1. This survey gets a little personal; can you handle it?
~ oo naman.
2. If you married the last person you texted, what would your last name be?
~ twitter. haha.
3. Were you happy when you woke up today?
~ hindi gaano kase absent ako kagabi.
4. When were you on the phone last? And with who?
~ tatay ko kanina, para sabihin na nandito nako
5.What is the last thing someone bought you?
~ starbucks coffee jelly
6.What’s something that can always make you feel better?
~ getting answers. knowing tomorrow's gonna be okay
7. What are you excited for?
~ hindi ako excited.
8. What were you doing yesterday?
~ Work. Mega, bumili ng cardigan sa Mango. Ortho, nagpa-adjust. Metrowalk, bili dvds. Umuwi ng mga 5.30 ng hapon at sinalubong ng bad news.
9. Honestly, who was the last person to tell you they love you?
~ medyo matagal na pero si behng
10. What's the last thing you put in your mouth?
~ ripe mango
11. Have a best friend?
~ i used to be obsessed with this term before, thinking i was different if i didn't have a person to call my bestfriend. but that was a long time ago when i was stupid. it's all good now. and to answer the question (and daming segway), yes, i think i do.
12. Are you scared to fall in love?
~ minsan. ginawa na akong praning ng tadhana.
13. Do you think teenagers can be in love?
~ kahit sino naman e.. kahit dogs. cats. love birds. kahit si totoro naiinlove siguro.
14. Last person you wanted to punch in the face?
~ hmmm wala akong maisip
15. What time is it right this second?
~ 2011PM
16. What do you want right now?
~ ang maging kampante.
17. Who was the last person you took a picture with?
~ hindi ko maalala
18. Are you single/taken/heartbroken/or confused?
~ taken
19. When was the last time you cried?
~ kanina lang
20. Do you have a good relationship with your parents?
~ i think so
21. Do you find it hard to trust others?
~ i have trust issues.
22. How fast does your mind change?
~ not too fickle.
23. I bet you miss somebody right now.
~ oo. nakakabaliw.
24. Can you honestly say you're okay right now?
~ no, i'm not okay. =(
25. Why do you think so many people cheat?
~ kasi hindi makuntento. o kaya people are just plain polygamous
26. Tell me what's on your mind.
~ ang dami.. parang sasabog na nga utak ko sa dami e
27. What are you looking forward to in the next three months?
~ i dunno.. preparing for xmas? haha ang aga! kala ko pa naman hindi ako excited
28. Have you ever worn the opposite sex's clothing?
~ oo minsan yung nabibili kong shorts and tshirts, pang boys. pero di pa ako nakasuot ng damit ng lalaking kakilala ko.
29. When did you last talk to your number 1 top friend
~ wait di ako sure sinong number 1 top friend ko..
30. When is your next road trip?
~ wish ko lang may time for roadtrip
31. Do you have someone of the opposite sex you can tell anything to?
~ oo may ilan ilan din.. karamihan bading.
32. How's your heart?
~ kabado
33. Have you ever felt like you weren't important?
~ sometimes
34. Do you think somebody's in love with you?
~ oo. (wow confident!) pero oo nga. siguro naman.
35. What are you planning on doing after this?
~ ligo
36. When will your next kiss take place?
~ hindi ko pinaplano yung mga ganyan bagay.. basta it just happens.
37. Have you told anybody you loved them today?
~ nagawa ko pa lang after reading the question.
38. Who do you not get along with?
~ ayoko mag-name drop pero meron.
39. What does your 3rd recent text say?
~ "Crush is a trending topic? Haha that's awesome! Thanks you guys! =)"
40. What are you wearing right now?
~ pambahay ng shorts and tshirt
41.Are you wasting your time on the person you like?
~ no. it's been worthwhile
42. When's the last time you had a grilled cheese?
~ in bulacan
43. What's your favorite boy and girl name right now?
~ tobey
44. How did you feel when you woke up?
~ weird. nanibago kase hindi ako pumasok na dapat nung time na nagising ako, lunch ko pa lang sa office nun
45. Do you wish someone would call or text you right now?
~ oo
46. Do you crack your knuckles?
~ i know it's a bad habit but i do it sometimes, lalo pag kinakabahan at di mapakali
47. What were you doing yesterday at midnight?
~ tulog nako 10pm pa lang. sobrang pagod
48. What are your LEGAL initials?
~ MKJL
49. Who's the first B in your contacts?
~ Babuy
50. When was the last time you laughed really hard?
~ everyday. bungisngis ako eh.. konting bagay lang natatawa na ako.. lalo pag humirit na si beh ng "spreadie" jokes nya
51. Your number 1 top friend walks out of your life, do you go after them?
~ depende kung bakit nag-walk out.
52. Last awkward moment?
~ kahapon after reading a text from somebody sa office
53. Are you afraid of the dark?
~ no
54. Do you have good vision?
~ no. as per the last check up i had (which btw, was not too long ago), i have astignatism in my left eye and i am certified color blind.
55. Have you ever tripped someone?
~ no
56. Have you ever slapped someone?
~ wala pa.
57. Are you Irish?
~ nope
58. Do you use chap stick?
~ noon.
59. Do you have any scars?
~ yes
60. Is there someone you will never forgive?
~ napatawad ko na. pero i don't think we'll be friends again.
61.Do you laugh off embarrassing moments?
~ yes
62. Name the last person to text you?
~ fherrie
63. Would you marry someone 8 years older than you?
~ ewan ko.. depende kung okay naman kayo.
64. Can you go in public looking like you do?
~ yes. ganito itsura ko pag nagpapasyal ng mga aso sa umaga.
65. What side of the bed do you sleep on?
~ single lang yung bed ko so parang lahat ng sides nagagamit! haha
66. Is it easy for someone to make you smile?
~ oo, hihirit lang si behng, matatawa na ko
67. What's the first thing you'll do on your wedding day?
~ gigising
68. Do you fall for people easily?
~ not really. it takes a lot for me to like someone.. mahilig kase ako maglista ng mga sablay
69. Has anyone put their arms around you in the past 5 days?
~ yes while sleeping
70. Do you miss the way things used to be?
~ okay naman ako ngayon but i guess it's just normal to look back and miss some things from time to time
71. How often do you hold back from saying what you are thinking?
~ hmm.. depende, i tend to think before verbalizing espacially kung mean yung naiisip ko.
72. Song you're thinking of right now?
~ save the day - david archuleta
73. Want someone back in your life?
~ andrew and my lolo. nakakamiss lang =(
74. Will tomorrow be better than today?
~ hindi pa siguro. monday kase ako hahatulan e.
75. What’s the color of you’re shirt you are wearing?
~ color blind kase ako so ang hula ko beige/grey-ish sha. but i can be very wrong.
76. Has anyone ever sang or played music for you personally?
~ yes
77. Does it bother you when someone lies to you?
~ pag yung kung sino sino lang wala naman akong pakialam mashado..it only matters if it's someone i really care about.
78. Is there anyone who understands your relationship status?
~ oo there's a handful of them
79. Are you a naturally happy person? Or is your happiness forced?
~ naturally happy
80. Is there anyone you wish would fall in love with you?
~ sha lang okay na. hindi ko na kailangan ng iba. mushy kung mushy!
