Remember to be Thankful

I was nine in the winter of 1979, as Martial Law was in full flux. We rode on the back of a jeep on a dark dirt road on our way to Dad's home town. We brought over six large boxes, three which had gone missing at the airport, filled with endless supply of Tang, an array of candy, bottles of Sanka instant coffee, toilet paper, second hand clothes, shoes, and books. We made our trek from Hawaii to the province of Ilocos Norte in the Philippines to visit relatives.

As my parents found it important that we made a connection with our ethnicity, Dad wanted to make sure we met our Lola, grandmother, before she passed. Lola was in her eighties and slept in a cot in the kitchen. As much as I wanted to hug her and lay my head in her lap, her head was infested with lice. I was told it was normal. In the kitchen to the right a 20 x 20 concrete slab that stemmed water pump to bathe. To the left, sat a wood burning stove also used to generate hot water for the shower. The kitchen door opened to a jungle of a backyard that housed a deep hole in the ground that was the bathroom. Besides swatting the squad of flies as I squat, the fear of falling into the stench hole was a death defying fear. Nonetheless, the likeliness of venomous snakes taking a snip out of my bare bottom while going to the bathroom was 90/10. A half a mile down a river ran infested with crocodiles and pythons. That was usually where the laundry was done.

The relatives were ecstatic to finally meet their American relatives. We were treated like royalty. Cousins ceaselessly hugged and communicated with us, “Do you know Billy Joel? Do you have a television? A color one? Toilet? Do you have a toilet!” As Mom provided the gaggle of cousins with candy, clothing, and shoes, their eyes sparkled like Christmas morning. We were showered with further hugs and laughter. Dad along with uncles sat on the porch playing the accordion, acoustic guitar, saxophone. They created music that sounded like home.

Shellie's Proverb: A mouse that chases the cat is not using his head.

Every now and than when I feel like the world has dealt me a joker card, I think about that month long trip in the Philippines. The trip that opened my eyes to hard ships. A second in my existence, where Christmas was midnight mass and tinupig, sweet rice and coconut wrapped in banana leaves. A minute in my life, when we rang in New Year by dragging empty cans on the dirt road and dropping cherry bombs down the center of a hollow bamboo. A month in my life, when my cousins were content playing in the jungle, taunting the water buffalos, or swimming in the river. A memory when my uncles found enjoyment and laughter in their music and in each other. A thought when my aunt's were pleased to provide food on the table. This is an experience that will never be forgotten.

Being thankful should never be one day a year, but a way of thinking. I do my best to never take electricity, running water, plumbing, and health for granted. How my dad, who made a hundred fifty a week, managed to finance this trip along with supporting a family of ten, I will never know. I am truly grateful to my parents for opening my eyes to the world outside of our home. Because with out that enlightment, I would not have a scope on appreciation.

Lesson: A hungry grasshopper must use his chopsticks to find his way to the bottom of the bowl.