tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69895864164225024262024-03-18T19:47:51.443-07:00Waldo WandersWaldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-5109518781077404702012-06-03T11:19:00.000-07:002012-06-03T11:19:01.176-07:00Sometimes A Great Notion: Part 3 - Baguio<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Probably the worst time in a person's life is when they have to kill a family member because they are the devil... but otherwise it's been a pretty good day</span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: small;">~ Emo Philips</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span>... but then, everything has its drawbacks, as the man said when
his mother-in-law died, and they came to him for the
funeral expenses"</b> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> ~ Jerome K. Jerome</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dz80qYkJQ3Lk-VZyWnA06gGYPCoDgh_IFBm1nc1pmmSXIj-8nGRpiul9cX-RFPr8ADUjRFfNiOu8_FbQJvPpU8QaYt5Xw-7bEWVNzxtzVsdD3QnXdcFXWXOzrybFwRkWc1p2E7gCSzI/s1600/2.Street+in+front+of+Shalom+Center.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dz80qYkJQ3Lk-VZyWnA06gGYPCoDgh_IFBm1nc1pmmSXIj-8nGRpiul9cX-RFPr8ADUjRFfNiOu8_FbQJvPpU8QaYt5Xw-7bEWVNzxtzVsdD3QnXdcFXWXOzrybFwRkWc1p2E7gCSzI/s400/2.Street+in+front+of+Shalom+Center.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We awoke the next morning to the sounds of the city. We lay in bed and listened to the street vendors for awhile; Maureen marveling at the difference between her Midwestern farm girl life and this bustling megacity on the other side of the world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For me, everything screamed <span style="font-style: italic;">Home.</span> I was experiencing a crazy combination of <span style="font-style: italic;">Deja Vu </span>and time travel where everything was familiar and yet new. It was a bit disorienting actually, warping between past and present and it was extremely hard to keep from acting like a kid in a candy store.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2MmkgljPazdHP949ZfPlx1Vhk-cTflwz7pepr3jX769_9eKoaYW6k6-WTnDCS8vMg5R8IBJ0T9uSrSvJjPWomkaKpqhVzXtkiVMBgXvDCB7cmWrVCLb8a7SsijGPOA5sgMecXInOvo4/s1600/iskandals-tapsilog3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719871509183990322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2MmkgljPazdHP949ZfPlx1Vhk-cTflwz7pepr3jX769_9eKoaYW6k6-WTnDCS8vMg5R8IBJ0T9uSrSvJjPWomkaKpqhVzXtkiVMBgXvDCB7cmWrVCLb8a7SsijGPOA5sgMecXInOvo4/s320/iskandals-tapsilog3.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We talked for awhile (mostly me sharing memories and insights) before getting up to pack and dress, then went down and had an early breakfast. I had <span style="font-style: italic;">tapsilog, </span>(beef tapa, rice and egg) but Maureen had Frosted Flakes with</span><span style="font-size: large;"> milk</span><span style="font-size: large;"> (room temperature) and a banana. We finished eating and were wondering what was keeping the parents (we had knocked on their door on our way down). So we went and banged on the door again. Finally my Dad answered, they had fallen back to sleep! I reminded him we had an early flight and had to get to the airport! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Manong Tony picked us up a short while later and took us to the domestic flight terminal. We went through the metal detectors, were frisked and all of our backpacks had to be checked in. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6UHCk67SL9QrnIIEwQHSJdZJYsBQHXGJ_oRDxAwntqYKD-dhe-d2_KTHzkdTx_DzoRgPi5c05dfSPlnAbM8Frc6dAb4plEOFXTKMUM0i4xTEQQfIv1szTsSFBQB_Ep6ksEZ_LtGwnzM/s1600/57.+2-7%252C+turbo+prop+plane+to+Baguio.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719840770774780898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6UHCk67SL9QrnIIEwQHSJdZJYsBQHXGJ_oRDxAwntqYKD-dhe-d2_KTHzkdTx_DzoRgPi5c05dfSPlnAbM8Frc6dAb4plEOFXTKMUM0i4xTEQQfIv1szTsSFBQB_Ep6ksEZ_LtGwnzM/s400/57.+2-7%252C+turbo+prop+plane+to+Baguio.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 300px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 400px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;">But other than that, the security check was substantially less than what we went through back in the States. </span><span style="font-size: large;">We were off to the mountain city of Baguio!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We took off in the rain and there was a lot of turbulence. From the back of the plane I heard:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom:<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"What is that water down there?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dad: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"The Pacific ocean"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"The ocean! So the Philippines is by an ocean?