Tony; the Terminator

Notice the punctuation mark above? It is a semi-colon. The Terminator does not refer to Tony. It refers to Arnold Schwarzenegger, whom we all know as the Terminator. 

In a strange sort of way, I liken my husband to Arnold. Not from the beginning of time, but from the time I took this photo . . . 

. . . then I saw on the Net Arnold’s photo that apes Tony’s. He has been cutting his son’s hair. 

“He” refers to both. Tony cuts son #1’s hair every Saturday, like clockwork. Arnold seems to have been cutting his son Patrick’s hair from boyhood.  

What does that tell me? 

That both are good dads (saving money on haircuts), not necessarily good barbers. 

And that’s where this blog ends on that matter. Because try as I might, I can’t see any other similarity between Tony and Arnold except the above photos—and of course the inspiring grace that comes when I behold heartwarming scenes such as these.  

This likewise ends (or terminates) my 2023 blog entries, showing the

simplicity versus the complexity that the rituals of modern lives have turned into. 

Awful and Wonderful

How can antonyms be in perfect harmony? 

They can. 

I had this “bright” idea of changing my blog look for the year 2024. I am on my 18th year of blogging and there has to be some kind of change. But here’s what happens when change is done for the sake change. 

I bravely went into the inner structure of my blogspot to reconfigure it. But  I must have pushed some wrong buttons; it took me a whole day—back and forth, forth and back to come up with a decent layout. Hit and miss, miss and hit.  

Exhausted, I decided to simply revert to my old design. Alas, I couldn’t find my way back anymore. 

And so, even before the clock could strike 12 on New Year's day,  I have a NEW LOOK! 

OLD LOOK

But the new layout made all my photos and layouts awful: meaning, they floated out of the text or got buried under them, making the posts senseless. Imagine presenting your sldes (painstakingly done on your computer) using another computer. The fonts and layout become unrecognizable as they dance in and out of the frame.    

With the new look, I had to go back to the old posts to redeem them using the new specifications. 

Wonderful happened: Epiphany! I uncovered long-forgotten entries and thoughts that evolved through time. My life (those that were recorded) came flashing back. I could feel anew the grace that enabled me to record faith lost and faith regained in all aspects of my years. 

I won’t be finished working on all 2,000+ entries as I am also editing word-and-image lapses. I am taking it slow and easy, reliving and thanking the Lord once more for each piece. 

Why am I even doing this? Let me put it this way: Physically recomposing every post is awful, but nostalgically reading the content, mostly funny and self-deprecating, makes me feel wonderful. 

To quote my sister Aie, "Do what you love, and love what you do." 

71st Palanca Awards 2023

For the first time in years, I attended the Palanca Awards Night by myself and blogging about it one month too late. (After the pandemic no-nos were lifted, there was a surge of activities that needed attendance and attention.)  

Sons #1 and #3 were busy or found reasons to be busy. Tony could no longer navigate stairs and long walks. 

So on November 27, I donned an old outfit (a bit on the tight side now), dabbed my face with talc, drew a line over my thinning eyebrows, wore my glasses and hearing aids, put on my mask, and off I went, humming a happy hymn. 

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace . . .

This year, I chaired the board of judges for Short Story for Children (English).

 

Deliberations were done online. So I looked forward to meeting my peers with whom I made tough decisions between winners and losers. 

On Palanca Nights, one is never really alone. Journalists swarm in and out, documenting details for tomorrow’s papers. Fellow literature lovers are a-plenty. I only had one tiny concern: who will take photos of moi. I never learned to do selfie and was at the mercy of those doing it with panache. Will they share those mementos with me? 

Dr. Luis Gatmaitan, the keynote speaker, who was awarded the Gawad Dangal ng Lahi (a special citation for those who have contributed immensely to the development of Philippine literature)—and  who calls me BFF, and vice-versa—did! They are above and below. 

They do not tell the whole story from my eyes. But the memories of this unforgettable night are intact in my mind, for as long as my Creator enables me to see them clearly. 

The judging? We had 75 entries, which I reviewed meticulously to be fair to the writers who slaved over them. 

We got to shake the winners’ hands on stage and that, to me, was a most wonderful thing! 

What We Mean by Meme

Meme is relatively a new word that has become a huge part of social media language today. 

It originated from the Greek word mimema, meaning imitated. It was shortened and introduced in 1976 by British evolutionary biologist and book author Richard Dawkins in his work The Selfish Gene. 

