LIFE IN A NORTHWEST TOWN

It’s been five months now since I chanced upon my highschool batch.  Thanks to Myrna (a year ahead of me) who viewed my profile on Friendster.  She was the catalyst in showing me where to find my dear classmates.

In the months that passed, messages of long lost delight were sent.  Reunions, long-awaited were held.  And pictures were viewed with pure enthusiasm. 

Except for a few who are still in their 39’s like Reggie, most of us have celebrated our fortieth year in our journey of  life.  But see…I feel the oddest thing.  As I look through recent photographs of my batchmates, what enters my head is not the way we look now.  What comes up is seeing groups of girls in blue and white ruffled uniform where the letters F, S, J, and G bear their own meaning. 

Exam week, all of us sit squatted along the corridor, reading and studying and hoping to remember all the answers for the triginometry, physics, literature exams.  In the morning of exam week, you’ll see most of us packing  the chapel, imploring for divine intervention - THAT WE WOULD PASS THE TESTS.   

When exams are over, I still see the kalokohan (antics) erupting during Ginang’s (Pilipino teacher) class.  I see Mr. Pangilinan’s towering presence, his brows meeting, as we enter his Trigonometry class.   I see Mrs. Santos’ wide open Physics class with her glass cabinet of science knick-knacks and weird things standing in the far-end of the room.  And no matter what we do, she never seem to get mad.  I love her generosity and her respect of our curiosities on science.   And there’s the beloved Senorita Bas, our Spanish teacher, who would stomp her foot when you miss a word.  Then, there’s the twice a week CAT.  Under the searing afternoon sun, we filed by platoon and company, marching and practicing.  All wrapped in the dark green, abrasive to the skin, hard polyester long-sleeve top and pants.  How and why that was done back then, I’m not sure.  I’m just surprised not many fainted from exhaustion and dehydration.  It is the toughness of the kulasas I think.

Lunch time  and recess, we crowd the canteen and covered court - each hoping to get their food or eat their food before the bell rings.  We eat on long laminated tables.  Sometimes when there’s no room in the eating area, we find solace under the shade of the rubber trees or acacia trees, each opening our lunch boxes and sharing food.

During free time, you’ll see us all huddled in groups and sometimes in singles, legs outstretched or tucked under, reading “Sweet Dreams” books.  I’m sure the authors of those books were delighted in our love of reading; for they sure got rich from us.

And when it’s First Friday, I see us all dressed in white (gosh, as I write this, i’m trying to remember what the garb was called) filing in class groups at the covered court to attend  mass. 

I see us all cheering during intramurals.  I see us screaming to the programs performed on stage - United Nation’s Day, Teacher’s Day.  I remember vividly when Rose Duval, Jovy L. and four others more came out and danced to the eighties hit Karma Chameleon and everybody watching were on their feet screaming their guts out.  And we have the Christmas Fund Drive where all classes compete in who was able to give most.  My class, I remember, didn’t do well.  We were called by our dear principal as the least class who….Anyway, no hard feelings.  I know we did our best, but fell short a little bit.  Oh!  And I would never forget the FAIR and the streamers, rides and booths that greeted visitors from neighboring schools.  Then, there was the Junior-Senior Prom.   Green Fields in junior year and covered court in senior year.  Senior Prom was all girls and male partners were laid off.  At least that was what happened in my class, rallying behind those who didn’t have any prom dates.

I guess I can say that in the grand scheme of things, I am blessed to have met and be graced with the presence of these wonderful girls, sisters, friends, women - who as we got older, remained tight, remained in touch, remained humble, remained helpful and remained just as they are - caring and loving.

Like me, I’m sure you have your own memories of highschool and college.  Like me, I hope you do find your long lost friends and classmates.

The morning awakened us in white.  A layer of snow, thin this time, settled on the limbs of trees and the ground that protected roots from the icy grips of winter.

Out on the highway, I was left thankful of the plows.  The black-tarred road bared by these machines allowed my drive to work safe.

Seven minutes later, I turned right to a street, where one corner bears a Mexican restaurant; the next corner, a firehouse.  I parked the car along the grassy curb, beneath the watch of an old maple tree.  The cold breeze had started to blow and I brave the weather in layers of clothing¾ thermals, a long-sleeve shirt, a sweater and a coat¾ all secured in the wrap of a scarf around my neck.

Would the kids be sent outside?  Would they play at all?