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The bouncing around made Maureen a bit queasy. She kept her eyes shut, sipped water and tried to keep her frosted flakes down. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdvYYvPIdN91_sYgzfIpXsULqIH3LX4NFUKnLM1AEDkWeVQVO-7_mx24fqlbyYNwzfYNfGbUHqg1TIsQMQWWTEV8xvj4MSkRcoG-MoihCavvyCOKrnuJgaq9ix6BHnwIPYLH9MG_SPvE/s1600/4794424227_b823f907b0.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719817520461657538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdvYYvPIdN91_sYgzfIpXsULqIH3LX4NFUKnLM1AEDkWeVQVO-7_mx24fqlbyYNwzfYNfGbUHqg1TIsQMQWWTEV8xvj4MSkRcoG-MoihCavvyCOKrnuJgaq9ix6BHnwIPYLH9MG_SPvE/s400/4794424227_b823f907b0.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 266px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;">I think there was also the fear that the plane was going to fall apart right where we were sitting. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Our plane was a twin turbo prop of Canadian manufacture and t</span><span style="font-size: large;">he section where the plane was riveted together was at our feet and it kept shifting back and forth, and water dripped from the seam above our heads. The gap was wide enough to stick a pencil in and from the look on her face I could tell she was worried the bolts were falling out! Fortunately the skies cleared and she was distracted by the scenery unfolding below us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We rose above the rain clouds to a cruising altitude of around 5000 feet. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> From the back of the plane I heard:</span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom:<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"What are those?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dad: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Mountains"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Mountains! Does the Philippines have mountains?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigaDaSSRz0E-tqMVbTHKqXqUEzrd_O_Z8Dn6jiM-GoOI4Ki_fGH16CZovZxfr35lRz0L0iooiIrS_hGmoRejOU9skbQtb5n_9NxVEBKEGHJUnr5QU1uLMa_p9o7rBqN-cea2a3SjuHiQM/s1600/549_1068442384045_1015622954_30225868_658_n.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721312898003774002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigaDaSSRz0E-tqMVbTHKqXqUEzrd_O_Z8Dn6jiM-GoOI4Ki_fGH16CZovZxfr35lRz0L0iooiIrS_hGmoRejOU9skbQtb5n_9NxVEBKEGHJUnr5QU1uLMa_p9o7rBqN-cea2a3SjuHiQM/s400/549_1068442384045_1015622954_30225868_658_n.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 246px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 400px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;">Just under an hour later we were there. It seemed like the plane just slowed down and landed without</span><span style="font-size: large;"> circling the runway</span><span style="font-size: large;"> or descending. </span><span style="font-size: large;">We were just flying along and boom! we hit the runway and slammed on the brakes because the runway was very short and if we didn’t stop in time we would fall off the other end of the mountain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We went through baggage claim and out through security and I went up to the ticket counter to see if I could use a phone. The young lady behind the counter said "sure!" and waived me around the metal detector to use the phone at her desk (so much for security). I called my friend Mike to see if he had been able to find us anything. It was right in the middle of the annual <span style="font-style: italic;">Panagbenga </span>Flower Festival and usually everything is booked months in advance (<span style="font-style: italic;">which is why I had tried to discourage Dad from changing our itinerary; we had originally been booked at the Country Club, but they were full, as was the Manor House on Camp John Hay.</span>) Mike said he found us something which was not as nice but it would have to do on such short notice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKAUmR4l2EoWxY5ZY88eECZDnn28If7RQLofwZGfxwnMM-btwEbn41foCHgGCo4mRHYdCMHzyQ1hQFYLi7XO6JBr9cL8fItQfIn63SpItfyagE4RM1IrQn_ijiP_jTLe8xu2aNRCzhj0A/s1600/baguio0010.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719842584193889314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKAUmR4l2EoWxY5ZY88eECZDnn28If7RQLofwZGfxwnMM-btwEbn41foCHgGCo4mRHYdCMHzyQ1hQFYLi7XO6JBr9cL8fItQfIn63SpItfyagE4RM1IrQn_ijiP_jTLe8xu2aNRCzhj0A/s400/baguio0010.