The Consequences of Poking Around

August, 2013

Five weeks ago, Shane stuck a sharp object in her eye. The end of the bottle opener was more like a weapon of child destruction than a tool of peaceful living. She was pretending to open coke bottles when the accident occurred. Emelie and I didn't see it happen. We heard crying and saw her with her face in her hands.

Like all concerned parents, we imagined the worst and hoped for the best. It seems the former is more likely to be the result. I tested her sight yesterday by covering one eye and and asking her to identify simple objects which I held in my hand. The first clue to her lack of vision was her eye's inability to settle down and focus on the object just a few inches in front of her. Her eye roamed around this way and that as if searching for something to see. My heart dropped into a funk of sorrow at the sight of this. And then when I asked her to identify one object at a time, she only guessed and was wrong each time.

I am trying not to act too concerned around her. Her own attitude hasn't changed one iota. She is still the cheerful and happy little girl she's grown into since first coming to us. I want to cry. Is now an okay time?

The eye doctor says he sees signs of a cataract forming. He says she scratched her cornea and hit the lens but he doesn't know how much damage there is, and if it can be repaired, until the eye is healed. We've been taking her to him every Saturday to check the progress of healing.

On a positive note, there has been no infection and she won't lose the eye as long as we keep infection away with the antibiotic cream we apply every three hours.

I don't know what else to tell you. The rest of what could be said is in the realm of feelings and not facts. If you've had children, then you probably already know our sadness and angst.

However, there is one  thing I need to say. What keeps my boat afloat is the fact that Shane has remained on an even keel. If she was an adult, I would suspect that her apparent sense of well-being might be a decided cover for the sake of protecting herself, and us, from true feelings of sadness. But she has yet to learn of such deception and shows her feelings in the moment they occur.

In addition, self-pity is not a part of Shane's program. I suspect she learned to avoid this pitfall from observing my wife. A great role model in not feeling sorry for oneself, she takes life as it comes and plays an active role in her own destiny, without dwelling on the hand she is dealt.

The two of them are a marvel to me.

Four Years of Anything but Boredom

Our anniversary was yesterday. We didn't celebrate. Our plans to do so had to change. And at night, we were both too tired to run up the flag. 

Emelie is out front washing the motorcycle with shampoo, in the pouring rain. Me and Shane and the boys are listening to Frank Zappa belt out “Dirty Love” on the cheap little radio that accepts my flashdrive.

A lot has happened in the past half year. We’re living in our nearly-complete nipa house, made of wood, cement block and bamboo matting over plywood, with a nipa (thatch) roof. Nipa is from the sac sac plant. Looks like palm fronds and is held in place with heavy, nylon fishing line, tied to the bamboo strips that are nailed to roof beams.

When I left for Ohio back in February, only the footing was done. I got back last month and Emelie and the troop had already moved in. She had acquired one dog and one boy since I left. Joseph is Clyde’s best friend and 2 years younger, at 15. He came down from the hill behind us, for a temporary stay. Without an exit date, it’s hard to know the length of ‘temporary’. Anyhow, I like him and Clyde is happy to have him living with us. I’m hoping he rubs off on Clyde just a little. Clyde’s nature is a little loose and carefree. He does just enough to keep himself afloat at school and his chores are often “forgotten”. Joseph has self-discipline aplenty. He gets up early and busies himself immediately with chores: washes the few dishes from the night before; goes home to feed his chickens; washes his clothes and keeps up that pace until leaving for school.

On the other hand, it’s probably good for him to be influenced by Clyde’s wild side. I was that age once. Kids need room to stretch their imaginations and test the limits, as long as they stay safe and out of jail. I’m a firm believer in questioning authority and taking risks that occasionally might lead one outside the box of societal norms. It’s a good exercise to go against the grain once in a while and experience the consequences, when doing so is in the interest of staying true to oneself.

However, for the sake of having a smooth-running household and to instill, in Clyde (hopefully), a sense of responsibility to our extended family, I made a list of Clyde’s duties and made it clear that his ability to stay with us is primarily dependent on carrying out his duties, without reminders. He’s back on track and a real pleasure to live with. I’m glad he is with us.

When I was growing up, our family had occasions when we would laugh and sing and dance together - laugh at each other’s foolishness until our sides ached. We’d rest up and start again. It was a strong part of the glue that held us together, in a very healthy way. I guess I never gave much importance to it at the time, and only realize how good it was for us, in retrospect.

It’s a daily exercise with Emelie and Shane and me. We tickle and laugh and kiss and hug and tease each other from the moment we wake up. Shane got caught up in this ritual at an early age and often takes the lead. It truly sets the tone for our day and our lives together.

