The Mama and the Daddy asked six of their friends to be the ninongs and ninangs, or godparents, when I was baptized.  The Roman Catholic Church recognizes only two baptismal sponsors, and one ninang (female godparent) and one ninong (male godparent) did sign on the formal lines of the baptismal document a long time ago. The other four signed on the right hand top of the page. I have a feeling the godparents signed it all at once at the church, which makes me wonder if the priest panicked that the church rules were not being followed. The parents taught me that the spouses of the godparents were also ninangs and ninongs, and I was to address them as such. Altogether, I had 10 godparents. I have many memories of these elegant people. Here are a few of them. Ninang Deling taught me my numbers in Ilocano. She was quite patient with the four-year old me that bounced and danced around her as I repeated after her—maysa, dua, tallo, uppat, lima. . . When I was six or seven, Ninong Cle

The Mama, as some of you dear readers know, is in her nineties. The tiny, fragile, slow-stepping Mama is doing well, thank you very much for asking. She's as fit and magnificent as the flowers and vegetables that she grows. The only medication she takes is for her thyroid. I can only hope that I haven't screwed up the genes she gave me too awful much. This morning, I found a poem that I wrote about the Mama two years ago when she was rushed to the hospital. The Mama is amazing. The Sleeping Mama Slipped into her ER room. She was fast asleep, Hooked up to the IV, heart monitor, and oxygen. In one moment, she could not move no matter how hard she tried. And, she tried, and kept trying, to stand up. "Walking pneumonia," the doctor said. "Dehydration." What did she say?  "This is going to cost me a lot." © 2014 Su-sieee! Mac I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge this month. To check out other participants, c

Nearly 35 years ago, a college professor, who hailed from Australia, told me if it weren't for the awkwardness of my writing, I would've got a higher score on my paper. She forgave me for some of my usage and grammar because, according to her, "English is your second language." For once, I kept my mouth closed rather than enlighten her on how wrong she was. English is the only language I can read, write, speak, and understand fluently. Proficiently, too, except for the lapses in awkward writing and the proper use of grammar, word choice, and cliches. I'm especially good at forgetting articles (the, a, an, and so on) and getting prepositions mixed up, which, I think is because the Ilocano language has no articles and, as far as I can tell, one preposition. As I was growing up the parents mostly spoke Ilocano to me while I spoke English to them. I still do that with the Mama, and the Husband finds it very strange. It's really not unusual with immigrant

This is Molly the Kitty Cat. For short, we call her Molly the Cat. Prrrrrrrrrr. I've told many a tale about our sweet Missy Molly by Golly. If you'd like to read one, please click here . Have a great weekend! Prrrrrrrrr. I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge this month. To check out other participants, click here . See you tomorrow.  

Because I was born 10 days after the cut-off date for first graders, I was sent home on the third day of school. Fine. The Mama had her hands full caring for Baby Sister and figuring out the new house that we had moved into about a week before school started. That meant I got to go with the Daddy for part of the day. Great! The Daddy irrigated the rows upon rows of crops on the valley floor. During  his morning break, the Daddy came home to fetch me. I'd get in the car with my Golden Books, coloring books, and crayons and down the hill we would go. While the Daddy worked, I entertained myself with my books and when that became tiring, I'd wander and explore, but never too far from the car and always where the Daddy could see me. We'd go home for lunch and sometimes I'd get to go back with the Daddy. A ditch stood between the fields and the car. It also separated me from the Daddy. Without help, I could not get over the ditch, especially when it was filled with w

Itty-bitty bananas are growing in our backyard. It's quite amazing. Don't let that photo fool you. I took it close up. They are truly very small bananas. Bananas have grown before, but normally they sprout at the end of summer, then before you know it, the weather is cool, and so much for the fruit. This year though, ooh la la, we may be eating bananas from our trees. I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge this month. To check out other participants, click here . See you tomorrow.  

The Husband and I stood in line at the big-box home improvement store. As we waited our turn, I watched the busy movement around us. All the lines were long, a given for a Saturday,  I suppose. Men and women pushed their carts forward in line, all heaped with lumber, sacks of soil, cans of paint, plumbing fixtures, and other large and bulky items for their DIY projects.  Finally, it was our turn. The Husband placed his items on the counter—a tiny light bulb and two drawer knobs. The transaction was quick. As the cashier handed a tiny bag to the Husband, he said, "Enjoy your project." The Husband still cracks up when he recalls that moment. I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge this month. To check out other participants, click here . See you tomorrow.