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 268px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 400px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We found a taxi driver who took us to our hotel, for about 150 pesos or $3. That was about a dollar more than the posted price, but well worth it because the driver was quite a character, full of information! We drove up to the city, me on the edge of my seat, looking here, looking there. We arrived at the hotel and as soon as we got there Dad leapt out, went into the hotel, leaving me to pay the driver.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the desk we found the only thing they had was a suite with two queen beds: this meant we would have to share the room with the Step-Mother and Dad. I looked at Maureen and she whispered "it'll be okay." <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Will it?</span> I whispered back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After we unpacked we decided to walk downtown. The Step-Mom immediately took off power walking and soon left us far behind. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxwszINjEB3JaEArezh8PVAtgcnmJVtJK-hIZvfHcdUf9ZuCp1Nx5eN3-YgHDHm7cpBJvTVABbpOIJNfa1yX36iYPHqaqvboIuGUcEAq9sCoPLb9tvRx-bM8HayP0nhHoTIjZELnY0mY/s1600/61.Baguio+steet+in+front+of+Prince+Plaza+hotel.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719844957106697266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxwszINjEB3JaEArezh8PVAtgcnmJVtJK-hIZvfHcdUf9ZuCp1Nx5eN3-YgHDHm7cpBJvTVABbpOIJNfa1yX36iYPHqaqvboIuGUcEAq9sCoPLb9tvRx-bM8HayP0nhHoTIjZELnY0mY/s400/61.Baguio+steet+in+front+of+Prince+Plaza+hotel.JPG" style="float: right; height: 300px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 400px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Here she is about a half block ahead of us</i> </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is a good thing she knew her way around Baguio... Oh, wait! This is her first time in the Philippines!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately we didn't lose her and we ended up at Burnham Park. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <b><i>"Boy, it sure is hilly around here."</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dad: <b><i>"uh, that is because we are in the mountains"</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The parents got interested in all the plants and flowers on display and we left them to find an internet </span><span style="font-size: large;">café</span><span style="font-size: large;"> to check on the kids back home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvi5vZ2Md86XlDWvAHEqAZZxqYcOhrESx9KOHBVy8ZWsDAxBNfQEDYbiwH0PHV-QPEJYRzDX6M9eyhmZMFmBntvhwwUFQ9jW2SUD3nQZEQE6C9XPD5hv2t_Q2_XsZS-sdtzyGOzKih7o/s1600/62.+Burnham+Park.JPG"><br /></a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZadHkSLbHCJXZe61U18HfKdYZM6Y7pLgapIJHrIsv29kJeAF1gL7WxQb09pbLaREv1TEjGd9amAZAWhiPaqHogSIYL2yUnWXRk0B89VnWazkEX3-fKo9n4Yx9lFupOgxq8y57sG1FB2Q/s1600/6f99213b53d27c5330929034cfaa-large.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720147324027424258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZadHkSLbHCJXZe61U18HfKdYZM6Y7pLgapIJHrIsv29kJeAF1gL7WxQb09pbLaREv1TEjGd9amAZAWhiPaqHogSIYL2yUnWXRk0B89VnWazkEX3-fKo9n4Yx9lFupOgxq8y57sG1FB2Q/s400/6f99213b53d27c5330929034cfaa-large.jpg" style="float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 320px;" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We walked up and down Session Road, window shopping and looking to see if I could find any familiar landmarks from the past.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QfBYWTAsE5CPciqS0pLNZ05d54Q3Saktn7Y4TqqSM-3xUcBzGgdKFx7HWuBAOGd6uSirvMuzsaxKG-ThIK70s87wFeLOdtPCQbBQxdpRIQN64MRXnroG7k4xEFK_6dVdgCSrYkE15ww/s1600/session03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720148568787846466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QfBYWTAsE5CPciqS0pLNZ05d54Q3Saktn7Y4TqqSM-3xUcBzGgdKFx7HWuBAOGd6uSirvMuzsaxKG-ThIK70s87wFeLOdtPCQbBQxdpRIQN64MRXnroG7k4xEFK_6dVdgCSrYkE15ww/s320/session03.jpg" style="float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Here is what used to be the Pines Theater</i></span></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSps74pbF28NpQJmbV5D8fN_CAG7UcLQCCVfuEPop1J0VNgfd2aJ1N0oNcbPaNjPO7dHNeSxLRBLszO67S8clBGp87YMokLXbt8Af8urpcv3vH-Ycy-iaJ4hmX-VaBFVDhDUK0962RhYQ/s1600/session07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720148679218002370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSps74pbF28NpQJmbV5D8fN_CAG7UcLQCCVfuEPop1J0VNgfd2aJ1N0oNcbPaNjPO7dHNeSxLRBLszO67S8clBGp87YMokLXbt8Af8urpcv3vH-Ycy-iaJ4hmX-VaBFVDhDUK0962RhYQ/s320/session07.jpg" style="float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>And this was Session Theater</i></b></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When we got back to the hotel the parents napped and Maureen wrote in her journal. We talked about where to eat that night, I suggested we try the hotel restaurant but the Step-Mom wanted "a sandwich". We looked at the menu but they didn't have what she wanted. She was kind of irritated by this, even after Dad explained that sandwiches were not as common here in the Philippines. I suggested she just tell them what she wanted and see if they could make it for her. But No, she wasn't going to do that. Anyway, she wanted a sandwich so the lady at the front desk suggested we try the mall.