An accident?

I broke my ankle to save myself. It was not on purpose to break my ankle but it was on purpose to save myself. The irony is that I am usually the one to tell everyone to watch where they are going.

It was supposed to be a short walk to the park on that breezy Sunday morning. The narrow side street did not have a real elevated sidewalk but only a narrow curb that unevenly stuck upward. It was either you walk on it or on its sides depending on where it was more even. Switching steps, it was  like hopping around. Quickly, the sound of a fast-moving vehicle crept up behind me and I immediately began to be aware of my steps. Without any warning, my right ankle collapsed inward and my immediate thought was to step my left foot to the left and out to the street to balance myself. But the thundering sound of that oncoming vehicle stayed with me. Quickly twisting my body to turn to the left, I dropped my bag and forced myself to fall on my bottom on the sidewalk.   I gave a scream of agony as I fell and almost immediately, a van careened by without stopping.   There was no way it could have stopped if I fell on the road.  My husband who was ahead of me swerved around and screamed "Did he hit you?" In my amazement, my voice replied with a strange calmness "No. He did not." I knew beforehand.   

There was no pain right after I fell and even as I was held up on both arms. I cringed when I saw my right ankle bulge like a golf ball under the skin. It looked alien. The depressing crunching sound of the bones and muscles rubbing together as I was lifted on both arms foretold that this was a serious break. I still did not feel pain but as I clumsily dragged my strange-looking foot into the backseat of the car, it began to swell quickly. All I could think of was flying to the nearest hospital.

Now I will have to remember to tell airport security that there are metal screws in my right leg. Keep it warm is a friendly advice. This unexpected event has opened up another world to me - those with metal-encrusted limbs.  Apparently, it is not uncommon.

Army and Navy Club - circa 1902 or 1911 depending on which history you read.

After the surrender of Japan, the Army and Navy Club was still standing.  Its neighbor The Elks Club was not so lucky with a bombed-out building.  Before the Japanese occupation, it was an exclusive club for Americans only and no Filipinos were allowed except for servants.   From the mainland of American, the practice reached their colony in Asia.   After July 1946, when the Philippines became independent from America, the exclusive reputation of the club continued making the entrance of a Filipino a mouth-gaping sight.   Filipino soldiers who manned the entrance carefully inspected visitors who were probably mostly Caucasian.  The usual types of visitors.  Until that one day and many times after that when my brother and me at 8 and 10 years old , together with our father, a Filipino and a US Army Lt. Col., stopped at the gate.   We were going to go swimming in the pool.  The look on the soldiers' faces were unforgettable.  They looked at Dad, then at John and me, back to Dad and us kids.  The first soldier's eyes bulged out and he called his fellow soldier to look at us.  He asked for my Dad's name and rank but still would not let us in.  Patiently at first, we waited at the gate while whoever was in charge was called.  We waited in the car for many minutes until Dad was allowed to go in to explain his rank, service and show his US Army ID.  Unless he could show further proof, we were not allowed to go in and that was that.    I remember John and I being rushed back to the car, Dad probably fuming and the driver speeding back to the house.  With military documents, probably his honorable discharge papers from the US Army, he went back to the club with John and me in tow.  We were in our bathing suits and ready to go into that swimming pool.   What was the problem all about my young mind thought.   The next thing I knew we were walking down a sloping cement walk under the hot sun towards the pool.  There was a snack bar at one end of the pool made of dark wood and nipa.  Parallel to the pool was an unobstructed view of Manila Bay.  I remember a constant breeze coming in from the sea cooling my wet bathing suit as I ate my banana split .  All the waiters were Filipinos and they quietly stared at us.  They stared at me and at John.  It was the kind of stare that wants to believe what they are seeing.  Whenever I looked at them, they were staring.  Their eyes did not turn away.  This went on every time we went to the club to go swimming.  But it did not last too long.  As we became familiar visitors, the Filipino soldiers at the entrance gate began to give us their biggest smile and best salute to Dad.  They told him that they were proud to have a Filipino officer coming to the club.  It was rare.   The waiters at the snack bar also began to smile and even tried to talk to us in English.  Glad that they did.  At that time, age 10, my Tagalog was very rusty.

