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Lola’s blog throwbacks

Carved out for you are teasers from blogs in Babyboomerlola.com — thought-provocateurs presented here in the hopes that you’d be enticed to read the full articles, if you haven’t yet. Take a curious peek, travel your mind, feel the pulse, enjoy the cadence; just click the titles.

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… life isn’t just all about the gain … there’s something better, something deeper, something you can barely touch, but it’s just there, like a sacred hush. (Blog: Birthday parties – and all that jazz … or some of it )

The summers of my youth in the farm are clearly the nugget of the magic Auayan held for me. And the magic is still there … waiting for me to reach out … I have reached out. (Blog: The magic of a place haunts the memory – is there such one for you as there is for me?)

The crabs tantalizingly smelled like the sea.   Our table reeked of the sweet-sour aroma of vinegar. No one cared. (Blog: Hard to refuse an “all you can eat” meal – especially if it pitches crabs)

I appreciate the chance to get up earlier than usual in the morning, pick an attire appropriate for the office, prim my hair and prep my face, fix a quick breakfast, take the vitamins and scheduled meds, wash the cup and plate I used, bag my baon (packed food) for lunch, check the stove, then out the door.  Work is good for the soul, mind, body — and yes, the pocket. (Blog: The mystic about retirement)

… a Chopin waltz that floats me like a magic carpet, back in time and memories of the river. Gazing at gentle waves that never seemed to reach the shore or edge of the river’s banks, I daydreamed and imagined and created ideas until my eyes drooped from staring too hard and thinking too hard. (Blog: Traveling back in time on a Chopin waltz)

What’s strange about my cooking techniques is that the measures are calculations in my head – or putting it simply – to taste. Isn’t that how Lolas cook? The recipes are all in their head. (Blog: A pat on the back for my cooking talent, at times elusive)

OK, I’m caving in to deep frustration now. Gimminy crickets! Is that how it’s spelled? Nothing interesting to blog about! No good topic I can explore and joyfully play with. This must be what is commonly called a writer’s block, a dry spell, the muse in absencia, bouncing in a vacuum, or time to give up – for now at least. (Blog: Griping about a dry spell … or is it?)

Maganda is at her best when she stands demure and pure, towering beneath clear blue skies, even as some ethereal clouds threaten to screen her elegance, like a veil that teasingly hides and unhides her beguiling features from myriads of admiring suitors. That is how we want Mayon to be, deep in her sleep. And let no prince rouse her. (Blog: Mayon, the sleeping beauty is roused – what prince kissed her?)

Had I known Palo Alto was going to be my new home in my adult years … I probably would have listened more closely to those two American girls who rattled off some interesting bits about the city (not yet quite the Silicon Valley it is now) as they drove their curious and capricious passengers back to Stanford campus – and I probably should have remembered their names; they lived in Palo Alto then. (Blog: Recalling the first three days in America)

My escort, blond, blue eyes, six-foot tall and all seemed like a prince.  The prince, however, was terribly shy and barely spoke 30 words that night.  He could have been a frog.  If he croaked, I would have jumped in sheer delight. (Blog: Memories of an old-fashioned girl’s prom)

They’re quick to giggle or laugh, quick to find something funny, quick to react, quick with their wits, quick to emote, and quick to forget. I know, because they’re young. (Blog: The frivolity of youth)

I first thought I was watching a pantomime or a creative interpretive dance where dancers silently slither on the floor. More than 10 of them, and they happily sprang to life with my sister’s voice. (Blog: Surprise birthday parties never get old )

But it was a matter of feeling drawn back to old habits, and old habits from decades of staying in the US meant doing things myself. I recognize that living is parceled out in habits. And habits dictate the flow of daily activity. It’s a routine that one gets used to, with a sense of security hinged on some predictability. (Blog: Enjoying being pampered like a queen – for a period)

… regardless of what the sage says that time goes by more quickly when you’re older … I heard some young folks claim it went by like a breeze. (Blog: Greeting 2018 – and a toast to exiting 2017 )

Now, see my dilemma? It’s best to procrastinate. I don’t need to make the decision now. But every “now” turns to a yesterday. I’m bushed, just thinking about this. Too much pressure … I’d rather nap over this. (Blog: The dilemma of packing for a trip)

Our trip offered exquisite views, authentic Bicol cuisine, fun dancing, great laughter and camaraderie – but none more heartwarming and moving than the smiles from our sick and feeble aunt. (Blog: Naga is a splendor)