I forgot to mention the dog, When I first laid eyes on him, he was laying on the porch recuperating from the many bites on his face and back that resulted from a scrap with another dog or dogs. Today he got hit by a tricycle-taxi. He survived and has been resting up the last few hours. His wounds haven’t prevented him from sitting patiently while Shane hugs him like a wrestler and ties him up with a strap. Toytoy was the dog of Limwel, our friend and one of the guys who helped build our new house. Toytoy followed his master to work every day and hung around after Limwel went home. Emelie, who admonished me once or twice in the past not to feed dogs who don’t belong to us, started doing exactly that.

The boys and I separated the motor scooter from the side-car yesterday. It’s the time of year to make the 190 kilometer round-trip to Car Car, a suburb of Cebu City, to register our scooter. It is a beautiful drive traveling north along the coast and then through the mountains as we cross the province from west to east. It takes us between 3 and 4 hours of driving each way.

Vehicle registration is a good example of how the Philippine government flips the bird to its people. There are only two places to register in this province. One is in Cebu City and the other is just a short distance away from the first, in Car Car. Most of the people who own motorcycles use them daily as part of their business of transporting people and goods to and from their homes in the mountains. Profits are very slim and competition is great. It's a meager way to scratch out a living. The price of gas is very high, even though we are located much closer to the oil-rich suppliers than those who live in the United States.

The price of traveling to the registration office is more than a day’s wages for those who live a long way from the cities. Consequently, most guys who depend on their bikes for a living, don’t bother to register, but they run the risk of having their vehicles confiscated at a random road check, a “checkpoint”. (Most of them also lack driver's licenses, for the same reasons.)

The Land Transportation Office is cluttered with confiscated vehicles which they auction off to the public. This is a very lucrative business for the government, but unfortunately, only a misdemeanor crime compared to the many other ways the government robs from the poor to maintain the "high life" living styles of the rich families who own and run the country for their profit. The poor who are raped by this system are mostly complacent and grateful for the pittance the government sends them in the form of social welfare programs that do absolutely nothing to improve the overall lot of the people. Okay, I put away the soap box, for now.


Our little girl is spending the night with her grandma and grandpa. The house is a vacuum of silence. Shane's smiles aren't bouncing off the walls and lighting up the rooms. I'm tired. But not so much so that I couldn't hold her in my arms, tickle her, sing a few songs, rock her gently, carry on a conversation that lets me know she is always thinking and growing in awareness. It's child talk, reflecting the fresh perspective that she brings with her. There is honesty in everything she says. She doesn't hesitate to ask questions. No concern for her ignorance or its affect on others.

Sardines and Pancakes; Getting Better

I've been here in Ohio for 1 month plus, now. Came back with the hope of stopping this damn whirling around on the health/sickness wheel. I'd been having bouts of illness, of various kinds and degrees, for over a year. Couldn't seem to get out from under the curse, so it seemed. The last go-around was with a bug in my belly, and intestines. Doc said it was either a bacteria or an amoeba. I spent four days in the hospital with sugar water and antibiotics going in my veins. The food was horrendous and unhealthy: salt-laden and floating in grease - I guess it was to protect their future as healthcare providers by ensuring my return as a heart patient.

I have Cystic Fibrosis and Chronic Fatigue. Sounds a bit much, doesn't it? Kind of hard to believe? Does the word 'hypochondriac' come to mind? I know. But that ain't me. When I feel good, I'm ready to jump up and get involved, and forget that there was ever anything wrong with me. But then, with all the acute illnesses, I was beginning to wonder if I was every going to experience a healthy day again. Seems my immunity just packed up and left. I caught everything that came around, and then some. And every time I just got my foot in the doorway to good health, another bacteria or virus or allergy or god-knows-what jumped in and kicked my butt again.

In desperation, I left for home - the home of my birth, good old Massillon, Ohio - in the middle of winter. I didn't even mind the freezing temperatures.

Now I'm much better. I don't know if its because of the AHCC, beta glucans, the colloidal silver, the change of atmosphere, or getting away from that little house with all its dirt, bugs and animals infesting the crawl space between the ceiling and the roof. Lizard poop, bird remains (the lizard eats the birds that come to nest), mold, roaches and a host of microscopic thingies that hang out in that kind of joint, are just a few feet above our heads as we eat, sleep and do our daily routines. It would be naive to think that some of that stuff doesn't float down and filter through the seams in the ceiling tiles. (I sometimes see strange things in my soup that weren't intended to be part of the recipe).

But I'm on the mend. Yes sir; yes ma'am. That's the important thing. However, there's a price for my good fortune: I don't get to curl up next to my wife at night and wake up to a hug and kiss before I start the day. I don't get the little-girl kisses on my nose when I'm sleeping or the opportunity to watch her delight as she swims in the ocean, across the street.