A meme (/miːm/ MEEM) is an idea, behavior, or style that spreads through imitation from person to person within a culture. It often carries symbolic meaning representing a phenomenon or theme. 

It was hijacked by social media and now it means: a kind of joke or idea spread through the internet using altered pictures or videos. 

Here’s one that caught my eye because in one go, it humorously describes what the Christmas season has brought upon Metro Manila.   

Because of fair use, anyone can create or share memes, like I am doing, without fear of being sued—unless it is used for commerical puproses. 

A few tidbits on the scientist who invented the word: “He is a proponent of atheism, the critique and denial of metaphysical beliefs in a god or spiritual beings. Much of Dawkins's work has generated debate for asserting the supremacy of science over religion in explaining the world.” (Britannica) 

As the celebration of Christmas continues in this part of the world, I affirm my belief in the truth of the Holy Birth in this passage from the good book. 

“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” John 1:14 (NIV) 

Noche Buena 2023: Missing Details

Through the years, I fussed big time over our noche buena (Christmas eve dinner). I documented details of the décor, turkey roasting process, table arragements, gifts, etc. 

Not this year. I had insomnia the previous night (my worst ever). That kept me woozy in church—from the worship service to the fellowship with brethren and finally our Christmas lunch.  

Back at home, I had a fever and felt queasy. Son #3 and Teresa did the turkey as they did last year, son #1 wrapped gifts, and I glued myself to either the bed or my keyboard. 

Noche buena finally! 

Both energy and desire to spruce up the dining table, dress up and put on my traditional wig deserted me. Even the photo op was taken over by son #1. 

Here they are: 

I cropped the turkey shots from two of the photos to show great appreciation for the handiwork of the chef. The bird was roasted to perfection, and the taste was sublime.   

Our photos are few and do not record the details, the way I would have wanted it. But they are more than enough. After all, Christmas IS—when Grace came down to take our place--even without the trimmings that keep us spinning to exhaustion. 

Overwhelming October

October, like September this year, had tons to offer. In fact, this 10th month of the year offered so much–it was overwhelming! And there were not enough days to blog about them all. 

It’s December (another month that is crammed with activities), but it is as good a month as any to look back on October. 

A month-long activity that ran simultaneously with my other activities (all of 31 days) is our church’s Missions Month. The focus of our denomination is this:   

“We envision transformed communities with mission–driven Christian congregations here and abroad for the glory of God.”

All messages from the pulpit by our pastor and invited speakers were about Missions. And as our Women’s Sunday School facilitator, I skewed all lessons toward missions, which required reading and research. It was a month of in-depth study of the Word. 

Then to cap the month of October, on the last Sunday, we donned costumes from various countries to stress the importance of spreading the good news.

Through all these activities, grace overwhelmed us so much more. 

As we relentlessly proclaim the gospel of Jesus Christ as Savior, Sanctifier, Healer and Coming King, every day of the year, our church commits to the great commission: 

“Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matthew 28:19-20 NIV)

Red Flags and Red Alert

Red, red everywhere. 

Red was the dominant color in San Beda College Alabang, whose color is red for bravery and whose emblem is the Red Lion. Here I was invited to speak on “Nurturing Lifelong Readers.” 

It was uncanny that the premise of my talk was all about the color red—red flags and red alert, but neither has anything to do with the school’s red.   

It all began when Ms.Tere Ismaela, head of IBED-K Library, invited me to facilitate a seminar-workshop for middle-school teachers about instilling among students the love of reading.  

Immediately, I mined the topic and what I unearthed was not gold, but scum. The learning poverty of Filipino children ages 10 and below is dismal at 91% and in the lowest five out of 80 countries (World Bank and PISA reports) in reading literacy. Indeed, these are red flags that should put us on red alert.  

It’s heartbreaking; agonizingly painful for a children’s book writer like me. 

My dilemma: Will my talk be just a band-aid solution for a cosmetic change? This deep wound has been festering for years. Academic analysts point to these as culprits: poverty, schools without access to basic amenities (electricity, water, adequate classrooms and books). Worse, parents of these children who cannot read are under-educated and therefore do not regard reading as essential. 

My slides then dwelt on suggestions, instead of long-term solutions to a multi-dimensional problem. 

For our workshop, each of the five groups was to present in context the three vital values students need to learn from a reading program and the three most important attitude set that teachers need to implement it. 

Passionate. Inspiring. Committed. 