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Fangirl
Notice how he gets all emotional in the end.. He made me cry!
I love Josh Groban but I like D's version better (because I'm biased.. haha). But seriously, it's a beautiful song and I'm glad he did a cover. I liked how he said "To my fans, I just wanna thank them..I could thank them forever but I can't thank them enough.." D has given so much of himself to the people who support him and it's just fitting that the fans love him so many times back. He has such a good heart and he deserves all the good things happening to him now.
So now I'm sharing David's magic with you. Spread the love! Ü
Monday, July 13, 2009
blog = FAIL
See, I'm really a failure at keeping this updated. I remember keeping a daily journal when I was younger that I'd lugged around, even in school for when the lectures get boring and I had loads of scribble time. Now I think it's just pure laziness that I don't write as often. I dunno, when I think of something and decide to blog about it (by the time I reach the computer to type it in), my train of thought is already messed up and I can't figure out how to start over. I guess I'm just OC (obsessive-compulsive) that way. And I'm not content to rearrange sequences of what I wanted to say, I want them written like how I thought them up in my head and so it doesn't help that I have short-term memory. If I can't do it this way, I lose the urge to write.
I'm afraid my brain's just going to turn to mush sometime soon.
I'm afraid my brain's just going to turn to mush sometime soon.
Monday, June 29, 2009
tweet tweet tweet!
I think people should really dump their friendster accounts (i haven't updated mine in months), jump on the facebook bandwagon and start twittering. Seriously.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I'm baaack!
To the 3 people reading my blog.. i'm back. lol �
There's been so many things that have happened and I don't know where to begin.. Guess I'll just address things as they come up.
First off, I still owe Lara the David Cook (side) of my concert ramblings. Sorry Ube, been so swamped I barely have time to sit down and actually compose. But I will get to that this weekend, promise.
Next, I was sucked into the whole Twitter hype and even discovered how I can get updates of the people I follow through my mobile at no extra cost (I just have to pay for the unlimited service/week or month, which is not bad). If you're interested, you can look it up at SunAlertz.com.
Also, if you wanna follow me there, I am @keiel. �
Main reason for me tweeting is because @DavidArchie tweets like a maniac and it's funny to follow. It keeps me updated about the outside world as well. By outside world, I meant the goings-on outside my call-center life.
What else.. Oh, I resigned from Access Worldwide last June 21 and joined ETrade Information Services, LLC (the elite. --AWWC people are so gonna kill me. LOL!). It was a smooth transition which most of my friends do not understand just because I am still in the same office, even the same floor. Let me try to clarify. Access Worldwide was hired by Etrade to handled their Outsourced Customer Service. But now I work directly with the clients, which, if you are still with awwc, makes me a client, right? haha i don't know. Sorry if that's not that comprehensible I just got home and will be leaving in exactly an hour to go to work again..
Anyhow, life's been pretty busy. I was chosen to be part of the Trading Team that doen't just service customers but can now actually place trades for them online. Requirements include passing series 7 and 63, LSA and TLSA. You can consider it a kind of promotion because it definitely entails bigger responsibility and right not I am still trying to get the hang of things. To say this is challenging is an understatement. I was able to place my first trade 2 days ago and man was I shaking as I wrote the order in my *blotter. haha. I did screw up little details on the trade but nothing too serious.
So that's what's keeping me on my toes lately. And that's another good reason why the weekend seems so far to me. I just want to stay at home and not have to think about another trade. Also, I need to find the book Tiff recommended (The Time Traveler's Wife) as I have nothing to read for the weekend. Maybe I'll be able to visit the bookstore before then.
I also go to talk to an old friend who called from Canada a week ago and we got to catch up like the old times. Hooray for unused phone cards! �
See, told you this was gonna be random.
*blotter - sheet of paper where customer orders are entered for Principal approval before the actual order can be entered online.
There's been so many things that have happened and I don't know where to begin.. Guess I'll just address things as they come up.
First off, I still owe Lara the David Cook (side) of my concert ramblings. Sorry Ube, been so swamped I barely have time to sit down and actually compose. But I will get to that this weekend, promise.
Next, I was sucked into the whole Twitter hype and even discovered how I can get updates of the people I follow through my mobile at no extra cost (I just have to pay for the unlimited service/week or month, which is not bad). If you're interested, you can look it up at SunAlertz.com.
Also, if you wanna follow me there, I am @keiel. �
Main reason for me tweeting is because @DavidArchie tweets like a maniac and it's funny to follow. It keeps me updated about the outside world as well. By outside world, I meant the goings-on outside my call-center life.
What else.. Oh, I resigned from Access Worldwide last June 21 and joined ETrade Information Services, LLC (the elite. --AWWC people are so gonna kill me. LOL!). It was a smooth transition which most of my friends do not understand just because I am still in the same office, even the same floor. Let me try to clarify. Access Worldwide was hired by Etrade to handled their Outsourced Customer Service. But now I work directly with the clients, which, if you are still with awwc, makes me a client, right? haha i don't know. Sorry if that's not that comprehensible I just got home and will be leaving in exactly an hour to go to work again..
Anyhow, life's been pretty busy. I was chosen to be part of the Trading Team that doen't just service customers but can now actually place trades for them online. Requirements include passing series 7 and 63, LSA and TLSA. You can consider it a kind of promotion because it definitely entails bigger responsibility and right not I am still trying to get the hang of things. To say this is challenging is an understatement. I was able to place my first trade 2 days ago and man was I shaking as I wrote the order in my *blotter. haha. I did screw up little details on the trade but nothing too serious.
So that's what's keeping me on my toes lately. And that's another good reason why the weekend seems so far to me. I just want to stay at home and not have to think about another trade. Also, I need to find the book Tiff recommended (The Time Traveler's Wife) as I have nothing to read for the weekend. Maybe I'll be able to visit the bookstore before then.
I also go to talk to an old friend who called from Canada a week ago and we got to catch up like the old times. Hooray for unused phone cards! �
See, told you this was gonna be random.
*blotter - sheet of paper where customer orders are entered for Principal approval before the actual order can be entered online.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Alright count off 1 - 40,000..
I know this is past due but I'll tell you about it anyways.
It was the same night of my 10th high school reunion and though I was ready for former high school friends to publicly disown me, I went and saw the two Davids in what many will call the concert of the year. Originally, the reunion was scheduled from 1pm-6pm and a week before the concert it was changed to an evening cocktail affair. I mean, I know the organizers had the batch's best interest in mind but it was a toss up for me and I had to choose the event that's less likely to have a repeat, if at all. I had plans of dropping by the reunion after the concert but it did start late (Filipino time?) and it ended right before midnight. By this time my batchmates have all gone home.
Anyway, enough of the explaining. I've been bashed in FB several times for ditching the reunion for the Davids but I still cannot get that night out of my head because it was just spectacular! Ü I mean, having the Davids in a back-to-back concert has never happened before and I had the opportunity to witness it in Manila. I just couldn't pass up the chance to be there, it was gonna be historical.
