MYRNA MONTEMAYOR LACSON not celebrating her 80th? That was simply unacceptable! If she couldn’t, by force of circumstance, make it back to celebrate with her children in the United States where they all live, that shouldn’t stop her from celebrating.
Well, making sure she did celebrate, 11 of her closest and dearest friends from Maryknoll—three actually directly responsible—gave her a lauriat, one as healthy as could be, at the Shang in Makati.
Her daughter Rica and her husband Ramon Carlos decided they could themselves not let her day go uncelebrated without them. Eighty, after all, is a milestone in anyone’s life, and certainly Myrna was most deserving.
Rica, in fact, had been putting together an album of memories for her mother, one with a picture each of her core friends, mostly here now at the lunch, and their good wishes for the occasion. Completely surprising her and everybody else, Rica and Ramon had no place at the lauriat for 12; arriving as we had come to about our last course, they stayed only long enough for Ramon to take pictures, reserving the rest of her day for them and other family and friends.
Myrna also had a gift for each one of us—a wall clock, each personally dedicated and designed to match the recipient’s personality, a symbolic gift of time, which at our age we recognize to be as precious as life and friendship.
Perhaps to make up for not celebrating my own birthday for years and feeling like having missed out on a chance at a signal moment of friendship, I may have outdone myself splurging somewhat for my 75th. But there’s something about small gatherings that make them quite charming and intimate—grand in their own way.
Breathtaking view
The wedding of my first son and second child, Rob, to Deyson was one such. It happened in Salt Lake City, Utah, a surprisingly beautiful place they will call home as soon as Rob has wrapped things up here. The venue for the reception and honeymoon was the five-star Grand America Hotel.
Surrounded by lawns manicured and accentuated by rows of bright-colored flowers, Grand America offered a breathtaking view of the mountains. Cobbled paths were lit by English lampposts, while spotlights shone on fountains.
After a round of picture taking in these surroundings, we all came in from the crisply cool air, uncommonly mild for the time of year, for cocktails and high tea and pastries. Soft piano music of old romantic ballads played in the background. Chilled champagne flowed.
A sit-down dinner of salmon and fillet mignon, with all the trimmings, followed in another room with an open bar. As soon as I saw the beautiful tri-flavored wedding cake in shades of pink and purple, I made sure to leave space for it after the regular dessert.
The guests were only close family and intimate friends of Dey’s—one or two childhood playmates from native Mindoro and classmates in nursing school or boarding-school roommates, all coming from around the US. My daughter and eldest child, Gia, and I, like Dey’s own parents, flew in from Manila.
The guests, 16 in all, offered toasts, with Dey’s family and friends speaking touching tidbits about her. Representing our side, Gia had her own little speech prepared on her brother. Best wishes were all the words I spoke myself.
In such an intimate atmosphere, with bride and groom genuinely generous with every outpouring of love for each other, one could get unabashedly emotional. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room when 13-year-old maid of honor Billie, Dey’s only child from a previous marriage, gave her little speech of love and gratitude for her mom and the warmest welcome for Rob, her new dad, with whom she has instantly hit it off, liking the same things—from “Star Wars” to Indian food.
Kindred spirits
Another small gathering that will be treasured in my album of memories of the year was a recent dinner at the Fajardos (Ernie and Lourdes), for 12 kindred spirits whose bond lies in their common love and appreciation of music, good wine and good food. That night a poet, a journalist and a writer-editor sang the way I’ve always thought composers and lyricists themselves would sing—with all their hearts, a good set of ears and vocal tubes harnessed to character.
The accompanist was, as I’ve learned from my husband, “only the best there is”—Ferdie Borja, who could make a good singer sound so great I wonder if he might even save a non-singer like me. When he had to, Ferdie even prompted the senior singers with missing lyrics—he appears to know and remember them all. He played a game of guess which movie matched the song, tinkling clues on the ivories.
Except for us musical wallflowers—Lourdes, Chiqui and I—everybody gamely sang nice old songs. Our little night of music was an intimate affair itself, inhibitions thrown to the winds, thus talents becoming revealed. Non-singers were politely invited to sing, but, unforgiving as I am when it comes to bad public singing, I knew better than to sing so much as a phrase.
Actually, we three wise ladies, by avoiding the mic in some merciful sense of self-sacrifice, saved the night for everyone.