These came through loudly in all the presentations: rap, skit, musicale, role-play, and satire. As judge, I had no losers, only winners. So I begged Ms. Tere and her staff to please award all five groups equal prizes—and not just the top three as planned.

They agreed and what came next were spirited photo ops, book signing, and chats about students today. 

My last slide was a dream, wishful thinking:   

“Reading is my advocacy. From today, we are partners.” 

After the presentations and our chats, I felt that this dream has come true. Gigantic the problem may be, together we will do our share to nurture lifelong readers.

Beyond question, the San Beda red stands for bravery. The middle-school teachers embody the red lion. 

Why Celebrate Christmas?

“Terrible traffic!” we complain. 

Everywhere, human and vehicle traffic is horrendous: on the road and parking lots, in malls, restaurants, hotels, government halls, schools, etc.  Shopping, decorating, wrapping gits, attending or preparing for parties/reunions keep most people busy—and stressed.  

These happen every year when we celebrate Christmas. 

“Why do we celebrate Christmas? Asked our Pastor Moe in his exhortation during our church fellowship. 

He presented a simple listicle, which made me sit up to grasp it well. I am echoing and reflecting on it here (abridged), primarily for me to always remember, and for anyone who asks the same question. 

1. Christmas is doctrinal:  As a church, we believe in the Incarnation—God becoming flesh or taking on flesh—the union of divinity with humanity in Jesus. 

2. Christmas is historical: witnesses, documents, and books attest to the fact that Jesus was indeed alive and nailed to the cross.

3. Christmas is mystical: with awe and wonder, we cannot fathom why  the all-knowing, all-powerful God would give His life for inconsequential humans.

4. Christmas is relational:  Emmanuel, God with us! He came down to have a relationship with man. He made a way for us to reach him, as a demonstration of His unconditional love for us, so that we may likewise love one another (beginning with our own family).

5. Christmas is emotional:  We feel with our heart when we read the Gospel. The story of Jesus coming to earth touches our core and so we worship Him.  The decorations, giving of gifts, reunions, fellowships are all about the heart feeling celebratory.

The nativity is what adorns our church; it’s symbolic and graphic for both children and adults to understand why the birth of Grace, mankind’s Savior, is celebrated. 

Merry CHRISTmas! 

"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace." Isaiah 9:6-7 (KJV)

Two Elusive, Extraordinary Books

Twin grace I called it when I got hold of two books—on the same day and at the same hour—that bookworms may have a hard time finding. 

They are as different as day and night: one is a political book based on hard facts and actual episodes seen up close; the other is based on one’s imagination, a creative mind’s fancy, seen from the wild blue yonder. 

But both are a riveting read. 

In my right hand is Patricia Evangelista’s first-person account of the blood and gore caused by the EJK, and in my left is my good friend’s obra, Tomas Palces, Jr.’s first novel. 

“Some People Need Killing” is always out of stock in book stores. “Luza” can only be purchased from Tom and he lives outside of Metro Manila. 

Finally holding both is as rare as catching an eel after the nth try with bare hands. It has to be documented. 

And so I had my photo taken, before my eyes excitedly seesawed from the real and the unreal.  

Meet and Greet: Librarians of All Ages

The farthest I ever traveled after the pandemic was to Tagaytay: 45 kilometers from home. 

But on the  23rd of November, I dared double that distance: 92 km. I went to Clark (which encompasses the provinces of Pampanga and Tarlac) for a Meet and Greet* event on the 3rd day of the Philippine Librarians Association Inc. (PLAI)  Centennial National Congress. 

This huge gathering of almost 1,000 librarians (from private and public schools; municipalities, and other oranizations) packed three convention halls. Mr. Rene B. Manlangit, PLAI President, delivered the welcome remarks and thus began the four-day convention. 

Hiyas of OMFLit, the publisher of my children’s books, made its presence felt by having a booth that displayed all Hiyas books—plus my OMF-published books for adult readers. 

Entering the venue, I made a complete volte-face. “Meet and Greet”does not refer to me. It refers to them.  

For four straight hours, I met and greeted delegates, professionals of all ages who facilitate access to information and resources within a library. They develop educational programs, manage databases, oversee the library staff, and (this is where Hiyas comes in) curate book collections to support learning and research. 

While browsing the Hiyas books, they asked incisive questions: What value is this book espousing? What grade level is it best for? Is this book based on research? Does this series promote Philippine culture? The seniors among them also bought books for their own reading pleasure. 

