No Sticker No Entry

When I first arrived back in the old hometown, our private subdivision undertook some sprucing up, a bit of image building to some service areas which had gone to pasture in quiet disrepair. Like the guardhouses and the gates for entry and egress. Some minor construction work and a liberal use of paint and the overall result was one of considerable pride knowing that the subdivision looks presentably decent, at least looking from the gates and entrances. But more importantly, implemented were stricter compliance of certain basic subdivision rules historically known more for their being overlooked or flouted by both residents and visitors.

(The association should however do something about that Agoho Drive access road. Be reminded that since the start of the subdivision way back in the 70’s, only half of the road has been concreted. To this day, while the concreted portion continues to slide to non-maintenance hell, the other half has been quietly claimed by weeds, and close to the highway, by garbage throwers.)

One such basic rule was the need for all vehicles of residents to carry the subdivision’s sticker on the front windshield of four-wheeled vehicles and in convenient places for two-wheeled vehicles. Obviously, for easy and quick identification at the guardhouse, all in the name of basic security. During these times, one cannot afford to overlook such elemental security measures. That’s one of the primary reason guards are hired.

Thus, standing as quiet and mindful sentinel at the entrances is this strictly business painted sign;

No sticker, no entry.

Such easy simplicity, one would think.

But, no. As I pass through the gates I continue to see vehicles without the required sticker. When asked, guards can only squirm and declare that indeed a good number of residents are adamant and hard put to follow such an easy requirement.

It does involve some cost, but very nominal at best. 150 pesos for one sticker and I believe a little lower for your other vehicles.

This afternoon, a quick drive through some subdivision streets revealed a good number of vehicles sans stickers outside some residences. Of course, a number of them could have been those of visitors. Was tempted to take pictures, but held back for very obvious reasons.

Hoping this little heads-up makes non-compliers realize that some residents are watchful.

On the Street Where We Used To Live

Growing up in a sleepy town of 50,000 inhabitants (though it was already a chartered city even then), we resided on an A-frame timber building nestled flushed to the corner of two main streets aptly named then, Del Mar and Victoria. The former leading straight to the pier area some three kilometers due north, and the latter purportedly because it originated from City Hall, two blocks to the west.

Decades later, the immediate neighborhood has more than undergone changes to the street names. Del Mar is now known as A. Velez St, while Victoria is now Arch. J. Hayes, both named after prominent residents of a celebrated bygone area.

The more visible and drastic metamorphosis has been in its usage, from decidedly residential to a mish-mash of commercial establishments ranging from eating places of various orientation, to laundry places, to noisy disco places, and include there, to itinerant hawkers populating some sidewalks.

And Hayes St. has now also become a busy jeepney route, for destinations bound to the western part of the now thickly-populated city of maybe a million inhabitants.

Needless to say, the streets are abuzz daily with people and vehicles assaulting one’s senses to at times uneasy frustration and disquiet.

From the quiet familiarity and comfort one then felt as a child gravitating around the welcoming nooks and crannies of our little haven, we are now daily contending with the messy hustle and bustle of an unfamiliar and isolating environment. At times feeling like one is sleepwalking through a place now only vaguely familiar. Reminded by its past and floods of old memories upon sight of recognizable old structures engulfed and overwhelmed by ugly cosmetic face-lifting undertaken to accommodate their new more profitable uses.

Thus at regular intervals as some form of cathartic exercise, I prod tired feet to climb challenging and punishing stairs spiraling through five levels of a commercial building. And in the solitude and breezy comfort of my “observation deck”, I survey a city that I used to know and hold dear, and pretend to be transported back to the idyllic times of youth. And there are still enough familiar structures and roads to facilitate the pained recollection.

Time marches on I know. But old remembered memories are hard to simply drop by the wayside. Besides, old memories are so safe, uncomplicated, and uncluttered. With no dangers of going wrong and thus, resulting in accountabilities to be shouldered and suffered through. Again.

So easy and effortless to dismiss or set aside, as climbing down the stairs when one is done “observing”.

UPDATE:

This is the old house that sat at the corner of Del Mar and Victoria Sts. It was demolished in 1989, but the house next to it along Victoria St. still stands to this day. Both were built in the late 1940's. Notice that in the first picture the lot across the street is still vacant. This is the site of Pet Hong Trading.

Missed: The Highs of Jogging

Over a month after the terribly bad accident, I still am unable to get back to routines of the past, most especially the regular physical exercise I have maintained for close to 30 years – jogging.





Though I did not miss it as much as when I saw this picture of Gov. Palin of Alaska taking a leisurely run against the majestic backdrop of Alaskan winter scenery.

I love running close to rivers or lakes where I can find them. Some things about them are very exhilarating and calming. Just right for a meditative or reflective running session, accompanied and occupied by one’s mundane and more profound thoughts.

In San Francisco, I loved running around the perimeter of beauteous Lake Merced, whether in the nippy cold of winter or the subdued glare of cool summer.

Here in the old hometown, I have taken a keen liking to the newest bridge that spans the Cagayan River, connecting Carmen with Nazareth Subdivision. During early weekends, the complete span and the approaches to the bridge are decidedly empty and amply cooled by the slow meandering flow of the typically sleepy river below. Quite ideal for my taste!

