When I posted a blog about lumpiang sariwa from Binondo last Monday, I received a comment from my an aunt (my mother’s first cousin).  She said that when she read my blog, she suddenly missed her mother, my Lola Pining, who also liked lumpiang sariwa from Divisoria.

I thought about it (sometimes my brain works without my noticing it) and I remembered  one particular trip with my mother to Divisoria. We took the bus from Nueve de Febrero, just across the street from our house, on a rickety yellow bus made of wood (was it the De Dios Transit?)  I remember liking that bus because the aisles were wide and the ride was not hair-raising.  The newer buses had stereos so loud, I had to scream at the top of my voice “Para!” as early as Acacia Lane and the driver won’t hear me until I got to E. dela Paza (that’s where the Archbishop of Manila’s palace is, Villa San Miguel).  And then I had to walk all the way back to the corner of Nueve de Febrero and Shaw Boulevard where we lived, lugging my heavy bag from school!  So I liked the rickety old yellow bus. Riding on it didn’t give me palpitations.

Once when we were on that bus (the trip to Recto seemed to take forever on the bus because the drivers were always as old as the bus itself!), I kind of panicked.  Divisoria seemed so foreign and the stalls seemed too impossibly cramped and the corridors between them too straight,  “How do you know where to go?” I asked my Mom.

Well, my mother assured me, she had been going to Divisoria since she was a teenager.  Her Tia Pining took her to Divisoria and introduced her to all her suki.  Often, Tia Pining would give her money and a list of sewing notions and supplies she needed to procure for Tia Pining’s dress shop.  She did the rounds and got the same bargains thanks to Tia Pining’s introduction.

I kept close to my mother whenever we went to Divisoria.  I was always afraid of getting lost!  No wonder, I could only see people’s butts—yes, I was very small then.  So my mother showed me a police outpost near the tracks.  She said that whatever happened to us, if we get separated, we would meet there and she would wait for me there and I should wait for her there. I had to be lista.

My mother has fond memories of Tia Pining—more fond memories than she had of her own mother.  I have my own.  We used to go to Lola Pining’s house. They lived on a narrow street and they didn’t have a gate.  They had a brown door that opened to stairs that led to a second floor apartment.  They didn’t have an LPG tank, instead, they had a valve near the wall for their Manila Gas.

Lola Pining baked.  Lola Pining sewed and boy, was she a good seamstress.  She would look at my dress, feel the dress along the seams to see if they were flat.  Then she would make me walk away from her a few steps and admire my dress (which my mom made) and she would always say “Kagagandang bata nare, Delia.  Halika nga rito, Bimbi.  Kiss ako sa iyo.”

I would always feel embarrassed because my folks were not the kissy-kissy kind of parents.  Lola Pining would extend her arms wide, catch me in her arms; she’d bury her nose near my temple and give me a sniff-kiss.  It was as though she wanted to inhale the essence of me, breathe me in and enjoy me.

It was only Lola Pining who did that to me.  My mom didn’t kiss or hug me.  Tita Becky didn’t kiss or hug me. Lola Idang didn’t kiss or hug me.  My Dad certainly never kissed or hugged me. They just weren’t the kissing kind of people. For a few short seconds, I felt like a cherished child.

So I began to enjoy it, I’d also sniff and kiss Lola Pining and she always smelled of Johnson’s baby powder.  It was lovely. Then she’d look at me again, as though she saw my mother when she was a small child again. She’d sit me on her lap (none of my relatives did that). She’d whisper questions to me like “May boyfriend ka na ba?” And I was just four! “Naku, iingatan mo ang dalaga mong ito, ha, Delia?” she would say.

Then my mother would start on a litany of my childhood crimes.  They’d compare me with my mother (my mother was always a paragon of virtue, long-suffering, hard-work and patience, I could never hope to compete with her or replicate her virtues!)

One thing, though, I noticed when we went to Lola Pining.  My mother and my Tita Becky would be talking to her for hours, chatting, bantering, laughing as though they were teenagers.  I never saw my mother banter with anyone.  I never saw her laugh with anyone, certainly not with her own mother.  But when she was with Lola Pining and they recalled incidents from the past, they would be doubled up in laughter, faces red and palms pounding on the narra table. This only happened when we went to Lola Pining.

My mother would be easier to live with the day after a visit with Lola Pining.  For once, she looked at me with approval, like I did something good for a change ( my mother was always demanding of me, you see.) She would be tender and loving toward me (she usually reserved her tenderness for the smaller siblings; she was all business with me.  I always had to be corrected and refined.)

Lola Pining would let me drink Coke (my mom never did). Lola Pining would give me candy for baon (the ones that tasted like pineapple and was wrapped with yellow and red paper that resembled a pineapple).  She gave me money ( a few pesos whenever I left) and she gave me that lingering kiss-sniff, holding on to me, caressing my back and holding my hand until I had to leave.

Lola Pining didn’t just do that to me.  She did it to my mom and my Tita Becky as well. They were orphaned after the war, you see.  Lola Pining was the only Cagandahan relative who took them in.  They stayed with her while they finished high school. She taught them to sew, taught them to cook, taught them to keep house.  They stayed with her while they were studying at UE.  She never let them bring home or read comics (she thought they addled the mind). She only let them read Philippine Graphic and Philippines Free Press, and sometimes, Liwayway. She took them to the movies and enjoyed their company. She was their mother, really, not Lola Idang.

That was her appeal, Lola Pining.  She knew how to love.  She knew how to show her love.  She was totally unafraid to show it (not like my mom and my dad who thought that tenderness was a sign of weakness). She never thought that complimenting children would make them proud or arrogant. She always told me I was beautiful. How can you not remember a Lola Pining like that?

So, you’re right, Tita Betty, lumpiang sariwa is a common memory.  My mom’s love for lumpiang sariwa is probably a little something passed on from Lola Pining to her and then to me.  Today, I am on my way to Binondo again.  The lumpiang sariwa will be just as good because it is a source of comfort and good memories.  Thank you, Lola Pining.