Confessions of a Coffee table

The house which my husband inherited from his parents has stood where it is today for more than half a century. It is a two-storey building which measures six by twenty meters. The horizontal walls on the sides are made of wooden slabs which have already shrunk battered by the angry sun and rain. The gaps between the slabs are so wide which can bare the soul of the cavernous upper storey. The rusty nails struggle to hold the slabs in place so that falling debris can’t hit any passerby.

The frontage of the first storey is enclosed by a fanlike paneled-door held together by old, rusty hinges. Every time it is pushed open, the shrieking and gritting sounds of the hinges make one crazy. As soon as the folded panels hit the post, the whole house quivers with a thud, as though Cyclops enter the cave. One’s energy is sapped in this kind of routine for years until in old age it wane.

It is time for repair!

The slabs and posts were given out to friends. Many were lusting for the panels of the door because the wood despite its age was so durable and priceless. I kept them. I had them dismantled and every material was accounted for. Stingy? Not quite. Just attached deeply! The door reminded me of tales of happiness and woes, successes and failures of three generations who once passed this way.

First Generation

All six boys, my husband and his siblings spent their grown up years in this house. They came from the city within the island where their flourishing business was razed down by fire. The door of this house was a silent witness to struggles collectively survived by a closely knit family. Their father, a courageous entrepreneur, opened wide the door  to send off his sons to college in a far away city with a firm instruction  not to enter that door again unless they bring home diplomas for a career. The sweet and pretty mother stood by his man through good and bad times. She made regular visits to her sons as soon as there was extra money.

Years after, the same door opened to a Law graduate, two doctors, two commerce graduates and a medical technologist. They came home one after the other to treat their parents to a good life. They never had a reunion of any sort as each found their niche under the sun.

One day, they all came home to push the door wide open giving way to the hearse of the dear old mother and only lady of the house to pass through. They ushered her to the final resting place where she could never push open the door again.

Second Generation

I was the third bride who opted to stay in this house as my husband took over the family business. I brought home the first girl in the family, a cute baby with Chinita eyes, dimpled cheeks and flawless skin. She was a delight to her grandfather and uncles would say, she looked like their mother. Every five o’clock in the morning the grandpa would open the door, put a chair nearby so he could sit with the baby on his lap. He recited his mantra saying, “My granddaughter will be a doctor when she grew up!” As the sun was rising, the old man was unmindful of the brightness because to him it would soon set, but the little girl would squint as she happily hails the morning, a great promise of hope. Three years after the same door opened for her grandfather to pass through never to see her a nurse later.

I continued to put on feminine touches in the house. I was into embroidery. In between feeding time of my second child who was a boy and looking after the two year old girl, I managed to do some French needle embroidery on a 36x32 size of sackcloth. It took me a year to complete the design. I framed the finished product and it was then hanging on the wall.

This frame now has been a witness on how my own siblings visited and some stayed with me   for financial or emotional support since our mother lost her battle to cancer. The house with an old door must be a nurturing haven of successful occupants. My younger siblings were all successful in their own chosen field.

The door and the frame have heard the first cry of a baby boy who was the first to be born in this house. Neighbors came rushing passed the door and the hanging on the wall to welcome the new baby! He must be a delight to everyone.


the embroidery on the background with my youngest
son who is now 31 years old

These silent spectators must have seen how I sent out my only daughter to stay with her husband. Oh, she was looking back to the comforts of her home. My heart bled to see her go but was it not said in the holy writ that “a woman must leave her father and mother and cling to her husband?”


I went back to full time teaching after my third child. The door was opened to my student contestants who came for practice. Many won different contests but only one came back to say “thank you”. One dusk, the door was ajar waiting for the children to come home. A figure squeezed in and as he came near the light there was a flash on his chest, “A medal”, I muttered. My notorious student won in the Division level oratorical competition! He stood in front of me as I was breastfeeding my baby while viewing the hanging on the wall. He saluted and holding his medal said, ”This is the first medal in my whole life. If not for you, I can’t have this. It has restored my father’s trust in me. Thank you so much, Ma’am!” As he squeezed out of the door I followed him with my gaze. The gold medal still hanging on his neck flashed like lightning under the street lamps. He was so proud like a ”cock with its first spur”.  He joined the military after graduation, married his high school sweetheart and basked in a brief and blissful marriage. He did not enter my door again because he perished in an ambush.