 

Some wanted to listen to the books’ back stories. 

That lovely afternoon of fun and grace galore in faraway Clark SMX was documented by the Hiyas staff. This picture library tells the story better than I can.  

*Meet and Greet 

A Note by Rote

 “My phone crashed!” my friend L said when I asked her what she thought of people sending daily greetings in GIF format. 

“I have to spend time deleting them so it won’t happen again,” she added.

This new phenomenon has bothered me for sometime. Why indeed do people send GIFs like a tic daily?!

I enjoy funny memes now and then and I love to get in touch and reconnect with friends, but when they send these ready-made images with words they did not compose every single day—with nary a personal note—I wonder about sincerity.  

A one-sentence caring note does not take much time and effort, so why would they do it by rote? It’s like sending a mechanical robot-greeter that has been programmed in advance. Emotions are out of the picture. 

I have about a dozen friends who send me these daily. I never quite know how to respond to them—except for a thumbs-up or heart emoji. 

Then an idea hit me: send my blog that tackles what is written in their GIF. For instance, “Have hope on everything.” (I have almost 2,000 uploaded grace blogs on a myriad of topics.)

My reply, “Attached is my reflection on your message on hope. What are your own thoughts?”  

The next day I get another GIF with no personal note.  

This saddens me. I ask myself again, are those daily GIFs sincere notes or simply sent by rote?  Have we turned into machines? Why do we let downloadable images speak for us? Why do we even have to send them? Don’t we know that these are a dime a dozen on the Net? Have we lost our soul? 

The last question I often ask these last days. 

“Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; For I shall yet praise Him, the help of my countenance and my God.”  Psalms 42:11 (NKJV)   

Stamp of Approval

 Just one single stamp brought me multiple bliss. If that statement sounds redundant, well, it is. 

My dear friend, Beth Parrocha, also the book illustrator of the “Oh, Mateo!” series (15 books) and “Big Brother,” was chosen to illustrate the commemorative stamps* for National Children’s Book Month in the Philippines. 

One of the stamps features Mateo! 

The unveiling, led by Postmaster General Luis D. Carlos of the Philippine Postal Corporation (PHLPost), was held on the 15th of November.  

It is with great excitement to know that 8-year-old Mateo of Umingan, Pangasinan will travel to all the places the stamp is mailed to.  

In the book series, Mateo gets to travel outside the little town, where he lives with his farmer father, only once—“Oh, Mateo!” #7, All Aboard with Five Lolas. But now (multiple thanks to Beth), he is a jet-setter! 

Grace multiplied. 

*Commemorative stamps are regular postage stamps issued to honor some event, activity, or person of national importance; unlike regular postage stamps (known as definitives), they are printed only once and are allowed to go out of circulation as their supply runs out. 

Smaller Small World

“Small world!” we say in surprise when we meet someone we know at an unexpected place, or when we discover that we share a friend  or relative with another person. 

“You know him?!” 

Our small world has become even smaller—for me, at least. 

The pandemic, a time for re-boot, shrunk my world further. I realized that the basic essentials are enough to give one joy and contentment.  

The two S’s that used to keep me busy outside the home are accessible through my phone or laptop: socializing and shopping.  

I have reduced my outside activities to only two: church and writing, which are interlinked. After the worship service, I facilitate our women’s Sunday school; and although I write at home, I attend all affairs that have to do with writing, such as this annual corporation meeting (the first onsite meet-up since 2020) of one of my publishers, OMF Literature.  

I paused to pose beside a poster of our just-launched BIG books to savor the outdoor breeze before going up to the boardroom.  

This meeting is a reminder of our book ministry. Most of the attendees are, like me, retired professionals from various businesses, whose wealth of experience enriches the wisdom in running a Christian publishing house, with this core purpose:  

OMF Literature is a movement of Christians who desire to honor God by depending on the Holy Spirit to achieve excellence in proclaiming the Gospel of Jesus Christ, making disciples, equipping Church leaders and promoting spiritual growth primarily among Filipinos in the Philippines and abroad through the effective and righteous management of a publishing and distribution enterprise. 

After four years, I was in the same room again with the CEO (a new one), the old and new officers, the board of trustees, and the members of the corporation. 

In this ministry, the tacit question we ask our readers is, "Do you know Him?" Through literature, we tell of His grace of eternity.  