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We took a taxi to the mall and as soon as the cab stopped she jumped out and took off and disappeared in the crowd. Dad ran after her and that left me to pay for the cab again. Hmm, I am suspecting a trend here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAA-P3eWf116VpogFtyc-2o0JbIQS0CwMi8OWzj9kpGZ6CesSdrt09GJHEl1V0y5cFxXQ6791UJUoKbinnIp61fjDhxsILV2lcN6-Og5Pf4lB70YSxw3i9WlzfSXEx0ljIKBcxQwz0VE/s1600/shoemart59.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721033189353117538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAA-P3eWf116VpogFtyc-2o0JbIQS0CwMi8OWzj9kpGZ6CesSdrt09GJHEl1V0y5cFxXQ6791UJUoKbinnIp61fjDhxsILV2lcN6-Og5Pf4lB70YSxw3i9WlzfSXEx0ljIKBcxQwz0VE/s320/shoemart59.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;">We hung around outside for awhile till Dad reappeared with the Step-mom in tow. We went through security and I spotted a Starbucks and told her they had sandwiches and she reluctantly went in. We looked through the glass case and there were several different kinds of sandwiches to choose from. But, of course, because I found them there was nothing she wanted. I </span><span style="font-size: large;">decided to get a coffee while we were in there. Step-mom got mad and said <span style="font-weight: bold;">“Why do you want that?” “Just get one where we eat!”</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vchzMDRWc56lkD59ko6hd2bPEfl3ldBf5DURnGmCbbcfCoyFoopKEHSZkYZMiMSEX8CgzH_n0JkS1aSMr-7yp95qXfzXLvNL-bd1cJt0Ri2QDl63gKUJaKwNdzBskIcu5PiR8un_2Kk/s1600/shoemart56.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721033696190847074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vchzMDRWc56lkD59ko6hd2bPEfl3ldBf5DURnGmCbbcfCoyFoopKEHSZkYZMiMSEX8CgzH_n0JkS1aSMr-7yp95qXfzXLvNL-bd1cJt0Ri2QDl63gKUJaKwNdzBskIcu5PiR8un_2Kk/s320/shoemart56.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So we roamed the mall checking out the various restaurants. Well there was a Pizza Hut but she <span style="font-weight: bold;">wanted a sandwich</span> so we kept looking. There was a McDonalds but <b>not that kind of sandwich</b>. We went up and down the mall looking at menus. </span><span style="font-size: large;">We finally ended up in the food court and by then we were all starving and it was the last resort so she had to eat there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">All they had was Filipino fast food! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAC_fTKQH3WYyYjM2cnXGOt5OFMxWnLtJDzvltgCxwWSmabbMP7yaTE9LxDE5k1LnldUJU-mc6vs1yVKNwBddW81vgHWnPcyXn3MGKwruKkzrid6CTVEL8YxcSoijlOtwyaaiL457E1I/s1600/siopao.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719868730117671762" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAC_fTKQH3WYyYjM2cnXGOt5OFMxWnLtJDzvltgCxwWSmabbMP7yaTE9LxDE5k1LnldUJU-mc6vs1yVKNwBddW81vgHWnPcyXn3MGKwruKkzrid6CTVEL8YxcSoijlOtwyaaiL457E1I/s400/siopao.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 250px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 360px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;">I was in fast food heaven. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I ordered siopao for Maureen and I (show-pow – roasted pork inside a rice flour dough pastry then steamed) and a pitcher of San Miguel Beer for 35 pesos. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I suggested the Step-Mom try <span style="font-style: italic;">Dinuguan (a dish made from pigs blood and diced </span><i>lungs, kidneys, intestines, ears, heart and snout</i>) </span><span style="font-size: large;">but Dad told her what it was so she didn't get it.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> She was mad (at me) about not getting a sandwich the rest of the night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was still pitch black out when we awoke the next morning to <i>someone</i> loudly talking in the bed next to us. <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What time is it, Paul?</span>”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"4:30"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then they got up, turned on all the lights and started banging around and talking in even louder voices. I put a pillow over my face and silently screamed into it. They finally went down for breakfast but we were wide awake now so we went down to eat too. They asked how we slept. Maureen: “Alright” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <i><b>“<span style="font-weight: bold;">Did you wake up during the night?”