Thankful For The Ride

How Do You Gift Wrap Love?

2011-12-27T14:06:00.000-08:00

Christmas season is my favorite time of the year. It makes me sweetly nostalgic for my childhood, deeply grateful for my present life and blessings, and hopeful for the future. One of the things I enjoy most about Christmas is gift-giving. Alan and I usually "divide the labor" and worry about gifts for certain people on our joint-list. We also usually shop separately for the ones on our list we are responsible for. But I always end up with the gift-wrapping part. More often than not, I do all the gift wrapping. I don't mind. I enjoy gift wrapping! One of the things I've taught my kids through the years, more by example than by words, is that gift-wrapping is important. It is the final touch of love you put into the act of gift-giving. Sometimes I wish I can give those I love a more expensive gift, but my bank account does not always allow that. The act of gift-wrapping, however, does not cost much ( I use whatever I have available), just a little extra time (no rushing!) and a little bit of extra care (don't be sloppy!). So I always, no matter the gift, try to put extra love into a present I give away by giving the gift-wrapping thought and care. Nothing spectacularly fancy, just some tender, loving effort. Honestly, I would like to think the receiver would notice it and appreciate the fact that even though the gift is simple, a lot of thought and love went into it. Then they'll know that it wasn't given out of obligation, or just to check it off my list. Here's a couple of the gifts I wrapped this year.

My DAUGHTER has always paid attention and has always been a quick learner. Occasionally, though, I am still amazed at how much she heeds her Mommy on most things. It's just that sometimes I think my kids don't have use for some of the things I tell them to do. So I am occasionally surprised when I see them doing things the way I have taught them. I consider it a great compliment and an act of love when my girl does things the way she learned it from me. I am actually rather proud of her because she is now doing a lot of things better than I do. Here's a couple of the presents my girl wrapped this year. You can tell she took a lot care and extra effort just like I've taught her. How can I not just love her!

As for my SON, ---well, he is a boy after all, so enough said? I expect a lot on other important things, but not so much with dainty-girlie things like gift wrapping. I'm grateful enough that he doesn't walk around the house burping and tootering and being a gross caveman, like I forbid. But with things like gift-wrapping, I often just give him a pass. So "what a surprise to my eyes when it appears" under my tree this year, a present from him to me gift wrapped with care! I didn't say it was gift wrapped pretty, just that it was gift wrapped with care! My baby boy made an extra effort when gift wrapping his present for me! Yes, he did. A gift wrapped in a son's love! *sniffle* Here's what it looked like:

I concede it was NOT the prettiest gift-wrapping job under the tree, but it was ONE OF THE LOVELIEST! My baby boy loved his Mommy enough to show that he listens and he values things I care about. Somehow the oddly tied bow was one of the most beautiful things I've seen this Christmas. What a great gift to receive! And, oh,...what was inside the wrapping was also perfect!

My favorite perfumed lotion "Beautiful by Estee Lauder". A simply BEAUTIFUL Christmas. I am thankful for the ride!

Haloween Weekend With High School Friends

2011-11-14T14:33:00.001-08:00

Life is full of really serious stuff. Living is really serious business for sure. But occasionally I find it super-beneficial to my psyche to get together with girl friends from my youth, and with them be young girls all over again. Just let our hair down and be silly and giggly and carefree just like back in the days when we were sixteen. Back when all the really serious life stuff, heartbreaks included, were still ahead of us and much of what we worried about -- school, and homework and clothes and shoes and makeup and boys--- seem so trivial now. Yet once in awhile how awesome is it for weary bones and minds to be trivial and shallow and silly again? To laugh with good friends, celebrate our long-lasting ties and collectively cherish our present blessings, and continue to make memories? I am grateful for friends, for youthful years that I can fondly look back at, and for a husband and kids who allow me to occasionally indulge in childish escapes. I am thankful for my life and I am thankful for the ride!

Another 365 Days Around The Sun and Thankful for The Ride!

2011-09-28T00:05:00.000-07:00

My Papa and I on my very first birthday! Don't I look weird in this picture? But I'm glad I was able to save this picture of me and my Papa, who looks happy to be the dad of a one-year-old.

My very first birthday party. It was at my grandparents' house because they had a bigger front room and a bigger yard for little kids to run around in. We had cake, ice cream and sugar cookies. The guests were the kids of family friends. My Auntie Genia (in white polka dots) is holding me. My Lolo Ecor is in the background. Birthday parties were always a family affair.

Joined by big kids in my playpen during my first birthday party. I had 3 new pretty dresses for my birthday :-) One for going to church and taking pictures with my father with, one to eat ice cream and cake with which the adults anticipated to be soiled, and then they changed me into the one I was to wear for the rest of the party :-) I wish someone would pay for me to have frequent wardrobe changes these days :-)

My third birthday party! It was also still at my grandparents' house. Sister Marle is to my right, brother Jessor is to my left in the nanny's arms (I can't remember her name now). My grandmother Lola Peling is urging me to smile. My guests were playmates from the neighborhood, children of family friends.

Time to open my presents. Finally a smile! The party is getting fun now. Sister Marle is my present-opening helper :-) Can you believe how tight my natural curls were when I was little? I was called Curly Top by the other kids when I was in grade school.

Making my birthday wish before blowing the candles. I look like I'm taking the wish-thing very seriously. There were a lot kids and guests so I had 4 birthday cakes. The last one was saved just so I could have a blowing-the-birthday-candle picture :-) Seated next to me is my special guest, pre-school days best friend and neighbor Grace. Looking back through the years I can't help but think that

...From the very start it has been and continues to be a beautiful life. I am thankful for my many blessings.
I am thankful for the ride!

Under The Wax Apple Tree

2011-09-25T00:05:00.002-07:00

UNDER THE WAX APPLE TREE: My grandfather Angel Tagalog Pepito is seated in the middle. Standing from left to right: my mother's half-brother Tio Siso (Narciso: he is blind not just closing his eyes), my step-grandmother Lola Ilya (Basilia Yuson), my mother holding my baby sister Maries, and my father. The kids in front are: Me (the girl in a hat staring straight at the camera), my sister Marle in front of my grandfather, and my brother Jessor.

Things I remember about my grandfather, Angel Tagalog Pepito, and his home...

· He lived in a big Spanish-occupation-era house in Cotcot, Liloan. You couldn't miss the house. It was the biggest house in the village at that time. There was a "tambis" tree in his yard with waxy pink fruit. When in season the tree would be covered in pink and older Pepito cousins would climb the tree to gather "tambis" by the bowlfuls so we could partake and enjoy. There was also an old water well in the front yard. A few yards behind my grandpa's house were the banks of the Hubay(?) River. We were not allowed near the well or the river unless an adult accompanied us.

· In my memories my grandfather is always smiling. That's how I remember him: always with a tender smile. He wasn't the fun kind of grandpa. He didn't tease us or play with us. He even hardly ever talked to us. That's just how it was in my mother's family. Kids were treated like very valuable well-cared for belongings, not miniature people. Still I grew up thinking my grandfather was a kind and loving grandfather because of the gentle way he smiled at me.

· I remember my mother telling us that when she was a young girl my grandfather was a "barrio captain" (the village leader). I learned that back in my grandfather's time before the Americans occupied the Philippines and introduced "democracy" it was not an elected position but an inherited ruling position. I also learned that at least 5 of the documented mayors of Liloan starting from the Spanish era (1800's) were from the Pepito family.

· Lolo Ang-nge was rather plump and had Chinese eyes (he was of Chinese ancestry) so as a child I thought he was Buddha-like, and since Buddha figurines were a good thing during my childhood, supposedly bringing good fortune when you have one in your home, I automatically revered my grandfather.

· My grandfather at one time owned the village store and restaurant. It was not really a restaurant in the American sense but more like a truck-stop diner. My mother said she and her brothers had to wake up at 4 am to help at the store and/or diner and do chores before they went to school. I'm glad she didn't make us do the same :-)

· My grandfather was the very first one in his village to buy a radio back when it was still a new fangled thing in the Philippines. Neighbors were welcomed to gather in my grandfather's house to listen to the radio. My mother said their front room would be full of neighbors, overflowing into the veranda (porch), sitting on the stairs, and on benches in the front yard. My grandfather graciously threw his windows wide open and turned up the dial so the villagers who did not make it inside the house could hear and share in the enjoyment of radio dramas, music and other programs.

· Lolo Angel enjoyed "sabong" (cock-fighting) which until now is considered a national sport and a gambling event in the Philippines. He raised "sunoys"(roosters/cocks) for cock-fighting.I remember on several occasions many men gathering in his front yard for impromptu "sabong" matches. My mother did not allow us to watch but somehow sometimes I managed to sneak a peek. I saw big, handsome "sunoys" with sharp razor blades attached to their leg battle to the death. It was very disturbing. When my grandpa's "sunoy" lost then it became our supper. I refused to eat then. But I'm sure there were many times I unknowingly ate a fallen "sunoy".

· I remember my mother telling us that my grandfather was well-known for having a brain like a modern calculator. He could do complex Math in his head fast without any error. People also trusted him for his honesty. I remember merchants and traders come to my grandpa's house before sunset to settle accounts. His house had what seemed to me like an enormous front room and there were seating areas with tables and chairs by the tall front windows. They'd sit next to one of the windows in front of piles of cash, and do accounting, without any calculator! And somehow at the end of it all everyone ended up happy with whatever payments/settlements were arrived at.

· I remember my grandfather always having sacks of produce stacked against a wall in his dining room: fruits and vegetables from my grandfather's farms. He didn't work his farms but he had tenants and in addition to rent he received a portion of the produce from the farmers. I remember mostly mangoes, and corn, and coconut. Maybe this memory stands out because I spent a lot of time in my grandparent's dining room. It had a long table, long enough so the kids sat on one end, and the adults on the other end and were not bothered by whatever was happening on the kids' end. Our "yah-yah" (nanny) or a young adult aunt or cousin would sit on our end to mind us. I also remember the big windows all across the wall on the other side of the room. It was always nice in that room even in the midst of a tropical summer, with the cool breeze from the river behind my grandfather's property cooling the room. I also have freeze-frame memories of a glass cabinet in that room, and inside were cups and saucers and stuff not for everyday use because they were supposedly valuable heirlooms. I assume they went to my step grandma's side of the family after she died.

When my grandparents passed away, Angel Junior inherited the house. He tore the house down and had a smaller but more modern house built on the site. I remember feeling sad, but I was just a kid. Nobody asked kids in my days about these things. To be honest, I think it's a shame really that they destroyed the old house instead of just restoring it and modernizing it a bit. As I grow older I've learned to appreciate more and more my memories of that house under the wax apple tree. I felt a little sad when a few years ago I visited what is now my uncle's home with my husband and kids. It didn't seem at all like the spot from my childhood. It just seemed like another generic Westernized house in a barrio in the Philippines. Except the water well was still there. And, of course, the old wax apple tree still stood, a humble and unspectacular tree, still bearing sweet goodness in the form of tambis (wax apples). Kind of like my grandfather and his legacy I think, carrying on and hopefully still bearing good fruit through his posterity. Even though the house under the wax apple tree and the people in that house whom I knew and loved are gone, they live on through me and my siblings and cousins, and hopefully through our children and their children.

Angels, Psycho-Monkey and A Blind Man

2011-09-22T00:05:00.000-07:00

My mother's side of the family have many rather quirky and colorful characters among them. I've always said that someday when I write a book my grandfather's house and some of the people I met while there and the things that happened there will inspire the events and characters I will create for my book. That part of my heritage also abounds with interesting tidbits of fact. For instance, my mother's parents were ANGELS married to each other. Their names were Angel and Angela! (My daughter born the day after my grandpa's birthday carries the middle name Angela) Although I practically grew up with my father's side of the family I remember visiting my maternal grandfather's house quite frequently as a child. Not just on weekends on our way to the beach, but on other occasions separate from our beach excursions.

My grandfather Angel (Lolo Ang-nge) lived in a big, airy Spanish occupation-era house, not far from the beach in a village called Cotcot (pronounced in Cebuano Coot-coot). He lived there with my mother's stepmother, who I practically consider my grandmother Lola Ilya (Basilia Yuson), and their son, my mom's half-brother Tio Siso (Narciso). My real grandmother Angela died when my mother was a baby, so I never met her.

This picture, courtesy of Google Images, is not a picture of my Grandfather's house (my uncle had it torn down after my grandparents died), but if you take this house and set it on several acres of land, surround it with coconut tress, and tear down the stone walls from the ground floor so you can see thick wooden stilts, then put rows of chicken houses with hens laying eggs, and next to the chicken houses pigs, and cows, and roosters, and goats, and sometimes horses all living under the second floor then it would be a replica of my grandfather's house. My grandfather used to own acres of farmland and the town's bus-stop cafe' by the main road, but he was also a livestock merchant, who raised and traded animals for slaughterhouses and butchers, hence all the animals under his house and the surrounding yard. As a child I knew I wasn't going into the family business when I grow up because except for the little chicks and piglets I didn't feel comfortable being so close to the animals, and I thought they stank.

My least favorite of all the animals on my granfather's property had nothing to do with his livestock business. It was a pet MONKEY. A very crabby, obnoxious monkey. The monkey hung out (no pun) on the wax apple (tambis) tree which grew right at the foot of the stairs that go up to my grandfather's house. He was chained to a bamboo pole that ran from the branches of the tree to one of the windows of the house so the monkey could easily scoot over the pole from the house to the tree and back. I think that the stupid monkey must have been a country snob and hated my mother's kids. He was fine with the country cousins, but whenever my brothers and sisters and I arrived to visit from our home in the city, the monkey would screech like heck and throw its body around, and make like he wanted to kill us. My Grampa would tell it to cut it out, but I know for sure if no adults were looking he'd had bolted for me to tear me to pieces, because he was always looking at me like I was the most hateful thing. Fine with me because I hated his ugly face back. The problem was the pole hung right above the stairs, so if you want to enter my Grampa's house you had to get past the psychotic monkey. Whenever I walked up the stairs he'd swing down by its tail, hang over the stairs and tried to grab my hair! I was convinced Psycho-Monkey wanted to tear the scalp off my head if only his chains didn't hold him back! He terrified the be-jeebers out of me. There was no way the adults could have convinced me he was just being playful. I. HATED. THAT. MONKEY.

I think my mother knew Psycho-Monkey hated her kids, too. I heard her complaining to my Lolo about the critter several times. My Lolo would be sympathetic but couldn't--wouldn't-- do anything about it. The reason: Psycho-Monkey belonged to my mother's younger half-brother, Tio Siso, my uncle who was completely blind from birth. Yes, I had a blind uncle, who everybody felt sorry for and tried hard to indulge and please. And, yes, Psycho-Monkey was his beloved pet, so the monkey stayed. After all, how could you begrudge a blind man his consolation and solace even if you have to sacrifice innocent children at the altar of a psychotic monkey? Seriously. Oh, well, it all turned out for the best. I bet I became one of the quick, agile kids who never got picked last, or even close to last, when choosing players for playground teams thanks to the pre-school "training" I got at my Grampa's house. I learned to be fast, well-coordinated, and able to fly up and down stairways as if I had super powers just to avoid dying from the hands of a psychotic primate. All I had to do to out run and outwit a playground opponent was to imagine he/she was Psycho-Monkey. Maybe acceptance on the playground helped me develop my confidence and gave me some advantage in life. So whether I like it or not I may have a monkey among those I have to thank for the person I became! :-)

Real Men Know Cars

2011-09-20T00:05:00.000-07:00

My grandfather is holding Baby Vicvic (Me) in his arms in this picture taken in front of their house on D. Jakosalem Street. Also in this picture is my grandmother Pelagia Canaya Panon (Lola Peling), and my teen-age aunts: Virginia (Auntie Genia) and Libertad (Mama Ibby). The little girl with us is Carmel, my god-sister. Funny how everybody in this picture looks grumpy except for my grandparents :-)

Shortly after the end of the second world war my grandfather Cornelio Malagar Cuyos opened his own automobile repair shop, or "vulcanizing shop" in the Ramos area, in mid-town Cebu City. He established a good reputation as a car mechanic and his shop prospered for many years. However, the shop and my grandfather's house was later destroyed in a fire that razed down an entire neighborhood. Unfortunately, for one reason or another he wasn't insured. My grandfather was never ever able to rebuild his shop, but because of his reputation many customers continued to seek out his services, and he continued to make a decent living as an auto mechanic. As far as I know my grandfather enjoyed being elbow deep in the greasy belly of a "sick" car. He loved what he did for a living. Maybe that explained why he was a happy man and was a pleasant, easy-going man whom everybody liked. No matter where I went when people learned I was Cornelio's grand-daughter the repeated comment was always, "Your grandfather is such a good man. Just a real nice, pleasant man."

This is me, about a year old, on a swing my grandfather built for me and hang on the mansanitas tree in his yard. I loved this swing! I only look unhappy in this picture because I didn't like the hired professional photographer sticking a camera in my face telling me to smile. :-)

Without a shop my grandfather's yard became a wonderland of broken-down cars waiting to be fixed. My brother Jessor and I often played in the cars pretending to be cab or jeepney drivers picking up fare. My grandfather and his sons, my father included, knew car engines and were often nearby working together under the hood of a car. I remember thinking as a kid that sweat mixed with car oil and grease is how real men smell! :-) and that if you can't fix a car then you're not a real man:-).Then I went to college and started getting hoity and all white-collar on my family. I even married someone who has to pay for an oil change! (Although I think my husband is a real man. Right, honey? :-) Anyway---)

I spent most of my childhood at my grandfather's house. My brother and sisters and I walked over most days and slept over during summer breaks and holidays. My mother actually often had to come over to her in-laws house just to see her children, and when she made us go home we'd usually burst into tears. We were always welcomed at my grandparents' home. They raised nine children (7 boys and 2 girls), and never seemed to mind the chaos and noise that we brought.

I think we preferred to be at my grandfather's house because there were just more fun things going on there. There were broken cars to play in and out of, trees to climb, dogs to pet (my grandma liked dogs), relatives and neighbors dropping by all day to visit and gossip, teen-age aunts and uncles and their cousins with their cool teen-ager stuff, and all sorts of comings and goings, etc. all day. It also helped that my grandparents were easy-going with rules.

My grandfather was a man of few words (very much like my son AJ), very even-tempered (like AJ), and didn't trouble himself very much with unimportant stuff like punishment. He actually only had one rule that I ever got into trouble for: "Receive food with gratitude and never ever complain and criticize." My grandfather worked hard to support his family so he believed that food no matter how simple or badly prepared is grace from God and should be eaten with reverence and gratitude. It was a big offense against my grandfather to complain about the food served at his dinner table. Crying at the dinner table was unacceptable. How could anyone cry in front of so much blessing? So it was either shut up and eat or leave the table. I often was a repeat offender (Surprise!). But I was never left to go hungry. I was always fed after I apologized.

This is a picture of a passenger jeepney (courtesy of Google Images). This is a form of public transportation in the Philippines. My Lolo Ecor fixed many of these as an automobile mechanic.

Among my most quietly joyful of memories were of early mornings with my Lolo. My grandparents were crack-of-dawn, up and at'em kind of people. They thought it was bad luck to let the sun rise before you do, so they and their kids were up before sunrise. Fortunately for some reason grand children were exempt. But occasionally my brother Jessor and I would wake up early and that was exciting. Lolo Ecor usually took cars he was currently working on for test runs very early before rush hour traffic. If we woke up before he left then we got to go on a fun drive with him. If he was test-driving a jeepney he'd pick up passengers for one round-trip route and he'd let me and Jessor be his "conductors". The passengers would play along and give us their fare and tell my grandfather what "good conductors" he had. After we dropped off the last fare, Lolo Ecor would reward us for a job well-done and take me and Jessor to get hot cakes and hot chocolate from a sidewalk eatery. Ah, my favorite breakfast as a child, on my favorite kind of mornings, with one of my favorite people: my grandfather. Joy is what I feel when I reflect on this nugget of memory. I hope it will never be taken away from me no matter how old and feeble my mind becomes.

This is me with my 72-year old Lolo Ecor at my college graduation.
I honored my grandfather by selecting him to be the "parent" to pin my medal for graduating at the top of my class (Cum Laude). He got to sit in the VIP row for parents of students graduating with distinction. The gesture was to let him know that even though I was now on my way to my white-collar future, I was and will always be proud of my blue-collar automobile mechanic grandfather. He seemed happy and proud on this night.

Lolo Ecor: A Birthday Remembrance To My Hero

2011-09-16T00:05:00.000-07:00

Today, September 16 is my Grandfather Cornelio Malagar Cuyos' birthday. I called him Lolo Ecor. He is until now one of the very few men I truly, and sincerely esteem and hold in high regard.

This is me in Lolo Ecor's arms, at a community chapel during a barrio fiesta. My Grandmother (Lola Peling) and my aunts were very active in the social events in the community. They liked taking me to their events to show off the grand baby. But I got tired and cranky way before the showing-off was done. My grandfather often rescued me and took me home. This picture was taken during such a rescue. Can you tell I was an unhappy camper? :-)

My Lolo Ecor is gone now. He passed away in 1990, a few months after my firstborn son Christopher passed away, and a few months before my father passed away. Annus Horribilis. It really was in the truest, deepest sense. But let's get back to talking about my beloved grandfather.