And so Carol and I arrived at the concert grounds 40 minutes before the show was to start. As an experienced concert-goer, I did not want getting there too early (while the harsh sun is still up) since it was an open field and it was summertime, I feared fried skin. And plus I did not want to encounter the groupies and the posers who let you know how they have rubbed elbows with the artists about to perform without you even asking. I mean, heller, they'd even show you their cams and pics that they've met. C'MON! ISDK (I simply don't care). I thought we were successful in avoiding those kinds of people but apparently Carol was a magnet. There was this guy beside hwe who claims he met Archie in the US a week before. Such a poser, Archie was in the UK the week prior so I wish he had his 411 right before he decided to brag. Oh well.
Our tickets were for the Gold area (free-seating) so when we got there all the seats have been taken which is odd. Aren't they supposed to have the same amount of seats as the released tickets? Free-seating does not mean seat-less, right? I let it pass. I mean, who uses a chair in a concert anyway? They do come in handy to stand on but I had a different plan.
It was so easy to slip near the metal fences/dividers that separated our area from the Platinum seats just beacuse the concert is about to start and the bouncers were busy ushering people to thei respective areas. At that time there were less than 20 people from our area who stood where were stood but as the show inched closer, more and more people walked to our area and sealed our places in front. So if you think about it, we were almost in Platinum which is definitely a bonus.
And so we were perched on the metal fences because there was no more room to back off a bit and because we wanted to be in front we had to endure this position the entire time. haha. At around 8:45pm, Archie's band came out and played Touch My Hand. Everyone stood from their seats, most stood on their seats to welcome Archie Filipino-style. You can tell he was ecstatic seeing the number of people who came to watch.
Archie's set was a good combination of fast paced and slow songs. Here is the setlist and you can click on them to view the videos (all taken by booradleigh except for Crush which is from the Team Archie Channel):
I definitely enjoyed Archie's set just because I knew most of his songs (hence I was able to participate in the singing) and seeing him perform them live was just too awesome. His voice was flawless! The boy can sing the phonebok and I'd still be floored. He was that good.
I especially liked Barriers and how he made little actions on specific lines. Zero Gravity was also a surprise since the song has not been offically released yet. It was a very dance-able song and a lot of people enjoyed it. To Be With You is also very notable. I liked how Kendra (keyboardist) sang the melodies that Kara Dioguardi originally sang on the album. All in all, Archie's set was well though of. It was a good mix of songs that kept the crowd interested and upbeat. When it came to the final song (Crush), you can definitely hear the crowd react, each person wishing it wasn't the last.
There was a one hour intermisison after Archie's set and there was a fireworks display that kept everyone looking up for a good 30 minutes. There were also all sorts of booths selling food, t-shirts, drinks and there was even a TGIF booth that I had planned on checking out but my feet were permanently perched on the metal dividers and there were a hundred people pushing up against me that I had to forget about my Friday's cravings.
In a couple more minutes, Cook appeared from below the stage, holding his guitar, and took the crowd for another ride that evening. He had proven that night why he deserved the American Idol crown. He was amazing! I have been an Archie fan back in Season 7 of AI and Cook's performance that evening made me change my mind about him. I just had this impression while he was still doing the show that he was a bit full of himself, getting all that positive feedback each week and plus I didn't really like Light On when I first heard it. So pass me the salt and pepper I'm already eating my words. I have his album alternately on repeat with Archie's album via ipod. haha.
So there you go. I still would need to find links to videos for Cook's performance. Lara will kill me otherwise.
Monday, May 11, 2009
FROM MOTHER . . . WITH LOVE BY ZOA SHERBURNE
I just wanted to share this short story that I read in Highschool in Mr. Alex Vista's Literature class. It just seemed fitting to post it here today, Mother's Day, so that we can all remember the one person that gave us life --our Moms, Mamas, Nanays.
Thank you mom for all the love and patience and for the trust each time you leave the decision up to me. I would not be where I am if not for you. You are my inspiration and my strength. (Same as dad, but it's your day today so we'll talk about dad on father's day instead Ü)
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!
-----
The day that Minta Hawley grew up was a crisp golden day in
early September.
Afterwards she was to remember everything about that day with
poignant clarity. She remembered the slapping sound the waves
made, the pungent smell of the logs burning, even the gulls that
soared and swooped overhead; but most of all she remembered
her father's face when he told her.
It began like any other Saturday, with Minta lying in bed an
extra hour. Breakfast was always lazy and unhurried on
Saturday mornings. The three of them in the breakfast room—
Minta's father engrossed in his paper; her mother flying around
in a gaily colored housecoat, mixing waffles and frying bacon;
Minta setting the table.
They talked, the casual happy talk of people who love each other
and don't have to make conversation. About neighborhood
doings . . . about items in the paper . . . about the clothes Minta
would need when she went away to school in a couple of weeks.
It was after the dishes were finished that Minta's father asked
her if she would like to go down to the beach for a little while.
"Low tide," he said. "Might get a few clams."
Minta nodded agreement, but her mother made a little face.
"Horrors, clam chowder for another week!"
"Sure you wouldn't like to go, Mary?" Minta's father asked.
"The salt air might help your headache."
"No. You two run along. I'll curl up with an apple and a
television program." She yawned and stretched, looking almost
as young as Minta.
Minta ran upstairs and got into her heavy shoes and jeans.
"Shall I call Sally and ask her if she wants to go?" She yelled,
leaning far over the banister.
"Let's just go by ourselves this time," her father answered rather
shortly.
He was silent as they drove toward the beach, but it wasn't the
companionable silence that Minta had come to expect from him.
There was something grim about it.
"He's going to talk to me about school," Minta told herself. "He's
going to try to talk me out of it again."
It was funny the way her father had acted when she announced
her intention of going to MaryHill this term. It had always been
such an accepted thing; her mother had graduated from
MaryHill and it followed that Minta should be enrolled there as
a matter of course.
Last year was different. With mother just recovering from that
operation it was natural that he should expect Minta to stay
home; she had even wanted to stay. But now going to MaryHill
was something special. She would live in a dormitory and be
part of all the campus fun. It wasn't as if MaryHill were clear
across the country, either, she'd probably be getting home every
month or so . . . and there were the Christmas holidays . . . and
then spring vacation.
Minta's chin was lifted in a stubborn line as her father parked the
car and went around to get the shovels and pail form the trunk.
It wasn't like him to be so stubborn; usually he was jolly and
easy going and inclined to leave such matters entirely up to
Minta's mother
She followed him down to the beach, her boots squishing in the
wet sand. The tide was far out and farther up the beach she
could see bent figures busily digging along the water's edge.
A scattered beach fire smoldered near the bank and Minta poked
it into place and revived it with splinters of driftwood until she
had coaxed back a steady warning blaze. When she sat back on
her heels to smile up at her father she felt her throat constrict
with a smothering fear. His eyes looked the way they had when
. . .
When?
Suddenly she remembered. He was looking at her and trying to
smile, just the way he had looked at her the time her appendix
burst and they were taking her to the hospital. She could almost
hear the wail of the ambulance siren and feel the way he had
held her hands tightly, trying to make it easier. His eyes had
told her then, as they told her now, that he would a thousand
times rather bear the pain than watch her suffer.
