What used to be a five-hour drive in the age of antiquity took us only two hours of easy driving (and one pit stop to relieve the seniors' quick-tempered bladders) to our reunion site.
It took much longer to hug and chat with all 14 family members, whom we have not seen face-to-face since last year’s meet-up.
There are actually 34 of us (my mom’s side), but only 14 are in the country. Yet it was a big enough crowd to rouse Atom (the world’s cutest and most adorable baby), who joined our reunion last year in his mother’s womb.
Dinner and laughter took place at Lola Nor’s, a resto that boasts of excellent Pampanga dishes. My usual dinner intake is small, but I made an exception that night. I polished off one serving of adobung kamaru (mole crickets sautéed in vinegar and garlic).
It was my bane and blight. I itched all over hours later and had a fever. But the mind games and raucous ribbing prevailed over self-pity.
We occupied one whole house ala Airbnb, with a swimming pool, a loft, and complete amenities that allowed for a complicated breakfast cooking by the excellent chefs in the family.
Twenty-four hours later, we were all dolled up in our uniform (bearing the name of our family’s matriarch, Visitacion), ready for our souvenir group shots.
And then it happened. I had a horrifying fall, face down. But I’d rather not belabor my suffering. Grace sustained me, and enabled us to join a bigger cowd—our clan, which has been meeting annually since 1945.
The pandemic moved our clan reunion to cyberspace but at the end of 2023 and the beginning of 2024, we resumed hugging. After all, it was our 79th reunion year.
At the clan reunion venue: hug here, hug there, hug, hug, hug everywhere.
In between, we managed to assemble everyone for another family shot (only 14) beside the photo of our forbears who started it all.
With each hug, more memories were saved in our heart’s hard drive. Next year, or someday soon, we hope all 34 of us can hug for memories to multiply.
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