I was very close to my Grandfather Cuyos and his side of the family. Our house was walking distance to their house when I was a kid allowing me to spend time with them as often as I wanted which was all the time even on school days. So it was only natural that I developed a close relationship with my Lolo Ecor and Lola Peling, and established a bond that will last forever.

These are some of the things I know about my grandfather, Cornelio Malagar Cuyos.

My grandfather was of mixed ancestry. I was told that his father, my great grandfather Sergio Cuyos was a short–statured, dark-skinned Filipino. But he must have been at the very least a charming man because he won the heart of my grandfather's mother, Irenea Pilapil Malagar, the daughter of a Spaniard and a town beauty. My great grandmother passed away long before I was born so I have never seen her, and whatever pictures and mementos my grandfather had of her were destroyed in a house fire. But I met her youngest sister, Lola Kisya (Lucresia) and I was told she resembled my great grandmother a lot. She had mestiza (half-breed) features, with her big Spanish nose, light skin, and light eyes (Her house also burned down after her death, destroying old photographs and memorabilias of my ancestors). I was always told by everyone that she and my great grandmother were socialites and local beauty queens in their youth. I do suspect the beauty attributed to them were largely due to "colonial mentality". Back in the oldens days or maybe not-so-olden-days-Philippines, the half-breeds were considered gorgeous. Filipinos call it “colonial mentality”, the attitude that the colonizers are better than the colonized including their physical attributes. So I just always assumed when people told me my great grandmother Irenea and her sister, my Lola Kisya, were hometown beauties it was because of “colonial mentality.”

This is 2-year old me on Lola Kisya's lap at the beach. She is my great-grandmother's sister. Her father,my Lolo Ecor's grandfather was a Spaniard. She was in her 60's when this picture was taken. As a former beauty queen and socialite she is used to being photographed. You can tell that even as an elderly lady she was still fashionable in her old-lady-swimwear and knew how to sit for the camera. She loved to attend community social events. She often coached me on how to carry myself at these events. My grandfather was close to Lola Kisya so she was a part of my life, and even met Alan after we got engaged.

Even though I attribute my great-grandmother and her sister's beauty queen status to “colonial mentality” when people said my grandfather was a handsome man, and I was told so repeatedly throughout my life, I was biased and totally agreed. He had a strong masculine face, with prominent cheekbones, an angular jaw, strong chin and hazel eyes. One of the very first times in my life that I became aware that my grandfather was considered good-looking was as a kid attending a barrio fiesta with my family. A couple of matronly ladies kept staring at me, and complimented me for my light skin and curly hair. My mother who has Chinese toned skin and totally straight hair explained to the ladies that I took after my grandfather. They asked who my grandfather was and when my mother told them, they started squealing and gushing like a bunch of silly school girls. They explained that they went to the same high school as my Lolo Ecor and they had the biggest crush on him and wanted to marry him. One lady said, and I clearly remember: ”Your grandfather was the best looking boy in school! (*Sigh*) I was in-love with him!” Gross! I thought. Old ladies should not be talking about my grandfather that way. But later as I grew older I understood and found it amusing that such dignified elderly women reverted into their silly teen-age state at the mention of my grandfather’s name. :-)

The Cuyos family is from the town of Daan Bantayan, on the north end of the island of Cebu; but my grandfather raised his family in mid-town Cebu City, on D. Jakosalem Street. Lolo Ecor supported his wife and 9 children as an automobile mechanic. The Philippines was a U.S. Commonwealth before World War II and my grandfather worked as a civilian auto mechanic/driver for the Americans. When war broke out, and America surrendered the Philippines to Japan, and the Japanese occupation started, my grandfather joined the guerrilla (resistance) movement, leaving his young family behind for extended periods of time. My father who was not even a teen-ager yet was responsible for taking care of his mother and younger brothers and sister (Libertad) while my grandfather was gone to war.

My Aunt Libertad (Mama Libby) told us that our grandfather lent his skills as a mechanic to the resistance movement and transported fighters under combat conditions during the war. He contributed his part to the liberation of the Philippines, and this made Cornelio a hero in my eyes. And like many heroes of his generation, he never ever spoke of the war. Most of the exciting war stories told in my family where from those who stayed home: stories of air raids, bombs exploding in neighborhoods killing families and the utter devastation of Cebu City. Nothing from my grandfather about the battlefield. I don't even know what his political opinion was on President Truman reneging on the American promise of benefits to Filipino fighters by signing the Recission Act of 1946. America poured millions of dollars to rebuild Japan the "enemy", but gave zero dollars to the Filipinos who fought along with the Americans to win the war, which my generation considers an insult. But not a word from Lolo Ecor to us on this topic ever. I was told he never even applied for benefits because he didn't think he deserved it since he wasn't officially an enlisted soldier. Obviously, he did not help the war effort to get benefits. Maybe he did it because he loved his country but I can't quote him because he never explained. All I know is that the greatest generation is not exclusive to America! Men all over the world fought with the Allies in World War II not because it was their duty as soldiers, or were compensated, or they materially benefited, but because they loved freedom. A generation of heroes. And I'm proud to say my grandfather was from that generation.

I have so many fond memories of my grandfather, a man that for many reasons, I have the deepest affection for and hold in awe. I will talk more about my Lolo Ecor and my warm memories of him, as a grandfather, in a later post.

Always A Lady In Waiting, Never The Queen

2011-09-12T00:05:00.000-07:00

If you have not read the reason for this self-absorbed post :-), you can read it HERE:

Me (behind the microphone) as a "courtier" attending to

"Her Royal Highness Queen Antoinette I" :-) little fiesta queen
and daughter of my mother's best friend from her youth.

Barrio Fiestas (community festivals) and the Fiesta Queen Coronation Night were a big part of my childhood. Every year communities all over predominantly Catholic Philippines put on a week long celebration and hold a festival in honor of its patron saint. Visitors from out of town are expected and most homes prepare a feast for the visitors. My paternal grandparents' community had all sorts of events during the week, but among my family's favorites were the nightly dances and the basketball tournaments. My extended family loved going to the games especially the ones my two youngest uncles played at. After the games I tagged along my young aunts and their cousins at the dances. I got to stay up late, eat junk food, and goof around with the other kids, while the teen-agers/twenty-somethings who were supposed to be minding us were busy dancing and flirting :-). The main event at these fiestas, however, happening on the final night of the festival was the coronation of the fiesta queen.

The fiesta queen coronation is staged like a beauty pageant, but it is more like a money-pageant. It is in reality a fund-raiser, not a search for the fairest of all. Weeks before the festival community leaders approach prominent families in the community and ask for their daughters to be entered in the pageant. The families then raise money for the community, and the entrant with the most money raised by the deadline date becomes the fiesta queen. All the other entrants become the princesses/courtiers and march during the coronation ceremony.

This is me when I was about 5 or 6 years old dressed up for fiesta coronation night ceremony.

The coronation night was a big night for the girls. It's like an all-out princess costume dress up night, when young girls wore make-up, pretty gowns and little tiaras. We were assigned royal escorts, usually the sons of parents' friends, and we marched to music in a procession towards the stage as the crowd looked on. As a kid I used to feel bad that I never got to be queen! My parents were asked several times to enter me in the pageant, but they always declined. They said they didn't have the funds or enough rich associates to raise the kind of money expected. My parents' and grandparents' friends, however, entered their daughters and when they won, they were nice and asked my parents to let me join the "royal court" as the lady-in-waiting. My parents then said yes. What?!!!! So I don't get to be queen, but get to be the help?!!!! Once I peevishly, and immaturely, complained to my mother about it. She explained that our family just didn't have the kind of money to give away for fund-raising just so I could be make-believe queen. I was told to just be glad I was a "courtier". It was expensive enough to get me all dolled-up. So despite all the pouting I could muster I never was princess or queen.

This was me, when I was about 8, holding the crown for the fiesta queen during coronation night. Our neighbor's son, Leo was my escort.

As "lady in waiting" I had to carry the queen's crown or hold her train during the ceremony. My grandfather's aunt, Lola Kisya, a former fiesta queen in her days, and my aunts coached me on how to walk, hold my head up like I was all that, smile confidently at the celebrity guests, and not drop the crown. I swear I was better coached than the many queens I "waited" on. Usually there was a musical program and long speeches while I just stood there holding the crown all princessy until the guest celebrities take the crown from me and put it on the queen's head.

Being "lady-in-waiting" sometimes gave me a complex. I felt "less" than the other girls because I wasn't the fiesta queen. Instead I was maid to the fiesta queen. Ouch! But I was a child and didn't know it wasn't wise to spend money on social status. I also didn't appreciate the fact that many little girls in the crowd would not have minded being where I was, all dolled-up like a princess and part of a pretend royal-court. Oh, well--- despite my gripe I was a really good lady in waiting. I remember getting grumpy now and again before coronation ceremony, mad about not being queen, but once the spotlight and the music were turned on, I put my game face on and did my part to have a great show.

Hahaha! Shaking it to 60's a-go-go music! :-)

Me and my escort tearing up the dance floor during the coronation ball.

After the coronation was the fiesta ball. The royal court initiated it with the first dance, the waltz, which my partner and I got coached on days before by Lola Kisya and my aunts. Then it was real dancing at which I was a natural I think,--haha! My escort and I were usually a big hit with the crowd :-) because we were often among the youngest "courtiers" and, by default the cutest :-).

I am actually quiet fond of these memories. It helped in my socialization. I enjoyed dressing up and I liked all the pageantry and ceremony despite it being all so cheesy really. Now that I look back with grown up eyes, I see that it doesn't at all matter in my present that I was never queen in my past. Afterall, it's not whether you get to wear the crown on coronation day, but how you are treated everyday. I'm happy to say that my forever-after handsome escort/husband treats me like THE queen always. :-)

P.S. Since fiestas were festivals for Catholic patron saints, we stopped actively participating after my family was converted to the LDS church during my early teen years. We went to fiestas occasionally as guests, not participants.

Beach Baby, Island Girl

2011-09-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

If you have not read the reason for this self-absorbed post :-), you can read it HERE:

First reunion with my family after I left home and got married. This was in 1990. This picture was taken at Marigondon Beach (not Liloan) on Mactan Island, Cebu. Left to right: Jessor, Jessin, Jerome, Papa, Mama, Maries, Marle and Marivic (Me).

I like to tell people I come from the Hawaii of the Philippines. Sort of. Cebu City, the second most significant metropolitan center in the Philippines, is on a tiny island and has many world-class beaches. Back in my time and maybe even now, only the rich, or international tourists could afford access to the best beach resorts. But lucky for me my mom's family is from a beach town, Cotcot, Liloan. Not a hoity-toity tourist destination back when I was a kid, but a quiet, rural town with nice beaches, popular with the locals. That's where I spent almost every weekend of my childhood from as early as I can remember, on a beach in Lilo-an near my maternal grandfather's house.

That's baby Me in the dark swimsuit crying and being consoled by my aunts. The other crying baby is my neighbor-playmate during my pre-school years, Grace. Apparently, we didn't like being dipped in salty sea water at first :-)

Almost each weekend, my family and my Dad's city folks would pile in on rented jeepneys and drive to my mother's hometown to see her family and spend the day on the beach. My Mama would pack meat from our butcher's shop and all kinds of food for a beach party. My Papa and the other men would set up a grill on the beach and cook: steaks, home-made sausages (langonisa/chorizo), chicken, fish, corn, and we'd eat them with posu (hanging rice). There would be laughter, music and lots of San Miguel beer for the adults (this was before my parents converted to Mormonism and abstained forever from alcoholic drinks). The other kids and I kept ourselves busy swimming, playing on the sand and in the water. We'd eat whenever we're hungry, and drink bottles of Royal Tru-Orange; sometimes young cousins would fight, cry and throw tantrums, but most of the times we had the time of our lives. I HAVE VERY FOND MEMORIES OF THIS TIME IN MY CHILDHOOD.

The toddler in this photo is me around 2 years of age determinedly holding on to my bottle of Royal Tru-Orange. With me are my Dad's teen-age cousins Ate Agnes, Kuya Tazar, and Kuya Iyo, seated in front. Kuya Iyo became a hair dresser/make-up artist, can you tell? :-) He was a fun cousin.

You'd think I won't miss Cebu beaches as much living in California. But the beaches in Cebu are different. The water is warm and since Cebu is an island surrounded by other islands the water is calm, not cold and surfy like it is here. I still enjoy going to see the ocean here in the U.S., of course. It's great that the family I married into likes going to San Clemente every couple of years or so, then I get to have my beach-fix that way. I love it when we spend a week or so in San Clemente (which I'm doing my birthday this year!) because I've always associated happy times with the beach when I was growing up.

After my maternal grandfather died (when I was 9), we went to the beach less, a couple of times a month instead of every weekend, then eventually just in the summer. When we joined the Mormon church we went even less frequently because we got busy with church callings and my parents got strict about Sabbath observance, and it got too expensive to party every weekend with the state of the economy under Ferdinand Marcos then Philippine president & dictator. When I was an older teen-ager we became just like most families, we went to the beach only when there's special occasions or other excuses for a beach party. But I'll always be glad for the memories of early childhood weekends spent on the beach, and for a mother who made it happen. Whenever I need to go to a "happy place" in the challenging journey through life, I'd think of this time of my childhood, and no matter what's bugging me I always feel better. It's truly been a real blessing to have this mental "happy place" that is my own and that no one can take away ever.

Me when I was about 5 or 6 with my brother Jessor in front of my dad's brother Tio Junior, sister Marle on Tia Bebe's lap, and my Dad behind me.

P.S. Most of the pictures I will be using for the series will be of me as a young child. In 2003 a flash flood submerged our family's house in Cebu in 6 feet of water, destroying many of my family's belongings including old photographs. The only pictures that survived are the few I just happen to take with me when I left home in 1985, and a handful that my mother took with her to America when she immigrated in 1992.

This September Is All About Me!

2011-08-30T00:52:00.000-07:00

Please forgive me because I am about to be blatantly self-absorbed and self-indulgent. Recently I have been very nostalgic and recollective (is that a word?) of my past. I am beginning to be more and more aware of how little many people who now care about me, and even call me family, really know about the world which shaped me. Even my own children are in a sense strangers to my past. That part of my life, by virtue of it's distance in space rather than time, and because it's culturally foreign, is for the most part largely unfamiliar to those in my present, and extremely different from their own experiences. Hence, most people I've known after 1985 do not have a point of reference for understanding me or judging me fairly, even if they think they do.

This is a self-portrait I submitted for an assignment in my college Photography class. I was 18 years old and was such a wanna-be--haha! I wanted to say pictorially that I was a mystery:-). So cheesy. But believe it or not, my Photography professor selected it as one of the few student submissions he used for a Photography Show and Exhibit.

Recently, my boss light-heartedly told a roomful of people during a work meeting how amazed he is to discover that after years of perceiving me as "very proper and conservative" I turned out to actually be "a complex person with surprising layers to my personality." I almost felt like an onion after he said this--haha! He said this because he saw the playlist on my iPod and was very surprised that it didn't match the Marivic he thought he knew! But to be fair, his perception and judgment of me was based only on what I have chosen to share---my best foot forward, of course! I'm just really rather selective with what I choose to share about my past or present even to those in my extended family. Besides one just doesn't start telling people about their personal history for no apparent reason.

Well, it just so happens that this September coming up offers me a reason/excuse to do it. A milestone birthday is happening and it's either going to be really special or traumatic. Oi! So I was thinking in case it's the latter to do some preemptive self-therapy, which requires talking about myself :-). I will try to peel off some layers and talk about things in my early life that shaped who I am today. It's probably a good time to do this anyway before Father Time afflicts me with memory loss, before the snapshots of my past stored in my mind turns yellow and fuzzy. I hear it happens when you age--haha. So I would like to electronically preserve these memories for my children and their children in case somehow someday they'll wonder about it, and I would NOT be around anymore to talk about it. It would also be an honest reflection on my life, perhaps my way of identifying the big reasons why I AM THANKFUL FOR THE RIDE. I don't know if it's worth reading about on your part, but the series is for me, and a public journal for my posterity. So if it ends up boring some of you or all of you, I'll just have to be okay with that. But I hope it won't so you can enjoy and be thankful for the ride with me.

So please forgive me for a very self-absorbed month. If you are interested, however, stay posted, and come September hop on board and ride along! :-)

Goodbye Baby Boy, Hello Young Man!

2011-06-02T01:35:00.000-07:00

I adore my son AJ. But you would not really know it if you base your judgement on my blog posts or Facebook status updates. I hardly ever talk specifically about him. Especially since he became an older teen-ager. But let it be now known that this is not by choice, but by request. Or should I say by way of commandment :-).

AJ doesn't like it when I say things about him or post pictures of him. Tara doesn't always either, but AJ doesn't EVER. Ironic for the kid who is on YouTube with his "crazy" teen-age friends doing stupid things like playing with fire and exploding old bicycles. I guess it's okay for his friends to post videos of him on the worldwide web. It's another thing if his Mommy posts adorable things about him on the internet. It's more "embarrassing" apparently. Oh, well.... I can respect that my kids want "creative control" over their on-line image...

BUT on an "auspicious occasion" as grandma would say, such as high school graduations, I assert my right as the Mother, to talk about AJ and post about him on the internet. So here goes...

I love AJ! He is my golden baby boy. This is a picture of AJ from kindergarten. Isn't he just adorable????!!! And can I just say what 2 year old Tara used to say to baby AJ to get him to smile? Koochi-koochi-coo, AJ!!!!

He's going to be so mad at me for doing this! I can almost hear him say with exasperation, "Mom, you are being weird!" Well, yes, I am. I have been for days. And especially today.

Today AJ graduates from high school and my heart aches with mixed emotions. As my family can attest, I am not normally emotional. Emotions make me weird. *Sniff* *Sob* I do.not.like.it.

First of all, I feel that sappy joy that Mommies are famous for, but along with it just a tinge of sappy sadness. High school graduation is not just the completion of high school. It is also the closing of a chapter called "Childhood". Today my son starts a new chapter in life, entitled "Manhood". In this new chapter I will not be a key character anymore. I will not be needed as much. My approval will hopefully still be wanted but no longer required for him to execute his decisions. Hovering over him like a watchful helicopter will not be tolerated, which is fine because it is unseemly for a mother to still want to dominate an adult son's life. So I accept that the time has come for me to step back, but I'm sad because I will miss my baby. Now I have to be the mother of a man. It will be strange...and disconcerting...but I guess, I will eventually adjust... after some tearful episodes I'm sure.

And yet I also feel relief...for the end of his generally incident-free childhood. We survived the teen-age years with no major trauma and upheavals! What an accomplishment for his dad and I if I may say so myself. No guilt-ridden trips to the the therapist to sort out teen-age angst and anger. No heart-breaking stop overs at the local police station to collect a young boy turned felon. No screaming matches about tattoos and body piercings, and mutilated earlobes. Of course, I'm not saying kids with tattoos and body piercings and mutilated earlobes are baaaaad and potential criminals, but we have general expectations of how our kids should look and behave. Alan and I are happy when they respect our standards (and will write them out of our living will item by item if they don't --haha! :-) So yes, today I feel relieved; the proverbial hard teen-age years are over.

A very big part of me also feels proud. Very proud. AJ made it! He graduates!!!Not that it should be a surprise or that he is barely capable. He is in fact a very intelligent boy. In 3rd grade the school had him tested because he was consistently performing ahead of grade level. Later we were informed that the test results indicated that AJ has pretty high I.Q. earning him a placement in the Gifted and Talented Education program. I personally researched what it's all about, went to all the meetings, but AJ was not interested so we elected not to actively participate. In fact, AJ flaked out of his first Academic Decathlon with my permission. Having been raised by parents who made my school life seem like boot camp, I took the opposite laid back, permissive approach with my kids' education. Maybe I'll regret it someday and my kids will blame me publicly on some talk show (Shame!). Perhaps my "irresponsible" stewardship over my kids' high school education cost them their financial future. I don't think so, but at least I hope not. Still despite my short-comings in the helicopter-parent deparment AJ graduates, so --whew! Okay, I guess, he could have graduated valedictorian if only I cracked the whip more often and helicoptered more closely... but like I said, the teen years turned out just fine, with AJ enjoying his youth and friendships, and still he has his future, a lifetime of opportunity ahead of him for the serious task of being an adult and reaching his potential. So--- Yeah! Good job AJ! We're glad you had a grand easy-peasy time in high school, and thanks for not flunking out! Really! Now get to work being an adult ...

Okay, I have to admit. Deep down I am not as non-chalant as I sound. In the back of my mind, lurking behind, the joy, pride and relief are pesky worries. Worries about what's in store for him. Will our "permissiveness", borne by my desire not to burden my kids with the same load I carried when I was their age, be to his detriment? Did we make his life too easy? Did we give him too much, required too little in return, and turned him into a soft-shelled man who will break when tested? He seems like a great young man, but is he truly? He seems promising, but will he fulfill his promise? Was loving him enough? Shouldn't we have spared the rod? Did we teach him well? Is he going to make good choices on his own? It's all enough to send me into the depths of despair!!! For goodness sakes! So I have been reminding myself over and over this past few days to step back and just snap out of it. Don't stop caring, and help when asked to, but just step back. Take a deep breath. Be hopeful. I need to trust that loving AJ unconditionally through the years had and will make up for all my short-comings and mistakes as a parent. I must have faith that the Lord actually loves him more than I do and will keep him in the hollow of His hands, and will make up for the difference between the quality of my parenting and His will and design for AJ's life.