Rubber

I like auctions.  The excitement wants me to raise that paddle until I win that new object of my affection.  That afternoon my husband raised the paddle chasing the other bidder hidden from his view.  Sold!  And the auctioneer pointed at my husband.  I looked at the painting of "cascos" again just in case it looked less somber than  earlier than when I first looked at it.  A known artist painted it in 1962, his version of floating down the Pasig River.  I was relieved when later research proved that we did not overbid.   Still the same colors.  Too late now.   It was delivered to the office covered with bubble wrap and the exposed back showed stains on the worn canvas.  Pressing the tape that held the bubble wrap, I caught an old inventory sticker on the back of the frame.  It read Goodyear.  Goodyear as in the tire company?  There is no mistaking the logo name slightly leaning to the right, bright yellow and masculine.   A call to the auctioneer confirmed that the Goodyear office was redecorated in the mid '60s.  The office never moved.  My grandfather who passed away in 1958  never saw the painting when he visited the office but my mother did.  She, along with her siblings looked at the painting as she came to collect her dividends and later to sell the rubber plantations in Mindanao as the National People's Army continuously raided the area.  Goodyear management persevered and kept the plantations operating.  As a teenager, my grandmother and I traveled to the plantation and had a well-prepared lunch at the Goodyear manager's home, simple and made of large burnished planks of wood.  I remember the walls and floors gleamed in the sunlight.  A tour of the plantation allowed me to sit on a large steel tank on top of a truck that stored the white sap.   Deep cuts on the rubber tree trunks  slowly oozed with the raw rubber, latex,  into hanging cups.  I still have the photo.  It was peaceful and safe then.  Fifteen years later, a visit to Akron, Ohio, the company's corporate headquarters, was not as memorable except for the permeating smell of cooking rubber and the story of Charles Goodyear, that although he invented vulcanized rubber, died a pauper.

When a radio broadcast on my way to work announced that the Goodyear blimp will be in the San Francisco area, I thought of an opportunity not easily available to others.  Gathering enough courage, I called Akron,  introduced myself and the family's connection to Goodyear and expressed my desire to ride the blimp that is now in San Francisco.  It was a cold, overcast and windy day. We met the appointment in a large open field and were weighed prior to boarding. The other passengers were media men with their badges, cameras and cups of coffee.  I thought the blimp was much larger.  It did not look as glamorous, smooth and sleek as it does in the sky or on TV.  In the open field, six men were pulling the ropes down on the blimp's sides to keep it from bobbing up and down  while we six passengers carefully climbed the short three steps to board.   The men slowly released the ropes to gently lift the blimp.   Inside  there was no point in talking to each other. The engine was so loud like a motorcycle in full throttle throughout the flight. It was metal seats and  cramped.  Knees hit the back seats with each turbulence.  The walls of the passenger car looked pretty thin that I did not want to lean against it.  I hoped that it was made out of those thin and strong alloys.   Not being too high up, the windows were partly opened and the cold wind rushed in adding to the noise.  I could see the shadow of the blimp on the ground below with the ropes hanging on its sides.   We slowly passed the Oakland stadium and saw the Golden Gate Bridge from afar.  We were not that high off the ground.  The flight was not smooth and felt more like being on a small boat with the waves hitting against it.  I took several photos of the stadium as proof that we did go on the blimp.  After less than an hour, the loud engine slowed down and we slowly glided back to the wide open field.  What if we missed the field?  I could see the men anxiously waiting, hands stuffed into pockets and feet stomping from the cold wind.  At around five feet off the ground, they each scrambled to grab a rope and began to pull the blimp closer to the ground.  With every synchronized pull,  we each maneuvered to take the first hop onto the top of the three-step stool.  My turn came and the ground felt very solid under my feet.   

Until it falls off, that worn Goodyear inventory sticker will stay on that painting's frame. The memories.....

Staring

I could not move and not be the object of his stare.  Both legs were clamped inside a warm towel ready for the toenails to be cut, cleaned and buffed.   "No nail filing at all or....." the manicurist was told.  Sitting only 15 feet away from me, he must have heard my warning.  He pretended not to look but I am sure he did whenever I closed my eyes.  I could feel his stare.  He must have enjoyed watching the contentment on my face, almost in ecstasy, when Randy began to knead globs of white coconut oil jelly into my scalp.  For thirty minutes Randy worked his magic with his skilled hands to massage my head, temples, entire back and both arms up to the fingertips.  The entire time my eyes were closed to relish the feeling of the sweet pressure points and his stare.  Twice I slightly raised my eyelids and he was staring at something to my left.  But his eyes were extra wide open as if to not get caught staring.  I chuckled and wondered what this tourist who wore shorts, tennis shoes and carried a camera, was thinking  Had he ever seen such type of service to elicit such bliss in a person? 

It's my first time.

Here it is!  I am actually writing.  I swore before that I would never start a blog.  Blogs are open diaries I said.  Blogs are for narcissistic people I thought.  But the realization came that if I wanted to write something lengthy later, like a book, got to get the words out.  Got to practice getting the words out.  My excuse all these years is that I am not a writer.  I am a researcher.  I can find, collect, sort, analyze and everything else except write all the stuff I found.  No one is going to like how I write.   Not enough to keep their interest.  So I decide to take a second look at blogs.  There is another benefit to blogging.  I could have just started an internal personal diary with no one reading it.  The kind with a key and locked away behind my most personal items in a drawer?   No.  That did not sound as exciting as sharing and getting the word out. As I write this first post, I am eagerly anticipating what will happen next.  It's my first pass and it feels good!