My thoughts of the weather and the welfare of the children all played in my head as my shoes sank in shallow pools of frigid water.

Making it inside, I thawed in the heat emitted by the vents.  In the hallway, I walked passed bulletin boards after bulletin boards.  None bore suggestions of winter, but of students talking about their heroes, science and varying faces of George Washington- clipped and glued out of art paper and cotton balls. 

 Soon, the bell resounded, vanquishing the kids out in the cold and white-covered fields.

“Snow…snow,” they screamed.  They packed and rolled balls of it.  Miniature like a bowling ball at first, then growing and growing until they grew to heights passed the children who made them.

All around us, dotting the play field, were boulders of snow balls.  The kids pushed and rolled some more, patting the ice and shaving it smooth.  Older kids helped the younger kids.  Younger kids helped the older ones.  Some kids sought my help and some turned to Lisa’s.   We stopped till we couldn’t muster the strength to roll the boulder-sized balls.

The beauty around spoke to me.  Though they were just snow balls, everyone helped in the creation of it.  When one kid needed help pushing, other kids rushed to his or her side, heaving till they couldn’t heave any longer.   No age nor gender dictated such deed to help.  Everyone was willing to achieve something gargantuan.

I was proud of that cold, breezy day.  How I wished I had my camera to capture the scene - the white field dotted with five massive snow balls;  the architects that built them dwarfed by their size. 

I guess it all boils down to this.   It wouldn’t hurt if we look at how kids do things.  They never second guess in helping each other out, they have fun in the ordinary, and they pitch in in making their own world a better place.

Not having checked my profile in weeks, I was stunned to see a picture comment left by someone.  It bore an image of two scantilly clad women facing each other.

I’ve deleted the comment since.  But what’s upsetting is we are all adults here.  So have some class.

My purpose for being on Friendster is to find my long lost classmates and connect with family, friends and pals I’ve gained from this site.  IT IS NOT FOR YOU TO USE MY PAGE AS A BULLETIN BOARD FOR ALL YOUR DISTASTEFUL, EXPLICIT BLABBER.

To the person who left such picture, you know who you are.  It’s sad that at your age, you still need to do some growing up.

It was late, half past midnight from what the luminescent numbers of our alarm clock was showing me.  I couldn’t sleep so I turned on the T.V.   What comes on?  The movie “Sleepless in Seattle.”  How funny is that?  The title made me laugh cause there I was sleepless as well.

* This could be my shortest post ever.  I thought I’d share it cause I got a kick out of what had happened.  I find it amusing how life, circumstances, the tidbit of events share its pun.  Anyway, I enjoyed watching the movie again.  And yes, I fell asleep after.

The greyish green double doors opened, spewing a sea of screaming first and second graders ready for the sun and the grassy field.  In the midst of them, a little girl passed me by, her focus was toward the swings, slides and monkey bars.  But beneath such focus, something tugged me.  Rimming the little girl’s eyes were suppressed tears and as she shuffled in the direction of the bark laden playgound,  a soft moan came out of her.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

The girl halted her pace, tilting her head up to look at me.  “Huh?” she asked back, sadness in her eyes.

“What’s the matter sweetie?  Are you alright?”

“No,” she answered in her sweet, soft, tiny voice, and began to tell me what was bothering her.  She pointed at her thigh.  In her lisped speech, she told me that she has a sore or a boil on her leg.  “And it hurts (pronouncing her R’s with W’s) really, really bad,” she added. 

The girl wanted to show me the sore, pulling the hem of her jean pant up, but the wound was too high up to be seen.  I stopped her,  telling her that it’s okay, and that I don’t need to see it. 

“Have you told your Mom or Dad about it,” concerned that this girl should bear such pain.

“Yes,” she replied.  “I already told my mom.  But she said that we don’t have the money to take me to the doctor.”

Why would an innocent child be made to sacrifice her well-being and health? 

It angers me when I see a child in pain, his or her parent scraping by to make ends meet and I hear multi-billion banks being bailed out.   All these occuring because of greed and their stupid mistakes.  It angers me when I learn that the new CEO of WAMU, who only was in office for three weeks gets 11.7 million for running the company and hundreds of thousands of dollars in severance pay.  Yet, an eight year old child is made to sit in a corner wondering if she can go to a doctor to get her leg sore checked. 