Third Generation

The shouts and peals of laughter of little boys started ringing in the house again. One would lean against the door, pushed his back against the shrieking frame which made rhythmic sound. The other would get a stone and knock the door to make his grandpa aware of his presence. Sometimes they would get out slowly, careful not to touch the door so no one would know they ran to a computer shop nearby. They were so smart, their reasoning power cannot match our experience in child rearing. But they were jewels just the same. They left for another country and we missed them a lot.

The Coffee table

The hanging on the wall I made forty years ago found its way in the kitchen where it was drenched when it rained. The thread had gathered dust and the frame was now eaten by termites. I was about to throw it but hesitated. This has been here since my children were toddlers, surely it would tell a story. I removed the sackcloth from the frame and washed it. It was as good as new.  From the door frame I kept was fashioned a center table. The hanging on the wall became its top cover.

Now the embroidery and the door panels met and whispered secrets of the stories they have known and witnessed from the three generations. They have settled among the antiques in the house. Surely no one would learn of the memories by just merely looking at this work of art except those who have been part of the house once. They can tell the story of a coffee table.  

My Husband's Spectacles

Does the title sound familiar? It is from "My Grandma’s Spectacles" which is an account of an old woman searching for her spectacles all over the house, upturning all furniture only to find out that she was wearing it over her head. Mine has a different angle, it’s my husband’s, let me tell you about him first but let’s just keep it within us ok, deal?

He is 76 years old, nine years my senior.  As I compare him to his contemporaries, he looks younger. He is still active as he attends to his furniture business every day.  He has no serious health problems except for some arthritic pains if he doesn’t watch his diet and problems on his digestion if he overeats. You see, if we based it on Louis Vanrenen’s body typing, his is “earth” so the problem gravitates on digestion and metabolism while I am of “air” type, which is on breathing and the respiratory.

One common problem we have is forgetfulness, but we have mastered the art of denying we forget things or else one of us will tease the other as “It’s because you’re oldie!” instead we say,  “It’s one of our senior moments”. One thing for sure despite this is we do not forget we are husband and wife.

One day I had an engagement in my volunteer work. I got myself ready.  I took my eyeglasses and wore them to be sure I won’t forget, as were my previous experiences. I kept the case in my bag. I was about to leave but my attention was caught by a reporter on TV that I tarried a while to listen. After ten minutes I decided to go. Going out of the living room one has to pass by a black cabinet with inlaid white buttons, the top of it   was a favorite receptacle of our eyeglasses every time we removed them when not in use. That moment I noticed a pair of eyeglasses, so thinking it was still mine I took them and placed it inside the case, which I got from my bag.  I went out to meet a friend who was waiting for me.

As my friend and I were talking my husband came and inquired softly if I knew who got his eyeglasses on top of the cabinet.  He said he couldn’t forget he left them there before he went to the toilet. “Am I that old to forget in just a short while? Its disappearance is mysterious!” he was thinking a loud.

I have no idea I told him and that we were in a hurry to leave. I bade him goodbye and left. My husband was so frantic in searching the whole house for his precious spectacles. He pulled and pushed his drawers many times to find out if he left them inside. He went to the toilet to be sure he didn’t leave them there. He went upstairs to see any probable place where he can find them. But they were not  in sight. So he resigned to the idea of recovering his eye shield. He just sat helplessly maybe thinking if he was really old.

Eight hours after, I returned home. I removed my eyeglasses to let my eyes rest and placed them on top of the black cabinet. I went about puttering in the kitchen then I remembered I have something to search on the web. So I went to my husband’s table where I placed my bag, unzipped it and got my eyeglasses case. When I opened the case I saw that the glasses inside were bigger and darker in shade than mine.  I felt guilty that I have caused my husband ‘s worry over the loss. I got it by mistake!

I asked my husband if that was what he was looking for.  Instead of blaming me for my forgetfulness   his face broke into a mixture of a smile, excitement and pride and blurted out, “ I told you so, I am not yet old!”.

Gliding Through Old Age Gracefully

I often heard fine old ladies receiving comments “you are growing old so gracefully”. This has given me a picture of how the swan moves about either on air or water. The gliding movement is so graceful which has drawn so many implications in growing old thus I started scribbling a few verses about it until I came up with this whole poem.

Often times I’ve heard and read that old age is feared

The once even-toned skin will soon be wrinkled and lined

The once supple limbs will soon be arthritic, and no longer fine

The once brisk and steady gait will soon be a shuffle and a shudder

Then who would love to reach old age the soonest and settle there?