So today I will stop worrying. Today I will be happy and proud more than sad and worried. Today every thing is good with the world. Today is my son's day. Today we celebrate AJ.

Can you believe this intelligent, musically brilliant boy with this handsome face is my son? I can't either.We love you A-Jax man!!!! Koochi-koochi-coo !!!! :-)

Alan on the 35th Anniversary of YCHS School Bus Crash

2011-05-21T13:37:00.001-07:00

Alan and Marivic Go To Washington DC and the White House :-)

2011-01-14T10:41:00.000-08:00

For more pictures of our White House/US Capitol tour go here :

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=86644&id=1604603398&l=12cc332d93

Marivic's High School Reunion-Las Vegas October 2010

2010-10-24T23:31:00.001-07:00

John Bytheway and Time Out For Women

2010-09-16T00:25:00.000-07:00

Facebook photos of my reunion with John Bytheway and the Time Out For Women Conference held at the Sacramento Convention Center. What a fun and inspiring experience.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=67162&id=1604603398&l=813a799f27

FACEBOOK PART 1: I LOVE FACEBOOK

2010-08-19T00:08:00.000-07:00

…because Facebook was made for people like me. Well, okay, originally it wasn’t. In 2003 it was created as an exclusive social networking site for Ivy League-ers, definitely people who are NOT like me. Then the Ivy Leaguers who created Facebook started getting advise from people who like money a.k.a investors who knew that when it comes to popular culture the masses have the buying power! What would the world be without capitalism? Thanks to greed Facebook is now open to ALL (Ivy Leaguers or not) who declare themselves older than 13.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Ah, yes, that I love Facebook. Although I started out skeptical and even suspicious of it. Eventually I created an account just to see what the hype was all about, and here I am loving it…

Because without Facebook I would have lost track of 90% of the friends I’ve made throughout my life. Not because I didn’t or don’t care but more due to the circumstances of my life. Here are the people I am so happy I reconnected with on FB, and why I would have never reconnected with them without it:

Grade school classmates. I didn’t think that after almost 40 years I’d find so many of them willing to be “friends“again. In the

Philippines

kids could go to any school their parents choose and could afford, so my classmates often were not from the same neighborhood as me. They came from other neighborhoods all over the city. Since we didn’t even live in the same neighborhood more often than not we had very little opportunities to connect after we scattered to different high schools and eventually we “disappeared” from one another’s lives. We didn’t have the luxury of just walking over to our childhood homes or running into one another at a community event to keep up the connection. Because I have so many happy memories of grade school it felt sad to think I have lost my grade school classmates forever. That was before Facebook.

Gosh, this faded photograph makes us look so ancient. But Maybe we are ancient :-) This is CNC Laboratory School 6th Grade graduating class of 1974. I'm second row (behind the teachers), 7th kid from the right. Several of us are now reunited on Facebook..

High School classmates. Again my parents sent me to high schools not too many kids in our neighborhood attended. I went to 2 high schools (Long story.) Although I consider my second high school my real high school, I had favorite and/or memorable classmates from both schools. Many of whom I would never have reconnected with after graduation, since many of us went our separate ways and scattered all over the globe and lost track of one another. Facebook has brought many of us together, and triggered several awesome mini-reunions.

Reunited with some of my USC-Girls High School classmates in 2009. I am Facebook friends with all of the girls shown, and with scores of other high school classmates.

College friends. I count my college days among the best times of my life. I met some pretty great people. Professors and classmates alike. I had a clique and we called ourselves The Octabelles. There were eight (octa) of us “belles” and we kind of ruled our corner of the world so we had to have a group name (Aren’t we dorks?! I love it!) We hang out in the Publications office because I was editor-in-chief of the college paper, and we spent hours in the Photo Lab because we were all Mass Communications students. However, after graduation, we pursued different careers, married, got jobs, raised families and went our different ways all over the globe and lost track of one another. That cherished chapter of my life would have been just memories, and my friends just people in faded photographs if not for Facebook! I’ve since reconnected with college teachers, classmates and even two of the Octablelles! Still searching for the rest…

Back in my St. Theresa's College days: The Octabelles. I think we were 18 or 19 here.

The church family of my youth. I went to predominantly Catholic schools with Catholic nuns and priest for teachers, and had Catholic classmates. But I was a Mormon girl raised in a hard-core Mormon family, and when away from the compartment of Catholic school and social life, was surrounded by a Mormon community. My two worlds, both parts of who I was/am, hardly ever intersected. They were often separate compartments, not quite like how it is in Utah. I didn’t go to school with any of the Mormon kids but even the more reason to become very close to them, as we were one another’s refuge from a world where we were a religious minority. I spent a whole lot of time with them. Early morning seminary, Super Saturdays, Sunday School, week night Young Men/Young Womens activities, youth conferences, etc. This compartment of my life also included the adults who were my church and youth leaders, family friends, and a whole “village” that practically raised the Mormon girl in me. All of them would have forever “disappeared” because life happens and many of us got scattered all over the world as well. Until Facebook.

Me and some of the girls I grew up with in the Phillippines Cebu Stake of the LDS Church.
4 of the 6 of us shown are Facebook friends.

People I met as a missionary. Although it was a comparatively short time in my life, I had deep friendships with memorable people: companions, fellow missionaries from the same districts and zones, ward/branch members and leaders, converts, etc. I enjoy getting to know people and even back then I could not help it. A companion once complained to our zone leader and said I was a frustrating companion because I kept leaving her side (we’re not supposed to separate). She kept losing me because I kept flitting around like, in her words, a “social butterfly”. (Ha-ha! Poor sister companion. I could have been more considerate. I repent!) I loved interacting with people and became fond of so many in the mission field. But due to my circumstances I had never returned to my old missionary areas, and I lost track of many of the wonderful people I cared about. But Facebook allowed me to find or be found by some of them.

Me and my mission companion and zone leaders after the baptism of a golden family my companion and I found and taught and love. I am now Facebook friends with my companion, my zone leader and 5 of the family members. Facebook rocks!

Friends from the different places I lived in the U.S.. First, I moved 8,000 miles away from home to marry the love of my life and moved to a strange new place called Utah, and everyone –the people I talked about above, were now mostly on the other side of the globe. But I adapted. And made a new life, and made new friends. Then I moved out of Utah, and floated around (and again left new made friends) until we finally anchored down in California. And except for Alan’s family, people from my world in Utah and the handful of friends I made in places we temporarily lived in, would have just been part of fond memories and occasional hellos, if not for Facebook.

HENCE, I LOVE FACEBOOK!!!!! Because of it many of the above mentioned people found me and/or I found them and now we’ve re-appeared in one another’s lives and renewed the connection. Yes, I don’t get to talk over the white picket fence face to face with them to exchange pleasantries, but we can interact just as well over the electronic media. We get to reminisce and enjoy sharing sweet memories. We get to answer questions like, “So what did you do after gradeschhol/highschool/mission, etc. “, “What have you been up to lately?”, “How’s your family?”, ”Would you like to keep in touch?” To which the resounding answer has been, “Yes!” I reconnected with friends who are in the Philippines, in Europe (England, Germany, Austria, the Netherlands, etc), in Australia and New Zealand, in the Middle East, in Canada and all over the United States, including, of course, Utah. Isn’t that crazy?

I THINK FACEBOOK IS WONDERFUL! I understand if you don’t like it as much as I do. We all have different lives and we look at things through the prism of our experiences. I like my past and I love the people in it. In the prism of my life, Facebook is among the greatest inventions ever.

Coming up in a week or so--- FACEBOOK PART 2: MY FRIENDS LIST IS A MELTING POT

Summer So Far...

2010-07-11T15:09:00.000-07:00

It's been kind of a lazy summer so far. July is TV ratings month and Alan cannot take time off from work (as has been the case forever in his life as a TV man) so we're stuck in town. But our kids have been really busy (in the context of what busy IS for a child in our neck of the woods). Sooo.... Dad decided to give AJ a break from the exhausting world of playing his guitar, playing video games, and hanging out and goofing around town with his equally busy and helicopter-parented buddies (whew! I'm exhausted for them just saying what they do everyday!). Since AJ won his fight with Mom and got out of going to any music camp or anything "stupid" like that to make better use of his summer, Dad's alternative solution to giving our son character was to make him paint his room. Mommy was assigned to pick colors AJ and Dad can choose from. AJ voted against blues and greens and all "girlie" colors. He and Dad settled on gray or more specifically "London Coach".

Here he is painting his room. Can you tell how excited he is about this character-building chore? He is just oozing with excitement, isn't he?

But I have to say, he did a great job doing everything on his own, with very little supervision from Dad. He did all the moving of the furniture, vaccuming, dusting and prepping for the painting, and painted all by himself. I was actually thinking, Man--when did my baby boy become a competent man around the house?

He did all the clean-up, too. Still no-smile, but he still did everything he was supposed to do. Here he is obeying Dad's instruction to clean all the brushes thoroughly.

He also did all the work of putting his room back together after he painted. And now here he is, back in his room with his headphones on, his video game units (PS, Wii, X-Box, etc?) and his guitars, amps, stereo, etcetera...Good job, AJ! Did you get the rewarding feeling that hard work brings? The Smile-less answer was: "I guess." Okay, whatever.

Meanwhile Tara is busy, too. She works 3 to 4 days a week at "Barnes and Noble". She is excited because she's wanted to get a job there since high school. And it's a perfect job for an avid reader and her bookworm mother. On her days off she's busy running around town with her friends all dolled-up like a young Audrey Hepburn.

And believe it or not, she has now officially out done her mother. She has accomplished something that her mother has NEVER done. She has made pies from scratch! I kid you not. It must be Granma Marsden's influence. I am proud of her. Here's the latest product (peach and raspberry pie). I wish I took a picture before we messed it up by digging into it, but--Yeah, Tara can bake great pies!!!!

This summer our kids are growing up just a little bit more...

Hawaii 2010

2010-07-01T01:48:00.003-07:00

I Love Boring Weekends

2010-06-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

We work hard on weekdays. No, we don't plow the field or hunt for meat, but we work hard nevertheless. Being relevant, indispensable and valued at the work place is hard you know. But when you have a mortgage to pay and teen-agers to raise, and don't want to spend the prime of your life scrimping and scraping, a full-time job is a MUST. And a full-time job means 9 to 10 hours of hard labor.

Our kids work hard, too. I think. Okay, that's debatable, but I'll err on the side that makes me look like I am a good parent (by their fruits ye shall know them, right?)

So we look forward to the weekend.

However---often our weekends are not exactly a picnic either. Yes, we often try to get caught up on lost sleep, but we also work hard on weekends. With our weekday schedule allowing us very little time with our kids, family togetherness on weekends is especially important for us, and it requires a lot to make it happen. Although for me the hardest part is the tongue-biting-part-so-we-can-have-happy-Hallmark-card-family-moments (Just keeping it real). And yes there's the dog, too, who needs his weekly trip to the dog park so I can stop feeling like a crappy dog-owner until the next Saturday. All that leaves us a very little window of time during Saturdays into which to cram HOUSE WORK and ERRANDS (yes, in capital letters!) Very little time. Those who say they rest on weekends, well, count yourself very fortunate. Sometimes I feel like I need another weekend to rest from my weekend.

But sometimes---I get lucky! I get those precious boring weekends when there is nothing very pressing to do. Maybe I've been extra good and organized on the weekday and got errands and chores done. Maybe nobody wants anything from me or wants me to do anything for them. Maybe family togetherness doesn't mean going out or getting away for the weekend and doing all that driving and exploring. Or maybe I, for the moment, just don't care, and I defiantly take a vacation from expectations. I don't know. I just know I LOVE BORING WEEKENDS!

Here's how a boring Saturday looks for the California Marsdens:

1) Tara and AJ sleep until 11 a.m. then get up and grab laptops and old blankies and park in the family room. Then they are off to their own separate worlds side by side. Actually, they do talk/yell to each other sometimes. Something about the other possibly stop being a jerk and turning down the speaker of their lap top or putting on a headphone. Later they manage to peel themselves off from the couch to have brunch which Daddy makes.

2) Later, it's Daddy's turn to park his bum in the family room surrounded by his favorite snack food and soda while having his LOST or Hawaii-5-0 or John Adams marathon.

3) Where's Marivic? No picture because she's been walking around all day in a house dress with no make-up on. But she was motivated enough to have a very rare Martha Stewart-ish moment and made some chocolate-covered strawberries for everybody. Her strawberries don't look as pretty as Martha's, BUT they taste better because they are fresh from California farms!

BORING WEEKENDS ARE AWESOME!

How about you, what do you do on beautifully boring weekends?

All About "Stinky Smelly Stuff"

2010-06-04T00:01:00.000-07:00

Judging by the bottles of perfume and scented body spray sitting next to my bath tub one would assume I must think I'm CleopatraJ. Well, I'm no Cleopatra but as you can probably tell from the number of bottles you see, I like this stuff. Really like this stuff. And I am such a geek I actually know the history of perfume. I know that the word perfume means "through smoke" because the first form of perfume was incense. I also know that perfumery (the art of making perfume) originated in ancient Mesopotamia and

Egypt

. Liquid perfume used to be a mixture of oils and crushed herbs (messy!), until a Persian doctor and chemist learned to distill oil from flowers. In 1370 the Hungarians blended scented oils with an alcohol solution. Perfumery prospered and by the 16th and 17th century, perfumes were used primarily by wealthy Europeans and royalty. But unlike the ancient Egyptians who enjoyed baths and perfumed themselves for pleasure, 17th century Europeans used perfume mostly to mask body odors resulting from infrequent bathing. Ewww! J

Well, infrequent bathing is not the reason I love using perfume and body spray. I think I am actually fastidious about washing and I use perfume for pleasure like the ancient Egyptians. Unlike Cleopatra however who bathed and perfumed several times a day, I am more of a shower-girl, than a bath-girl. In fact I don't like baths very much. I actually have a scientific excuse J. You see, when I lie down in our extra large tub filled with water the principle of fluid mechanics does not allow my body to settle and rest at the bottom of the tub. Seriously! Apparently my body weight/mass is less than the density of the water contained in the tub which makes me somewhat buoyant. Or in layman terms: when I'm lying down I am not heavy/fat enough to force all water from under me and so I kinda float! Yes, the science of it can be kind of comical unless you're the one trying not to capsize without a boat in a frickin' bath tub J. So the so-called relaxing bath is never relaxing for me. To make things worst, I am also allergic to some bubble bath. I get hives and get all itchy if I use the wrong one. It's annoying.

So, of course, I like showers better. And I take very long hot showers daily. So HOT it fills the bathroom with steam and mist long after my shower. And, yes, LONG. There are no 5 minute showers in my world even when I'm rushing to get to work on time. Mr. Energy-and-Water-Conservation-Guy also known as Alan Jr. used to get ticked off at the wastefulness of it, but I think he figured out I use just as much water as he uses in his extra large bath tub (except during a drought when our consciences actually kick in). So Alan has not complained much, except for the fact that our teen-agers take after me. They are indulgent showerers, not bathers.

I am also an indulgent after-shower-er. I have this big ritual after each shower. I'm not the type that does “jump-in-jump-out-and-dry-up” grooming. I do long drawn out after-shower pampering involving lotions and sprays and hair gels and straighteners that I refuse to do without even if I’m running late. (Can you see why I'm not a camping kind of girl?) Obviously, when I tell someone, "Give me a minute to shower and get ready," I kind of mean a minute times 60 plus some. Alan has had to do a lot of tongue-biting about this character flaw throughout the years, but he's okay with it now. I think. I mean what is he supposed to do? Spank me? J

When the kids were little, they didn't like it very much when I disappear for my long showers so I compromised by including them in my after-shower pamper time. During my shower they'd repeatedly yell for Mommy and bang at the bathroom door so I had to let them in to my room immediately after to let them hang out with me during my after-shower ritual. Tara who has always been my girlie-girl would watch and go through my things and ask questions and ask if she could try this and that on. So sometimes I'd put lotion on her arms and spray her with body splash or dab a little perfume on her. She loved it! It didn't matter if it was inexpensive lotion, or the more expensive perfume that I put on her, she always beamed at the privilege and thought my stuff was neat. Nothing like an adorable girlie daughter to validate Mommy and her love for body lotion, creams, sprays and perfume.

Sons on the other hand --- Well, AJ used to just watch me and Tara do our girlie ritual from a safe distance. He'd show interest enough to watch curiously and ask a question or two but whenever I try to include him and put lotion on him or splash him with body spray, he’d flare up and say: "Mommy, don't put your STINKY SMELLY STUFF on me!!!" Well, temper, temper! Sheesh! Later he'd tattle on me and tell his Daddy that Mommy tried to girlie-fy him and put "her stinky smelly stuff" on him, as if it was an offense Daddy needs to know about so Mommy can get grounded or something. I thought it was pretty funny!!!! JSo the "stinky smelly stuff" name kind of stuck with me and until now that's what I call my perfume, colognes, body sprays and lotions --- "STINKY SMELLY STUFF".

This is my stinky smelly stuff basket.

I have some inexpensive popular stinky smelly stuff from Bath and Body and Victoria's Secret. I also have a couple of expensive stinky smelly stuff like Dolce&Gabana and Gucci perfumes. My favorite perfume is the more affordable Estee Lauder's "Beautiful" because it doesn't make me sneeze and it smells good. But it makes me feel like an old lady because I started using it like 15+ years ago and you are not supposed to use anything for that long because that's how you end up smelling dated like an old lady. Oh, well-- My favorite lotion is Ralph Lauren's “Glamourous”. I don't use it much because it's $60 for 6 ounces! I got my very first bottle as a gift from a friend and loved it. My second favorite stinky smelly stuff is so much less expensive (thank goodness!): Bath and Body's "Japanese Cherry Blossom." And “Twilight Woods”.

I cannot obviously use up everything that's in this basket, but somehow I feel nervous when it's not full. It has sort of turned into my personal "economic indicator". If it's full of bottles of lotion, body cream, sprays and perfumes then all seems right with my world. I feel grateful that I have a job and my husband doesn't complain when I indulge once in a while in stinky smelly stuff. Grateful that I have friends and loved ones who have the means to gift me with lotions and body spray and perfume. Which I KNOW is a luxury in other countries, and that makes me even doubly grateful, albeit frivolous. When my basket is "running low" I feel kind of poor, and I feel antsy and off-center. And I have to go get more stinky smelly stuff to make myself feel better. I know. I know. I have issues and probably need therapy, but can I just be a neurotic person who smells good?

So-- if anybody out there wonders what to give me for a gift should the occasion arise, you can't go wrong with stinky smelly stuff.

And my birthday is in September. Just saying. J

How about you what's your favorite stinky smelly stuff?

Ka Leo o Haukani' (The Voice of The Wind)

2010-05-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

When we were in Hawaii in April I fell in love with the bronze sculptures (2x life size) that stood outside our hotel resort. I thought that there was just something gracefully moving about the artistry of the sculptures. Art is supposed to touch you, and make you feel joy/sadness/something J, right? For some reason or another these sculptures touched me and I thought they were exquisite. I found out that they were created by Kim Duffet, a local sculptor, and that this is what the sculptures were meant to convey:

'Kaha ka 'Io me na Makani (The Hawk Soars with the winds)'

"Gracefully striding the edge of a waterfall, these three, twice life size figures in bronze are dancing hula kahiko, the ancient style of Hawaiian dance. The two female dancers, the spirits of the wind, represent the dance and chant of Hawaiian hula. Together they are the winds that uplift the mighty 'Io , the Hawaiian Hawk, the central male dancer, who represents the spirit of Hawai'i poised to take flight."

While shopping and browsing in the resort's "village" I found out that one of the stores, Na Mea Hawai'i, sold 1/8 bronze miniatures of these scultures (also sold on Kim Duffet's website). I was excited! I wanted to buy the 3 of them! Then I found out EACH bronze miniature cost hundreds of dollars. As much as I love the sculptures the thought of spending that much money on a miniature just so it could collect dust on my coffee table seemed really ridiculous! Especially when Louis Vitton was right next door, and a purse would be so much more practical --haha! Still that didn't stop me from picking a favorite...just in case I'd win the lottery or something while I was still in HawaiiJ... And of the three, here is my favorite:

'Ka Leo o Haukani' (The Voice of the Wind)

"The dancer in the hula noho (sitting) position, braces herself against a powerful wind, her hands moving as if to pull the wind over her. Winds are seen as voices of the ancestors. Listen and they will speak to you."

Isn't she gorgeous! I was so entranced by 'Ka Leo o Haukani' that all throughout our trip, when I wanted to be silly for my husband when he took pictures of me, I'd break into my version of the 'Ka Leo o Haukani' pose. J Of course I am no longer limber enough in my old age to do her justice, but it was still fun and made Alan laugh.

