As a family grows, marries off members of other families, and further branches, reunions become increasingly necessary, if only to preserve the connections and the closeness for a clearer and stronger sense of family.

 

Understandably, these reunions are initiated, instigated, organized and financed by the older and better-off members, for whom these sentiments matter.

 

Among the old and tradition-conscious families, these affairs can be truly inclusive, with the whole living tree accounted for down to the last little twig, and impressive, almost professionally organized, with fun, games, performances and prizes programmed, and, for particularly prolific clans, color-coded.

 

In our case, descendants from grandfather Roces and grandmother Reyes, reunions are rather low-key, even timid. Our only claim to professional talent, for one thing, has emigrated to Canada, and all in all we’re just not game enough; indeed, eat, talk, laugh and go home—that’s about it for us.

 

We’re not big on recording such events either, at least not my generation, for whom even posing for pictures is an intrusion or obstruction. But we are pleased and relieved to have the younger ones, usually grandchildren, take care of the chore. We’re neither into speeches; cuentos and chistes are it for us—stories and jokes—and lots of laughter.

 

Even in the simple task of updating the family tree, we fall behind. Our youngest uncle, Ding, who with his entire family has lived in Australia for many years now, did attempt it several times, but ran into certain sensitivities.

 

Prolific

 

My own branch may have contributed to the scuttling of the project; not only has dad grown illegitimate branches, he had been so prolific about it he threatened to topple the whole tree.

 

Our Christmas family tradition was, up to a certain point, carried on by the oldest living son, Tito Tuting, and his wife, Tita Alice, after our grandparents had passed on. For many years, we gathered for Noche Buena at their home in Magallanes Village. But after they themselves had passed on, no one stepped up to take over, and for a while the tradition was kept alive and separate within our smaller units.

 

We’ve all kept in touch, however, for instance, at landmark birthdays, which at this point, many birthdays are, blessed as our family has been with longevity.

 

We did come closest to a more grandiose, more inclusive Roces reunion two years ago at the suggestion of Tito Marcos, dad’s oldest living cousin and the closest to him in age. He offered his house for the planning. Attended by at least a member of each branch and with a dish or dessert brought by each representative attendee or attendees, the planning served as a sort of reunion in itself, and just as well.

 

We had aimed to hold the reunion on Tito Marcos’ 92nd birthday last December, but he suffered a fall. So, we celebrated his birthday instead but not on the day itself, and with a smaller group in his home, the grand reunion put off indefinitely.

 

It was during that planning session that my generation realized we had moved up to the head table, as family front-liners now. After all, we’re in our 70s. Still, it was quite a shock to realize the task had fallen on us to ensure that our younger members did not become strangers to one another.

 

In keeping with the family character, we have kept our efforts geared toward manageable potluck affairs, nothing really grand. Cousins Sylvia and Tina have already hosted; cousin Ninit is next, on June 15, at the Orchid Garden Suites, on Vito Cruz Street, Manila, once the ancestral home of her mom’s family, the Villareals. My turn is next year.

 

But we cousins are all resigned to nothing comparable with those Sunday lunches we and our elders had at our grandparents’ house in Park Avenue, Pasay City.

 

The menu was pochero, by lola, nearly always but incomparable, and with aunts who were excellent bakers, the desserts were out of this world. Those lunches were supposed to end when our grandparents retired for their siesta. But many of us stayed on and on, taking our own siestas—on a sofa or bench, or in a chair, or the silia perezosa, or on whatever else.

 

No one, at any rate, was ever in a hurry to leave. At lola’s, we never really felt far from home.