Sooner or later, I will definitely get back to my routines – like jogging, and blogging, too.

With the added promised caveat: If I do get the chance to take a trip to Alaska, I will definitely allocate some time for jogging, against the majestic backdrop of similar Alaskan scenery.

You can bet on that!

Digits in the Digital Age

An utterly needless and totally unnecessary accident drops one on the knees of utter helplessness, deep trauma, gnawing remorse and frustration. Bringing in bouts of pain, sleepless nights and some depression.

Exactly two weeks ago, one such unfortunate incident visited my otherwise harried but hum-drum life. Topping off a busy day with a flurry of chores needed to enhance our little business enterprise, I was ready late in the afternoon of a humid Saturday to call it a day, on the tail-end of the last chore of cleaning our ominous-looking (in hindsight) dough roller machine.

When from out of nowhere, and certainly not from heaven, I now vaguely recall being conscious of three of my fingers on my left hand being deep inside the two spinning rollers.

Sparing the grisly details of what happened in the next moments, hours, and days, I can only say that now my three fingers are heavily bandaged still, feeling still the occasional throbbing pain, and at times feeling the depressing feeling of self-anger and conscious self-loathing for allowing such a needless and unnecessary turn of events.

Why was I not my usual uber-careful self? What a stupid thing to have allowed such a thing to happen? Now I can’t type, tie my shoelaces, not even go through the usual personal hygiene chores – without the same difficulties only a learning child would typically encounter.

Now I have taken to looking at my right hand (the good one), flexing the fingers every which way, and generally admiring the science behind them. The genius of the opposable thumb! And then sadly turning my gaze on the other. Sigh. How badly I took it for granted, having been reckless in its use! If only time could be pushed back. I would pay money for it to happen. But regrets always trail behind, a hazy image of our life’s rearview mirror. And time does not walk backward.

How particularly crucial your digits have become on this Digital Age. Typing is now an excruciating chore or exercise for me.

No doubt I have discovered new-found respect for my digits.

A loose board of a bedroom cabinet remains untended and unrepaired, staring boldly at and challenging my innate resolve to keep things in the house in good order. Because at this time, I do not have the ability to hold a nail on one hand and holding a hammer on the other to drive the nail.

Oh, brother!

In A Fog: What To Blog

Having wrenched myself away from the secure comforts of home and hearth in Northern California, I am now three months into another extended sabbatical in the land of my birth, immersed again in a life rendered quite removed and different from three decades of living in the adopted country.

Though eternally busy in dealing with all the ennui of the arcane chores of daily living in the old hometown, certain precious times are still available for eking out moments of quiet introspection and reflection into the profundities of life.

Like the eternally relevant and mind-challenging question:

What the hell am I doing here when I should be scouring the pleasure spots of the world trying to find pleasure, what else, in the kind of life most of us work very hard all our productive lives to aspire for and attain?

Or the trite and more mundane query into:

Why does the unbearable heat, humidity really, of the tropics not frustrate enough the people here to want to move to a more temperate climate – like in the mountains or to another country?

Search me.

I am not a wise man neither am I a fool, as one of Elvis Presley’s’ songs goes. Thus, But what I am the way the good Lord made me, the song intones further.

First, sedentary retirement is not an option. In my quaint vocabulary to re-tire is likened to an automobile tire given new life, a retread. Retread for a more useful life. Retread to add more life to one already spent.

And beyond the sublime and surreal, there is the gaping need to try to recoup losses in physical resources such as a home and retirement resources such as pensions and 401ks which both have been equally decimated by the fortuitous onset of the global economic crisis.

So to the first question, everything is on hold. This would be the more appropriate option. And the old homeland still not reeling too much from the rippling effects of the global crisis would be a decent alternative in trying to generate some revenue for any business undertaking, or compound yields for financial assets that can be invested there.

Re the climate portion, indeed why do not people move? There are enough highland areas still uninhabited where heat-challenged people can ease in and enjoy life more, rather than constantly be warring against and always losing in the process with the irritating, debilitating, and paralyzing effects of intolerable heat especially in city or urban lowland living. Filipinos are indolent if this charge is factual for a reason. The heat can wreak havoc to the most industriously diligent human being. Man only takes so much heat. Try measuring the time one can bear to hold one’ hand over a lighted candle against the same action but this time with ice or anything cold. There is no contest.

As once proud residents of the San Francisco-Bay Area in the West Coast, we always prided ourselves on our sweater-weather climate. Any resident or guest desiring to spend time outdoors can almost always count that wearing a sweater would be sufficient enough apparel whether in the thick of summer or the throes of winter. Average temperature is almost always mild and changes are hardly perceptible.

But the sun in the tropics can beat on you mercilessly, whether sans apparel or wearing layers of clothing for protection. There is no escaping the intolerable effects of the hot and humid climate. Whether in the way it burns your skin or the resultant incessant sweat oozing out of our bodies. And this whether in the thick of summer or throes of the most wet wet season.

So there you go. Another abbreviated reflection session terminated, to live another day.

And I still live and the world around me continues to exist and spin.

Give due thanks to the Grand Designer.