Ka Leo o HauVICVIC J also known as Silly MarivicJ

Deep down I really, really, really wanted to buy the miniature bronze sculpture of 'Ka Leo o Haukani'. But, alas, my logic wouldn't let me. It simply was ridiculous to do so. Maybe if I win the lottery or discover I am the only heir to a long lost millionaire uncle or something, then heck, I would not need to be practical and logical about money. But alas, I'm only a working class citizen who must exercise wisdom in these things.

Fortunately,--- or is it unfortunately????--- for me, I have a very illogical, impractical husband who on top of it is blinded by his affection for me and wants me to be happy. On our last day in Hawaii, after a week of listening to my deep sighs as I longingly stared at the sculptures each time I passed them, he held my shoulders very firmly, looked into my eyes with his I-am-so-getting ticked-off-at-you-look and said, "Honey, I insist you buy it! You work very hard, and give me and the kids great presents. How often do you buy something nice for yourself? We are on vacation in Hawaii, so what the heck?!" (But I bet he wouldn't have said that if I was coveting a Louis Vitton purse instead! What's with husbands?) I said, "No way!", but I don't think I sounded very convincing. In my head I was thinking, I could spend the rest of my vacation money buying myself more Hawaiian t-shirts and cheesy tourist-gift shop knick-knacks to remember this trip by, or... or...or... Then Alan said, "If it makes you feel better, consider it your Mother's Day present this year."

So guess what's sitting on my coffee table, and has no practical function whatsoever except to give me joy and happiness as I stare at it as it collects dust?

My Mothers' Day present. AND after I found out when we returned from Hawaii that our A/C was shot and we had to fork out $7000 to replace it, 'Ka Leo o Haukani' is not only my Mothers' Day present but also my birthday present and Christmas present for the next five years at least--- hahaha!J

But sometimes in life one has to do stupid things, right? It's only money after all. What am I saving and being wise for anyway? Somehow I don't think there'd be a lot of shopping when I get to the Spirit World. I wouldn't be needing all that money I'm taught to save in this life if I die tomorrow, right? So why am I living my NOW worrying that something bad could happen tomorrow and spending my energy constantly preparing for it ? For right now, this very moment, I am truly just feeling very, very, very HAPPY staring at my 'Ka Leo o Hau Kani' collecting dust on my coffee table.

And I'm all for living in the moment. I think. Well, at least until tomorrow, because Alan and I could lose our jobs, then our house, then our coffee table, and dang! I might not be so happy looking at Ka Leo o Haukani then, and I'd be crying, and ---BRAKE! Okay, let's just get back to the moment....and how happy I am staring at my miniature bronze Ka Leo o Haukani and I'm staying here for just a little while, thank you. J

25 REASONS WHY I LOVE MARIVIC

2010-04-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

Alan & Marivic

On The Official First Day of Our Forever

April 26, 1985

***Posted by Alan on the day of our 25th Anniversary.

1. First the most important reason: She’s beautiful! Okay, that’s probably not the most important, but it’s pretty important and Marivic looks better than ever after 25 years.

2. Marivic is selfless. Beginning with leaving her family and homeland to join me in America, to how she mothers our children she’s always been more considerate of me and the kids and our desires and needs. And I’ve probably let her do that a little too much.

3. Marivic is fun and easy going. You don’t have to wonder if the woman you see at a family gathering or church activity, etc, is just her public face. She’s that way at home too. Sure, she has occasional Mydol moments J but that’s just keeping it real.

4. Marivic is loving. In fact, she’s not much for phony displays of affection and she’s always been very affectionate toward me and 25 years into our marriage she’s showing no signs of slowing down in that department so I continue to have her fooled.

5. I love Marivic’s intelligence. It can be very useful to have a smart wife. First of all, she’s passed it on to our children. And to Tara, she’s passed on a love of reading. The best thing about having a smart wife is she has stopped me countless times from doing stupid things. She’s simply very logical and I am not. You would think this would be intimidating but with Marivic it’s not (see #3 and #4)

6. Marivic’s a hard worker, at home and in her employment. Being thorough and dedicated in her employment has brought blessing to our family and frankly to her employers. Don’t believe me? Ask each and every one of her bosses over the past 25 years. Every one!

7. I appreciate her nindot lubot! (This is TMI so I wrote it Cebuano. If you speak Cebuano- sorry)

8. Marivic’s a good cook. Not in the Martha Steward or Julie Childs way. But considering she hardly cooked more than a pot of rice prior to marriage, she’s good at learning new recipes and doing well with them. She’s even learned from her mother-in-law to make Yorkshire Pudding as well as the Irish Soda Bread and Potato Bread. And she does very well. Is she as good as my mom? Considering both will be reading this post I’ll choose not to answer J

9. I love the fact that she likes to snuggle up to me on the couch when I’m watching a show on TV that she has no interest in. She just wants to be with me.

10. I love that she listens to my music when we’re in the car even though it’s not really her favorite kind of music. I offer to let her play hers, but she would usually rather let me enjoy my music. (see #2)

11. I love that I’m sitting here writing this right now from an 11^th floor balcony overlooking the Honolulu skyline and the ocean because my wife, who for 25 years has gotten us great hotel rooms at a fantastic discount, is often able to score complimentary rooms at just the right time.

12. I love Marivic’s smile. It melts my heart.

13. Marivic has a kind heart. When I see an old man slowing me down by driving 55 mph in the fast lane, she sees a grandfather and father who probably has a good reason for driving slow in the fast lane.

14. Marivic loves to make me happy. She does it in big and small ways, like surprising me with a ride in a sea plane for a birthday gift, or it can be as simple as clearing the schedule to allow me to sit and watch the Masters.

15. She is simply a joy to be around. I could be with her all day, every day if that was possible.

16. I love the way Marivic writes. She’s better with the English language (her 2^nd language) than I am. She hooked me with her letter writing, and her handwriting is pretty awesome too.

17. I love how she suddenly becomes this traditional American mom at holidays, decorating for Halloween; making the perfect Thanksgiving dinner, on a perfectly set table; and going all-out with her Christmas décor and Christmas dinner.

18. I love how Marivic is with small children. Our children adored her when they were little (I think they still do in a suppressed teenager way). And it amazes me how kids she taught in Primary years ago still love her today.

19. Marivic inspires me and encourages me to be my best. I am sure I would be an $11 dollar an hour master control operator with no college degree right now if not for Vicvic.

20. I love her silliness. In Hawaii, for a photo opportunity, Marivic got down on her knees in a leaning-back hula pose on a busy Honolulu street corner to recreate the pose of an enormous sculpture.

21. Marivic is loyal. She’d defend those she loves to the death, literally. If anyone crosses me or our children they better watch out. Yes she is loving and kind, but not toward evil-doers.

22. Marivic is organized. Whether it’s on the computer or in a closet or a drawer, she’ll find it for you.

23. I love how she takes care of me. Marivic always looks out for me and my wellbeing.

24. I love how Marivic loves our children and gets joy from their happiness. They are lucky to have her for a mom.

25. Marivic is patient and loving. Her patience is the key to our marital success. I’m not going to give her all the credit for happiness through 25 years of marriage (she’s not perfect and I’d like to think I’ve contributed) but her patience with me and my ways probably counts for 90-percent. I’m very lucky. I’m sure that most people who know her and know me know this to be true.

Marivic also wrote about the 25 reasons why she loves Alan. If you missed it, you can read it HERE.

25 REASONS WHY I LOVE ALAN

2010-04-19T00:01:00.000-07:00

***Posted by Marivic, as part of our 25th Anniversary series.

In honor of our 25th wedding anniversary I am listing down 25 of the gazillion reasons why I fell in love, stayed in love, and will always love my Alan:

He acts like he adores me and I like being adored. He calls me his Angel and treats me like his Queen.
He makes me feel beautiful when I feel ugly. He makes me feel smart when I feel dumb. He makes me see in his eyes the kind of person I can become.
He laughs at my stupid jokes.
He is smart and well-informed. I love listening to him talk about history, politics, space travel, golf, etc. I cannot imagine ever being married to someone who is an intellectual dud.
He takes care of me, makes sure that I am warm enough or cool enough, that I get to eat what I want, rest when I need to, and he lets me be a big fat baby when I’m sick.
He can laugh with all his might, mind and strength. He really gets into it. Listening to Alan laugh makes me laugh even when I don’t know what he is laughing about.
How many girls in any given state have a man with a beautiful TV/Radio voice whisper sweet nothings into their ears? Not too many. It’s fanta-bulously sexy in case you are not one of themJ. I am one of them.
He has a good heart. He is always considerate of other people’s feelings and would never want to offend the inoffensive.
He has beautiful eyes. They are truly the windows to his soul. Some days they are blue like the ocean. Some days they are green like a peaceful pond. Sometimes gray, sometimes brown, sometimes speckled with all these colors.
He has sexy bunsJ. “Nuff said.
He is a Prince. Alan would never do anything impolite or gross in my presence, even if it’s in private.
He makes me want to be a Princess. I would never think of doing anything impolite or gross in his presence.
He is quirky but not weird. It makes him fascinating and interesting always and fun to be around.
He is adventurous. There are no “direct non-stop flights’ in my life with Alan. Literally and metaphorically. There are always obscure side roads to explore, hidden vistas to discover, new places to experience… It can make for a bumpy ride sometimes, but life always exciting!
He is a better mother than I’d ever beJ. I kid you not. He loves taking care of the kids, and fusses about them. He is the warm and fuzzy, sentimental, cry-on-my-shoulder parent. I am more like the get-your-big-girl-panties-on-and-deal-with-it kind of parent. His example has softened me a bit.
He makes the best Big Breakfast for the family on Saturday mornings. And he doesn’t mind. Just make sure you frickin' stay out of his wayJ.
He always looked well-groomed and fresh-looking when in the Philippines. A big feat in a country where white people always look sweaty, rumpled and haggard. I thought that was very attractive.
He can be vulnerable and shy like a child. And when he feels that way, this tall man with a big booming voice wants no one else to be next to him to be his security blanket but shorty-pants me. It makes me feel protective, but also needed and loved.
He is bossy. And that’s okay because I’m a major brat , and extremely head strong and prideful. And I like it that he tames me, and can make me “obey”. It’s like a cheesy, paper-back romance novel kind of relationshipJ.
He “fights’ like a gentleman. He has never called me a name no matter how bad we argue and how unreasonable I get.
He is a walking GPS, and I feel secure traveling with him. I think he was embedded with an electronic homing device while in his mother’s womb. Alan can always find his way around somehow even without maps or stopping to ask someone in places we’ve never been before, even New York.
When I want to do “girlie” things like watch a chick-flick with him, or go see a Broadway musical he can summon his inner gay J--hahaha!--- and enjoy being with me instead of telling me to go find a girlfriend to do it withJ. Except for “Alice in Wonderland”. He drew the line there.
He is always thoughtful and considerate. He would never intentionally do anything he knows would hurt me or inconvenience me.
He is guileless. He doesn’t care about pretending to be anything to impress people or manipulate them to his benefit.
He loves me and he SAYS it often and he SHOWS it all the time.

I LOVE ALAN! He is my true best friend.

The Diamond In My Forever

2010-04-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

***Posted by Marivic, Part 10 of our 25th anniversary series.

All these years my engagement ring has constantly reminded me of a lesson I learned pretty early on in the 25 years I have been married.

I learned that more often than not we want the things we want not because we truly really want them or even need them, but because we let others tell us what we should want. Often times without realizing it we let people with ulterior motives exploit our insecurities and character flaws to get us to want things that have very little to do with what truly makes us happy in our marriage or in life.

I am not going to be a hypocrite and say I constantly live by this lesson. I wish! I am just going to say, however, that I have learned it and have kept it close to my heart, and it has repeatedly guided me in my decisions. And this I know: when I have been wise enough to live by it, I have been better off and happier for it.

So the question: what has my engagement ring got to do with it?

As everyone who has been following our 25^th anniversary series knows by now, Alan and I had a non-traditional courtship. For that reason I didn’t get my engagement ring in the textbook American fashion where a boy kneels down and springs a sparkly gigantic diamond ring on the girl and on bended knees ask her to marry him. Alan and I actually went on the less romantic route of shopping for my engagement ring together. And to be honest, I didn't really know what I was doing. Before I ever met Alan the issue of engagement rings never crossed my mind. As a young girl I didn’t really ponder and dream of marriage proposals and giant diamond rings. Maybe I just wasn't the type or maybe because it wasn’t part of the marriage rituals in Filipino culture.

In my parents’ generation, when a Filipino marries there were some cultural expectations and hoops to jump through and in some social circles dowries were required. What I knew was that when my father had to formally ask for my mother’s hand in marriage his family brought valuable gifts to offer to my mother’s parents so they would say, “Yes.” So I guess, I must have simply thought when I marry that something like that would happen. But I didn’t really think about that part much when I dreamt of meeting and marrying Mr. Right.

Well, my Mr. Right turned out to be an American so there was no dowry for my fatherJ to enjoy. Instead Alan told me about the American tradition of getting an engagement ring. He explained it as well as a boy could but I did not really completely get the social significance of this tradition and what kind of ring was expected. I remember that Alan told me the engagement ring is eventually soldered to the wedding ring and they become one ring. My mother wore a pretty, but plain wedding band--- 7 thin silver rings (for luck) that cluster together as one wedding band; valuable but simple. So I assumed I was basically just picking a ring I'd feel comfortable wearing for the rest of my life as a married woman. It didn't occur to me that the size of the diamond mattered and that people will measure my social status or my boy's social status by it. Hence the basis for my choice of ring was it had to be beautiful but also practical, something that would not be cumbersome, and will not get in the way of daily life and that I wouldn’t mind wearing as I do my normal tasks. I wanted a ring that would look perfectly at-home on my little fingers when I cook or do the laundry, etc. I mean, how the heck was I, a Filipina just off-the-boat, supposed to know that in

America

a girl should want and pick the biggest, sparkliest diamond her fiance could afford or pretend to afford?

Alan and I started shopping for rings when he was in Cebu. But we didn’t really find anything that jumped out at me and we eventually decided to wait until we get to Utah. So days after I arrived in

America

we went to a jeweler (Stark Jewelry in Bountiful) to buy my engagement-wedding ring set. The jeweler showed me several sets. There were so many to choose from and many of them so beautiful! Then I saw my ring. I knew right away it was The Ring; the one I want on my finger for “time and all eternity”. When I pointed out the set to Alan and the jeweler, Alan looked somewhat offended. He asked, “Are you sure?” I was confused. Did he think I picked an ugly ring and did not approve? Then he said, “I’ve saved money for an engagement ring. You can get a bigger diamond.” Then I figured he thought I was simply settling for a less expensive ring to be considerate because he already spent all that money on his trip to the

Philippines

and on my plane ticket. Of course that was on my mind but I truly liked the ring I picked. It had a tiny diamond that was set to look like a flower with 3 smaller diamonds around it like leaves. I thought it was beautiful and unique. So I said, “I’m sure that’s the ring I want.” Again, in my mind I was picking a ring to wear as Mrs. Alan Marsden Jr and was not thinking I need to pick a rock to tell the world my fiancé is worth marrying because he could afford --- or pretend to afford--- a big expensive diamond for me.

My engagement ring set in its original box.

Alan accepted my decision and bought the ring set I picked and I was very satisfied with it. I thought (and I still think) it was beautiful. It was going to be the ring that will always remind me of the love I have for the man I was marrying and the covenants I make on my wedding day. I was happy. I was proud of my ring. End of story?

It didn’t take long after we got married for me to realize, as I understood more of the American culture and marriage rituals, that I apparently picked a very modest ring. As my social circle expanded, I ran into delirious brides-to-be showing off diamonds the size babies can choke on!!!! I realized how the tiny diamond on my ring set must have looked pathetic when I was showing it off after Alan and I bought it. Did I start to think that my ignorance of American wedding culture had inadvertently cheated me of a big valuable diamond? Well, knowing now what I know about the society I’m living in, I would be a liar if I don’t admit that I occasionally wish I picked a bigger diamond. BUT does any of that change the true value and meaning of my ring to me? Does it make my temple vow to love Alan for time and all eternity less valid and committed because it is not punctuated by a bigger diamond? I think we know the answer.

I love my ring. I will always love my ring. It was the ring I wanted before I knew the social implications of the size of a diamond. It was a choice untainted by how the world measures my worth or the worth of the person I was marrying. What difference does the size of my diamond really make? Since we’re never going to sell the ring its intrinsic value will always be in what it stands for rather than how much it cost.

Of course, it doesn’t mean I have not been "devious" and not tried to use the situation to manipulate my husband in to getting me more blingJ. That would be, well,--un-MarivicJ. “Honey,” I said to him one day, “Since I didn’t get a big diamond for my engagement set, I think I would like a diamond band for every ten years of our marriage to make up for it.” So Alan, being the wonderful husband that he is, got me a diamond band for our 10^th anniversary and another one for our 20^th. In 5 years from now for our 30^th, I totally expect another diamond set. Of course, they are modest diamonds because we agree on never spending more than we can afford, and American culture or not, good taste says a giant diamond on my little fingers would not only look ostentatious but also ridiculous. And although I think I can handle looking ostentatious (kidding!) I definitely don’t want to look ridiculous. J

Still even though I hope to collect more diamonds as each decade of marriage passes, my engagement-wedding ring will always be my favorite set of diamonds. I will continue to wear it proudly, and to cherish the man who gave it to me. What my ring means to me personally will always be more important than what my ring signifies to others socially. I know that the size of the diamond on my engagement ring has not in any way contributed or detracted from how happy I am in my marriage to Alan and in the family and life we have created. When it comes down to it, it really is just a material symbol of something eternal and of greater worth.

Holding Alan's hand after the wedding, April 26, 1985.

Photographed by Archie.

Through the years I have fallen back on this lesson when there have been hard decisions to make. When Alan had to make career choices and consulted me, my guiding principle was, do I want him to do that which will enable him to afford to give me “things” I can show off to the world, or do I want him to do that which makes him a happy person so he can be whole and emotionally available to me and the family? Even in my own career decisions I asked, do I want to pursue opportunities for myself that will bring me a false sense of self-importance and value in society, or would I rather “settle” for what is best for my relationship with my husband and children? If someone wants to ask what the secret is to being happily married even after 25 years, THIS is part of it.

When I look at the ring on my finger, it reminds me not only of the promises I made on my wedding day. It reminds me of what is truly important to ME. When I look with my heart and not through the skewed looking-glass of the world, I can see how beautiful my little diamond and my "little" life have been these 25 years. And I am happy. After all, the real diamond in my forever is not on my ring, but the man who put the ring on my finger, and promised to love me for time and all eternity.

April 4, 1985 PART 2: Meet The Marsdens

2010-04-05T00:01:00.000-07:00

*** Posted by Marivic, Part 9 of our 25th anniversary series.

When Alan and I were exchanging letters he sent me this picture of his family.

This is what he wrote on the back of the picture. J

I must have looked at this picture a million times and repeated the exercise of matching each person with the names Alan wrote on the back like a school girl learning her letters. What he wrote about me standing next to him at the next family picture made me smile but it was incomprehensible. Would I really become part of them?

As I sat on a plane bound for Salt Lake City on April 4, 1985, the realization that I was about to meet the people in the picture made my heart repeatedly go up to my throat, and I couldn’t breath. I have been travelling for over 16 hours, and have not had a shower or gone to bed, and was in the same clothes since practically the day before, and was about to meet my soon-to-be in-laws, the Marsdens of West Bountiful, Utah. I was not feeling my most attractive, clean and confident self, and you have to admit that was not the most ideal way to meet for the very first time the people you want to impress the most in the world. I was afraid that they were going to take one look at haggard, rumpled, stinky me and they were going to say, “What the heck is our Alan thinking?”

However, if they ever had a negative thought about me the first time they met me, they never let on, and on April 4, 1985 I became steps closer to becoming the luckiest girl on earth. My Alan, was not only the very best boy any girl could marry, he was (and is) also from the most wonderful loving family in the world. When I celebrate 25 years of marriage on April 26 this year, I will be celebrating not only that I married the love of my life, but also that I became a Marsden. They have loved me and made me one of their own and I have loved them and made them my own, and I have been tremendously blessed. I cannot imagine not being a Marsden ever! Even my married name, Marivic Marsden, is fatefully lyrical, it simply was meant to be!J

But on April 4, 1985 on that plane headed to Salt Lake City I did not comprehend all this yet. I was just a nervous young woman about to meet her fiancé’s family. When the pilot announced that we were minutes from landing, I looked out the window and prepared to be amazed by Salt Lake City. I totally expected to see the magnificent Salt Lake temple in its grandeur, just like in all the pictures I saw as a young Mormon girl in the Philippines. It was THE temple of temples, and I was going to be married in it. My nervousness over meeting my new in-laws was somewhat tempered by my excitement to see the place I was taught as a young Mormon girl to be modern-day Zion.

This is what I expected to see:

photo from http://www.lds.org/library.

But I didn’t see the temple. I’m sure it must have been visible from the plane, but maybe I didn’t see it because I was looking for something the size of the grand canyon (that’s the size of the temple in my pre-Utah mind). Instead of the temple what I saw when I looked out the plane looming gigantic ahead was a barren hill with this humongous smoke stack (the Kennecott Smokestack near Saltair).