It breaks my heart to look into this child’s blue eyes and feel helpless about it.  That moment, I wanted to take her to the doctor myself and hope that our insurance would cover the expenses.  But we all know that that’s highly unlikely.   The only option I had was to send the girl to the nurse’s office so that her sore could be checked.   (Maybe the nurse could take notes and what not…I don’t know).

When the girl left, deep inside, I knew nothing will be done to it (the sore) because schools are not allowed to treat or dispense anything unless given the authorization by a doctor to do so.

Again, I’m not talking about man’s sin against man.  I may in the future write about such sin for I have one story to tell.  This post is a walk-through for you out there; a glimpse I should say of what a less than two mile hiking trail (of Deception Falls) could give you.  Sometimes short and easy distances give you more than what you bargained for — very pleasing vignettes of nature.

We leave the footbridge behind, treading the spongy trail of moss and pine needles.  The flow of the river roars to our right.

(what you see from the bridge.  water flowing downriver)

We go up….

We go down….Viewing decks built in nooks and crannies of the trail to witness falls after falls, crevasse after crevasse.

Then, away from the falls, silence is created.  The forest whispering peace, telling us to take a break. 

Winding our way through, we chance upon an oddity.

Like clasped hands, a thousand year old stump holds a new growth, telling me that they too take care of their young. 

We proceeded down the path, crossed a small stream and back on dirt again, the sound of the falls becoming more audible to us.  All throughout it was fun witnessing vignettes such as this one:  splashes of miniature falls and clear rocky pools.

Coming to the end of the trail, we took one last glimpse.  But the falls gave me one last gift:

It is this picture.

Because we are surrounded with snaking mountain ranges — the Cascades and the Olympics, one past time that we do here during summer is hiking.  I’ve never relayed tales of my hiking trips mainly because my thought is no one would be interested.  A friend of mine suggested that I do otherwise.  There’s a subtle hint in her suggestion I think.  Something that would do me good in the end.

And so begins my hiking tale:

We begin our journey in the concrete parking lot.  Your ears are aware of it, yet your eyes protest, pushing you more to search.  Amongst the surrounding guardians of towering fir, maple and other decidous trees, the thunderous roar of the falls grows in the distance, clapping and enticing you to come find it.   It is nearby and you know it.  You ask yourself, "Where is it?"

Slowly, you walk a few paces — away from the white striped parking space.  You look around and you are left to the behest of your ears, its radar navigating and commanding you to focus and listen.

The sound becomes louder than ever before, assuring you that you have gone the right path.  Your feet carries you to the corner of the parking lot, where to your right a sloping grassy embankment and a knee-high S metal road fence separates you from the zipping mile per hour vehicles traveling east and west on Highway 2.

One foot over the other, you take a step over a curb, the concrete pavement changing to years of trodden packed dirt and borders of sticks and vegetation.  Between groups of wild shrubs and bushes, a slight clearing exposes a flight of compressed gravelly dirt steps, taking you down a steep incline.

Reaching the bottom, what is revealed to you next is something enough to stop your heart — the roaring, breathtaking view of Deception Falls. 

Standing at the edge, Deception’s  plume of white cascading water kisses your face with its mist, as it bounces off gargantuan rocks and boulders, coursing its way down river.

Feet away, a small footbridge beckons you to cross.  Even though the fall’s tongue laps about inches underneath you as you make your way, cross it, faintest of heart or not.  The other side will leave you more surprised and  awestruck.  

"Why is it called Deception Falls?" an acquaintance from Ireland once asked me when I took them to see the place.  I say it is that…it knows how to deceive whether you are standing in the parking lot or clocking 65 or 70 mph driving down the highway. 

                                         Always, there’s a 90 percent chance you may miss it.  You’ll only know from your unsuspecting passenger when you hear them say, "Whoa!  Did you see that?" as they may happen to glance to their right.  You and the rest are left clueless, wondering what beauty that was seen; missing the white, flowing curtain of falls that have cleaved itself between mountains and trees, tucked like an opalescent white kerchief in a stone crevice. 

Only a few more days and spring will announce its presence.  Dormant bulbs of tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils will shoot their leafy blades out of the once frozen garden.  Robins will appear, proudly sticking their red, downy breasts out.  Buds and leaves will begin filling the naked limbs of cherry blossom trees and the soft sunlight from the long awaited season will filter through our homes’ thick window panes.