</span> </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Maureen: “No, actually I didn’t wake up until 4:30.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <i><b>“Oh, well then you had a great night’s sleep!”</b></i> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Maureen: “Well, I could have slept a couple more hours.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <i><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh, you couldn’t get back to sleep?”</span></i> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Maureen: “No, it started getting noisy.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <i><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh yeah, the people next door were very noisy”</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dad and I got Filipino food for breakfast while Maureen had French toast. The Step-mom wanted whole wheat toast. Not on the menu. <span style="font-weight: bold;"><i>"Why not? Everybody has whole wheat!"</i> </span>Dad tried to explain that in South East Asia rice is the prevalent grain crop. Being as she came from a farm family in the Midwest, she couldn't understand why the Filipino farmers didn't grow wheat and grumbled to herself. It was shaping up to be a wonderful day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is Sunday and we were planning to go to the UCCP church service, but all of a sudden I needed some breathing room. So when the parents got up </span><span style="font-size: large;">to get ready for church (</span><span style="font-size: large;">and left us to cover the bill) we went outside and caught a cab to Brent School.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEgmeXq-txCLoovYl4RebnP735ZiCq3MDYDD2Xh4dqe4-E_K2arLOnnix2BmWQLxjnSyLGygnx4dPtlg3RSr9xRJejVYnp0V2R-YXnZwXrI5T6C1Pad7OnTR2JFZEynqXpoHFheqGwFg/s1600/72.2-8%252C++road+to+Brent+School+for+personal+tour.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720154028573198306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEgmeXq-txCLoovYl4RebnP735ZiCq3MDYDD2Xh4dqe4-E_K2arLOnnix2BmWQLxjnSyLGygnx4dPtlg3RSr9xRJejVYnp0V2R-YXnZwXrI5T6C1Pad7OnTR2JFZEynqXpoHFheqGwFg/s320/72.2-8%252C++road+to+Brent+School+for+personal+tour.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 240px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We were scheduled to take a tour of the campus the following day with Mike, but now I wanted to make a separate pilgrimage alone, without the running commentary from the Step-mom. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For my father, Baguio was just a town and Brent was just another one of the many schools I went to. But for me it was </span><span style="font-size: large;">the place I called home for five years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Through the town, up Brent Road, my heart beating faster. The gates were closed when we got there, but when I explained I was an alumni they let us in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Walking up the hill, it was if I had only been gone for the summer. Almost everything was still the same, </span><span style="font-size: large;">I still knew this place like the back of my hand</span><span style="font-size: large;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8AgnJHtygncN-aHt49m6mG5Gln0RS54f1WuAx2fIzSVBU3M6M3ZPIKK1yF0x33s4R8YrMuIXkhEAMo576bhmMnctt-AueUnbe-SHIMDbn3Iya1Lte82uTT0CbopDvIIZLE8c3hdohI8/s1600/77.+Olgilby+Hall+the+oldest+building+%2528still+standing%2529+in+Baguio.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720155142465916098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8AgnJHtygncN-aHt49m6mG5Gln0RS54f1WuAx2fIzSVBU3M6M3ZPIKK1yF0x33s4R8YrMuIXkhEAMo576bhmMnctt-AueUnbe-SHIMDbn3Iya1Lte82uTT0CbopDvIIZLE8c3hdohI8/s320/77.+Olgilby+Hall+the+oldest+building+%2528still+standing%2529+in+Baguio.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the place that changed my life forever, this is the place where I drew my strength. </span><span style="font-size: large;">My blood, my sweat, my tears were in the very soil of this place.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> We walked around quietly in the rain: here is where my dad dropped me off when I was twelve, this was where my locker was, this was my Spanish classroom, that was my history classroom.These were the steps where I sat so many times. I reached out to touch the walls to remind myself that this was real, not just another dream.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4IrCMmpG1URPzkNa_TiCrMFpycQVlcpqM0b1LjhP4v-1GxP5smkr3exzpewKfDDjI5fe2gdFMep9MhRoHvmC1Ssu0qHbOvPJnsQS30HmWx4tnT1Bx7DNol01VCKr6FOyGxaO4UKHGQro/s1600/88.