This is what I saw:

photo by a Brian from Picasa

When my plane landed in Salt Lake City, I got so overwhelmed by the importance of this moment in my life I think my brain switched the world into slow-mo to keep me from self-destructing. Literally! I sat and let other passengers disembark ahead of me, trying to delay the moment of truth until I could compose myself. As I finally walked off the plane into the terminal Alan was there to engulf me in a loving embrace. Together again! I felt not just happiness but a sense of comfort wash over me at that moment.

Alan then introduced me to Mom and Dad who were not really total strangers at this point. They had sent me a birthday card and a Christmas card while I was a missionary, and I had written back to them. I also spoke to them briefly on the phone when Alan was in Cebu in February. I already knew what their voices sounded like. Alan had already explained to me that they’re British and that’s why they didn’t speak like the Americans at church in the Philippines. Alan had always spoken lovingly of them. And I immediately felt Mom and Dad’s warmth and affection the very first day I met them in person. I remember that they hugged me which was wonderful (and it’s always been a wonderful treat for me) but back then they were not Mom and Dad yet, and in the Cuyos family we don’t do hugs that much so I kind of froze. I remember later after Alan and I got married Mom telling me she could tell I am not used to hugging, but that we’re going to fix that soon enough. I know Mom has been successful because I am now one of the "hug-iest" person on planet earth.J I didn't know it for sure that day, but Mom and Dad turned out to be the best parents-in-law a girl could wish for. 25 years and I don't remember ever a day when I had an angry thought against, hurt feelings towards or a cross word with Mom and Dad. I have been both lucky and blessed since I stepped off that plane.

I remember the four of us leaving the terminal and I stepped out into Utah for the very first time. I remember Mom saying something about it being a beautiful spring day. It was sunny but I remember feeling cold. I could feel my ears stinging a bit. Alan and I took his car and he drove me straight to downtown Salt Lake because I wanted to see the Salt Lake temple. Although I felt very happy to be reunited with Alan after being apart for 5 weeks, my happiness was somewhat subdued by the fear of what was ahead of me in my new home. Then I saw the temple, and what a sight it was. I remember thinking, I would have gone to the ends of the world to be with Alan, and if this is the ends of the world, then it’s a darn cool place.

We then drove to West Bountiful to see the rest of the family. I remember looking around me at the dead trees. Of course, they were not dead; they were just leafless coming out of winter. Growing up and living my whole life in a place where it was lush green with vegetation year-round, the leafless trees surrounded by gray buildings and gray pavement was disconcerting. I think I started to feel homesick that very day.

I was quite tired so Alan reclined the passenger seat and I rode to West Bountiful that way. I sat up when he told me his house was coming up, and I saw this blond boy sitting on the hood of a car on the front curb. Alan said, “That’s my brother David.” We got out of the car, and I vaguely remember David acting like he wanted to scamper away. I know I said, “Hi, David.” And David acted shy, and I think that was the last time I ever saw David shy. I told Alan I thought David was a very good looking boy, even better looking than Mark Lester (star of Oliver) who was big in the Philippines when I was growing up.

I don’t really remember in what order I met the family. I know I was extremely overwhelmed, and was in system-overload, my brain partly shut down so maybe that’s why I don’t have a really clear memory of meeting everyone. But I remember some first impressions.

I remember Archie and Julee. They were not married yet and I remember being really impressed that Julee came out to see me. I thought that was a really nice sisterly gesture towards Alan, so I liked her from the start. I thought Julee was very pretty and had a sincerity about her. She gave me a welcome present, a necklace with small white beads and a gold chain. It was lovely. I wore it later on to my wedding breakfast. Archie seemed really nice and kind but I didn’t really know how to process him in my brain because he was the oldest brother and my dad was the oldest of 7 brothers and 2 sisters. And in the Cuyos family’s dynamics, the oldest brother is like the junior-king and you respect him but you don’t really pal around with him. Of course I know now that Archie is not the junior-king of the familyJ. He’s just Archie, Alan's big brother and friend who is witty, thoughtful, and devoted to family. But sometimes, and through no fault of Archie, I still feel a little bit like the little sister in the presence of the junior-king brother when I’m around him. Just a bit.J I’m a Marsden, but I’m still a Cuyos, too, after all.

Then there were Tim and Margie. I thought in person Tim looked like how you would picture an American young man if you were reading a novel and they were describing an American boy from Utah. I don’t know exactly why but maybe because he kind of looked like he could be one of the young men on the seminary slide films I watched back when I was in seminary. I could tell that he got along really well with Alan. I thought Margie was really cute, cuter than all the American girls I’ve met in the Philippines. My first impression was that she was what my mom would call lady-like in her mannerisms and she had a very gentle way of speaking; which was very soothing. From that very first day and through the years Tim and Marge have always impressed me as sensitive, genuinely caring and kind.

I also took note with relief that very first day that Margie and Julee were dark-haired and on the petite side. Well, my hair is just a little darker and I’m a little more petite but I still felt good because somehow it made me feel like I fit in. Apparently the brothers had a preference for dark-haired small women and I would not look too odd at the next family picture. J

I did not meet Lilian until the next day. I just had my shower, so my hair was wet and I was wearing a night shirt and went to Lesley’s kitchen to get me some milk. Lilian walked in and I remember thinking, “Wow, she is beautiful.” She had the biggest, most gorgeous eyes. She had long, wavy hair. And she had very nice skin. Alan had told me about his little sister so I felt like I knew her already so I just casually said, “Hi, Lilian!” Lilian was very nice and friendly but she also acted a little shy. Of course, we all know Lilian is not shy; it was just that it was our first meeting, and the shyness was mutual. I found out almost immediately that the real Lilian is vivacious, funny and a lot of fun to be around; and she had a boyfriend (now husband) named Cory, whom I will meet later.

And, of course, there were the Legers. As the reality of my relationship with Alan became more pronounced and plans were made for me to stay with Lesley’s family before the wedding, I started to examine that family picture and focused on the Legers more and more, hoping to find some clues as to what they are like. I thought they were a very good-looking family in that picture and seemed very nice from what I could glean from the things Alan told me, but to be honest I was petrified.

Here’s the reason: Lesley is the oldest sister just like me. In my family, for those who do not know, I am the oldest child of the oldest son, and am the oldest grandchild, and hence grew up with the crowned princess complex. As far as my younger siblings were concerned, what I say is only next in importance to my father’s. My siblings call me “Ate” (Ah-tee) the Filipino way of addressing an older sister to show respect. My brothers and sisters were supposed “to listen to me and follow my orders”. When we were growing up, if I was sitting around say reading and I’d get thirsty I could say to any of my younger siblings, “Go get me a glass of water” and they’d do it. If I want the best chair in the room, or the best piece of meat during dinner, or the fluffiest pillow, etc. then I get what I want. That’s just the way it was in my family. So naturally I wondered if Lesley had a princess-complex, too, and if she did then that would not be good for me; especially since I was marrying the 4^th child, so way down the “hierarchy”. J

Fortunately for me, Lesley never had a princess complex! On the contrary, Lesley is the nicest, most nurturing big sister ever. I could tell that immediately the first time I met her. She made me feel comfortable. She was warm and friendly. She was chatty and that was very nice since it took the pressure off me to keep conversations going. And I thought Mike was the nicest guy. He just had this easy cheerfulness about him it wasn’t very difficult to feel immediately comfortable in his presence. He seemed soft-spoken but he had a hearty, infectious laugh.

I realized pretty quickly that Les and Mike are among the most generous and unselfish people I know. In fact I continue to be amazed that Les and Mike, not only welcomed me into their house as a guest, but also gave up their master bedroom for me and slept in their unfinished basement instead! I loved them right away, and I looked up to Lesley as the “Ate” (I still do and I'll fetch her a glass of water anytime she wantsJ). While I was figuring out the American way of doing things I followed Lesley’s example. She was the model I copied until I figured out the culture and expectations of my new home. I copied how she did things like how she organized her kitchen, and how she treated Mike as a husband, and how she mothered the boys.

And the boys! Andy, Jeffrey, and Jeremy were beautiful and adorable. To be honest I did not have much use for children before the Leger boys. I was the oldest child, but we had yah-yahs (nannies) when we were little so I never had to take care of children. Andy, Jeffrey and Jeremy were my first real baby-sitting experience. Jeremy’s was the very first diaper I have ever changed, so everyone can understand why the Ber-mans will always be special in my life storyJ.

By the end of April, 4, 1985, after I had met Alan’s family, I felt much better than I felt at the beginning of the day when everyone was just an image on a photograph in my hand. Then it was time for me to go to bed. Everyone knew I was tired and cold. It’s so funny but tender to remember now how Mom, Lesley and Alan all tucked me into bed. They made sure this girl from the tropics was covered with enough quilts and blankets and was snugly tucked in to survive my first night in America. I remember lying there all bundled up looking at Alan’s face as he knelt down next to the bed after everyone else left the room. I will never forget the peaceful, radiant look on his face. He loved me and he was happy that I was there. I loved him and was happy to be there. He tenderly kissed me goodnight and he left. All the excitement of the day overcame me and I easily fell asleep.

The next time I opened my eyes it was April 5th, 1985, and the bedroom door was open. Standing at the door curiously peeking at my sleepy face were the cutest three little white boys. My reminder that I was now in Utah.

“Hello!” Andy, Jeffrey and Jeremy said. “Hi!” I said. And so began the first day of the rest of my life.

And, yes. I was there standing next to Alan in the next family picture...

and the next...and the next...and the next...as long as forever lasts...

***If you missed "April 4, 1985( Part 1); Leaving The Philippines," you can read it by clicking HERE

April 4, 1985: Leaving The Philippines

2010-04-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

***Posted by Marivic, Part 8 of our 25th anniversary series

Cebu, Philippines, the island home I left behind. In the foreground is Mactan International Airport (Photo from Google Maps)

April 4, 1985 seems like such a long, long time ago, I have a hard time remembering the entire day. But I remember snapshots of that day. Most of it blurry like a faded photograph.

I remember waking up in my Go Chan Hills home for the last time, getting up really early. I remember feeling a sad sensation, but I also felt a sense of resignation. On this day, at the age of 23, I would leave the

Philippines

and say good-bye to everyone and everything beloved and familiar. I didn’t know how long it would be before I could return. All I knew was that I was leaving and starting a new life in a place where I've never been (“Will I thrive and be happy there?”). I would become a part of a new family I’ve never met (“Will they be accepting and nice to me?”). Of course, I knew that Alan would be there, and he promised me that everything would turn out fine, and that he would do his best to make me happy. I trusted him. Still---I felt trepidation. It felt like I was on the edge of the universe and in front of me nothing but empty space. And I was supposed to just jump into the emptiness in front of me and hope that Alan catches me before I hit bottom.

My daughter a few weeks ago teased me and said I made my Manila Embassy story sound like Auschwitz (What a stinker!). After she read my post about March 1985 she joked, "Mom, I thought I'm the melodramatic member of this family? Maybe I got it from you." :-) Well I don’t know if I’m being melodramatic about April 4, 1985, but I know for sure that if it was a movie the background music would be "Across The Universe" by The Beatles :-). "Sounds of laughter shades of life are ringing through my open ears, inciting and inviting me. Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns, it calls me on and on across the universe!"

Oh, alright. I'm melodramatic. But wouldn't you be if on April 4, 1985 you threw yourself across the universe into the great unknown? I mean, I knew Alan was Prince Charming in every measurable way, but what if he was from a family of Cruella Devilles or Captain Hooks? What if all the Filipino-Americans who came home to tell wondrous tales of

America

simply lied to save face and hide their failures, and in truth – to quote Westside Story - “everything is right in

America

, if you are white in

America

”? If I was not courageous by virtue of my youth, I probably would not have agreed to take this literal and emotional journey I was about to begin. At least I would not have done it alone, without family to come with or go to. Fortunately, inexperience made me fearless and denied me the ability to see the million things that could have gone wrong. Now that I am more mature I can see that if my own daughter did now what I did then, I most probably would freak out!

My parents did not freak out though. That day our good-byes at the airport were pretty much a Cuyos affair. Low-key and subdued. My Papa, my two sisters (Marle & Maries) and my three brothers (Jessor, Jessin & Jerome) said good-bye with sadness in their eyes. But they smiled and wished me the best. My mama cried, but she is the crier of the family, and we often joke that it’s because she is a Cuyos by marriage only; genetically she is incapable of heartbreak without public tears unlike the rest of us :-). But I think my mother was also crying because we had some unpleasantness the days leading up to my departure. Her best friend who resides in Chicago had asked her to ask me to bring a giant boxful of presents from her family in Cebu and mail it from Utah so she could save on shipping fees. I’m not sure if it’s Filipino culture, or just in my mother’s social circle, but it would have been very rude to decline, even if I thought it was very inconsiderate of her friend to ask in the first place. However, the airline would not allow me to bring more than the designated load as luggage. So my mother firmly made me leave behind a boxful of my personal belongings (including journals which did not survive time, eventual moth-infestation and flooding, and are now gone forever) and instead carry her best friend’s box. I obeyed as I was expected to, but for days I didn’t do much to hide how unhappy I was. However, by the time I had to say good-bye to my mother all the ill-feeling just seemed stupid and petty, and I was just very sad to be leaving.

I remember my grandfather and my two favorite aunts being there at the airport, too. I’ve said goodbye to my Lola (Grandma), friends and other relatives the day before. Saying good-bye to my Lolo (Grandpa) was probably the hardest part. Maybe because I thought there was a chance I would never see him again. But true to my upbringing, I did not cry. I stood up straight, hugged everyone, smiled and calmly walked across the tarmac to my waiting plane. When I got on the plane I had a window seat and I could look across the tarmac and could make out my family waving at the plane along with many other people who had someone among the passengers. That's when I felt my heart constrict. Then I started to cry. Soundlessly, of course. It was partly because I was seated next to strangers, but mostly because I’ve mastered the art of soundless, sob-less tears growing up in my kind of family. But my quiet heartbreak was nevertheless real. I didn’t know when I would see my loved ones again and that thought was painfully overwhelming. (I saw everyone again after a few years except for my Lola who passed away before my return.)

The Jesus Cuyos Family during a family outing to Marigondon Beach.

Left to right: Jessor, Jessin, Jerome, Papa, Mama, Maries, Marle, and Marivic

I think I was feeling really melancholy the whole plane trip to Manila. But when I got there an adrenalin rush kicked in that flooded the sadness away. I barely had enough time to get to the International Terminal. My friend Helen was once again there for me. This time we were joined by Herman Lajato, a young radio disc jockey Alan baptized during his mission. They got me in a taxi and whisked me to the International Terminal. When we got there I barely had time to hug Helen and Herman and bid them good-bye. I remember a porter or someone asking me for some money and before I could respond Herman and Helen gave him the money and I got pushed through a door and was told to hurry. (The next time I would see Helen was in 2001 at the MTC in Provo where she was training with her husband; a newly called mission president.) I remember walking through the airport, presenting my ticket and documents at a check-in station---it all seems so vague now--- and then told to board a Northwest Airlines plane bound for Tokyo,

Japan

. The giant 747 was pretty jammed-packed with passengers. I distinctly remember being disappointed that I was assigned a seat to the very back of the plane. And it was right next to the bathroom! I wasn’t happy that during the flight I had to eat my meal while people stood close to me waiting to use the bathroom. I also remember for some reason that I dropped my knife, and it wasn’t a plastic knife, but real silverware, so it went clattering down the side of my seat by the window and I was embarrassed. It really is a pretty random thing to remember since I don’t remember much else from that flight.

I deplaned in Tokyo for my first stop-over and immediately looked for my next gate but it was just right there close to where my first plane’s gate was. Alan had given me a detailed description of what to expect at Narita Airport which made me think it was going to be an ordeal to find my way around and I was nervous, so I was glad Tokyo turned out easy. I had a couple of hours ‘till my next flight so I walked around for a bit and looked out the window hoping to see

Japan

. But there was nothing but pavement and airplanes. So I turned my curiosity on the Japanese girls at the airport for a while. I have always admired how young Japanese girls look chic and fashionable even when they are just being tourists. I was always told back then that European fashion hits Asia before the

U.S.

so I was happy to see many Japanese girls wearing the same style outfit I was. I was wearing my going-to-America outfit I bought just a few days earlier (Was I a dork? I mean who buys a going-to-America outfit?). I just wanted to be pretty for Alan and his family.

After awhile I got a little hungry and went to a snack counter. I felt a little uneasy because it was my first time to buy anything with American money. Alan and I have a good laugh about this now, but he sent me $12 in the mail for food money. Pretty much all the money he had left in the world after buying my ticket. There was an array of American sandwiches to buy, but they all seemed so foreign and I didn’t know what to choose. What the heck is a bologna or a pastrami sandwich? The Japanese girl behind the counter was very nice and tried to help me pick something that was a little more familiar, a chicken-and-egg sandwich and a soft drink. I remember thinking the sandwich tasted bland and uninteresting and disappointing. My first personal bad purchase with U.S. dollars. (*Leger’s Deli should do domestic and international airports. It’d be a hit.)

I passed the rest of the time at the airport people-watching. I was feeling excited by the newness of my experience, but I was also starting to have a fish-out-of-water sensation. There were a lot of other Filipinos waiting to board the next flight. Some of them repeatedly glanced at me and smiled and I smiled back but avoided conversation with anyone. After awhile though I remember this older, very well-dressed Filipino woman sat across from me and asked me if I was Filipina. I said, yes. She told me she was from New York and she was a doctor. That explained why she looked expensive. She was very nice though. She asked me why I was going to

America

, and I told her about Alan. I asked her about the

U.S.

and she must have sensed my concerns. She assured me I will do very well in

America

. She said she could tell I was well-educated and have a very pleasant personality (her words, not mine! :-)) and had a pretty smile, and that Americans are suckers for girls with pretty smiles. Yup, that’s a 25 year old compliment I have not forgotten and will never forget because I’m vain that way :-). Whoever that woman was, she was my all-time best stranger I’ve ever met at an airport. She was kind enough to reassure a scared little stranger travelling to her new home. The Filipina doctor and I eventually parted ways right there at the airport. She was on a different flight.

I don’t remember how long I waited to depart Tokyo but I know it was hours. When I finally boarded my plane I was tired from the waiting, the boarding and all the emotions I went through that day. Thankfully, the flight to San Francisco was not full at all. There was nobody seated on my entire row! All the seats on my row, on my side and the other side were empty. That was quite pleasant. I remember looking out and it was dark. The flight attendant gave me a pillow and a blanket. I stretched out on three empty seats. The emotions of the day had worn me out and I fell asleep. Then I remember waking up because light hit my face, and when I looked out there was daylight, but there was nothing to see but blue. That was the most excruciating part of the trip. I wasn’t sleepy anymore and there were still hours of the flight to go and it just went on and on and on. Hour after hour after hour.

Then finally, land ho! It was my first time to see American soil so I did not recognize anything. I knew I was landing in San Francisco and I was excited. I remember anticipating something to just blow my mind and whack me with a welcome, I don’t know why exactly. Maybe because it was America, and I heard from homesick Americans I’ve met in the Philippines who described it as this glorious land, so I imagined any minute now I’m going to see something breath-taking. But I didn’t. I didn’t see anything super spectacular. From the air as we were landing I saw nothing but specks of buildings and land. To be honest it looked pretty gray compared to where I came from.

"Landing in SFO" courtesy of DWGPhotos.

I have blurry memories of collecting my luggage, going through customs, etc. I remember starting to feel a little overwhelmed by this point. I remember walking out of customs and immigration into the airport terminal. I was still waiting for something spectacular to happen. Doesn’t that seem like a weird expectation? For some reason after all the hype I’ve heard about

America

I truly expected to see something that would make me say, “Holy moly! I’m in

America

!” and distract me from the fear starting to roil inside me. But everything inside the terminal just seemed like Manila, or Tokyo. Nothing extra-ordinary at all except that all of a sudden there were more giant, white people than there were short brown Asian people!

Then I saw Elena Fultineer, Sister Carmen Nunez’s sister, and my aunt’s best friend from her youth. She had driven from Sacramento to San Francisco to meet me. I think I had a package for her from her family. It was nice to have someone there to meet me who was sort of familiar because at this point I was beginning to feel a freak-out moment coming on. She took me to the correct terminal and made sure I got on the plane bound for Salt Lake City.

I remember being on that plane. I had another window seat! I thought, “Great! Maybe I will see the Salt Lake temple as I land. Yay!” But that thought was just a momentary mental distraction. I realized that April 4, 1985 (because of the International Dateline) was turning out to be literally the longest day of my life, 48 hours long! And I had spent 16 hours of it so far travelling. I was about to meet my to-be in laws for the first time and I have not showered since what practically was my yesterday. Now I was sitting on a plane bound for Utah ---the fabled land of milk and honey that American missionaries have romanticized to Filipino Saints as modern-day Zion. And Alan will be there, and we will be together again after a difficult five weeks apart. That was a happy, breath-taking thought. And also waiting for me in Utah was the rest of The Marsdens, my new family. That, on the other hand, was a scary, breath-stopping thought. I think I was this close to complete panic several times during that plane ride and I am really amazed that not once did I hyperventilate or pass out as I flew the few hundred miles to my new home to meet my soon-to-be in-laws.