Science discovered a balm to put old age at bay

It may take perhaps eighteen or twenty years off one’s age

But no one can disown the slackening gait as one grows old

Nor dimming of one’s vision and bent countenance forever delay

Accept. Flow with the current that glide through old age gracefully!

See the swan that majestically glides on air or water?

Effortless. Unhurried. Unfazed. Problem free. Happy and enjoying!

As it moves from one point to another, has arrived to where it desires

With no problem, no hassle, no fear, no fret, no stress nor worry

Come. Join me in gliding through the lanes of old age gracefully!

A sage once said to those who worry and dread

Never, never regret growing old, feeble and gray

For this is a privilege and God’s gift denied to many

Whose death punctuated their few years on earth so early

Be calm. Just willingly glide down the corridors of old age gracefully.

We may arrive at old age gnarled and decayed

Just like the stately old oak tree, one observer said

That stands prestigious for over three hundred years

It appears "fatter than usual, hollow inside, looks old and dumpy

Yet still respectable, attractive, functional" as it towers gracefully!

Old age has wisdom acquired through the passing of years

It comes from God who led through the perils and blessings in life

There are built-in diseases and little ills which one cannot let go

But as we grow old this is still great, normal, sound and healthy

So relax. We now reached the portals of old age by gliding gracefully!

Managing My Journey

Good health and happiness: these two are valuable gifts for old age. It’s a road map for longevity. But why are these conditions elusive as one grows old?

Looking back, I could retrieve my lifestyle when I was a young mother and a classroom teacher. Those were years when a hullabaloo for natural foods was nil. The promotion for healthy lifestyle was not as extensive as of today that market was bombarded with processed foods. Following the least resistance, I bought what was practically available.

I often felt a certain dryness in my throat and I easily got tired.  The feeling was aggravated by a terrible migraine. My doctor advised me to get enough rest and go easy on multitasking.  He prescribed antibiotics for my illness and vitamins for maintenance. The relief was short-lived. I thought I was just pestered by my low grade health and I was too busy to brood over it.

Later it developed into a more serious health problem. I was alarmed. I thought  I couldn’t be around to see the growing up of my children and my younger siblings whom my mother entrusted to me  before cancer took her away, much more could I reach my retirement.

When I felt a lump on my left breast my husband accompanied me to his friend, a doctor. The doctor informed my husband that he would prepare me for a complete mastectomy the following day.  I didn’t show up on the scheduled time for I consulted another doctor who advised me otherwise. “They are just hormones”, he said,” just leave it for the time being; only when you’ll be in the late 40’s, out of ten women you will be the first to have cancer”. Well, it’s in the genes, I told myself but thankful that I still have my left breast intact.

Then I had an enlargement of the thyroid gland the reason for dryness of throat and feeling of tiredness. I was again advised for a free operation on goiter. I was like Jonah whom God ordered to go to Nineveh but went to Tarshish instead. So I went to Chiropractic. He treated me and gave me a list of food to avoid. They were all my faves. He lectured on healthy living which I followed closely. I began taking carrot juice before breakfast. Nibble on vegetables and heartily enjoyed fruits and fish. I was told to stay away from meat but I ate sparingly.  After two months, the enlargement subsided and the symptoms gone.

I was not able to escape the third operation in my late 40’s. A benign tumor was found lodging on my left ovary. So I underwent a “Tab SU” short cut for a medical term which I now forgot. My doctor prescribed hormonal pills to replace what I lost but I started feeling the same pain I had before on my left breast. Contrary to the insistence of my doctor, I gave up the pills and took Soya milk regularly. I also experimented on varied fruit and vegetable juices. I tried Guyabano (Annona Muricata Linnaeus), oranges, guava, pineapple and other Filipino fruits.  I also alternately experimented juice of red bell pepper, squash, green leafy vegetables with no sugar and water, just pure juice. I was able to put under control my allergic rhinitis which was the result of my migraine before.


Guyabano as what we call it in the Philippines has a sour, creamy, citrus

flavor profile close to a combination of strawberry and pineapple.

Now I can still pursue my own creativity except with a few aches, pains and scars I brought along with me from the past. Just like the oak tree as described by Steve Nix, which stood for 300 years. In old age, “it grows fatter than usual, appears dumpy, gnarled and shows signs of decay. It is hollow inside because woodpeckers peck on its bark on summer only to dig deeper on winter. Despite this appearance it is healthy for great age, attractive and functional”. I thank God for leading me to this stage in life where I can praise Him even more.

After 65 I still have enough vitality to pursue activities that make me happy and productive.