Generations

Four generations gathered around the dinner table; the age difference between Lola and the youngest great-grandson was a full nine decades. We celebrated my Auntie Margaret’s 97th birthday last Tuesday, and that was cause for celebration indeed since, at 97, she is still spry, walks ramrod straight with no cane or walker, and the grandson who escorts her does it as much for gallantry as for safety. The dinner was a bit delayed because her bridge game finished late; there was a rousing party for her at the weekly game at the Manila Polo Club, where she is a much in demand partner and consistent winner. She was tired after that extended session, and deferred opening her gifts until the next day, although the three big arrangements of what must have been 97 roses needed no opening. Wednesday is also bridge day, this time at The Peninsula Manila; Mondays and Fridays are mahjong days, and I usually try to time my visits to her on these days so I can share in the sumptuous merienda spread she prepares. Thursdays and Saturdays she leaves open for her "dates", though less now because, she admits, "I’m getting old." Be that as it may, I still think she has more dates than me.

There were five of us of the next generation, cousins all, seniors already but basking in youth in her presence. The three from the next generation, to whom I am auntie, are on the cusp of mid-life, battling the first signs of the bulge and forgetful "senior moments" but otherwise not in any form of crisis. Then there were "the kids"–the fourth generation in whom I see all the promise and excitement of a life ripe with possibilities still to be lived. To them of course I’m lola, which is fine really, as when Andy and Kevin are all excited to tell Lola Doreen about the Disneyland rides and eating chicken at Tai-chi in San Francisco, and when Andy thinks I have all the answers and wants to know if there are Ferraris in Shanghai and what the best restaurant in Beijing is. But I had to take a moment when Christina, who coaches kids’ basketball and is about to graduate from college, a summa cum laude candidate in early children’s education no less, politely calls me Lola Doreen. It’s enough to make me reach for my rocking chair.

At the end of dinner, my nephew Stewart asked Andy what grade he was in. Going into grade four was Andy’s reply, to which Stewart presciently commented, "Well then, Lola’s going to be at your graduation."