“Sing to the Lord, all the earth! Tell of his salvation from day to day.” 1 Chronicles 16:23 (ESV) 

A Season Ends

More than a year ago, at the height of the pandemic, I was asked by the editorial staff of our university  paper to write about my experience at SISFU. 

It was a cinch. The short reflection wrote itself. In minutes, I sent this via email: 

What I am Most Grateful for at SISFU

Everything. 

And that is an understatement. I am grateful for all that SISFU has stood for through the years. Its vision dovetails with my values, and the nurturing environment it offers its students has been consistent. 

Then beyond all that, I am deeply grateful for my students from that day years ago when I first I stepped into a SISFU classroom—up until today, even if the classroom has moved to my computer monitor.   

My students have taught me things I would never have learned elsewhere: to dream again and to be fearless again. For them, I learned to have patience and self-restraint; to give back and be tactful. I have never taken “role modeling” as seriously as when I am on campus (a virtual one today).  

Most of our graduates are now leaders in their chosen fields here and abroad, and although I won’t take any credit for their successes, I receive “thank-you notes” that make me feel forever grateful for having been a part of their life at SISFU.  

000

Little did I know that it would be my farewell letter.

The virus brought the classroom to cyberspace, which was unwieldy for someone who is not lettered in technology. But as soon as face-to-face was declared safe by the authorities, classes went back to normal. 

Alas, normal had morphed into something abnormal or, to my mind, paranormal.  

I could not get my bearings (from all of 22 years) back. Policies, procedures, people, and programs have radically changed. Even the students (locked up for 36 months at home) have become aliens. The present tense in the essay above now needed to be changed to past tense. 

It had to end my teaching season.  

Before I left the classroom after my last class last term, my students did something that made me tear up. They surprised me with a cake with a most heartwarming message. 

While having all sorts of groufies, I got hugs of appreciation from all of them.  

Then when I read each of their handwritten notes inside the car, I broke down. The sincere love notes—for the short 36 hours we were together—made up for all my frustrations with the truncated teaching hours. 

“See you next term!” they wrote. 

They won't.  

The second term has begun and I am at home writing reflections on grace. 

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven . . . a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing . . .” (Ecclesiastes 3:1; 5b) 

Never Alone: Judge

For four years since our younger dog, Judge, was born, she was never alone. He had his mother, Attorney, beside him always—literally. They were constantly together—like dual grace.

In fact, he had been so close to Attorney (humans call this ‘mama’s boy’) that even if he is a male, he got all the mannerisms/habits of his mom: peeing, eating, barking, moving, etc. He wouldn't do anything without his mom doing it first. If you didn’t know he was male, you’d think he was female, except when he was in heat (this we solved quickly by having him spayed). 

Recently, however, Judge sunbathed alone.  It used to be a daily ritual for both of them. 

We also noticed that Attorney’s face was turning whitish (or grayish), proof that she was aging (equivalent to human age of 75). 

One day last week, Attorney wouldn’t eat. Mother Teresa had to force-feed her. She couldn’t stand from where she was either. And she emitted a foul smell. 

Tony called our Vet who said our mother dog had to be confined for observation. Immediately she was given dextrose. At the clinic, Attorney had the most visitors: everyone in our home court dropped in on her alternately, bringing her food. 

Diagnosis: infection of the uterus that needed immediate surgery. In her condition, suffering from pain and extremely weak, Tony decided to end Attorney’s agony by asking the Vet to just put her to sleep and bury her.      

But son #3 was adanant. He wanted Attorney buried in our garden under the flowers like Fiscal (our cat) was. Her body was brought home and interred by Sammy, our driver, and Teresa while Tony watched the ceremony. Son #1 and son #3 were both at work.  I stayed put inside the house, refusing to be a part of the last rites. I want to think of Attorney alert and alive. 

And Judge? Totally lost. He was totally dependent on his mother and now without his anchor, well . . . 

Teresa, who spoiled Attorney to bits, cried buckets. I am sure we all cried behind each other’s back.  

Our collective prayer: that Judge will realize that he is now all alone. 

Still Keen at 17

Leaves of Grace completes 17 years or 6,209 days this November. No matter how I measure it, it is undoubtedly a mighty long time to maintain a writing rhythm that began on week one—two blogs within seven or eight days—and still packing. 

It wasn’t a commitment or a promise etched in stone. It just happened because the joy of writing has stuck to me like super glue: more like grace that can never be shaken.    