Animals, plants and humans rejoice.  Perennials are pruned and annuals are planted, giving beauty to our yard when summertime comes.

Spring gives us soft drizzles and light breezes, strumming in wonderful tunes all windchimes hung in balconies and porches.  Spring is the season of rebirth.  That is what we know of it. 

After weeks of somber clouds and rain here at home, we welcome the blessing of a perfect weather - the temperature is mild, the sun is out and not a single cloud hang above us.  It was all enough to put my neighbors and I in high spirits.

Yet, an odd thing happened outside our balcony today.  Swinging and clanging along our flower windchime was a tiny hummingbird, a mere clump hanging upside down.  Hummingbirds are known for their brisk speed.  Blink an eye and it is gone.  But this one didn’t move at all.  Its slender claws gripped the rusty petal edges of the metal windchime.

“Nick, is it sleeping or is it dead?”  I asked my husband.  (To me it looked like it was just napping).  He too wondered, knocking on the sliding door, hoping it would wake up and take flight.  Still, no movement.

Coming to the thought that something is wrong, I grabbed two plastic grocery bags and headed out the sliding door.  With one of the bags, I slowly took hold of the bird, sliding it off the windchime, confirming what I most dreaded.  It is dead.

How ironic, I told myself, that the season of rebirth is almost here and I pluck a once living creature, putting it in its place of peace.  It is very humbling what I was asked to witness - life’s fragility.  Moments such as this one help remind me to always seize the day and breathe.

I avoid his glances, pretending that I do not see him.  He sits next to me, proudly criss-crossing his legs.  I smile.  He smiles.

He has a reputation; well-known to say "no" generously. 

While we sat and wait for the discussion to begin, he scans the room, head bearing forward, as if it weighs more than his entire body.

Inching his way across the carpeted floor to my side, he leans on me.  I turn to him.  He looks at me, one finger upon his mouth.  "Shhh…," he says.  I give him a nod.  Then, he listens.  Or at least he tries.

This is my day with a little friend who has Down syndrome.

(December 9, 2007)

Another snow forecast today.  Soon, flurries will come.

The fire is lit, warming the entire house.  A cup of steaming cocoa awaits on the corner table and my giddy 8 year old sits at the edge of the sofa.

"Push play, Mom," she says, beaming a wide smile as she bounced herself on the cushion.

We are waiting for the movie "Polar Express" to come on.

(Today, she has invited me to sit down and watch it with her.  Inside her ever-wondering mind, she must have known that I needed a break.  I took the offer, dropped what I was doing, grasped her tiny hand and let her lead me to where the T.V. was).

Then, the screen brightens, colorful images appear and two sets of eyes wait in anticipation.

                                             _______

I don’t know if it’s just me but when I watch a movie, not only do I listen for dialogues that would help me spriritually, I also tend to take note of the track songs being played. 

"Polar Express" has one called BELIEVE by Josh Groban.  He sings:

Children sleeping, snow is softly falling.

Dreams are calling  like bells in the distance.

We were dreamers not so long ago.

But one by one we all had to grow up.

When it seems the magic slipped away

We find it all again on Christmas Day

(CHORUS)

Believe in what your heart is saying.

Hear the melody that’s playing

There’s no time to waste.  There’s so much to celebrate.

Believe in what you feel inside

And give your dreams the wings to fly.

You have everything you need.

If you just believe.

(END CHORUS)

Trains move quickly to the journey’s end.

Destinations are where we begin again.

Ships go sailing far across the sea

Trusts in starlight to get where they need to be.

When it seems that we have lost our way

We find ourselves again on Christmas Day.

(CHORUS)

Just believe.

                                                          _______

Hours later, the movie ends.

"Isn’t it great, Mom?" she asks.

I nodded, smiling at her, the song still playing in my ear.

As I type the song’s lyrics down, I randomly highlighted the verses that most struck me.

I read, putting all the bold verses together, weeding out the rest of the song.

Shaking my head, a sigh of content comes out of me.  There it was…the answer to my doubt.  My 8 year old led me to it.  And I have her to thank for.

Indeed, it is true that answers come when you least expect it.  They may come from an 8 year old, a movie or while crossing the street.  What matters is the decision of when to believe.

This season, my wish for you all is that may you find your answers as well…whatever they may be.  May you be surrounded with peace and joy, love and contentment.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE AND GIVE YOUR DREAMS THE WINGS TO FLY.