It seemed like a long time that she knelt there by the beach fire,
afraid to move, childishly willing herself to wake from the
nightmarish feeling that gripped her.
He took her hand and pulled her to her feet and they started
walking up the beach slowly, not toward the group of people
digging clams, but in the other direction, toward the jagged pile
of rocks that jutted out into the bay.
She heard a strange voice, her own voice.
"I thought . . . I thought you wanted to talk to me about school,
but it isn't that, is it, Father?"
Father.
She never called him Father. It was always "Dad" or "Pops" or,
when she was feeling especially gay, "John Henry."
His fingers tightened around hers. "In a way it is . . . about
school."
And then, before the feeling of relief could erase the fear he went
on. "I went to see Dr. Morton last week, Minta. I've been seeing
him pretty regularly these last few months."
She flashed a quick frightened look up at him. "You aren't ill?"
"No." He sighed and it was a heartbreaking sound. "No. It isn't
me. It's your mother. That's why I don't want you to go to
MaryHill this year."
"But . . . but she's feeling so much better, Dad. Except for these
headaches once in a while. She's even taking on a little weight–"
She broke off and stopped walking and her hand was steady on
his arm. "Tell me," she said quietly.
The look was back in his eyes again but this time Minta scarcely
noticed it, she was aware only of his words, the dreadful echoing
finality of his words.
Her mother was going to die.
To die.
Her mother.
To die, the doctor said. Three months, perhaps less. . . .
Her mother who was gay and scatterbrained and more fun than
anyone else in the world. Her mother who could be counted on
to announce in the spring that she was going to do her
Christmas shopping early this year, and then left everything
until the week before Christmas.
No one was worse about forgetting anniversaries and birthdays
and things like that; but the easy-to-remember dates, like
Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day and Halloween were
always gala affairs complete with table favors and three-decker
cakes.
Minta's mother wore the highest heels and the maddest hats of
any mother on the block. She was so pretty. And she always
had time for things like listening to new records and helping
paste pictures in Minta's scrapbook.
She wasn't ever sick—except for the headaches and the operation
last year which she had laughingly dismissed as a rest cure.
"I shouldn't have told you." Her father was speaking in a voice
that Minta had never heard from him before. A voice that held
loneliness and fear and a sort of angry pain. "I was afraid I
couldn't make you understand, why you had to stay home . . .
why you'd have to forget about MaryHill for this year." His eyes
begged her to forgive him and for some reason she wanted to
put her arms around him, as if she were much older and
stronger.
"Of course you had to tell me," she said steadily. "Of course I
had to know."
And then—"Three months but Dad, that's Christmas."
He took her hand and tucked it under his arm and they started
walking again.
It was like walking through a nightmare. The steady squishsquish
of the wet sand and the little hollows their feet made
filling up almost as soon as they passed.
He talked quietly, explaining, telling her everything the doctor
had said, and Minta listened without tears, without tears,
without comment.
She watched his face as though it were the face of a stranger.
She thought about a thousand unrelated things.
Last winter then he had chased her and her mother around the
back yard to wash their faces in the new snow. She could still
see the bright red jacket her mother had worn . . . the kerchief
that came off in the struggle . . . the way the neighbors had
watched from their windows, laughing and shaking their heads.
She remembered all the times they had gone swimming this past
summer. Minta and her father loved to swim but her mother had
preferred to curl up on a beach blanked and watch them.
"You have the disposition of a Siamese cat," Minta had accused
her mother laughingly. "A cushion by the fire in the winter and
a cushion in the sun in the summer. . . ."
"And a bowl of cream nearby," her mother had agreed instantly.
She was always good-natured about their teasing.
But in spite of her apparent frailty and her admitted laziness she
managed to accomplish an astounding amount of work. Girl
Scouts, PTA, Church bazaars, Red Cross. People were always
calling her to head a committee or organize a drive. Young
people congregated in her home. Not just Minta's gang, but the
neighborhood youngsters. She had Easter egg hunts for them;
she bought their raffle tickets and bandaged their skinned knees.
It was like coming back from a long journey when her father
stopped talking and they turned back toward the car.
"So that's why I can't let you go away, Midge." Her father's voice
was very low and he didn't seem to realize that he had called her
by the babyish name she had discarded when she started to first
grade. "It isn't just your mother I'm thinking about . . . it's me. I
need you."
She looked at him quickly and her heart twisted with pity. He
did need her. He would need her more than ever.
In the car she sat very close to him.
"We didn't get the clams," she reminded him once, but he only
nodded. Just before they reached home he reached over and
took her hand in a tight hurting grip.
"We can't tell her, Minta. The doctor left it up to me and I said
not to tell her. We have to let her have this last time . . . this last
little time . . . without that hanging over her. We have to go on
as if everything were exactly the same."
She nodded to show that she understood. After a moment she
spoke past the ache in her throat. "About school. I'll . . . I'll tell
her that I decided to wait until next year. Or that I'm afraid I'd
be lonesome without the gang. I've been sort of . . . sort of
seesawing back and forth, anyway."
—
It seemed impossible that life could go on exactly as before. The
small private world peopled by the three of them was as snug
and warm and happy as though no shadow had touched them.
They watched television and argued good-naturedly about the
programs. Minta's friends came and went and there was the
usual round of parties and dances and games. Her father
continued to bowl two evenings a week and her mother became
involved in various preholiday pursuits.
"I really must get at my Christmas shopping," she mentioned the
day she was wrapping trick-or-treat candy for Halloween.
Minta shook her head and sighed gustily.
Her mother started this "I-must-get-at-my-Christmas-shopping"
routine every spring and followed it up until after Thanksgiving
but she never actually got around to it until two or three days
before Christmas.
It was amazing that Minta could laugh and say, "Oh, you . . ." the
way she did year after year.
It was a knife turning in her heart when her mother straightened
up from the gay cellophane-wrapped candies and brushed a
stray wisp of taffy-colored hair back from on flushed cheek.
"Don't laugh," she said, pretending to be stern. "You know
you're just exactly like me."
It was a warning though. She was like her mother. Inside,
where it really mattered she was like her mother, even though
she had her father's dark eyes and straight black hair, even
though she had his build and the firm chin of all the Hawleys.
She wanted to put her arm around her mother and hug her,
hard. She wanted to say, "I hope I am like you. I want to be."
But instead she got up and stretched and wrinkled her nose.
"Perish forbid," she said, "that I should be such a scatterbrain."
She was rewarded by the flash of a dimple in her mother's cheek.
—
It seemed to Minta, as week followed week, that the day at the
beach had been something out of a nightmare: Something that
she could push away from her and forget about. Sometimes she
looked at her father, laughing, teasing them, or howling about
the month-end bills and she thought, "It didn't happen . . . it isn't
true."
And then at night she would lie sleepless in her room, the pretty
room that had been reconverted from her nursery. She watched
the moonlight drift patterns across the yellow bedspread and the
breeze billow the curtains that her mother had made by hand,
because that was the only way she could be sure of an absolute
match.