For this, I celebrate. The Bible encourages us to make celebration a part of the regular rhythm of our lives. 

“This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Psalm 118:24 (ESV)

    •  Over 1,763 blogs (112 published from last year’s anniversary, plus 46 scheduled) 

    •  About 1.3 million guests

Peachy keen? IMAO

Joy Overload

That’s what September treated me to. So I was not expecting October to do the same.

But October sprung a surprise. I was invited to the Alliance Christian School and Tutorial Services, Inc. (ACTS) to read one of my books during its Book Month Celebration. I alerted one of my newly-launched big books, “Get ready for your maiden performance!”  

The venue was empty when I got there. The janitor said, “Everyone’s in the parade.” 

Then suddenly, the characters in the classic storybooks I had read as a child entered the venue. Each one held the book from where she/he came to life: Snow white, Bo Peep, Cinderella, Peter Pan, Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, etc. etc. Even the teachers came as the Three Little Pigs and a Wolf. 

Creativity galore, I gushed while my heart applauded. Here is a school where children are readers because they are encouraged to read.  

Then one little girl, Klaer, proudly showed me her book—Lumpia Lane! Not a classic, but one of mine. Dressed like the character in the book, she held a plate with a huge lumpia! Instantly, this leaped to the top of my list of author rewards.

I could not indulge her in a conversation because the program had started and I was called to the stage to read Half and Half. Reading from a BIG book made a big difference. The audience didn’t have to strain their necks to look and listen. 

When I asked for a volunteer to answer my questions, I planned on giving away the big book to the brave one  who might join me on stage. Not one, but five brave kids rushed up! A good thing we had enough copies of Quiet Time with Mateo for prizes. 

The following day, I received photos of the event (more joy).  

Then I read the FB post of Klaer’s dad (even more joy) with this photo caption:  “Klaer representing her Chinese roots with her book Lumpia Lane by her favorite author, Grace D. Chong.” 

Do You Have a Phobia?

At some point in our lives, we may have a phobia. Mine was fear of snakes called Ophidiophobia. By grace, it disappeared somewhere along the way.   

There are over 500 named phobias today. 

Going through the list, I was surprised that I may be suffering from one! Guess what it is . . .

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia

All of 37 characters say it is fear of long words. In the beginning, this fear was considered jocular or fictional; however, it was proven to be real. Researching further, I discovered that 15 million Americans have it!  

People suffering from . . . (I am unable to spell it again) experience anxiety when faced with long words. How ironic that the name given to this phobia is such a looong one.

Why so long? The explanation is even longer. 

The word is broken down into several parts: 

    • Hippo is horse in Greek and potam-os is river. Thus, the first part of the word refers to a water horse also known as hippopotamus. The Oxford Dictionary says that this animal’s name comes from the word hippopotamine, referring to “something very large;” 

      

    • the word monstr is the Latin origin of a "monstrous being" or something that is huge or terrifying;

      

    • sesquippedalio is derived from Latin sesquippedali meaning "measuring a foot and a half long;"  

      

    • phobos, of course, stands for morbid fear. 

As a book author and writing coach, and once a college prof in Critical Writing, and now also an English Module trainor in Medical Transcription, I am an advocate for short or small words. 

I believe they are more compelling, as well as clearer, because they are often concrete. They describe and express actual things rather than rhetorical ideas. Short words help readers visualize our information so they grasp it faster and remember it longer. 

George Orwell’s advice is sound: “Never use a long word where a short one will do.”

My own line to explain write clearly, “What you mean and what the reader understands should be exactly the same!”  

I don’t go into a fit or hyperventilate when I see a long word. But I make sure (trying all tricks available, no matter how long it takes) that the writer changes it into a short one. 

Chongs’ Little Red Book

An icon of China and communism (and also of propaganda) was Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book.  About 2 billion copies published, it's one of the most widely produced of all time. During China's "Cultural Revolution," it was mandatory to own one.

The Little Red Book (or Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong) contains 267 aphorisms on class struggle, correcting mistaken ideas, etc.  Included is his famous remark that "political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.” 

Now comes another Little Red Book with two copies published and read repeatedly by about two people—Tony and me, co-authors of the book.    

This is our first and only collaborative work since those ancient days in Chicago when we published Ang Balita (Filipino-American newspaper), with Tony as the Editor-in-Chief and I, one of his staff writers.

What prompted us to co-author a book?  