****Next up on Monday, April 5th “Meet The Marsdens”.

Alan’s March-misery Comes to an End

2010-03-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

***Posted By Alan, Part 7 of our 25th anniversary series.

Since starting our 25^th Anniversary Series on February 1^st, I have tried to be date-specific with my posts, i.e. write about things that happened 25-years-ago today. Well 25-years-ago today, March 26^th, 1985 my March-misery came to an end. I had left Cebu nearly four weeks earlier expecting that Marivic would have her visa that first week, and would be on a plane bound for West Bountiful on March 21^st. Well, as explained by Marivic in a previous post, she did not get her visa that first week, or the 2nd week, or the 3^rd. Finally, on March 26^th I got the call from my girl. Her visa had been approved!

How long do you suppose it took me to get to Murdock Travel in Salt Lake? I have the receipt to prove it. Marivic’s ticket to America was purchased on March 26^th, 1985. She would say good-bye to her family and depart her homeland forever in just nine days, on April 4^th.

I carry a little guilt over this. Marivic had been away from her family and home for a year and a half as a missionary. She should have been released December 15^th but her batch was extended three weeks, without choice. This meant that she did not get a final Christmas with her family. Then just a few weeks later I arrived for my month in Cebu which occupied all of her time. She then spent over three weeks in Manila, away from her family, as she waited to get her visa approved. Now she had nine days before leaving them forever.

As for me, March had been a reality check. After spending a blissful February in a tropical paradise, I returned unemployed, but still with a car payment coming up not to mention a wedding at some point, probably pretty soon. I visited my old boss at Channel 4. He had given my old job as floor director to a woman who previously worked under me. Her position then went to the number three person on the crew. But the number three position was still open, and it was mine if I wanted it. But he explained it would come with a significant decrease in pay, it’s part-time and now I would be answering to two people who one month earlier were answering to me. I foolishly declined. I did, however, accept a part-time position as weekend floor director just to keep my foot in the door.

A week or two later I got a call from a man in my ward (church congregation) who informed me his brother who owned a greenhouse was looking for a worker and needed him to start “yesterday.” And so I went to work for Ken Johnson at Schofield Greenhouses watering and delivering bedding plants for about the same money offered to me at Channel 4.

With Marivic’s visa approved I was once again happy and I was excited. I couldn’t wait to see her, of course, but I was also thrilled that very soon my family would finally meet this wonderful creation of God that I had been telling them about for nearly a year. I can only imagine what my parents and brothers and sister thought of the whole thing. Outwardly, everyone was very supportive. But there can be a stigma, both in Utah and the Philippines, associated with a missionary marrying someone he met while on his mission. And one can understandably wonder if this girl from a “third-world country” is marrying the American for the right reasons.

I returned from my mission in April, 1984 and within a couple weeks decided that I truly did want to do what I thought I wanted to do which is pursue possible marriage with Marivic Cuyos. I did not, however, immediately share this with my family. In fact, no one in my family had a clue that Marivic existed. What would my parents think? How would they respond? Fortunately I had older siblings I could do a test-run on.

I don’t know the exact date but it must have been around the beginning of May that I dropped the bombshell on my sister Lesley and her husband Mike. My brother Tim and his wife Margie got the news at the same time. I don’t remember details but everyone was amazed and seemed excited for me. In reality, I suspect they may have been a little worried. I assured my siblings that I had been a good, faithful and obedient missionary.

And I assured them Marivic was special, that she had a promising future in the Philippines if she chose, but she genuinely loved me and not the thought of coming to America. I would like to point out that there was NEVER a doubt in my mind that this was true, simply because I knew Marivic, and I knew girls in the Philippines who absolutely would kill to marry a foreigner for a free ticket to a better life. She was not one of them.

I don’t remember exactly when I told my brother Archie, who was not yet married and living in Salt Lake, but I know I told him too, of course. I do remember the circumstances that prompted me to finally tell my mom and dad. We were having a casual conversation at home when one of them mentioned that someone they knew had a son or daughter or relative who was dating or marrying a black person. I don’t remember the details. They didn’t speak disapproving, as I recall, just that it was a bit shocking for Utah at the time. I don’t remember exactly what I said but the gist was that their son is in love with a brown girl. There was no gasp, nor fainting. I gave them the whole spiel: her name is Marivic; she’s a full-time missionary; she’s pretty, she’s smart, funny and kind; I didn’t break any rules as a missionary; she’s not using me to come to America. Again, what must they have thought? Whatever it was, I got nothing but love, support and acceptance from my parents, and brothers and sister.

For now this was still kept secret from my younger siblings, Lilian and David, though they would find out soon enough. Eventually I even told my little nephews Andy, 6, and Jeffrey, 4. And I do remember telling them because of the way they reacted. I showed them the picture of Marivic I carried in my wallet and the little boys giggled and called her “Chinese!”

The "Chinese" Aunt-To-Be

Over the course of the coming year I believe my family became convinced that I knew what I was doing, or at least I was doing it whether they liked it or not. It seemed to me they trusted me. As the time drew nearer and I was more committed than ever, Marivic received kind greeting cards from my mom and from my sister Lesley.

Fast-forward to March 26^th, 1985. I knew on that day, finally, that all the people in the world who I loved would in nine days meet the girl I loved.

****Next up on Friday, April 2nd: Marivic describes her departure from the Philippines and feelings as she flew toward America for the first time.

So You Want To Come To America? Then Get Naked!

2010-03-07T23:15:00.000-08:00

*** Posted by Marivic, Part 6 of our 25th Anniversary series.

Now that the title got your attentionJ, I just want to say it is NOT what you might think it means. Alan and I were very good Mormon kids. But –well, yes. I did have to take off my clothes (TMI!) to come to America. And that is what I want to talk about on this post. I mean my U.S. immigration experience and not just the getting naked partJ, to record a little bit of history for our children and posterity.

However, unlike Alan I am not very good with dates and events and places. He is super amazing about recalling what, when, where and to whom. My brain and I, on other hand, have a way of discarding what I consider incidental clutterJ. But I am very good at remembering impressions and feelings I have about a particular event. And, oh did I have strong feelings about my whole immigration experience! So I’m going to focus on that part. Although the chronology of March 1985 and exact locations of events are kind of vague to me now 25 years later, I still vividly remember how I felt and what I thought.

March 1985 was NOT the best month of my life. It was the kind of month that I just had to get through and could not get to the end of fast enough. After spending the entire month of February in care-free lovey-dovey bliss, Alan and I were once again separated by thousands of miles and ocean. We had to come down from our rose-colored cloud to take care of the more earth-bound tasks required for us to marry. I had to get a visa to immigrate to the U.S., was subjected to the whims of embassy workers and had to jump through the hoops of the U.S. Immigration process. I believe my present opinion on U.S. immigration policy stems from my experience back in March of 1985.

Here are some of the thoughts and feelings and events I remember from my personal immigration journey:

I remember the long lines that wrapped around the building housing the U.S. Embassy in Manila. Hundreds of Filipinos standing in line outdoors in the sweltering tropical sun for hours waiting for their turn to get inside the embassy so they could leave the country. I'm not sure if it's still the same way now, or if they've established a more hospitable way for Filipinos to wait for a chance to get in the building, but I remember feeling insulted to be treated so inhospitably in my own land. But I reminded myself that no one was putting a gun to my head to do what I was doing. One does not have the right to self-righteous nationalism when one is fleeing her own country by choice and begging another country to let them in. That’s my thought on that.
Still I remember feeling somewhat sad that so many people wanted to leave--- engineers, doctors, nurses, etc. (the etc. of course included mail-order-brides and such). I used to have a college professor who talked to us his young students about the great "brain-drain": the wave of bright, educated young Filipinos departing for greener foreign pastures and how detrimental this has been to the Philippines. Although I was "fleeing" the country for less mercenary reasons like love, being one of the hundreds of people crowding the U.S. embassy for a visa still made my heart twinge a little bit for my homeland. It was a time of mixed emotions for me.
I remember trying to focus on my purpose for being there and passing my time in line preparing for my interview with an immigration agent by going over my document-checklist numerous times. Birth certificate, check. Police clearance, check. Passport photos exactly sized, check. I went over my list repeatedly, just to make sure I had everything I was supposed to bring.

The U.S. Embassy in Manila (photo from Google Maps).

I remember finally getting inside the building and getting to sit on a chair in a crowded but air-conditioned waiting room after standing for hours out in the sun. I remember immigration agents seated behind a long desk and processing person after person. I remember thinking they had this air of superiority and power about them. They were Americans I assumed but looked Filipino--- short, and brown with small flat noses. They had this cold "I am better than you" demeanor directed at the Filipinos on the other side of their desks. I remember feeling disgusted, but again I reminded myself I was there to beg for a visa. Self-righteous nationalistic fervor was not only out of place, but ridiculously hypocritical.
I remember finally getting called to sit in front of an embassy worker. He was very cordial, but he told me I still needed to pay a $75 fee. There was nothing about it on my checklist and Alan had explained to me before this that everything was taken care of and I was just there to show all my documents and be interviewed so I was perplexed. But the embassy worker said I could not proceed until I take care of that, so I had to come back another day and get back in line. The thought of having another long day like I just had made me want to cry.
I remember going back to the embassy after a few days with the money. Alan was able to send it to me in Manila. We now felt confident that since an embassy worker had already pre-screened all my documents that this was finally the day I’ll get my visa. Again I made it to the front of the line but now I had a different pre-screener. At first everything went well and then the fact came up that I had lived in different provinces (as a missionary). I was then told a police clearance would not do it. I needed an NBI (National Bureau of Investigation) clearance!

I remember feeling so frustrated. What we thought was something that would take me only a few short days had now turned into excruciating weeks. Alan and I were both very upset about all the delays. We just wanted to be together again. I remember him saying later something about his Dad contacting the office of Utah Senator Jake Garn to complain about the stupid things I was put through at the U.S. Embassy.
I remember thinking Alan's Dad must be an important man in UtahJ. Senator Garn sent a letter to the head of the U.S. embassy in the Philippines inquiring about my case and the next time I showed up at the embassy I was expedited to the front of the line. I was impressed. I didn't yet know that in America politicians sometimes do nice things for their constituents because, unlike in the Philippines, it's harder to cheat and steal votes during elections and they truly have to win by popularity. So back then I simply thought I must be marrying into a connected familyJ. Anyway, all my papers were then declared in order, and, as it turns out, there was NO additional $75 fee after all.
I remember early in the whole process being required to get a physical/health check-up at an embassy designated hospital. I remember sitting in a waiting room at the hospital with other potential immigrants, and being herded from one procedure to another. I remember feeling that all of us there were mindless cattle, meekly doing what we were told to do. Move to this room, move to that room, sit here, stand there, etc. ---It didn't even matter how long or whether the herding back and forth even made sense. Everyone just did what they were told; just give us the stupid visa already!
I remember being ushered into another room and told to put on a hospital gown then directed to go behind a curtain. I remember going through THE MOST HUMILIATING thing I had to do in my life. With other female visa applicants standing in line next to me, and nothing but a flimsy linen curtain separating us from a roomful of other men and women (strangers!) also waiting for their turn at humiliation, we were told to undress before a panel of men and women doctors seated behind a desk writing notes on clipboards. They ordered us to turn this way, turn that way, turn around, bend over (!!!). Can you freakin’ believe I submissively did as I was told while they scribbled notes?!! I practically stood naked with and in front of strangers as they inspected my body for---? Lice? Scabs? Cooties? It felt so perverted, humiliating and dehumanizing! Yet I meekly submitted for a golden ticket to America! I hope this was a social glitch from the 8o’s and they now have a more private and dignified way of inspecting would-be Filipino immigrants for cooties! I often wonder if European immigrants back then were asked to do what I did; or was that form of immigration humiliation reserved for immigrants from poorer countries.
I remember what a comfort my good friend Helen de la Cruz (Costales) was to me with her kindness and generosity in letting me stay with her in her family's apartment in Manila during this time. She was there when I missed Alan so much my heart was literally breaking, and when my mind was so agitated from my negative experiences with the immigration process. We'd stay up late most nights and talk for hours. Some days we'd go to the Manila temple for, believe it or not, the young LDS social scene. At that time public areas of the Manila temple had become a sort of young single adult hang out, where young Latter-day saints, many returned missionaries "prowled" in search of "eternal companions".
I remember actually enjoying the young single adult scene in Manila. I was welcomed as Helen’s guest and I had fun. But I also remember thinking how ridiculous some of the young men I met were! Some strutted around like they were something else. "Hey, look at me! You could be the lucky girl. I'm a prized returned missionary"! I often caught myself thinking, "You stupid Manila boy. You are not even half as good as MY boy. And he would never diminish himself and 'prowl' and peacock around like you."J But alas, my perfect prize of a boy was across the ocean and I was missing him so painfully much.
I remember one particular phone conversation with Alan at Helen's house before I got my visa. We were both so miserable and missing each other in the worst way! We talked and cried together for I don't know how long. I remember desperately wanting to reach out and comfort Alan, and for him to hug me and comfort me, but we were just voices on the phone and so, so far from each other. I always felt worse after we said goodbye and hung up. It just seemed like I was never going to get my visa, and the ocean separating us will keep us separated forever. I remember there were many days I felt that way back in March of 1985.
I remember after days of waiting finally getting notice of my final interview schedule at the U.S. embassy. This meant all my documents were in order and I have submitted everything that needed to be submitted and paid everything that needed to be paid and I didn't have cooties! J All I needed to do now was sit with a U.S. official and answer personal questions. I was instructed to bring proof of my relationship with Alan. I was apprehensive, but excited to be nearing the end of my ordeal.
I remember on the day of my final interview there was no waiting around at the embassy even though there were many people already seated ahead of me in the waiting area. I came in and announced my presence to a clerk, and a few minutes later I was being led to a private office. In the room was this important-looking white American man sitting behind a desk, reviewing what looked like my documents. I nervously sat down holding a box of letters that Alan had written to me during and after my mission. I also brought pictures of Alan and me together. I was prepared to prove I wasn't a fake fiancé or something. But I remember the man didn't ask me hardly anything. He signed a few things and handed me some papers and told me I was all set and will be receiving my visa-stamped passport in the mail within a few days. Welcome to the USA. And that was it! Hours and days of processing and waiting, but not even 10 minutes of interview!

I remember walking out of that building with winged feet. I felt such a sense of relief I felt delirious. I don't remember exactly what happened after that. I knew I packed my belongings, thanked Helen and took a plane home to Cebu. I don't remember when I called Alan to tell him everything went well, but I know I did, of course. We were so relieved, happy and excited.
I recall feeling a little bit of anxiety as I waited for my passport/visa to arrive in Cebu. What if it's lost in the mail? Why didn't they just hand it to me? I would have been willing to wait for it. I've already done hours of waiting in that building I could have waited hours more for the visa-stamped passport to be handed to me personally. But I remember the package finally arriving, although I don't remember exactly when. Oh, the joy! I remember holding it in my hand feeling really happy. Soon I will see my Alan again...

... But I also remember a sudden and overwhelming pang of pain. It immediately dawned on me that I have now come to the beginning of good-byes. Nine days after the visa was issued I was on a plane bound for America.

***Upcoming Posts will include: "So This Is The Land of Milk and Honey?" and "Meet The Marsdens". The titles may change but the topics will generally remain the same.

If you miss parts of the series you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

Best Month Ever!

2010-02-26T00:01:00.000-08:00

***Posted by Alan, Part 5 of our 25th anniversary series.

Like everyone, I’ve enjoyed those days in my life that were just great days. And they don’t have to be monumental days, like your wedding day or the birth of a child. For example, a day-trip to the Mendocino coast last year as a family (plus dog) was just one of those simple but perfect days. But defining an entire month that way has only happened once for me and that was, of course, February of 1985. I still consider it to have been the best month of my life.

I didn’t have a job to go to, a lawn to mow, a church calling to fulfill or any other obligations. I was in the Philippines but did not have strict missionary rules and a strict missionary schedule to keep. I just set everything aside for a month, enjoyed being in the tropics while it was winter back home, and, of course, spent every minute I could with Marivic.

The guy from West Bountiful and the girl from Cebu hadn’t actually become “serious” about each other until after I returned from my mission. However, the proverbial flood gates were opened by May of 1984 and by the fall I couldn’t stand the wait; I mean there were times I wanted to be with Marivic so bad it hurt.

So when we were finally together in February I wanted to do nothing but be with Marivic. Honestly, I cannot detail the events of each day of that month. I didn’t keep a journal. But I remember the things we did together. We saw movies (Dune, The Last Star Fighter, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom), we ate out, though not usually at any place fancy (Shakey’s Pizza, Sunburst Fried Chicken, Fairmart) although I do have a receipt showing that on February 14^th we went to a restaurant on Gorordo Avenue called Sizzler (not the American version). On another night Dodong Nunez let me borrow his car and I drove Vicvic to the Cebu Plaza Hotel where we had an expensive steak dinner then rode the glass elevator to the top of the high-rise for a romantic view of the city lights.

One day, Marivic decided we should skip a day and not see each other because she was worried I’d grow tired of her if we spent too much time together. That lasted for about three hours until I couldn’t stand being apart from her another minute and tracked her down, hanging out at the LDS Institute building with other young women. I was relieved to learn that she didn’t think I was being a stalker but in fact was happy I showed up, and away we went.

More often than not we would just hang out at the Cuyos house like a couple of love-struck kids. Our favorite spot was a hammock-style swing in which the two of us fit very nicely. My future mother-in-law one day actually admonished us only half-joking “Alan… Vicvic… remember the Temple.”

Alan and Marivic at Pepito's Beach, Lilo-an, February 1985.
(The era when men wore short-shorts, and Alan was stylin'! :-P )

We also went to the beach several times, once with her entire family in her mother’s home town of Liloan, north of the City. Later we returned to Pepito’s Beach Resort, just the two of us. It was a fantastic day. We swam, floated in an inner-tube and relaxed in the shade of the palm trees. I apparently didn’t spend enough time in the shade, however, because I ended up with a pretty good sunburn. That night I decided I would check into an air-conditioned hotel near the home of my hosts, the Nunez family. I just wanted seclusion, peace and quite and cold air for that one night while I suffered through the pain. I assured Sister Carmen Nunez that her home was very nice and comfortable but I just wanted to recuperate.

The next morning, almost at the crack of dawn, a young house guest/helper of the Nunez (Mario) was sent to the Cuyos home on an invented errand. In reality, he was sent on a “mission” to make sure Marivic had been home with her family while Alan was spending a night in a hotel room. Of course Marivic was home like a proper Filipina and returned missionaryJ.

It was during a day-trip to a place called Hadsan Beach on the adjacent island of Mactan that I actually proposed to Marivic. I didn’t record the date but it was probably in the 2^nd week. It’s kind of unusual proposing to someone when you know, and she knows, that a “fiancé” visa has already been applied for. But it was a beautiful setting and happy moment even if a ring wouldn’t be on her finger until Bountiful.

Marivic encouraged me to speak with her father about our plans and to get his blessing. Of course, it was all very obvious, but it was important to take this step. With Marivic by my side I told him I loved his daughter and I wanted to take her to the States and marry her. Brother Cuyos (who I later came to call Papa) was not a man of many words but he told me he approved and that he trusted me and softly asked me to take care of Marivic.

And so the wonderful month of February rolled on. It was all very remarkable that we had gotten to this point. In fact, some might call it crazy. Two months earlier Marivic was on her mission in the Northern Philippines, I was working at Channel 4 in Salt Lake. Now we were courting in Cebu and in another two months we would be kneeling across the altar from each other in the Salt Lake Temple.

We had actually considered being married in the Manila Temple. But I had already submitted the application for a fiancé visa for Marivic to come to America, and a “wife” cannot immigrate on a “fiancé” visa. Oh, the complicated red tape of U.S. Immigration.

When I arrived in Cebu on February 3^rd the plan was for me to stay for two months, wait until Marivic got her visa finalized and bring her home with me. But by the third week, after learning the U.S. Consulate in Cebu does not process immigrant visas and that Marivic would have to go to Manila, we decided it would be best for me to return home at the end of the month, get a job and prepare for our wedding.

And so, 25 years ago this weekend, on February 27^th, 1985, I was back on that familiar BAC One-Eleven, Philippine Airlines Jet, bound for Manila; a one hour flight. But this time Marivic was with me. We would go to the U.S. Embassy to start the final visa process then head to the recently dedicated Manila Temple so that Marivic could take out her Endowment.

Four weeks earlier I had been greeted in Manila by the mother of our Friend Lynn Nielsen who had misunderstood my travel plans, thinking she was taking me that day to her home in Quezon City. This time the very kind Sister Villadares was there once again and finally, along with Marivic, I made the 13 mile trip across EDSA (the biggest highway across Metro Manila) to her home. On a side note, just 12 short months later EDSA would be the scene of the massive “People Power” revolution that toppled the Marcos Regime and thrust Corazon Aquino into the presidency.

After eating and freshening up at the Villadares home, Marivic and I rode a jeepney along the very busy Quezon Avenue all the way into Manila, about 10 miles. As we approached the embassy I was now seeing for the first time the most famous and historic part of the Philippines including Rizal Park, site of the execution of national hero Jose Rizal at the hands of the Spanish; and the Manila Hotel where General Douglas MacArthur resided for years leading up to World War II.