"Yellow is such a difficult color to match," she had explained
around a mouthful of pins.
And in the dark hours of the night Minta had known it wasn't a
nightmare. It was true. It was true.
One windy November day she hurried home from school and
found her mother in the yard raking leaves. She wore a bright
kerchief over her head and she had Minta's old polo coat belted
around her. She looked young and gay and carefree and her
eyes were shining.
"Hi!" She waved the rake invitingly. "Change your clothes and
come help. We'll have a smudge party in the alley."
Minta stopped and leaned on the gate. She saw with a new
awareness that there were dark circles under her mother's eyes
and that the flags of color in her cheeks were too bright. But she
managed a chuckle.
"I wish you could see yourself, Mom. For two cents I'd get my
camera and take a picture of you."
She ran into the house and got her camera and they took a whole
roll of pictures.
"Good," her mother said complacently. "Now we can show them
to your father the next time he accuses me of being a Sally-Sitby-
the-Fire."
They piled the leaves into a huge damp stack, with the help of
half a dozen neighborhood children. It wouldn't burn properly
but gave out with clouds of thick, black, wonderfully pungent
smoke.
Her mother was tired that night. She lay on the davenport and
made out her Christmas card list while Minta and her father
watched the wrestling matches. It was like a thousand other
such evenings but in some unaccountable way it was different.
"Because it's the last time," Minta told herself. "The last time
we'll ever rake the leaves and make a bonfire in the alley. The
last time I'll snap a picture of her with her arms around the Kelly
kids. The last time . . . the last time. . . . "
She got up quickly and went out into the kitchen and made
popcorn in the electric popper, bringing a bowl to her mother
first, remembering just the way she liked it, salt and not too
much butter.
But that night she wakened in the chilly darkness of her room
and began to cry, softly, her head buried in the curve of her arm.
At first it helped, loosening the tight bands about her heart,
washing away the fear and the loneliness, but when she tried to
stop she found that she couldn't. Great wracking sobs shook her
until she could no longer smother them against her pillow. And
then the light was on and her mother was there bending over
her, her face concerned, her voice soothing.
"Darling, what is it? Wake up, baby, you're having a bad
dream."
"No . . . no, it isn't a dream," Minta choked. "It's true . . . it's
true."
The thin hand kept smoothing back her tumbled hair and her
mother went on talking in the tone she had always used to
comfort a much smaller Minta.
She was aware that her father had come to the doorway. He said
nothing, just stood there watching them while Minta's sobs
diminished into hiccupy sighs.
Her mother pulled the blanket up over Minta's shoulder and
gave her a little spank. "The idea! Gollywogs, at your age," she
said reprovingly. "Want me to leave the light on in case your
spook comes back?"
Minta shook her head, blinking against the tears that crowded
against her eyelids, even managing a wobbly smile.
She never cried again.
Not even when the ambulance came a week later to take her
mother to the hospital. Not even when she was standing beside
her mother's high white hospital bed, holding her hand tightly,
forcing herself to chatter of inconsequential things.
"Be sure that your father takes his vitamin pills, won't you,
Minta? He's so careless unless I'm there to keep an eye on him."
"I'll watch him like a beagle," Minta promised lightly. "Now you
behave yourself and get out of here in a hurry, you hear?"
Not even at the funeral. . . .
The friends and relatives came and went and it was as if she
stood on the sidelines watching the Minta who talked with them
and answered their questions. As if her heart were encased in a
shell that kept it from breaking.
She went to school and came home afterwards to the empty
house. She tried to do the things her mother had done but even
with the help of well-meaning friends and neighbors it was hard.
She tried not to hate the people who urged her to cry.
"You'll feel better, dear," her Aunt Grace had insisted and then
had lifted her handkerchief to her eyes and walked away when
Minta had only stared at her with chilling indifference.
She overheard people talking about her mother.
"She never knew, did she?" They asked.
And always Minta's father answered, "No, she never knew.
Even at the very last, when she was waiting for the ambulance to
come she looked around the bedroom and said, 'I must get these
curtains done up before Christmas.'"
Minta knew that her father was worried about her and she was
sorry, but it was as if there were a wall between them, a wall that
she was too tired to surmount.
One night he came to the door of her room where she was
studying."I wonder if you'd like to go through those clothes before your
Aunt Grace takes them to the church bazaar," he began haltingly.
And then when she looked up at him, not understanding, he
went on gently, "Your mother's clothes. We thought someone
might as well get some good out of them."
She stood up and closed the book and went past him without
another word, but she closed the door behind her when she went
into her mother's room.
There were some suit boxes by the closet door and Minta
vaguely remembered that the women from the bazaar committee
had called several times.
Her hands felt slightly unsteady as she pulled open the top
dresser drawer and looked down at the stacks of clean
handkerchiefs, the stockings in their quilted satin case, the
gloves folded into tissue wrappings.
"I can't do it," she told herself, but she got a box and started
putting the things into it, trying not to look at them, trying to
forget how delighted her mother had been with the pale green
slip, trying not to remember.
Once she hesitated and almost lifted a soft wool sweater from
the pile that was growing in the suit box. She had borrowed it so
often that her mother used to complain that she felt like a
criminal every time she borrowed it back again. She didn't mean
it though . . . she loved having Minta borrow her things.
Minta put the sweater with the other things and closed the box
firmly.
Now, the things in the closet—
Opening the door was almost like feeling her mother in the room
beside her. A faint perfume clung to most of her garments. The
house-coat . . . the woolly robe . . . the tan polo coat . . . the scarlet
jacket . . . her new blue wool with the pegtop skirt.
Minta started folding the things with almost frantic haste,
stuffing them into boxes, cramming the lids on and then starting
on another box.
At the very back of the closet were the two pieces of matched
luggage that had been her mother's last birthday gift from her
father. They were heavy when she tried to move them—too
heavy.
She brought them out into the room and put them side by side
on her mother's bed. Her breath caught in her throat when she
opened them.
Dozens and dozens of boxes, all tied with bright red ribbon, the
gift tags written out in her mother's careful script. Gaily colored
Christmas stickers, sprigs of holly. To Minta from Mother and
Dad . . . to Grace from Marty . . . to John from Mary . . . to the
Kelly Gremlins from Aunt Mary . . . to Uncle Art from the
Hawley family. . . .
"So you knew," Minta whispered the words. "You knew all the
time."
She looked down in surprise as a hot tear dropped on her hand
and she dashed it away almost impatiently.
She picked up another package and read the tag. To Minta from
Mother . . . with love.
Thank you mom for all the love and patience and for the trust each time you leave the decision up to me. I would not be where I am if not for you. You are my inspiration and my strength. (Same as dad, but it's your day today so we'll talk about dad on father's day instead Ü)
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!
-----
The day that Minta Hawley grew up was a crisp golden day in
early September.
Afterwards she was to remember everything about that day with
poignant clarity. She remembered the slapping sound the waves
made, the pungent smell of the logs burning, even the gulls that
soared and swooped overhead; but most of all she remembered
her father's face when he told her.
