In 1975, he worked part-time "to earn pocket money and get a little bit of exercise". When I was 19, I visited the Philippines with Daddy. I saw where both Daddy and Mama came from—the barrio of Bactad in the province of Pangasinan. I, who was born in the United States, did not feel like I finally found home. Ten years later, I visited Hawaii for the first time. Immediately, I knew I was home. The smell. The feel. The taste. Hawaii was where Daddy lived for a quarter of his century. His youth, his coming into middle-age, his single life. There, in Hawaii, in the sugarcane fields, the streets of Honolulu. There, he lived away from family, independent and free. Daddy was one of the many young Filipino men who signed a three-year contract to work on Hawaiian plantations. His year to leave home was 1928. A young, handsome man of 23 years. What was it like for him? I cannot even begin to imagine. His plan was to go back home after his contract was up. But he had ma

It happens. A loved one gets too old to cut her (or his) toenails. That same elderly loved one who can still drag a nine-foot ladder across the backyard and prune a lemon tree, when no one is looking. In my case, that is the Mama. I could take the Mama down to a nail salon. But, the idea of a stranger touching one's toesies is creepy. And, you never know if the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money really changes her gloves after each customer. That protection is more for the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money than for the customers. Forget about trying to convince me otherwise. Then, there is the matter of the strong smell of chemicals. I've walked passed open doors of nail salons and been hit with a big wham of oppressive odors.  The stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money also wears a face mask, which makes me wonder why customers don't wear them either. Heaven knows what breathing in the toxins for even one minute does to your health. Of course, there is the

Last week, I began the tale of Mr. L. Gatto Cat, "our" cat for a very brief while.  Here are the links to  the prequel and Mr. Cat's first appearance . I was just minding my own business. In the late afternoon, I liked to hang out under the old lady's rose bushes to grab some of the last of the sun's bubbles before it scooted over the rooftops. The old lady had a very pleasant and tidy garden. No leaves to muss me up. No rocks to dig into my body. The plants and her house protected me from the wind. And, best of all, the birds flocked to the bird feeders on the tree in the middle of the yard. It was only right that I politely said "Thanks" whenever the old lady, the bushy-haired tall guy, or the younger old lady walked by. The guy always petted me and said kind things to me. I didn't get much of human talk until evening. As for the women—they ignored me. I think the old lady was hard  of hearing.  The younger old lady sometimes glanced at me

This is my rough sketch for the cartoon that I want the Husband to draw for my future obituary. Death is sporting a Hawaiian shirt. Me, a flouncy skirt. "Hello. What's your name?" asked the young man. "Death," said 18-year-old me. It was a late afternoon nearly 50 years ago. My answer, of course, gave him a start. To this day, I have no idea why he even walked over to the swings where I was sitting, the only person in the park until he and his friends drove in and parked near the bathroom.  Our paths crossed once before when I was in first grade and he in second. In high school, I perceived him as being one of the "wild and tumble" guys. And, wouldn't you know it, he eventually would become a pastor. Instead of making a quick getaway, the future pastor sat on the other swing next to me. Not really what I wanted. He seemed sincerely concerned that I had called myself Death . He probably thought I was suicidal or maybe psychotic. Far from

The parents liked fresh meat and they believed it was cheaper to purchase a pig (or cow or chicken), slaughter and butcher the animal,  and freeze the parts for when you wanted to cook. Because the cost of purchasing a pig was high, the parents often bought it with one or more friends. They didn't bring the pig to the butcher though, as part of the pig-buying event was the camaraderie among the men as they slaughtered and butchered the pig in our backyard. A bottle, or two, of whiskey also figured into the festivity. Every part of the pig was used. Everything. For instance, the blood was directly drained from the pig into a pot. The right amount of vinegar was added to the blood and it was beat with a hand mixer until it coagulated into a thick pudding. The blood was used for a pork dish known as dinardaraan, which the Filipinos would call Chocolate Meat as they served it to children or non-Filipinos. Along with the whiskey, Daddy always  served his compadres a meal of the fres

This was originally published in November, 2010 at my experimental "Don't Be a Hippie" at Wordpress.com. The one and only post. Today's version has been slightly revised. I don't know why you need to know. About 40 years ago, on a particular day, I was getting myself ready to go hang out at school. Not high school. But, community college. I was 18 or 19 and living at home. The daddy was retired. He happened to be home on this certain day. He may have been getting ready to go out to hang out with his retired buddies. I was in my bedroom doing whatever, when the daddy stopped at my door.  I looked over at him, and he said, "Don't be a hippie." Before I could respond, he walked away. I had no idea he knew there were such things as hippies. Most of all, I didn't think I had it in me to be a hippie.  I was not very good at being part of a group that had a moniker to it. Still.  I wonder what may have caused my dad to reach the conclusi

The Daddy, mid-1970s. My favorite photo of him. Twenty-nine years ago on this day, the Daddy died from a heart attack. He was 76 years old. Maybe he didn't pick how or where he died, but I think he was happy it wasn't at home where the Mama would've come home to find him after a long, tiring day at work. He was always protective of her. That day the Daddy decided to go to lunch at the senior center with his good friend Danny, one of the godfathers of mine. The Daddy hadn't been there for quite a long while. He hadn't been feeling well, but those last three days, I was told, he'd been going strong, visiting, babysitting, doing so many of the things he liked to do. So, there he was sitting at the lunch table. He was bending down for a spoon on the floor, I was told. He was there longer than he should have been.  "Hey, 'Pare (short for compadre), what you doing down there?" called a friend. Then, a scramble to get help for the Daddy. That was it. Whil