’t really know what that meant, but I associated that word with their hateful fussing. And I was always indignant whenever one of my uncles would rumple my hair. Didn’t they know that Mom had had to make me go back to the bathroom for a full 5 minutes to get it done right, and that once satisfactory, they shouldn't have mussed it all up?? Upon reaching highschool, my grandparents solemnly called me a good-looking boy. That didn’t sound as bad to me; at least it didn’t include voluble demonstrations, and my uncles did have to admit I was getting too tall for a hair-rumpling.
Home was haven, really. My dad and mom rarely mentioned anything about our physical features. It’s not that they didn’t think we were beautiful or handsome; besides, if we kids weren’t, that means Dad and Mom weren’t, right? It’s just that they were more concerned with helping us develop our spiritual lives and moral values, that mentioning much about outward features (apart from looking neat, clean, and respectable) didn’t seem to linger long in their thoughts.
Upon finishing high school at home, I took a college correspondence course, sitting in the campus for a couple subjects. The workload was fine, but the girls at the campus were awful. Each time, I was bombarded on every side with comments on being “cute,” “good-looking,” “handsome,” and “Prince Charming.” Deep inside, I didn’t mind the commendations that much. But still, I was always glad when it was time to escape.
None of them just could compare with Tamara. She was a family friend at church. Tamara to me was the picture of ideal girlhood, with a wealth of wisdom and understanding. And yet, despite my growing interest, she didn’t seem to notice me at all. My stealthy glances across the aisle never seemed to be sensed. They were never reciprocated, that’s for sure. I felt she treated me the same way as she did the other young men in the church. Didn’t she think that I was good-looking?
Well, one day, on a church picnic, I decided to prove to her a little that I was different from the rest. I swung that baseball bat, wacked that volleyball, and endured the sack race. While the other young men were busy discussing their various trades, I delighted the younger children with wrestling, and water fights. In the shade of a large golden elm Tamara sat, soothing to sleep one of the many babies at church, while she and the young mother quietly chatted. Her eyes didn’t follow me, neither did any flash of admiration flicker across her expressive young face.
Toward late afternoon, the children all tugged at my hands, pulling me to the gigantic slide. One by one, or two by two the children tobogganed on their sacks. Timothy, Tamara’s four-year-old brother, was a rather timid little chap, but really wanted to go on the slide. So I sat him on my lap, and boy did he have the time of his life. After several runs, he decided he’d had enough, then ran off to his big sister, bursting with the exciting account of his feat. Happily he plunked himself on her lap, and watched the other children play.
Suddenly, some crazy notion got me. (Well, it didn’t seem that crazy back then). Climbing up the long flight of steps, I kicked off my shoes, and stepped onto the slide with my socked feet. “Go! Go! Go, Lyndon!” the children cheered. I slid upright, without a single mishap. My confidence grew, and I prepared for another run. The second wasn’t as impressive to the kids. Third run. I glanced toward the shade of the golden elm. Ready, set, go! Down, down, down I coasted, and things seemed to be going good. But then…upon hitting the flat portion of the ride, I suddenly became all arms and legs in one huge, mysterious knot. With a heavy CRASH, I fell flat on my stomach, one arm pinned fast under me.
I sure hoped Tamara didn’t see me that time. Actually, I didn’t dare look to see if she’d witnessed my pride fall. I think I’ll just wear long-sleeved tops until this gigantic purple bruise fades away.
Home was haven, really. My dad and mom rarely mentioned anything about our physical features. It’s not that they didn’t think we were beautiful or handsome; besides, if we kids weren’t, that means Dad and Mom weren’t, right? It’s just that they were more concerned with helping us develop our spiritual lives and moral values, that mentioning much about outward features (apart from looking neat, clean, and respectable) didn’t seem to linger long in their thoughts.
Upon finishing high school at home, I took a college correspondence course, sitting in the campus for a couple subjects. The workload was fine, but the girls at the campus were awful. Each time, I was bombarded on every side with comments on being “cute,” “good-looking,” “handsome,” and “Prince Charming.” Deep inside, I didn’t mind the commendations that much. But still, I was always glad when it was time to escape.
None of them just could compare with Tamara. She was a family friend at church. Tamara to me was the picture of ideal girlhood, with a wealth of wisdom and understanding. And yet, despite my growing interest, she didn’t seem to notice me at all. My stealthy glances across the aisle never seemed to be sensed. They were never reciprocated, that’s for sure. I felt she treated me the same way as she did the other young men in the church. Didn’t she think that I was good-looking?
Well, one day, on a church picnic, I decided to prove to her a little that I was different from the rest. I swung that baseball bat, wacked that volleyball, and endured the sack race. While the other young men were busy discussing their various trades, I delighted the younger children with wrestling, and water fights. In the shade of a large golden elm Tamara sat, soothing to sleep one of the many babies at church, while she and the young mother quietly chatted. Her eyes didn’t follow me, neither did any flash of admiration flicker across her expressive young face.
Toward late afternoon, the children all tugged at my hands, pulling me to the gigantic slide. One by one, or two by two the children tobogganed on their sacks. Timothy, Tamara’s four-year-old brother, was a rather timid little chap, but really wanted to go on the slide. So I sat him on my lap, and boy did he have the time of his life. After several runs, he decided he’d had enough, then ran off to his big sister, bursting with the exciting account of his feat. Happily he plunked himself on her lap, and watched the other children play.