It began like any other Saturday, with Minta lying in bed an
extra hour. Breakfast was always lazy and unhurried on
Saturday mornings. The three of them in the breakfast room—
Minta's father engrossed in his paper; her mother flying around
in a gaily colored housecoat, mixing waffles and frying bacon;
Minta setting the table.
They talked, the casual happy talk of people who love each other
and don't have to make conversation. About neighborhood
doings . . . about items in the paper . . . about the clothes Minta
would need when she went away to school in a couple of weeks.
It was after the dishes were finished that Minta's father asked
her if she would like to go down to the beach for a little while.
"Low tide," he said. "Might get a few clams."
Minta nodded agreement, but her mother made a little face.
"Horrors, clam chowder for another week!"
"Sure you wouldn't like to go, Mary?" Minta's father asked.
"The salt air might help your headache."
"No. You two run along. I'll curl up with an apple and a
television program." She yawned and stretched, looking almost
as young as Minta.
Minta ran upstairs and got into her heavy shoes and jeans.
"Shall I call Sally and ask her if she wants to go?" She yelled,
leaning far over the banister.
"Let's just go by ourselves this time," her father answered rather
shortly.
He was silent as they drove toward the beach, but it wasn't the
companionable silence that Minta had come to expect from him.
There was something grim about it.
"He's going to talk to me about school," Minta told herself. "He's
going to try to talk me out of it again."
It was funny the way her father had acted when she announced
her intention of going to MaryHill this term. It had always been
such an accepted thing; her mother had graduated from
MaryHill and it followed that Minta should be enrolled there as
a matter of course.
Last year was different. With mother just recovering from that
operation it was natural that he should expect Minta to stay
home; she had even wanted to stay. But now going to MaryHill
was something special. She would live in a dormitory and be
part of all the campus fun. It wasn't as if MaryHill were clear
across the country, either, she'd probably be getting home every
month or so . . . and there were the Christmas holidays . . . and
then spring vacation.
Minta's chin was lifted in a stubborn line as her father parked the
car and went around to get the shovels and pail form the trunk.
It wasn't like him to be so stubborn; usually he was jolly and
easy going and inclined to leave such matters entirely up to
Minta's mother
She followed him down to the beach, her boots squishing in the
wet sand. The tide was far out and farther up the beach she
could see bent figures busily digging along the water's edge.
A scattered beach fire smoldered near the bank and Minta poked
it into place and revived it with splinters of driftwood until she
had coaxed back a steady warning blaze. When she sat back on
her heels to smile up at her father she felt her throat constrict
with a smothering fear. His eyes looked the way they had when
. . .
When?
Suddenly she remembered. He was looking at her and trying to
smile, just the way he had looked at her the time her appendix
burst and they were taking her to the hospital. She could almost
hear the wail of the ambulance siren and feel the way he had
held her hands tightly, trying to make it easier. His eyes had
told her then, as they told her now, that he would a thousand
times rather bear the pain than watch her suffer.
It seemed like a long time that she knelt there by the beach fire,
afraid to move, childishly willing herself to wake from the
nightmarish feeling that gripped her.
He took her hand and pulled her to her feet and they started
walking up the beach slowly, not toward the group of people
digging clams, but in the other direction, toward the jagged pile
of rocks that jutted out into the bay.
She heard a strange voice, her own voice.
"I thought . . . I thought you wanted to talk to me about school,
but it isn't that, is it, Father?"
Father.
She never called him Father. It was always "Dad" or "Pops" or,
when she was feeling especially gay, "John Henry."
His fingers tightened around hers. "In a way it is . . . about
school."
And then, before the feeling of relief could erase the fear he went
on. "I went to see Dr. Morton last week, Minta. I've been seeing
him pretty regularly these last few months."
She flashed a quick frightened look up at him. "You aren't ill?"
"No." He sighed and it was a heartbreaking sound. "No. It isn't
me. It's your mother. That's why I don't want you to go to
MaryHill this year."
"But . . . but she's feeling so much better, Dad. Except for these
headaches once in a while. She's even taking on a little weight–"
She broke off and stopped walking and her hand was steady on
his arm. "Tell me," she said quietly.
The look was back in his eyes again but this time Minta scarcely
noticed it, she was aware only of his words, the dreadful echoing
finality of his words.
Her mother was going to die.
To die.
Her mother.
To die, the doctor said. Three months, perhaps less. . . .
Her mother who was gay and scatterbrained and more fun than
anyone else in the world. Her mother who could be counted on
to announce in the spring that she was going to do her
Christmas shopping early this year, and then left everything
until the week before Christmas.
No one was worse about forgetting anniversaries and birthdays
and things like that; but the easy-to-remember dates, like
Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day and Halloween were
always gala affairs complete with table favors and three-decker
cakes.
Minta's mother wore the highest heels and the maddest hats of
any mother on the block. She was so pretty. And she always
had time for things like listening to new records and helping
paste pictures in Minta's scrapbook.
She wasn't ever sick—except for the headaches and the operation
last year which she had laughingly dismissed as a rest cure.
"I shouldn't have told you." Her father was speaking in a voice
that Minta had never heard from him before. A voice that held
loneliness and fear and a sort of angry pain. "I was afraid I
couldn't make you understand, why you had to stay home . . .
why you'd have to forget about MaryHill for this year." His eyes
begged her to forgive him and for some reason she wanted to
put her arms around him, as if she were much older and
stronger.
"Of course you had to tell me," she said steadily. "Of course I
had to know."
And then—"Three months but Dad, that's Christmas."
He took her hand and tucked it under his arm and they started
walking again.
It was like walking through a nightmare. The steady squishsquish
of the wet sand and the little hollows their feet made
filling up almost as soon as they passed.
He talked quietly, explaining, telling her everything the doctor
had said, and Minta listened without tears, without tears,
without comment.
She watched his face as though it were the face of a stranger.
She thought about a thousand unrelated things.
Last winter then he had chased her and her mother around the
back yard to wash their faces in the new snow. She could still
see the bright red jacket her mother had worn . . . the kerchief
that came off in the struggle . . . the way the neighbors had
watched from their windows, laughing and shaking their heads.
She remembered all the times they had gone swimming this past
summer. Minta and her father loved to swim but her mother had
preferred to curl up on a beach blanked and watch them.
"You have the disposition of a Siamese cat," Minta had accused
her mother laughingly. "A cushion by the fire in the winter and
a cushion in the sun in the summer. . . ."
"And a bowl of cream nearby," her mother had agreed instantly.
She was always good-natured about their teasing.
But in spite of her apparent frailty and her admitted laziness she
managed to accomplish an astounding amount of work. Girl
Scouts, PTA, Church bazaars, Red Cross. People were always
calling her to head a committee or organize a drive. Young
people congregated in her home. Not just Minta's gang, but the
neighborhood youngsters. She had Easter egg hunts for them;
she bought their raffle tickets and bandaged their skinned knees.
It was like coming back from a long journey when her father
stopped talking and they turned back toward the car.
"So that's why I can't let you go away, Midge." Her father's voice
was very low and he didn't seem to realize that he had called her
by the babyish name she had discarded when she started to first
grade. "It isn't just your mother I'm thinking about . . . it's me. I
need you."