+old+infirmary+now+called+Weiser+Hall.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720156778531854706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4IrCMmpG1URPzkNa_TiCrMFpycQVlcpqM0b1LjhP4v-1GxP5smkr3exzpewKfDDjI5fe2gdFMep9MhRoHvmC1Ssu0qHbOvPJnsQS30HmWx4tnT1Bx7DNol01VCKr6FOyGxaO4UKHGQro/s400/88.+old+infirmary+now+called+Weiser+Hall.JPG" style="float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" width="400" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;">Here was the dorm I lived in for the first two years, over there is the dorm where I lived for last three years of my time at Brent. This is the place where I learned self-confidence, the place where I found my identity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4IrCMmpG1URPzkNa_TiCrMFpycQVlcpqM0b1LjhP4v-1GxP5smkr3exzpewKfDDjI5fe2gdFMep9MhRoHvmC1Ssu0qHbOvPJnsQS30HmWx4tnT1Bx7DNol01VCKr6FOyGxaO4UKHGQro/s1600/88.+old+infirmary+now+called+Weiser+Hall.JPG"><br /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyWHkRt6NzsRZWsLKmWCGvT9wRP9zNjOxH-YQv_U9Br5YRdz6Ezk0U6sw_Oq3J1yResLxyBD8auYnaO-pIoA9zdaVZyJ-Q3WW6TriJfl4szuFMog7D6wsc7uHNipYukddRi7ndYzt4cHo/s1600/86.+%2526+Heck+Hall+after+former+headmasters.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720160347136465602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyWHkRt6NzsRZWsLKmWCGvT9wRP9zNjOxH-YQv_U9Br5YRdz6Ezk0U6sw_Oq3J1yResLxyBD8auYnaO-pIoA9zdaVZyJ-Q3WW6TriJfl4szuFMog7D6wsc7uHNipYukddRi7ndYzt4cHo/s320/86.+%2526+Heck+Hall+after+former+headmasters.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Familiar voices called out to me from every corner</span><span style="font-size: large;">, I turned to see the faces but they were gone. They were echoes from my youth, long forgotten scenes replaying in my head</span><span style="font-size: large;">. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Some of the words were mine.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> Loudest of all was the School, tugging at my sleeve, asking me where I had been. I felt guilty, as if I had abandoned a loved one without a word. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was only to be a brief visit, we were meeting Mike Pearson for lunch. So, all to soon we were walking down Brent Road to catch a taxi back to the hotel. At the corner of Brent Road and Leonard Wood Road was a shop that carried ethnic goods from the mountain tribes, it was still raining so we decided to go inside. Vintage and antique wares were on the walls and in the cases. Spears filled a big jar by the door, beads, arm cuffs, necklaces were in one case, head axes and heavy knifes in another. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7lrh3of4tHb1_JdxSD_gF9RwADkJxWW6xrAtahGgAd3VyPW0NUr7O_HBABx7o4x7f5GAuBoXVK89ZNHKQOTxgSbbCwc2CyrGdtH4hKAqwTOVuPxHa3L0JsTiCpNBPyWgAsRiXuYEyHc/s1600/112.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720997812093578978" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7lrh3of4tHb1_JdxSD_gF9RwADkJxWW6xrAtahGgAd3VyPW0NUr7O_HBABx7o4x7f5GAuBoXVK89ZNHKQOTxgSbbCwc2CyrGdtH4hKAqwTOVuPxHa3L0JsTiCpNBPyWgAsRiXuYEyHc/s320/112.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 236px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"> Hand woven loin cloths, blouses, skirts and blankets on the shelves. Another row of shelves held vintage backpacks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We purchased a few items then caught a taxi back to the hotel, arriving just before the parents and Mike arriving soon after. The break from them had done us good, we felt revitalized and ready for another round.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSfrrIsc2H3UXthW5ZanhpVMlAzcrJSGDH5xzZUISswLbCg4-s3ngisFbDe0pos4ZmVFoEPEtcgdWMiJ77n9dv_RcyBnFkJNRSxAXDL3p6Zg07q15a5ht1GxAuJfLY8tIrijzVCZVt9M/s1600/96.+had+a+nice+lunch+here.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720995277365193938" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSfrrIsc2H3UXthW5ZanhpVMlAzcrJSGDH5xzZUISswLbCg4-s3ngisFbDe0pos4ZmVFoEPEtcgdWMiJ77n9dv_RcyBnFkJNRSxAXDL3p6Zg07q15a5ht1GxAuJfLY8tIrijzVCZVt9M/s320/96.+had+a+nice+lunch+here.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;">Mike took us over to to the Baguio Country Club for</span><span style="font-size: large;"> a buffet lunch and we sat on the veranda overlooking the golf course.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> It was an excellent buffet with many western style foods which made the Step-mom happy. </span><span style="font-size: large;">For dessert Maureen had flan, crème brulee, and mango cheesecake.