Suddenly, some crazy notion got me. (Well, it didn’t seem that crazy back then). Climbing up the long flight of steps, I kicked off my shoes, and stepped onto the slide with my socked feet. “Go! Go! Go, Lyndon!” the children cheered. I slid upright, without a single mishap. My confidence grew, and I prepared for another run. The second wasn’t as impressive to the kids. Third run. I glanced toward the shade of the golden elm. Ready, set, go! Down, down, down I coasted, and things seemed to be going good. But then…upon hitting the flat portion of the ride, I suddenly became all arms and legs in one huge, mysterious knot. With a heavy CRASH, I fell flat on my stomach, one arm pinned fast under me.
I sure hoped Tamara didn’t see me that time. Actually, I didn’t dare look to see if she’d witnessed my pride fall. I think I’ll just wear long-sleeved tops until this gigantic purple bruise fades away.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
A Peep into an Acappella Piece Practise
Praktis niyo muna parts niyo, tapos ako naman.
Flat ka.
Hindi siya. Ako poh yun, Dad.
Try ulet.
May off-key ah, sige sops at alto muna.
(Kanta)
Okay naman…edi si Jathnielle pala yung sintunado.
Hahaha…sabi ko poh sayo Dad ee!
One, two, three, four…
Stop, stop!
Oh akala ko na praktis mo na yung part mo?!
Ah, hanggang dito lang muna poh kasi di ko ma-gets kanina nung wala akong kasama.
Ah, ok. Sige one, two, three, four…
Oh, di ka kumakanta?
Ahm, nawala ako. Ano ulet starting note ko?
Try natin all through, walang stopping ha.
Dad, hindi poh yan crotchets…quaver value lang poh.
I-hold mo yung nota nang two beats, kasi maiiwan si Dad at ako naka-hang.
Mom, just watch Dad to keep in time.
Nakatingin nga lang ako sa kanya.
Gano’n…pero di pa rin nama-maintain yung speed eh. Hehehe.
One, two, three, four…
Daddy, quavers lang poh yan! At dapat mag-slow down tayo rito. I’ll write it on the top of your page… “SLOW DOWN!!”
And I’ll add my version sa page mo, Daddy…Ayan, I highlighted it na poh. Hahaha.
Praktis natin mula bar 40. Nawawala ako sa bass.
Can we slow down a bit more here? We need enough time to catch our breaths.
Ah, okay, sige.
Wui, mezzo piano lang dapat!
One, two, three, four…
Hahaha! Anu ba yan….
Emphasize niyo yung word sa first beat ng bar!
May mali…kantahin mo nga yung part mo rito…
Yun nga poh kinakanta ko!
Hindi…ito ginagawa mo oh.
Basta, try natin ulet. One, two, three, four…
Ritardando! Ritardando!
Ayan!! That’s so much better. From the beginning naman.
Mmmm… (getting our notes).
One, two, three, four…
A couple bars in and then…
Wah…I forgot it.
Hahaha…ulet, ulet!
We’ll run through bar 35 and onwards a couple times, to get it right. Think of the words.
Sige, from the beginning ulet.
One, two, three, four…
Reflections
Hmmm...this'll be quite interesting.
I've never really done much blogging, let alone have an account specifically for it. Kinda felt as if I would be publicizing too much about myself… Never saw much appeal to that.
But I'm beginning to realize that blogging can also be a means of healthy expression. Where the tongue fails, the pen gently draws out the throbbing thought. This is my case, for I have a very difficult time relaying my thoughts very well when face to face. I know what I want to bring across, but verbal expression always seems to go to the wind with me! So it’s to the “pen” for me.
Blogs entries can be sweet, pathetic, funny, or plain serious. This atmosphere is created by the writer. Under his fingers, he can make a prosaic happening alive with romance, or a grand occasion sound like a boring time schedule. This is in the power of the writer—he will either captivate a reader, or make him yawn. That is style.
And what’s as important, if not more so, is the content of the blog. Hmmm…let me rephrase that. Maybe not so much the topic, but more the strain. Am I ever beginning to realize that entries show how the author's mind runs…yikes! I can write about a budding romance, a hilarious happening, a disappointment, and even a little confusion or frustration…but let the gentle strain ever be, “Lord, how good and merciful you are!”
One thing that I’d really like to work towards in this blog is to avoid writing in an "encrypted" sort of way, that when asked about, I’m not willing to elaborate on. (At least to a certain degree.) My blog is public, and so I must be ready for any “cross fire.” Hehehe. If I’m not ready for it, it’d be best not to post it so publicly at all. To post it while not willing for any interrogation is to lose a friend’s trust. And I’d like to think of blogging as a way for friends and family to be blessed by God’s working in my life, rather than a way for them to find reason to be repelled by any thoughtlessness on my part.
I’m no skilled writer, nor very organized or well-developed in thought. (I’m working towards that though. Hahaha.) But my prayer is that, whatever attempt I make at posting, others may be led to glorify God. With that said, Hello to the World of Blogging!
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