She looked at him quickly and her heart twisted with pity. He
did need her. He would need her more than ever.
In the car she sat very close to him.
"We didn't get the clams," she reminded him once, but he only
nodded. Just before they reached home he reached over and
took her hand in a tight hurting grip.
"We can't tell her, Minta. The doctor left it up to me and I said
not to tell her. We have to let her have this last time . . . this last
little time . . . without that hanging over her. We have to go on
as if everything were exactly the same."
She nodded to show that she understood. After a moment she
spoke past the ache in her throat. "About school. I'll . . . I'll tell
her that I decided to wait until next year. Or that I'm afraid I'd
be lonesome without the gang. I've been sort of . . . sort of
seesawing back and forth, anyway."
—
It seemed impossible that life could go on exactly as before. The
small private world peopled by the three of them was as snug
and warm and happy as though no shadow had touched them.
They watched television and argued good-naturedly about the
programs. Minta's friends came and went and there was the
usual round of parties and dances and games. Her father
continued to bowl two evenings a week and her mother became
involved in various preholiday pursuits.
"I really must get at my Christmas shopping," she mentioned the
day she was wrapping trick-or-treat candy for Halloween.
Minta shook her head and sighed gustily.
Her mother started this "I-must-get-at-my-Christmas-shopping"
routine every spring and followed it up until after Thanksgiving
but she never actually got around to it until two or three days
before Christmas.
It was amazing that Minta could laugh and say, "Oh, you . . ." the
way she did year after year.
It was a knife turning in her heart when her mother straightened
up from the gay cellophane-wrapped candies and brushed a
stray wisp of taffy-colored hair back from on flushed cheek.
"Don't laugh," she said, pretending to be stern. "You know
you're just exactly like me."
It was a warning though. She was like her mother. Inside,
where it really mattered she was like her mother, even though
she had her father's dark eyes and straight black hair, even
though she had his build and the firm chin of all the Hawleys.
She wanted to put her arm around her mother and hug her,
hard. She wanted to say, "I hope I am like you. I want to be."
But instead she got up and stretched and wrinkled her nose.
"Perish forbid," she said, "that I should be such a scatterbrain."
She was rewarded by the flash of a dimple in her mother's cheek.
—
It seemed to Minta, as week followed week, that the day at the
beach had been something out of a nightmare: Something that
she could push away from her and forget about. Sometimes she
looked at her father, laughing, teasing them, or howling about
the month-end bills and she thought, "It didn't happen . . . it isn't
true."
And then at night she would lie sleepless in her room, the pretty
room that had been reconverted from her nursery. She watched
the moonlight drift patterns across the yellow bedspread and the
breeze billow the curtains that her mother had made by hand,
because that was the only way she could be sure of an absolute
match.
"Yellow is such a difficult color to match," she had explained
around a mouthful of pins.
And in the dark hours of the night Minta had known it wasn't a
nightmare. It was true. It was true.
One windy November day she hurried home from school and
found her mother in the yard raking leaves. She wore a bright
kerchief over her head and she had Minta's old polo coat belted
around her. She looked young and gay and carefree and her
eyes were shining.
"Hi!" She waved the rake invitingly. "Change your clothes and
come help. We'll have a smudge party in the alley."
Minta stopped and leaned on the gate. She saw with a new
awareness that there were dark circles under her mother's eyes
and that the flags of color in her cheeks were too bright. But she
managed a chuckle.
"I wish you could see yourself, Mom. For two cents I'd get my
camera and take a picture of you."
She ran into the house and got her camera and they took a whole
roll of pictures.
"Good," her mother said complacently. "Now we can show them
to your father the next time he accuses me of being a Sally-Sitby-
the-Fire."
They piled the leaves into a huge damp stack, with the help of
half a dozen neighborhood children. It wouldn't burn properly
but gave out with clouds of thick, black, wonderfully pungent
smoke.
Her mother was tired that night. She lay on the davenport and
made out her Christmas card list while Minta and her father
watched the wrestling matches. It was like a thousand other
such evenings but in some unaccountable way it was different.
"Because it's the last time," Minta told herself. "The last time
we'll ever rake the leaves and make a bonfire in the alley. The
last time I'll snap a picture of her with her arms around the Kelly
kids. The last time . . . the last time. . . . "
She got up quickly and went out into the kitchen and made
popcorn in the electric popper, bringing a bowl to her mother
first, remembering just the way she liked it, salt and not too
much butter.
But that night she wakened in the chilly darkness of her room
and began to cry, softly, her head buried in the curve of her arm.
At first it helped, loosening the tight bands about her heart,
washing away the fear and the loneliness, but when she tried to
stop she found that she couldn't. Great wracking sobs shook her
until she could no longer smother them against her pillow. And
then the light was on and her mother was there bending over
her, her face concerned, her voice soothing.
"Darling, what is it? Wake up, baby, you're having a bad
dream."
"No . . . no, it isn't a dream," Minta choked. "It's true . . . it's
true."
The thin hand kept smoothing back her tumbled hair and her
mother went on talking in the tone she had always used to
comfort a much smaller Minta.
She was aware that her father had come to the doorway. He said
nothing, just stood there watching them while Minta's sobs
diminished into hiccupy sighs.
Her mother pulled the blanket up over Minta's shoulder and
gave her a little spank. "The idea! Gollywogs, at your age," she
said reprovingly. "Want me to leave the light on in case your
spook comes back?"
Minta shook her head, blinking against the tears that crowded
against her eyelids, even managing a wobbly smile.
She never cried again.
Not even when the ambulance came a week later to take her
mother to the hospital. Not even when she was standing beside
her mother's high white hospital bed, holding her hand tightly,
forcing herself to chatter of inconsequential things.
"Be sure that your father takes his vitamin pills, won't you,
Minta? He's so careless unless I'm there to keep an eye on him."
"I'll watch him like a beagle," Minta promised lightly. "Now you
behave yourself and get out of here in a hurry, you hear?"
Not even at the funeral. . . .
The friends and relatives came and went and it was as if she
stood on the sidelines watching the Minta who talked with them
and answered their questions. As if her heart were encased in a
shell that kept it from breaking.
She went to school and came home afterwards to the empty
house. She tried to do the things her mother had done but even
with the help of well-meaning friends and neighbors it was hard.
She tried not to hate the people who urged her to cry.
"You'll feel better, dear," her Aunt Grace had insisted and then
had lifted her handkerchief to her eyes and walked away when
Minta had only stared at her with chilling indifference.
She overheard people talking about her mother.
"She never knew, did she?" They asked.
And always Minta's father answered, "No, she never knew.
Even at the very last, when she was waiting for the ambulance to
come she looked around the bedroom and said, 'I must get these
curtains done up before Christmas.'"
Minta knew that her father was worried about her and she was
sorry, but it was as if there were a wall between them, a wall that
she was too tired to surmount.
One night he came to the door of her room where she was
studying."I wonder if you'd like to go through those clothes before your
Aunt Grace takes them to the church bazaar," he began haltingly.
And then when she looked up at him, not understanding, he
went on gently, "Your mother's clothes. We thought someone
might as well get some good out of them."