At the embassy we quickly discovered that the romantic and urgent desires of our hearts were unremarkable and certainly not a priority; “Take a number.” After waiting about an hour Marivic was able to schedule an appointment to return for an interview. The fiancé visa application I submitted in Salt Lake City had been approved but she still needed to jump through a number of frustrating (and in one instance humiliating) hoops in Manila in order to actually receive that visa. It turns out it would be weeks in coming.

We made our way back to the Villadares home to shower and change for the Temple which is a small, six-spired edifice in Quezon City, just off EDSA. It had been dedicated exactly five months earlier while Marivic was on her mission. This would be the first time she had ever seen an actual LDS temple, much less go inside of one. A close friend and fellow Baguio missionary, Helen de la Cruz (now Helen Costales), accompanied us and served as Marivic’s escort.

The Manila Temple

This day, Wednesday, February 27^th, 1985, was one of those memorable and remarkable days filled with new experiences to the point of overload. Manila is no Cebu City. It is a massive, bustling, crowded major Asian city. And so the entrance to the Temple was like a portal into another world, a familiar world, a peaceful world. The best part of the day was when Marivic and I sat together in the Celestial Room for the very first time. In the Celestial Room I was not a tall, skinny American kid and she was not a small, brown Filipina. We were just Alan and Vicvic.

Alan and Vicvic at the entrance of the Manila Temple

The last day of the best month of my life was our last day together in the Philippines: Thursday, February 28^th, 1985. We went to a huge mall in Makati, ate at McDonalds (where the marvelous invention known as “extra-large fries” was not yet available) and visited the LDS Church offices where Marivic saw a number of people she knew and where I was to pick up an important document from Utah that Marivic would need for her visa application. I was actually quite distressed about getting that crucial form until my mother informed me that she could send it to the Church offices instantaneously using a miraculous machine I had never heard of called a “facsimile” or “fax” machine.

The document arrived and it was time to rush to Manila International Airport for my 4 p.m. flight on Philippine Airlines. Joined by Helen de la Cruz, Marivic and I took a taxi to MIA where I had just minutes to check in, get through immigration and run to my gate. After spending all day, every day together for the last four weeks it was time for Marivic and me to say goodbye. She would remain in Manila, a guest of Helen, who generously hosted Marivic until her visa was approved which would hopefully be within a week (it wasn’t).

The long, lonely flight home to Salt Lake (via Tokyo and San Francisco) would be one of the longest days of my life, literally. A month early, crossing westward over the International Dateline caused me to skip an entire day. Heading home is the opposite. The sun goes down on Thursday and when it rises again it’s still Thursday. The exhausting effect of the air travel is the same, however. My parents greeted me at gate B-9 that evening with the winter coat I had left with them at gate B-1 four weeks earlier. And so ended the best month of my life. Waking up the next morning would be the beginning of one of the worst.

*** We don't know exactly when the next parts will be published, but we know there are at least a couple more before April 26 (our actual anniversary). We'll let you know via Facebook or e-mail, but also feel free to keep checking!

If you missed previous posts you can find them here: PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4

My Parents' "Bad Investment"

2010-02-23T00:53:00.000-08:00

***** Posted by Marivic, Part 4 of our 25th anniversary series.

February this year has been a very interesting and pleasant month for me and Alan. It almost feels like an extended though early 25th anniversary celebration. We’ve been reminiscing about February 1985, falling IN love again and again each day, feeling flabbergasted at how crazy it all was now that we can look back with adult eyes, but just totally grateful and happy that we both had the right combination of courage and insanity to make it all happen because it has been, no question, all worth it.

However, even in the warm and fuzzy glow of love, gratitude and vindication, we also remember the difficult times, the inner-struggles and the heart-wrenching decisions we had to make to be "us". The thought that we actually more than once almost walked away from making what turned out to be the wisest choice we ever made in our lives gives me a sense of overwhelming panic! Several times I had to actually make sure I am awake, existing in my current life married to Alan, and NOT in some parallel universe with another person (Do you think I’ve maybe watched too many episodes of LOST?)

Anyway--- one of the hurdles Alan and I had to clear to be married had something to do with my parents’ expectations of me. I had been struggling with telling this part of our story for days. It feels so complicated and I am not a good enough writer to write a piece that will do justice to what I want to convey. I don't want to just tell the story the way it unfolded because IF NOT taken in the proper cultural context it might be misunderstood, and wrong conclusions might be drawn about me, or my family, or the place where I came from.

But it's part of our story so I'll share it, but I'm hoping that I can do it justice.

Marivic and parents, February 1985

The only way I can really describe my parents’ reaction to the news that I was going to be engaged to the boy they knew as Elder Marsden is: they were shocked. They had no idea at all that such a thing was coming. There was never ever any indication on either mine or Alan's part during the 3 1/2 months we attended the same ward that there was anything more than just the typical member-missionary regard for each other. "When did this happen?" "How did it happen?" My family was incredulous. My mother as far as I know did not believe with 100% certainty that Alan was returning to the Philippines to court me until he, Alan, was standing in front of her in person on February 3, 1985.

The second part of their reaction was the hard part for me to deal with then and to explain to others now. There were no congratulatory hugs for me, no expressions of joy. Instead there were furrowed brows, quiet sighs and a far-away look in their eyes. In the aftermath of hearing the news from me, I don't think my parents really knew whether to be happy or to feel devastated.

Why?

I know my parents wanted to be happy for me. Alan was not a stranger. He’s been secretary to the mission president and lived in the mission home only a few miles from our neighborhood. He attended my parents’ ward for 6 months. He was one of the more fondly remembered American elders that came through Cebu. Many people in the ward or stake remember Alan as "respectful", "nice", "good", "fun", etc. And he proved to be so much more than all of the above in February of '85. He was the kind of young man my parents hoped their daughter would marry.

And Alan was American. Com'on, let's face it. That was a plus. Don’t many Filipinos even come illegally to the

U.S.

because they'd rather be here than there? Everyone wants a ticket to

America

. I don't doubt that must have crossed my parents' mind somehow.

So why feel devastated at the same time? This is the part that’s hard to explain.

Let’s say you were a poor farmer living in a land ruled by a tyrant. What if you have limited opportunities to better your life and the life of those you love? What if you are raising a lamb, an animal that is going to fetch a great price at the market someday? You can make a modest fortune and buy more sheep to raise and sell, and wouldn't life be better then? Your hope grows with each passing day. But what if one night while you sleep, someone took the lamb from your barn and the lamb is gone possibly forever? How would that feel?

My parents felt like that farmer must have felt. My family lived in a country ravaged by Ferdinand Marcos and his cronies, who took a country once second only to Japan as the fastest growing economy in Asia and turned it into one of the poorest. Life was very difficult for my parents as it was for millions of Filipinos. However, it remained a country where a good education is still a ticket to a better life. Many in my extended family poured all their resources in to their brightest kids' education. These kids went on to become doctors, lawyers, business professionals and then repaid their parents by paying for their siblings’ education, practically ensuring social security benefits for aging parents in the form of professional well-to-do children. These kids, older cousins, were lauded as heroes and forced on me as role-models. To do what they did, I was told as early as I could remember, was the purpose of my life.

There are, of course, many options available to Filipinos for escaping the hard life. But in my world the chosen option (The Plan) was education. There was never any talk of marrying rich or immigrating to another country. Instead we talked of excelling in school and fulfilling one’s responsibility to the family.

Fairly or unfairly, my parents' hope for their own lives, was tied to their hope for me. I was "the lamb". And the more I accomplished, the more their hope grew. I am not trying to boast and say I was so "awesome", but only that I was the oldest child and that my parents had reasons to believe I was a good investment.

Marivic and parents at college graduation, 1982

In grade school I consistently finished the school year with top honors, won school essay writing contests starting 5th grade even when competing against older kids. I earned a science scholarship by scoring among the highest in a regional test when I was 12. Even during my rebellious high school years when I managed to get myself kicked out of a high school for bad behavior (another post someday! J) my parents' hopes did not falter. It grew brighter when I scored in the top 1% in the National College Entrance Exam (Filipino SAT equivalent?) and when I was picked editor in chief of the private college I chose to attend. With so much promise my parents pinned all their hopes and poured all their resources on me. They sacrificed so I could attend the best schools. Even my brothers and sisters had to sacrifice so I could have the best of the resources my parents were able to provide. The day I got my bachelors’ degree at the top of my college graduating class and gave the commencement speech, I was told, was the proudest day of my parents' lives.

After I successfully completed college, my parents were ready to collect. I would get a good paying job. With my earnings I would now help pay for my siblings’ private college education. A few years later after I've "repaid" my debt of gratitude to my parents, I could then start my own life--- get married, have a family, whatever I want. That was The Plan, but it didn't take long for me to start derailing it.

I turned 21 the year I graduated from college and blew my parents away when I told them I wanted to be a missionary. I was feeling lost after college and I felt a strong desire to follow my patriarchal blessing which stated that I was going to serve a full-time mission. My mother was distraught. After all the years of waiting I would delay the plan by 18 more months? My mom tried to convince me that girls are NOT required to serve so it was completely unnecessary. But my bishop interceded for me and my parents' being faithful Latter-day Saints eventually accepted and supported my decision.

Elder Marsden and Elder Morse singing "Humble Way" from Saturday's Warrior
at Marivic's Missionary Farewell party at the Bishop's house.
Marivic is in the foreground in a blue shirt.

Three months before I left for my mission Elder Alan Marsden was assigned to the mission home and started attending my home ward. On June 15th, 1983 I said good-bye to my parents but only for awhile, I thought. 18 months in the mission field and then I will return to fulfill my responsibility to my family. On that same day I also said goodbye to Elder Marsden. Forever I thought. However, unknown to my parents, and even to me at that time, that was the beginning of the end of The Plan.

Ah, the irony. At the end of those 18 months, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I would follow my heart and be with Elder Marsden forever. I just needed to tell my parents who have waited all my life and an additional 18 months that I could not be what they hoped me to be and I could not do what they planned all my life I would do. I was desperately in love and I chose Alan over The Plan.

So yes, I think you can say my parents felt like the farmer in the story. I was going away with Alan so we could be poor struggling newlyweds and would not be in any position for who knows how long to "repay". They loved me, of course. And it did not take long for them to love Alan. In February of 1985 he was welcomed to the family like he always belonged. But to be truthful, occasionally throughout the years the fact that I abandoned my "responsibility" not just to my parents but to my brothers and sisters was a source of hurt between them and me. I felt like I was my parents' "bad investment". For a very long time I nursed a deep sense of guilt inside.

But as we all know everything worked out in the end. Many years later after I was a little more established in

America

, and Alan and I had a little bit more resources, I was able to make it up to my family. The good education my family invested in allowed me to eventually get a good job in

America

despite being a little brown Filipina with a funny accent. Although my late father never made it to

America

, my Mom and my siblings are finally here. One of these days, soon I hope, my youngest brother and his family will be here, too, courtesy of me with the help and support of the man who stole "the lamb"J. As it turned out, I wasn't a bad investment after all. I just turned in profit much later than expected.

I know that I made the right choice for myself and my eternal happiness 25 years ago. Alan and I are happy and we love each other deeply and always will. We were prayerful, but we also know that by adult standards we were insane and selfish. But that didn't turn out to be such a bad thing, did it? Now I just hope we can be as understanding as our parents were when it’s our own kids’ turn to "disappoint" and joyfully jump off a cliffJ.

****Part 5 by Alan will be posted on Friday, February 26th (For reals!) :-) The series will go on until April so keep checking!

If you missed previous posts here's where you can find them:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The Announcement

2010-02-12T01:11:00.000-08:00

***Posted by Marivic, Part 3 of our 25th anniversary series

My “knight in shining armor” did not have to slay dragons to marry me. He did not have to scale mountains, or square-off with wicked witches and break evil spells just so we can have our happily ever-after. But that’s not to say he had it easy. There were hoops to jump through, hurdles to clear and obstacles to overcome. First and foremost, he had to return to my village and sweep me away. And while he was there he had to endure being sized-up, judged, “poked and prodded.”

Okay, so what the heck am I talking about? I was a city-girl, born and raised in the second most significant metropolitan centre in the Philippines. What is this village I speak of?

I am borrowing from the phrase “It takes a village to raise a child”. Once upon a time I was one of those fortunate kids who was loved and raised by a village. That village included not just my parents and siblings but practically a formidable circle of extended family that included grandparents, aunts, uncles, grandaunts and granduncles, cousins, second cousins, and a seemingly endless array of relatives, and close family friends. I guess, you have to understand Philippine culture to totally comprehend that an extended family is not something you deal with only at family reunions or gatherings, but everyday of your life, and that it’s perfectly okay for say, a cousin three times removed to mind your business. In addition, as a young Mormon growing up in a predominantly Catholic country, I was part of a tight-knit church family where my stake and ward leaders and fellow latter-day saints were not just people I went to church with, but friends of the family, and practically family. And since they are family, it was perfectly okay for them to mind my business as well. Yes indeed, I grew up in a very tight, loving, and protective village. Very protective.

Because they cared about me, I totally expected people in my world to judge, misunderstand and even disapprove of my personal choices. So when Alan and I started to become “us”, I didn’t tell anybody back home. I was twitter-pated with the most amazing boy (and he with me!) but nobody back home knew. Not my family and not even my best friend. First of all, I still had a few months left on my mission at that time. I wanted to serve diligently and I didn't want to worry about telling anyone and dealing with whatever reaction there was to deal with. So I kept "us" to myself. As far as everyone back home was concerned, Elder Marsden was just one of the many young American missionaries who passed through Cebu. There was no reason for anyone in my world to associate the name "Elder Marsden" with Marivic Cuyos. And nobody did.

But then Alan and I started writing to each other about his plans to return to the Philippines after I am done with my mission so we could "date" and have a semblance of a normal courtship. I knew then that I had to tell my family soon. In my anxiety I wrote to my best friend, Milcah (rest in peace my beloved friend), about a month before my homecoming to tell her about what's going to transpire. She was floored! But she was very supportive, and agreed to stay mum until I could tell my parents myself.

January 9, 1985 was the day I returned. Like most missionaries, I felt very conflicted about being home. But I was also very excited because unknown to all except my best friend, I was already about to begin a new chapter in my life. When all the happy commotion involving my homecoming settled down, I finally told my parents I was planning to get engaged to the boy they knew as Elder Marsden. Can you imagine how that must have been like for my parents? Well, for now, that’s all you can do, imagine, because I am not going to talk about their reaction on this post. It’s a complicated thing to write about and I need time.

Instead for this post, I am going to reminisce about the rather amusing (to a Filipino) but perplexing (to a 21 year-old American boy) experiences Alan had with my village and the village people (that sounds funny), 25 years ago this month. When I look back to February 1985, I can't help but fall in love with my Alan all over again. He was truly my knight in shining armor, steadfast and true. It would have been so easy back then to say this is not going to work so good-bye. After all, many grown ups around us said it was not going to work.

First, there was my grandmother, my father’s mother, Lola Peling. She was fiercely Catholic, outspoken, tactless and feisty. But I loved her dearly and I was pretty close to her. She hated that my parents converted to Mormonism and she didn’t like the American missionaries and never ever welcomed them in her home despite my parent’s missionary efforts. But custom required that Alan meet my grandparents, so boy, oh, boy! I took him to her house to meet my father’s side of the family. Alan not being in his comfort zone reverted to the familiar missionary mode, and when I introduced him to Lola Peling, he extended his hand for an American handshake and said, “Nice to meet you, Sister. How are you?” There upon my non-Mormon grandmother retorted and haughtily said, “Don’t call me, ‘Sister’. Do I look like your sister?” Holy crap! I felt so bad for Alan I just wanted to kiss him right there and then as if he was a big “owie”! I was mad at Lola Peling! Fortunately, my grandfather Lolo Ikor, a very placid (all Cuyos men are placid), gentle and well-mannered man, took over from there. He welcomed Alan and invited him to the dinner table. I could immediately tell my grandpa approved and liked him, and that was all that mattered. So, hurrah for the patriarchal order in Filipino families! If my Lolo approved, then no one else had a say. Not that my wonderfully caring but, oh so very abrasive grandmother kept quiet. She pulled me aside one day and said, “Marivic, if you want to marry an American marry a rich old American! Why marry this boy who is not even done with college? You are going to be poor. What’s the point in going to America to be poor?” (*Sigh*) Another time she said to me, “You are going to be sorry someday that you married an American.” I asked her why. And she responded, “They treat their women badly.” Puzzled I asked, “How do you know this Lola?” And she said, “Don’t you watch the American TV show "Dallas?” Aii-yaii-yaii. Alan is no J.R. Ewing, Lola! No one, but no one in my life has ever been like my beautiful and spunky grandmother, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing as you can see.

Baby Marivic in my Granpa's arm, with Lola Peling, my aunts and godsister.

My grandmother, of course, was not the only adult in my life who was concerned about my decision. They were perhaps slightly more reasonable and subtle about it than my grandmother, but nevertheless found ways to express it.

I remember taking Alan one day to my Institute class. Many of my classmates, were young people from my stake and ward whom I’ve grown up with. The instructor knew me and my family. Want to guess what the Institute course of study was for that year? “Eternal Marriage”. And I remember exactly what we talked about in that class that day, as my tall, white boyfriend sat next to me in a classroom full of little brown college-age Filipinos. We talked about the importance of being compatible with our eternal companion. Spiritually. Socially. Culturally. The instructor (Brother Mascardo) assigned topics for us to discuss with a partner, and then to share the results of our discussion with the class. Alan and I were partnered. Of course. And our assigned topic to discuss? “The importance of cultural compatibility in eternal marriage.” Of course. Needless to say, that was awkward. But in a way a good exercise that injected a little reality into our romance.

Me with my sisters and friends from church.

Then there was that encounter with my old seminary teacher and family friend, Sister Villanueva. I looked up to her. I still do. She was a wonderful seminary teacher and I considered her a mentor. Every summer when I was in college, I worked in their home office filing and doing clerical chores for President Villanueva, the CES director at that time. I ate lunch and sometimes dinner with their big family (I think there were eight kids and counting at that time!) She was a strong woman, smart and accomplished, a loving and an admirably efficient mother. I wanted to be like her when I grow up--- well, minus at least half of the eight children if I was being honest. She cared about me and I admired her and President Villanueva deeply. But apparently, she was not happy about Alan. At the conclusion of the morning session of Stake Conference I remember she walked right up to Alan while still in the chapel, and said “What do you think you are doing?” Alan smiled but did not know exactly what she meant. Sister Villanueva continued, “How can you take Marivic away from us?” Alan started to chuckle thinking she was joking. But Sister Villanueva was not smiling, “Marivic is a wonderful young woman. The church in the Philippines needs future leaders like her. What do you think you are doing coming here and taking her away?" Oh, my gosh! She was scolding him and she was serious. Alan, the 21-year old American boy from West Bountiful Utah, was flabbergasted that someone he didn’t know would say that to his face (the Villanuevas had moved away by the time Elder Marsden served in Cebu, and were only there that Sunday because President Villanueva was the visiting authority at the stake conference). I had to explain to him after I extracted him from the situation, who Sister Villanueva was and that her family are leaders and pioneers of the church in the Philippines. That she nurtured me as a youth and taught me how to be a leader, so she must feel it was her right to straighten him out. He understood and was accepting, but nevertheless it was another ouch-moment for him courtesy of my village.

Finally, there was my temple recommend interview with President Siady, my stake president, now a Facebook friend religiously reading this anniversary series :-) Anyway---the Manila temple was not completed until I was half-way through my mission so like most Filipino missionaries in my time I didn’t get to go to the temple before my mission, and now I was getting a recommend so I could be endowed and later marry in the temple. I had already had my interview with my bishop, so my interview with President Siady was just a formality. We did it at his home, and Alan and Sister Siady were in the same room visiting while President Siady talked to me. During the interview I remember him asking us why we were getting married. Because we were in love? He told us that he hoped that we were sure it was the right thing to do. He said that many Mormon Filipinas who married American returned missionaries eventually ended up divorced. How well do we know each other? How do we know we were right for each other? He sounded very concerned . Since I had great respect for President Siady, a great example of leadership in the church and success in his personal life, I reflected on what he said many times after that visit. But I have to be honest, I was young, naïve and unafraid. What young girl imagines that the man she is going to marry will divorce her later in life? President Siady has since visited us in the States several times, and during our trip back in 1990 we even stayed in his home and I think he has seen that all those thought-provoking questions he asked us when we were young set us off in the right direction.

So as you see, after waiting for over a year to be together again, February 1985 did not turn out just all fun and romance for me and Alan. People who cared about my happiness questioned my decision-making process. The common concern was that marriage is complicated enough for people from the same world. How much more for two kids from different sides of the globe, who seemed to have separate destinies until paths intersected? But I understood that they questioned only because they cared. They didn’t want us to make the biggest mistake of our life. And I’m grateful I had people who cared about me and made me think hard. I’m grateful that Alan returned to the Philippines so we could examine our feelings and our relationship face to face in the stark reality of my culture. I saw how Alan behaved and adjusted to the village-culture of my world, the part of it that he was not exposed to back when he was a missionary, and if there was a test I say he passed it with flying colors! By the end of February 1985, I knew I was irrevocably swept off my feet and ready to ride off into the sunset in his arms. (Was I hopelessly corny or what?! Still am.)

