Accept criticism graciously, ignore gossip and other lessons Chona Kasten taught me
I lay in bed with my mother, who is in a graceful, languid pose, wearing a cotton batiste frock. The gentle alarm wakes us both, we look forward to the luxury of snoozing a bit more, and no matter how slowly she moves, she will never be late. She is not contrived about choosing what to wear — it just happens.
For breakfast, whole wheat or pumpernickel toast, freshly squeezed orange juice, an herbed omelet, and Batangas coffee. On the table, a bud vase containing a fresh long-stemmed flower from the garden. I watched her every move adoringly and with amazement, how she subconsciously led with her wrists and stepped into the sunken shower area of her tiled bathroom.
She had a wall-to-wall dressing table with a neat array of her favorite cosmetic brands and an incredible fragrance collection. Hard-pressed French milled soaps with a loofah initiate the daily routine, and her first rule of hygiene is “always finish the detox routine at the WC, or water closet, before bath or shower. A real lady and gentleman will follow this discipline de rigueur. In short — no peeing in the shower.” She explicitly asked our yayas to stop us from breaking this hygiene house rule. The boys would tease at times and my mother would just calmly shake her head and say, “Que guarros!”
A relaxed two-hour dress time allowed preparation for the day’s schedule, which would start at nine and end sometimes at cocktails or dinner — or simply continue on. She made her rounds: Aguinaldo, PAL, Cibeles, the Joanne Drew figure salon, the Cora Doloroso career centre, Rustan’s, San Miguel, YCO-Ysmael games — not necessarily in that order. She took Italian and Flamenco lessons before having lunch with the girls. At night she went to fashion shows, rehearsals, gala events, private cocktails, and dinners; and she spent weekends on Hermana Mayor, Beni Toda’s fabled private island in Zambales.
It was a tiring social schedule, but her stamina was amazing. (Even though she smoked the occasional cigarette — whoops!) Every day I was with her I just watched her more than I would listen, frankly. But I did listen: “Accept criticism graciously — ignore gossip — speak in low whispers but audibly clear — swing legs to the side — and never wear those super-high heels with a mini-skirt.” I could only wear them with tight jeans or capris. My Fioruccis were so tight I had to lie down to zip them up.
“Eat healthy every day,” she urged. “Make polvoron with Klim and Bruun butter and bring them as hostess gifts.” She encouraged us to keep practicing our French and Italian, and always corrected my Spanish and English grammar. She gave us quizzes in history and art, and taught us how to be unobtrusive houseguests.
I remember her friend Loretta Scannell, who was the editor of Town & Country magazine in New York. She took my brothers Cito and Louie to dinner at the top of the Regis Hotel. (She also slipped and fractured her hipbone.) We were guests of Aunt Marion, her friend who owned acres of farmland in Massachusetts with apple, cherry, and peach orchards, along with grapes from the vine and strawberries from the patch, and fresh buttermilk and yogurt — it was divine!
Every day she checked my outfits and accessories, and handed me down her Puccis, Ken Scotts, and a fully biased Valentino yellow swing leather coat. We were in Paris and I borrowed it. We bought open-fire chestnuts from a street vendor, and when I put them in my pocket the coal embers made holes in the silk lining! I was nervous days later when she wore the coat and discovered the burns. She sighed and said I could have the coat. She only really scolded us when we disobeyed or retorted. She was ever so gentle with her discipline.
My brothers were in boarding school at Cheshire Academy in Connecticut, and when we attended their prom their classmates thought we were their dates! I remember one winter Cito fell from the dorm roof and fractured his hip. My mom went bananas when Louie told her in Manila. I was in Spain with Tita Nena, her older sister. She never really lost it except when Daddy Johnny, Lolo Claro, and Cito passed away. I remember her saying, “Try not to be so scandalous about emotions in public, and no shrill voices; always low, or better yet, in whispers.”
Their everyday friends were international celebrities like the legendary playboy Porfirio Rubirosa (who was rumored to be a political assassin under the regime of Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo), Ricardo Montalban, Marques de Portago, Tyrone Power (who died during the production of Solomon and Sheba in 1958) and his wife, the Mexican movie star Linda Christian. Later on, the widowed Aga Kahn showed my mother much romantic interest. The Hollywood pack shared common interests with Pappy Johnny — racecars, horses, nights out, and the tango. (No wonder I love the dance and the music.) These guys could dance the Cuban mambo and rhumba, and Fred Astaire taught them how to foxtrot!
When Daddy Johnny passed away, my mother was a widow for two years before marrying Hans Kasten — and that’s when our perfect world crumbled.