She stood up and closed the book and went past him without
another word, but she closed the door behind her when she went
into her mother's room.
There were some suit boxes by the closet door and Minta
vaguely remembered that the women from the bazaar committee
had called several times.
Her hands felt slightly unsteady as she pulled open the top
dresser drawer and looked down at the stacks of clean
handkerchiefs, the stockings in their quilted satin case, the
gloves folded into tissue wrappings.
"I can't do it," she told herself, but she got a box and started
putting the things into it, trying not to look at them, trying to
forget how delighted her mother had been with the pale green
slip, trying not to remember.
Once she hesitated and almost lifted a soft wool sweater from
the pile that was growing in the suit box. She had borrowed it so
often that her mother used to complain that she felt like a
criminal every time she borrowed it back again. She didn't mean
it though . . . she loved having Minta borrow her things.
Minta put the sweater with the other things and closed the box
firmly.
Now, the things in the closet—
Opening the door was almost like feeling her mother in the room
beside her. A faint perfume clung to most of her garments. The
house-coat . . . the woolly robe . . . the tan polo coat . . . the scarlet
jacket . . . her new blue wool with the pegtop skirt.
Minta started folding the things with almost frantic haste,
stuffing them into boxes, cramming the lids on and then starting
on another box.
At the very back of the closet were the two pieces of matched
luggage that had been her mother's last birthday gift from her
father. They were heavy when she tried to move them—too
heavy.
She brought them out into the room and put them side by side
on her mother's bed. Her breath caught in her throat when she
opened them.
Dozens and dozens of boxes, all tied with bright red ribbon, the
gift tags written out in her mother's careful script. Gaily colored
Christmas stickers, sprigs of holly. To Minta from Mother and
Dad . . . to Grace from Marty . . . to John from Mary . . . to the
Kelly Gremlins from Aunt Mary . . . to Uncle Art from the
Hawley family. . . .
"So you knew," Minta whispered the words. "You knew all the
time."
She looked down in surprise as a hot tear dropped on her hand
and she dashed it away almost impatiently.
She picked up another package and read the tag. To Minta from
Mother . . . with love.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Rainy days and mondays always get me down
Today was the first time I visited the Philippine Stock Exchange in Makati. It was a little tour that a group of around 20 people attended, including our boss, Michael Bouley. Benta pa, we had to take a cab from RCBC to PSE because it was raining and so we had to go in batches of 4. Apparently, most of us left our things in the office, not anticipating taking a cab, I had around 27 pesos in my pocket (change from my lunch purchase) and the only other money in my batch was Razmin's 500 and 20-peso bills. Obviously, the cabbie had no change for 500 so when the meter reached 47 pesos we had to stop and we were only at the old Makati Stock Exchange Building at that time. HAHA. We had to walk to our real destination. What's funny is that another group stopped where our cab stopped thinking we were already there. (Di nila alam we just didn't have the money to go further. wahaha).
Anyway, comparing the exchange we know (most commonly, NYSE) to our local PSE was indeed contrasting. We initially thought there was a trading halt when we came because the floor was too silent, people were reading the paper, a handful were texting, some were on the phones but the general atmosphere was a bit relaxed.. like no trades were happening. �Guess we all had that idea that people were supposed to have public outcries instead of just seeing them sit on their desks, faces wrinkled from trying to fathom what else there was they could do out of boredom.
And so we had a short lecture by one of their officials regarding the history, operations and goals of the PSE and I know most of us had to fight off falling asleep because it was loaded with data we didn't really need and plus we've all been fresh from out evening shifts which did not help our attempt at attentiveness. What was interesting though was the Q&A portion after the lecture. I understand that having been trained for Series 7 and 63, the PSE operations would seem different I just found it funny that when my boss asked what order types PSE had, the official (I can't even remember his name) only came up with "market" order. And he didn't even sound too sure. Another question thrown was "are accounts placed on restriction when they violate trading rules, such as free-riding?" At this point the official looked really perplexed and asked what a free-riding violation was.
Maybe it was called a different term in PSE but after being explained by one of my colleagues, I would have thought he had already gotten the idea. But then he says something devoid of a direct answer adn moves on to the next question. One more thing I cannot forget is how he'd blatantly say that corruption could be happening as we speak, as brokers could give leeway to their clients, such as having them pay for trades by the end of settlement instead of having funds to use prior to placing a trade, and how the "kumpare system" was possible. I wanted to shrink under my seat. Our boss was right there in the room and he had to concretize the fact that the trading system was not reliable. Maybe he was taken aback with the deluge of questions. Maybe he got nervous? I dunno. You can't present the operations side of business if you're not prepared to answer a couple of general questions. To say I was fairly disappointed is the biggest understatement of the day.
Will I ever work in PSE if given the chance? Probably not because the first impression (the working atmosphere, the lecture, the system) was something that would not entice me into changing careers. What we face on a daily basis as brokers isn't even half what their brokers get to encounter, I'd bet --free-riding violations and all.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
okay.. that's weird..
surprisingly, i opened my inbox and found a couple of blog entries being re-posted (some are even from a few years back).. i wonder if that was the result of me ticking the checkbox to "cross-post to blogger" the other day when i published one of the stories i wrote in 2002. that means my blog will have duplicates as well as my facebook and my wordpress. it's crazy.
Anyhow.. i think i went on caffeine overload today at work i came home a bit dizzy. that, or i was just too famished to know the difference. haha. it was particularly tiring today because i just seemed to be a magnet for calls concerning the 90-cash restriction. take note that these calls cannot be handled in just 5 minutes.. somehow, clients would have loads of follow up questions which lead to them asking you for concrete examples so thay can grasp your usual verbatim answers better. It was extra stressful that the team had no one to turn to as we had just been transitioned to a different leadership. oh well. some days are just bananas.
when i wasn't licensed yet i hated the fact that people would discuss their calls during their breaks. there were even instances wherein i'd witness people having a debate on how to resolve their client's concern. i thought these people were pricks who just can't help but show off. today at starbucks, macke and i found ourselves discussing the difference between a stop, stop-limit and limit price (with matching drawings on the napkins to analyze the differences). the thing is, we went home not really knowing if our theory (more of macke's theory) is entirely correct. this is something we need to bring up with Aarti tonight.�
alright, so enough about jargon. I have 3 hours to sleep before i scramble back into the boiler room. i better hit the sack now.
Monday, April 06, 2009
that "blah"-kind-of-feeling
My 4-year old dalmatian hasn't been feeling too well since yesterday and I am bringing him to the vet in a while (I'm just waiting for my dad). It's a good thing he hasn't lost his appetite yet but I can't help but worry because he seems lethargic and is not as active as the other dogs.
I've already lost a puppy last year due to an acute viral infection that hit his digestive system and I couldn't risk losing another dog (if i can help it). I'm really worried and I guess it was not such a good idea searching the net for possible answers because I came across something as simple as dog fever to life-threatening cancer just by comparing Coy's symptoms.
I'm just hoping it's nothing serious. Our dogs are our family and having one of them sick is something we don't take lightly, just as we would if any human family member is ill.