A letter from Son #2 JB, his wife Gianina, and son Adrian, who reside in the US. 

Perhaps concerned that the pandemic would get on our nerves or bore us to death, they gifted us with this project from Storyworth, publisher. The concept? Record stories about and for the family for one year. Then it will be published! 

Every Monday, we were emailed questions as prompts. Tony and I would alternate writing one and email back our stories with accompanying photos.

At the end of one year, we received a beautifully-bound-keepsake book—in red (the color we chose to signify the Chongs’ ancestry).  This 230-page book has 53 stories and tons of photos. 

Tony and I decided to dedicate the book to our one and only grandson, Adrian, whose painting is on the cover (circa 2015, when he was eight years old and was with us for a short vist. Bahas is a character he created—half baboy [pig] and half ahas [snake]).

One day, when Tony and I are both gone, Adrian will get to know his Angkong (Chinese honorific for father of my father) and Amah (honorific for mother of my father) a little better, and learn that we lived not by "power growing out of the barrel of a gun," but on nothing but God’s grace. 

Whenever Tony and I read our chef-d'oeuvre, we spot a typo error. Unlike Mao’s Red Book, with a battery of editors, we were each other’s editor. So there.  

Ah, but that whole year, our minds were kept busy, trying to relish again what had long been forgotten, and laughing at funny anecdotes that suddenly tickled our memory. 

"Now that I am old and gray, do not abandon me, O God. Let me proclaim your power to this new generation, your mighty miracles to all who come after me." (Psalm 71:18 NLT)

PINK Museum of Hope

 “Have you been to the Museo ng Pag-Asa?” my friend P messaged me yesterday.  

“Yes.” 

“Then why have you not blogged about it?” she probed. 

“How do you know?” I asked, surprised.  

“I read all your blogs.” 

“You do?! Why?” 

“Why not?” she sneered. 

Friends say the nicest things. 

Seven months ago, in March, our driver Sam, Tony and I made time to visit the PINK Museum of Hope, a long two-hour drive from our home on a good day (moderate traffic flow).  

From the moment we entered the gate to the time we left the place, I was all choked up. I could not describe how I felt. Every word stored in my head escaped to somewhere far away.  

On several monitors, we watched one PINK massive rally after another in different places, and in every single one of them, the energy hit the rafters. People of all ages in PINK were all fired up, holding up creative posters and chanting inspiring words. The enthusiasm was palpable. 

Looking around at all the items (gifts to Leni and Kiko) from shelf to shelf, I had goosebumps. These were no ordinary gifts—they were handmade, personalized, and crafted in love. They came in all art forms: sculpture, painting, literature (poetry, letters, coffee table books), music and dance; performing arts; film; and architecture (the place was cleverly constructed to showcase all the thousands of magnum opuses).  

I have never seen anything like it!  

And I am not speaking of just the museum but the spirit that drove it. There is no adjective in the dictionary good enough to describe that PINK treasure-of-a-place and my feelings, especially because the result of the election was the polar opposite of what this place evoked.  

And so I could not blog about it. 

This much delayed upload, prompted by P, does not even begin to capture the essence of what we experienced—through the campaign that culminated in a place not Malacanang, but one called Museo ng Pag-Asa. 

The message drilled into my soul after that visit was HOPE: someday, grace will enable us to vote into office candidates with an honest, honorable heart that beats for service. God, in His infinite 

mercy, will not leave us under the reins of politicians with a dishonest, dishonorable heart that beats for greed.     

“Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; For I shall yet praise Him, The help of my countenance and my God.” Psalms 42:11 (NKJV)

My BFF Minna Comes Home

My cousin Minna and I grew up together. We were classmates in grade school and on our graduation, our parents gifted us with the same brand of watch, which we both wore on stage—she, as valedictorian, and I, as salutatorian. 

We were inseparable, according to our parents. So even if we parted ways in high school, we still met during vacation and did everything together. In college, we became  inseparable again in UP, until we parted ways when her family immigrated to the US. 

Despite the distance and separation—and many events happening in our individual lives—we kept in touch. Together, we would still giggle like we did in grade school and never ran out of topics to talk about. 

Whenever she came for vacation from the US, I would take a leave from work so we could be together.  We would travel to Umingan to visit our parents and at night, we would talk till the wee hours of the morning—about anything and nothing. 

She put me in charge of her bank accounts. I was shocked, “What?! You trust me with your money?” 

She said, “I trust you with my life.” 