It's okay. I feel good! And I'm  going back to my Philippine home and family in July. I'll be ready.

Oh! Sardines and pancakes? Had 'em for breakfast. Bought smoked sardines packed in maple syrup (swear to gods) at the local grocery. Pancakes was the obvious choice for accompaniment, right? The verdict? Just have to try it for yourself. Good luck! Hint: Try it with butter and keep a barf bag handy.

Corne's Store

It's a little mom-and-pop-type convenience store, owned by Cora and Ne Ne, that sits on the corner of the main road going north and south along the western coast of Cebu Island, and the little mountain road going up to Emelie's house and beyond. Cora is Emelie's cousin. Ne Ne is a relative as well. The place is usually busy, as it serves the mountain people coming to town or going home, who want load (minutes) for their cell phones, cigarettes, beer and pop and other sundries.

The store is in the front part of an old, wooden house, close to the street. The front is opened up with a half-wall going from ground level up to about 4 feet and a wooden counter on the top of it. Customers rest an elbow on the counter to order, quench their thirst, smoke or have a snack while chatting with the owners or other customers. Cigarettes can bought one at a time for a peso - about two and a half cents. Lighters hang down from the ceiling on strings over the counter. Its not unusual to see a small child standing on tiptoes, pulling herself up with one hand, while holding a peso in the other, waiting patiently to buy a piece of candy from one of the candy jars.

There are always a few folks sitting on the weathered old bench out front to watch the traffic go by, or wait for a habal habal (motorcyle-taxi) driver to take them back up the mountain.

Relatives and friends who come down from the mountain often hang out in the common room of the house and chat with whomever is there. They are always invited to eat when its meal time. Emelie and I have eaten there several times. There are a couple of bamboo couches where you can relax, get a massage from Cora's sister, Fe, drink beer, chat or take a nap. Done them all, myself. More than once.

If you find yourself standing around, you might be buying something one moment and waiting on customers the next. It's hard to know who is an employee and who is just helping out for the moment. Girlie works at the store on Tuesdays. Josephine comes with her baby when she's needed. Emelie's sister, Jane, helps when she's there, carrying her little girl, Mimi, in her arms. Any of the other relatives will lend a hand when they happen to be hanging out. It gets a little crowded at times, but Filipinos, even if they might bump into one another in close quarters, are never guilty of stepping on toes. Just part of their culture: never offend, if you can help it.

A Small Bakery, Philippine Style

I mentioned, in a previous post, about a delicious bread they call coco bread. It is made in small, mom-and- pop bakeries just about everywhere in the area. The coco bread has a fresh, coconut filling in the middle of a delicious roll.
Kneeding the dough between rollers

Well, here are some pictures of a bakery just about a kilometer from our house. The bakery takes up most of the small home of the couple who own it. The two are hard working: they both bake and take turns driving their tricycle-taxi, like the one Emelie and I use to transport ourselves and family around town, only they use theirs, picking up passengers for 7 peso a ride, to add income to the small profit they make from the bakery.*

Their cocobread is the best I've eaten from the several bakeries in the area that make the same bread.


Baking pans with rolls waiting to go into the oven
From Scratch:
The bread dough is mixed then put through rollers to kneed, then laid on a large table where the baker pulls off just the right size chunks of dough and places them on baking pans. His practiced hands move very quickly. No measuring is done but all his rolls are exactly the same size and shaped perfectly into the several kinds of rolls he is making.



Two oil drums made into an oven
When the oven is hot and the rolls are ready, the pans are put into the oven, which is made of two, fifty-five gallon drums laid down,placed side by side and surrounded by concrete blocks cemented together for support and insulation.Dried sticks of wood are fed into the cavity under the ovens, on ther right-hand side. After 30 years of baking bread, the baker knows just how much wood to use to get the oven to operating temperature. No thermometer is used, either. The temperature is adjusted only by how much wood he feeds into the oven's bottom. And he pulls the bread from the oven whenever he thinks it is time, without using a  timer.




Halfway through the baking process, the rolls are removed and the pans are turned around 180 degrees, for even baking, because the ovens do not heat evenly throughout. The red dot in the center of each roll distinguishes the coco bread from other filled rolls of the same shape. These are starting to look pretty darn good!





The finished product : Coco bread!



Well, here is the fresh-baked coco bread, hot and delicious. Just wonderful with a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. Three is my minimum and maximum. Never less, never more.

Hats off to the Filipinos who are small business owners, like the man and woman who own this bakery. Their profit margin is slim, yet they work all day long, seven days a week to support their families.

*At the request of the owners, I have not mentioned their names.