***Part 4 by Alan will be posted on Wednesday, February 17.

February 3rd, 1985: Back In The Philippines

2010-02-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

***Posted by Alan, Part 2 of our 25th anniversary series.

Flying westward over the Pacific Ocean at night is kind of a surreal experience. It’s not like flying from Salt Lake to San Francisco when you can spot familiar landmarks like Wendover or Lake Tahoe. You just fly and fly and fly for hours and hours and hours through the darkness, seeing nothing but the colored beacon at the end of the wing.

And you’re racing the opposite direction of the sunrise, significantly extending the duration of the night. But what’s really odd is that, because you cross the International Dateline, when the sun finally does comes up, you’ve missed an entire day. And so in February of 1985 I had the opposite experience of Phil Conners (Bill Murray), who experienced Ground Hog day over and over again. I didn’t have a February 2^nd.

As you might imagine, the flight to the Philippines is quite long and exhausting. We had one in-flight movie, “The Woman in Red” staring Gene Wilder. I laughed my butt off as every other passenger in the plane, all Filipino, sat in stone-faced silence, apparently not paying attention or not getting the American humor.

After leaving San Francisco about an hour late Friday night and a one hour layover in Honolulu that actually lasted two hours, I was worried about making my connection in Manila to Cebu. The sun finally rose but out the window there was nothing to see below but blue. It’s hard to comprehend that you might be in the vicinity of Saipan or Iwo Jima.

When Philippine Airlines Flight 107 arrived at Manila International Airport it was just after 8:30 a.m. Sunday, February 3^rd. Except for a one hour nap on the plane, I had been up for about 37 hours. My flight to Cebu was scheduled to depart at 10 a.m. and I still had to clear customs and catch a taxi for the one-mile journey to the Manila Domestic Airport. It wasn’t looking good.

If you’ve ever taken an international flight you know clearing customs is not a speedy process. But finally I emerged from the airport and into the muggy Manila morning. To my surprise, a young man I had baptized in Cebu, Herman Lajato, was now living in Manila and greeted me outside. I was delighted but made it clear: I had to get to the Domestic Terminal immediately. But first I had to find another party of people. Besides the package for Carmen Nunez I was also carrying a package for the family of our Filipina friend from Provo, Lynn Nielsen. Somehow, her mother and sister spotted me and told me they had a taxi waiting. Perfect! Once inside the Taxi however, I learned there had been a miscommunication. They were planning to take me to their home in Quezon City for dinner. They were completely understanding when I explained that the plan was that it would be on my return home that I would be staying with them in Quezon City. But right now I had a plane to catch.

It was around 9:50 a.m. when I arrived at the check-in counter for my flight to Cebu. I was too late. The plane was right there, I could see it. But boarding was closed and they were pulling away from the gate. I begged them to let me board and even offered the ticket agent money. It wasn’t to be. The next flight was in three hours. What could I do? I knew Marivic and her family would be waiting for the 10 a.m. flight in Cebu. I wouldn’t be on it and I had no way of communicating that to them.

Herman and I left on foot, darted across the street through the busy traffic to a restaurant and ate breakfast. It gave me a chance to calm down and recognize that I was back in the Philippines. I love the Philippines. I loved the fact that I didn’t feel like a stranger. I had lived in this country. And I thought it was really cool that, this time, I wasn’t wearing a white shirt and tie.

A few hours later I was in the air, aboard the familiar Philippine Airlines BAC 111, bound for Cebu’s Mactan Airport. As the plane dropped over the island of Cebu I began to recognize all the familiar landmarks: Mandaue-Mactan Bridge, Cebu Plaza Hotel, Iglesia Ni Cristo Church. We landed from the south over Lapu Lapu City. On final approach I could see the coconut trees, the jeepneys and tricycles (two common forms of public transportation) on the streets below. Suddenly I felt weird. “I’m back, yet I was just here.” Was I supposed to be here? Most missionaries leave their missions and never return. I’d been gone less than ten months which meant there were missionaries I had crossed paths with, including two former companions, still serving in the mission.

The plane landed and passengers began making their way down the steps and across the tarmac. By this point my heart was pounding. “This is it. This is freaking it!” It was a little after two p.m. I entered the terminal and there was my girl joined by her mother and father and best friend, Milcah.

This was the same spot we had last seen each other, June 15^th, 1983, the day Marivic departed for her mission; the day we shook hands goodbye, each having unspoken feelings for the other, but assuming we would never see each other again. Now, 19 months later, those feelings had grown into love and that love was out in the open. There we stood before each other with smiles on our faces. I had dreamed of this moment for a very long time and now it had arrived. So what did I do next? Conscious of the culture, and her parents’ presence, I went straight into missionary mode and shook her hand. I’m a dork!

The momentary awkwardness faded immediately. I was so grateful to be speaking face to face with the girl I’d wanted to be with for so long. I apologized for missing my first flight and asked what they all thought when I wasn’t on it. It turns out there were a number of people on my flight from San Francisco heading to Cebu and word spread quickly at Mactan that the international flight arrived too late.

We collected my luggage, piled into taxis and began the half-hour journey to the Nunez home. If there was going to be a time that I felt uncomfortable, out of place, or that this whole thing was crazy this might have been it, but that didn’t happen. I belonged in that taxi with that girl at that moment and I knew it. Marivic was not a stranger but in fact the girl I became acquainted with in the spring of ’83 and the one with whom I became so familiar through all those many months of exchanging letters.

As we approached the Nunez home I couldn’t get over how narrow the street was and how lush the vegetation. Yes, I had spent six months of my mission walking this street but I had just come from wintertime Utah. We received a warm welcome from the Nunez family upon arrival. I had not had a shower since West Bountiful, so that was the first order of business. I was shown to my room where I discovered Marivic had left a sweet note for me. I still have that note but I’ll keep its contents between her and me.

Now refreshed and wearing fresh clothes, I broke out the American chocolate for everyone and then it was off to the Cuyos home in the Go Chan Hills subdivision about a kilometer away. I had walked these streets so many times with my missionary companion. Now I was going to the Cuyos house, not for a 20 minute visit with church members, but as the boyfriend of their daughter. I would not eventually be heading for the giant, and by Filipino standards, luxurious Mission Home that night. And though these thoughts did enter my brain, it didn’t matter to me. This was all good, really good. In fact, it was great.

Marivic and I finally got to spend some time alone, well, sort of alone. We just chatted and talked about what we’d be doing in the coming weeks there in Cebu. Thankfully, my newly returned missionary girlfriend made it clear she wasn’t a missionary anymore and that she was indeed my girlfriend. Don’t worry; I’m just talking about hand-holding kinda stuff.

By around 6 p.m. the exhaustion took over. The last time I slept in a bed was 47 hours earlier, back home in West Bountiful. Since then I had wandered the streets of San Francisco, stressed out over getting a visa, had my first extra-large fries and McDonalds, flown eight thousand miles only to miss my flight to Cebu, and had to reacquaint myself with a place and people I never thought I’d see again. But man it was all worth it. I was so happy to be with Marivic and thrilled with anticipation for the coming weeks.

Marivic and her family walked with me through the narrow streets of Go Chan Hills as the daylight faded. When we got to Escario Street we parted for the night and I made my way back to the Nunez home. In my room I turned on the fan and lay down to sleep. When my head hit the pillow you would think the overwhelming events of the day swirling through my head would make it difficult to sleep. Nope. I was out like a light.

Part 3, "The Announcement:Do You Know What You're Doing?" :-) by Marivic will be posted Friday, February 12 for those interested.

February 1st, 1985

2010-01-31T21:50:00.000-08:00

*****Posted by Alan, Part 1 of our 25th anniversary series.

February 1st is not a date I ordinarily take notice of. It’s not a birthday or holiday or wedding anniversary. But this past week, as Marivic and I approach our 25th wedding anniversary, the date February 1st has rushed to the forefront of my mind. February 1st, 1985 was the “beginning of the beginning” of our life together leading to that ceremony in the Salt Lake Temple on April 26th, 1985.

Everyone’s love story is special and I don’t claim that ours is more interesting than any other. But our love story is somewhat unique and it kicked into high gear on February 1st, 1985, 25 years ago Monday. It’s the significance of that date that’s causing me to jump into the silver anniversary mode, three months early.

For those who do not know the story, Marivic and I met in March of 1983 when, as a missionary, I was transferred to the mission home and assigned to her ward, Cebu Ward 5. Right under the mission president’s nose I became acquainted with my future wife. Don’t worry, neither of us had a clue of our future together at that point and no rules were broken. Suffice it to say there was an unspoken interest there which neither of us knew was mutual. Furthermore, neither of us sought this nor expected it. Then on June 15th, 1983 when Marivic departed for her mission to the Northern Philippines, (my companion and I drove her and her family to the airport that day) we shook hands goodbye assuming we would never see each other again. For me it felt a pity because even with the complete absence of romance I had long since realized Marivic was a very special person.

Fortunately, we began corresponding through letters and for the next nine months, the remainder of my mission, we slowly allowed tiny hints of feelings to be expressed. Within a week or two of my return home in April, 1984, I knew I wanted to marry Marivic and I was determined to make it happen. But she still had nine months left on her mission so the letter writing would have to continue.

This brings us to February 1st, 1985, almost. In the 2nd nine months of our letter writing our expressions of love, etc. were far more explicit (still rated G) than in the first nine months. By the end of Marivic’s mission, January 3rd, 1985, we were ready to reunite ASAP and I had already decided that I would return to the Philippines for a proper courtship rather than simply send for her.

But there was a major problem with my plan. Even way back then I worked in television and even way back then February was ratings which meant no time off, even for floor directors. I did not want to wait another four weeks. What’s a 21-year-old who’s in love to do? I quit my job. And so on Friday, February 1st, 1985, 11 days after Ronald Reagan’s 2nd Inauguration, 25 years ago Monday, this young kid departed Salt Lake City bound for Cebu City and Marivic Cuyos.

I didn’t think of it in these terms at the time, but this was an adventure. My parents took me to the airport for a 6:30 a.m. flight to San Francisco on United Airlines. What must they have been thinking? They didn’t know this Filipina their son wanted to marry. I was a clueless 21-year-old kid. Yet they supported me and trusted me every step of the way.

When my flight arrived in San Francisco it was still pretty early in the morning. My international fight was on Philippine Airlines and departed at 10:30 p.m. I had about 15 hours to figure out how to get from the airport to downtown San Francisco, find the Philippine Consulate, apply for a visitor’s visa (without an appointment) and get back to the airport in time for my flight. And I should mention I had to figure out all of this without the Internet or a cell phone.

I saw a sign that said “Ground Transportation” and followed it outside the terminal. I was able to take a bus into the city for $11 roundtrip. Upon arrival a giant map at the bus stop helped me figure out I was about six blocks from the consulate at 447 Sutter Street. At the consulate I was given an application for a visa to fill out and told to return at 2 p.m. At least now I had an appointment. It was around 9:15 a.m.

Now that I had many hours to kill I was able to slow down and enjoy the city. I noticed a lot of Super Bowl XIX banners hanging from office windows and flag poles. The San Francisco 49ers had defeated Miami less than two weeks earlier. “Wow! I’m in San Francisco, by my self. It’s the middle of Winter and it’s like 65 degrees. Look how tall these buildings are! Where are the Cable Cars?”

I climbed aboard a Mason Street cable car at Sutter and Powell and headed toward Fisherman’s Wharf. As I crossed Lombard Street I saw the “Crookedest Street in the World” to my left and Coit Tower to my right. “This is incredible!” After wandering around Fisherman’s Wharf for an hour it didn’t take long for the thrill to wear off. I was more interested in getting that visa, getting back to the airport and getting on that plane to Marivic. First I had lunch at McDonalds on Taylor Street, a Big Mac and extra-large fries. I point that out because prior to that McDonalds visit I’d only ever seen two sizes for french fries at the Golden Arches, large or small. So I can actually pinpoint the precise place and moment that my waistline began to expand, but I digress.

Back at the consulate my 2pm interview got off to a rocky start. There was concern that I worked in television. I had to explain that I was just a studio camera operator, not a journalist. That didn’t seem to satisfy the interviewer so I explained further that in fact, I had quit my job days earlier to make this trip. That too was the wrong thing to say. Now they’re seeing me as an unemployed bum. I literally had to beg them to give me a visa by explaining the purpose of my trip. They finally relented, stamped and signed my passport. I departed relieved, and made my way past Union Square and the St. Francis Hotel to find the bus stop to take the 2nd half of my $11 dollar trip, back to the airport.

When I arrived at the airport the Philippine Airlines counter wasn’t even open yet. I found a restaurant and ate dinner. By this point in the day I was feeling pretty alone in the world. I had never done anything like this and the trip had just begun. However, I was still on the proverbial “Cloud Nine" knowing my journey was underway and I was finally going to be with Marivic after all the longing and waiting.

After dinner I made my way to the Philippine Airlines counter and was among the first to check in. Then there was just one more order of business. In Cebu I would be staying with LDS members, Sister Carmen Nunez and her family. She had a sister living in Sacramento who was to meet me at the San Francisco Airport with a care package for me to carry and deliver to Carmen. She was to meet me at the PAL counter but when the agreed upon time came and went without her showing up I eventually decided to pass through security and head to the gate where I still had hours to wait. No sooner had I slipped on the headphones of my Sony Walkman II when I heard the page overhead, “Alan Marsden. Please report to the Philippine Airlines counter.” I would be carrying that package after all. Carmen’s sister Elena was there, expressed gratitude for the favor, and we parted ways.

By 10 p.m. the boarding procedure began. I was thrilled and exhausted at the same time, but nowhere in my mind or in my heart did I feel foolish, crazy or stupid. Yes, I quit my job and now I’m spending all this money to go back to the Philippines, where I had been serving as a missionary just 10 months earlier, to court a girl who, one could easily argue, I hardly knew. But no such thoughts entered my 21-year-old brain. I wanted on-board that 747 now and it couldn’t get me to Marivic Cuyos fast enough. Finally I was seated on-board, seat 31A. Anyone who’s ever flown on Philippine Airlines knows that PAL actually stands for “plane always late,” and that night it was late, by more than an hour. But eventually we were in the air, landing gear up and over the Pacific. February 1st, 1985 came to an end.

Part 2, "February 3, 1985:The Arrival" will be posted on Wednesday February 3, for those interested.

Disturbing Then Hilarious!

2010-01-22T14:13:00.000-08:00

It started out disturbing sort of :-) but it actually turned out funny. So just watch to the end.

90 Days: Count Down To Hawaii

2010-01-18T00:30:00.000-08:00

The count down has begun.

In April Alan and I will be celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary. When we first got married we were so broke we only managed a 2-night stay at the Hilton Salt Lake Airport after our wedding. I don't feel cheated about that because since then we've had so many nice little trips not just on our anniversaries but for weekend getaways. Still we thought for our 25th we deserve a second "honeymoon". At first we were somewhat hesitant to commit to this trip. In these uncertain economic times we thought maybe it would not be so wise to spend all that money. Maybe we should save that money for a rainy day. Then we decided, heck with it! The rainy days will come if they come and we'll deal with it like we always have. Life is to be enjoyed and not spent worrying about what if the bad days come. We both work so hard, been through so much, given life our all during the best and worst of times, and despite the ups and downs we are more in love now than we were the day we got married. And isn't that worth celebrating? So, yes, we are going to splurge just a little bit on us and spend a week in Paradise. The last time we went to Hawaii we were only flying through from the Philippines and stayed for only 2 days. Not enough to fully enjoy the Aloha state. This time our things-to-do list while on Oahu will be a lot longer.

The plane tickets have been bought and hotel resort reservations have been made. Now I just need to work on containing my excitement, and count down to April. 90 more days! Aloha!

This is where we are staying, at the Hilton Hawaiian Village. The blue waters beckon to me...

I cannot wait to sit on that beach, sip my virgin daquiri and nap... I'm told we will be there at the beginning of the off-season so I hope the tourist crowd will be mostly gone and we can enjoy it more.

Christmas With The Marsdens 2009

2009-12-28T21:44:00.000-08:00

Christmas Get Together at The Marsdens

2009-12-23T01:01:00.000-08:00

This is the season to celebrate wonderful blessings. That includes the blessings of family and treasured friendships. What a great excuse the holidays are to have a "party" and invite new friends as well as be reunited with friends from the past.

The Tonight Show's Gift to the Mormons…

2009-12-16T11:07:00.001-08:00

Christopher Cuyos Marsden: February 7, 1987-December 12, 1989

2009-12-12T11:03:00.000-08:00

IN REMEMBRANCE

20 Christmases without you...

His Last Christmas 1989

Christmas 1988

His First Christmas 1987

Season's Greetings

2009-12-10T01:11:00.001-08:00

Confession of Character: My Motto

2009-11-22T00:07:00.000-08:00

Some people would prefer to think of themselves as "masters of their fates and captains of their souls". To a certain extent I do, too. But I think it takes a little growing up to know that no matter how much you strain and kick and scream, no matter how smart or clever or strong you are, oftentimes things happen beyond your control, and life takes you down roads and takes you to destinations you never wished for. We'd like to think we are birds and we can take wings and fly and determine our destiny. But often times we are mere pollen blown by the wind to a patch of earth we did not choose. Still I believe we are not helpless. Life may limit our choices but we are not without them. We may not have control over what we are given but we have control over what we do with what we are given. I tell myself that although often times I may just have been a pollen in the wind, I nevertheless have the power to choose to bloom or whither away where I am planted. And I choose to bloom---whether it be in soft fertile soil in a garden or among dusty rocks on the side of a road. I can be consequential to those in my little inconsequential corner of life. I can be the best among the most common of flowers growing in my obscure patch of earth. I often share this belief with my kids because it is a lesson I want them to take to heart. For now the roll of their eyes tell me they think it's just their mother being corny or mother-ish. But someday I hope after they have grown up enough they'd remember and think about it and know I really believed it, and living it has made a big difference in my life and the home I made for them.

So perhaps in my desire for them to remember I turned one of the photographs I took into this poster which will hang in my house when I get around to framing it. Soon :-)

Bank Overdraft Fees: Alan's Latest Story on KHSLTV

2009-11-17T10:55:00.001-08:00

The Fine Print - Fighting Debit Card Overdraft Fees

Reported by: Alan Marsden
Email: amarsden@khsltv.com
Reported by: Alan Marsden
Last Update: 11/16 8:12 pm

CLICK HERE.

I Am Thankful For...

2009-11-06T00:01:00.000-08:00

This is a month of thanksgiving, so predictably I will have a "gratitude" theme for the month. Because I'm predictable that way. Yeah. :-)

So to get started on all these thankfulness business, here's an excerpt from my long neglected gratitude journal from August 25,2006:

"I am grateful for:

Bath and Body lotion, body spray, shower gel, etc.
Great big towels
Our own jacuzzi
A California King bed
Comfortable mattress
Soft pillows
Sleep...
Dreams of winning the lottery and quitting my job!"

Ha-ha! I must have had a very rough day at the office that day! :-) I crack myself up now and again when I realize how stupendously silly some of the things that go through my brain are. Imagine writing about being grateful for bed, pillows and dreaming of winning the lottery! If I were more profound and had more depth, I would probably write in my journal about being thankful for advances in science and medicine, or the restoration of the gospel, or something serious like that. You know, try to leave a better picture of me for posterity. Hmm. Nah! I'd leave that to the more serious, profound women of the world who worry about world peace and the doctrines of salvation. My posterity can just laugh with me about what a silly-goose I am :-) I am okay with that. I know I'm loved anyway by my family for which I am truly thankful, and if my posterity end up not admiring me or is embarrassed by my written legacy, who cares? I'll be "deed" by then anyway, right? :-).

Halloween: Through The Years

2009-10-30T00:05:00.000-07:00

I like Halloween. Most especially when the kids were little. Even though I don't really like to sew, most years I managed to dust off my sewing machine and made costumes. It was fun for the kids and I enjoyed it. Halloween is still fun, of course, but not quite the same. At least it's not quite as busy for me as it used to. I just hand out candies to the neighborhood kids now, while I wait for my own kids to come home safely from their Halloween parties. Makes me so glad I took the time to make Halloween memories with my family all those years. I didn't know time could fly by so fast, but it did. Fortunately I have a treasure box of Halloween memories to cherish, and I'm still making more.

Photography by Marivic: "Weeds"

2009-10-13T00:06:00.000-07:00

My husband likes to tease me and say I love taking pictures of "weeds". I didn't really notice before, but I guess I do. Although they're not really "weeds" but wild flowers and plants. My husband just like to tease me because while he is photographing breath-taking sceneries, I am usually preoccupied with an obscure flower on the side of a dirt road, or a clump of dried grass nodding in the wind. Inconsequential at first glance. Easy to dismiss. But I think they add character to the landscape. If you look at the right time, and if you stand at the right spot, under the right light, you'll glimpse beauty. Just like people. So many nameless, forgettably ordinary faces who mean nothing to us. But if we look under the right light, and with the right heart, more likely than not we'll find beauty. Unfortunately, I think perhaps my photographer's eyes are better at spotting beautiful "weeds", than my heart is at seeing the good in others. I just need to remember, practice makes perfect...

Here are some pictures I took of "weeds" at Donner Summit on our recent day trip.