I think she meant that because whenever I would send her a financial report, she would not even read it. 

Although she lived in the US permanently, her heart was always in Umingan—with her parents when they were still alive. She made sure she was here for them. Aside from her parents, she made herself available for her youngest brother, Sam. She told me she would take care of him for as long as she was able. She loved Sam and his children so much she always provided whatever they needed. 

And today, even in death, her wish was to come home to Umingan—the place where her heart was, the place where we grew up, and the place she loved most in the world. Her ashes will be inurned beside her parents' grave after a Memorial Service in our home church. 

This time, she came home not just for a vacation but to stay for good. Welcome home, my dearest cousin. I cannot be there to welcome you back this time, but for me, you really never left. You were, and will always be in my heart forever. 

Pangasinan 2015: Pigging out during one of her visits.

NY 2019. The last time we giggled together--before, during, and after watching "Beautiful" (her nickname, BTW, was Ms. Beautiful) on Broadway. 'Twas a grace-packed day.

The Rashness of Youth

Mariel, a dear friend, was still single when she and I worked in the same office. She was well liked by everyone because of her cheery disposition. Without our knowledge, she was seeing a married man. Soon, she got pregnant and gave birth to a beautiful daughter. She kept this part of her life private.   

Years later, Mariel and her boyfriend (after being legally separated from his wife) got married. In my unbiased opinion, they are each other’s yin and yang.        

During a recent chat with Mariel, she opened up about her pregnancy. “My mom came to Manila because I did not go home for Christmas that year.”  

Entering Mariel’s apartment, her mom fawned over the cute, three-month-old baby in the arms of a yaya. Clueless about Mariel’s status, she assumed that the baby was the neighbor’s.   

“Mom, she’s mine,” Mariel said, taking the baby from the yaya as she prepared for the worst. “But Mom said nothing, perhaps sorely processing all that had happened behind her back.”  

Then her mom cried—and so did I, just listening to Mariel’s story and feeling her mom’s pain. 

But because mothers have a wellspring of love for their children, she cradled the baby in her arms, while Mariel called her boyfriend waiting outside.  

“Up to this day, I don’t know what words were said between him and Mom.”  

Now that Mariel’s secret was out, I bravely probed, “What made you -”   

“I was young, careless, and rash!”  

“Does your daughter know?”  

“No. I don’t want her thinking she was an accident.” 

“But history might repeat -”   

“I am praying for grace that it won’t,” Mariel stressed. “But when she was my age when I had her, I fully understood the impact of my rashness on my mother.”     

How can parents counsel the youth to avoid making rash decisions?  It's a rhetorical question. I have three sons so I never went through that kind of problem. 

The Lord has an answer in Scripture: Proverbs 22:6 (NLT) reads, "Direct your children onto the right path, and when they are older, they will not leave it." 

Book Fair (MIBF) 2023

For three years, while hogtied at home by the global brute called Covid-19, I had ached for the return of the annual Manila International Book Fair (MIBF). I kept busy by reading, blogging, and tweaking on-end the books that would have been launched in that event three years in a row. But as you and I know, no activity of such magnitude was allowed. 

Then came 2023 and after the health hogtie was cut loose, the MIBF materialized from hibernation. And irony of ironies, I was caught unprepared for its sudden reappearance. I forgot to invite people and to take photos. All the shots on this page were sent by friends.  

Yes, the Book Fair had the huge crowd of book lovers times one thousand!  There was hardly any space to squeeze one’s body from booth to booth. Many who tried to join the fray complained, “The place was a war zone. We kept battling for a parking space, but losing.”

With my usual entourage—my sister Aie, and sons #1 and #3—I hied to MOA (the venue for years) early so I could catch the launching of my book “Second Chances” at the CSM booth.  As in the previous years before the three-year pandemic, the booth was heavily infested with human bookworms.  

From there, I raced to a lunch meeting with one of my publisher’s CEO and a writer friend.  

After that, we rushed to the launch of OMF’s big books, two of which are my titles (All Aboard with Five Lolas and Half and Half of the "Oh, Mateo!" series). Although my few photos of the event seem tame, the whole day was, believe me, pandemoniacal: chats with readers, photo-ops (with their cameras), meet-up with friends, book signing, and hurried interviews. 

Yes, the MIBF is back! Brought by grace multiplied a thousandfold. 

"This is the day the Lord has made; We will rejoice and be glad in it." Psalm 118:24 (NKJV)