It's Philippine cold season, the kind of cold that starts with a virus and ends a month or two later when the fever, chills, cough, and runny nose have run their course. Luckily, it can only happen in any month that starts with a letter between A and S. That's how I remember it. I figured that out during the peak of one of my feverish periods two years ago.
I caught my present cold yesterday. A half hour after I felt the scratchiness in my throat, my wife complained of a soreness in hers. I've heard that women who have lived together for a while, have their periodic cycles in sync with one another. (Is there something that links the last two sentences together? I'm not sure.)
Here is a true story about the island of Negros, just a stone's throw and about 10 miles across Tanon Straight, from where we are on Cebu Island. The Spanish invaded the Philippines in the 1500's and possessed it for about 450 years.
The inhabitants of Negros Island had a unique and ingenious way of ousting their captors. Since they had no money for weapons, they made fake ones carved from wood - rifles, canons, etc. They painted their wooden weapons and marched on the capital. When the Spanish saw them marching their way, from a distance, they immediately laid down their arms and surrendered.
How about that? I wish I could get rid of my cold that easily. I would take a placebo, label it "virus killer", swallow it with a glass of water and then wait in front of the toilet with the expectation of hearing the screams and yells of the viruses as they fled my body in a stream of pee.
Never mind.
A ritual started about two weeks ago, at our house. I'm sure it's one of those family-bonding things that the two teenage boys will remember when they are old. One evening I told them the story of the three little pigs.
The wolf, whose name was Justice, was bigger and meaner than the original, and had an awful breath from former pig-eating forays. Because of my growing, age-related confusion, other characters entered the story. Little Red Riding Hood was there, sliding in on her silver skates. The White Rabbit, dressed for tea, booked wagers at 2-to-1 odds, against the wolf, and Johnny Carson, as Carnak the Magnificent, prophesied the fate of the pigs.
B.S. flowed. The lie got bigger.
Stopping just long enough to lubricate the parch in my throat with rum and water, we finally got to the end, the part where Bilbo Baggins carved up a ham sandwich for himself in the house made of bamboo, old Chevy parts, and carabaw dung. But I had forgotten, until the boys reminded me, that the wolf was still hanging around the front door, dreaming and drooling over the possibility of a share in the ham booty. So, the wizard sent in the witch and her flying monkeys, who skewered the wolf and cooked him, live, over an open pit of charcoal designed for roasting pigs. Justice was served.
Every day since the first, the boys ask for stories. Their engrossed faces tell of the magical fascination that is a gift reserved for the young.
It makes me very happy to cater to that fascination.
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