When a sector of the population is hurting, we all are. A thread runs through humanity and connects us all. We cannot turn a deaf ear or look away. (Blog: Act on our compassion and gratitude)

Before Bandit and Pebbles passed, I never thought of a dog heaven. Now, it is easy to imagine a dog paradise full of happy, handsome and pretty dogs, running and sprinting on an infinite expanse of green meadow, to the tune of ethereal music and the Master’s beckoning whistle. (Blog: From fear to love)

None of those two escorts was my secret crush. If either was, I would have wished for a carriage jerk that would push him close. If only Papa could hear my thoughts, he would have said no to my attending this party. (Blog: The party that broke the spell)

Trying to catch his attention for a wave, a bye or a nod – I realized I was no match for his activity at that moment. But hey, I thought, that gadget is no match for me either … Eliott doesn’t call that computer Lola with a perfectly rounded “O”. (Blog: Sending my grandson loving thoughts from over 7,000 miles away)

An elderly man is pushing a small bamboo cart bearing a barrel of grated ice with tilapia, mackerel and heads of salmon spread atop an icy mound. Strong, pungent smell precedes the portable fish stall. Not an unpleasant odor, just whiffs of the sea, or river, or of wide-eyed fish languishing on thick layers of ice … Oh no! I wanted that turon! But the woman with the burdened hip sauntered off so quickly. Blame it on the boldly staring fish. I got mesmerized. (Block: Soaking in the ambience of a live stream market on the street)

Today, we’re having some of the dinuguan (a pork delicacy of pig’s intestines cooked in pork blood thickened to perfection for a savory sauce), a signature dish of the house chef. (Blog: Rainy day blues bring out food cravings)

Heaven opened up to admit a sweet angel, and that’s my Mama, known to grand- and great grandchildren as Lola Nena. She exemplified steadfastness of belief in God who is the source of all love and blessings.  She loved deeply. (Blog: Remembering Mama/Lola Nena)

… in the midst of profound suffering emerges the triumph of the human spirit: resilience, courage, determination, patience, re-birth of hope, the strength of faith. (Blog: A sad recollection … and the message to a confused world)

I just finished reading the book given by my daughter, “Wired to Write” by Lisa Cron … Writers need to be “wired” into their characters’ lives, track pertinent changes and nuances on their radar to project direction and purpose. An analogy surfaced in my mind. I think of God – the one ultimate creator of our stories, of each person’s journey. Only He knows what His creatures/characters are going for or live toward. (Blog: Learning from the expert)

I am a baby boomer Lola, graciously and gracefully advancing in age and somewhat wiser — once a blooming teen of the 60’s, a lover and hater of tissed poofed hair, still a nostalgic for old romance and hootenannies, still a swooning fan of Beatles songs, and now a striving student of the modern tech world, an aspiring poet and songwriter, a dreamer, a doting Lola very much in love with the cantankerousness of youth. (Blog: Admitting being a baby boomer didn’t come easy)

Technology is moving too fast, and boomers are striving to catch up; some have been left behind. Others are stumbling on the way. And others gawk at Facebook and think it’s a marvel, a mystery, a miracle … or utter waste of time. (Blog: Intimidated by technology)

I was Ms. Daisy, happy to get from point A to point B without the knack for learning or knowing directions. But hey, Ms. Daisy ain’t Ms. Daisy anymore… she’s a driving Lola who takes good care of her car, and will have those tires changed, and battery cables cleaned … (Blog: Look at Ms. Daisy now)

Doesn’t that happen to you sometimes, in any circumstance, in any setting, fulfill a simple, meaningful deed spontaneous and unplanned, the true purpose of the moment? (Blog: An unplanned meaningful deed in the car shop)

l Iooked for Tweet-Tweet, hoping it would whoosh by. I even called out several refrains of chirp-chirp. Was I nuts? Didn’t I want it to leave? Was I missing that cute little rascal and its staccato, daunting chirp-chirp? Shouldn’t I be relieved that it was gone? (Blog: A surprise visit from a chatty intruder)

What do you do when you fancy what you’re eating to the max, and feel like you’re in seventh heaven?  I swing my legs under the table as I chew with gusto. (Blog: A mindless quirky way of enjoying food)

A strange memory popped up – my first painful encounter with defeat. It was in the fourth grade … or, was the reality of shame and humiliation just all in my head? (Blog: A fourth grader’s first agony of defeat)

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