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike's family had been in the Philippines since before WWII. He came from a mining family and grew up in Baguio; both his grandmother and mother had taught at Brent. </span><span style="font-size: large;">He captivated my parents with his stories, especially the Step-mom. She was trying vainly to wrap her head around the American Experience in the Philippines, and Mike was her historical expert.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After lunch, Mike took us on a tour of the usual Baguio tourist spots.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Everywhere we went people seemed to know Mike, greeting and conversing with him in Ilocano. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Camp John Hay</span><span style="font-size: large;">, Mansion House (the President’s summer residence), Wright Park, Mines View. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"So why does President Bush have a house here?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike: "No, the Mansion House is for the Philippine president"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"So why is there a US Air Force base in Baguio? </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike: "No, it used to be a US base. It isn't an Air Force base anymore"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <i><b>"Wright Park? Is that a common Filipino name?"</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike: ?!?<i><b> </b></i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He dropped us back at the hotel around 5 pm and I think he was worn out by all the Step-mom's questions. </span><span style="font-size: large;">We were tired too and had supper at the hotel and went to bed early.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I awoke the next morning to loud voices: Deja Vu.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What time is it, Paul?</span>”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"4:30"</span></span></div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then they got up, turned on all the lights and started banging around and talking in even louder voices. I put a pillow over my face and silently screamed into it. OMG.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike picked us up after breakfast for our Brent tour and when we arrived at the school, the guards just waved him in (Mike was on the faculty and staff for a number of years). Mike gave us the full tour and the parents just sucked it up. I had forgotten that Dad had only been to the school three times during the five years I had attended Brent. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Now and then I would try and interject with additional information, but the Step-mom ignored my comments and would ask Mike again. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Step-mom: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"So tell me again why the students came from the United States just to go to school here?"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mike: ???</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dad told Mike about "his" adventure getting to Baguio in the fall of 1972 and his subsequent "inspection tour" of the typhoon and flood damage with President Marcos and his entourage. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Mike patiently answered their questions and occasionally
would glance over at me now and then with a bemused, puzzled look on his
face. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Welcome to my world buddy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After Brent we stopped at a travel agency to get tickets to Tacloban; and yes, I ended up paying for the tickets as Dad had once again left his credit card at the hotel. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrrdyoYM8QNHD-BqSiSY-JvLx68_Kj3Uu49Ml24UYBLSGe7tIywHzrMY-lF45WeQQxEIbfuDo4Uzhxh66o6SwGipHcTmEsHycJh9pekhlOT8IpBrWsWHdaGQ6yLj2W2wJNuwKF_vrDyW8/s1600/151.+Lunch+at+Mario%2527s+with+Mike.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="480" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721266737226271298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrrdyoYM8QNHD-BqSiSY-JvLx68_Kj3Uu49Ml24UYBLSGe7tIywHzrMY-lF45WeQQxEIbfuDo4Uzhxh66o6SwGipHcTmEsHycJh9pekhlOT8IpBrWsWHdaGQ6yLj2W2wJNuwKF_vrDyW8/s640/151.+Lunch+at+Mario%2527s+with+Mike.JPG" style="float: right; height: 300px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 400px;" width="640" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Here is Mike wondering how he </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>can get out of this. </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>The Step-Mom giving me the 'evil eye'</b></i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Then we went to Mario’s for lunch (I made Dad get his wallet from the hotel first). The Mario's I remembered from my school days was gone from Session Road, this was a new one, complete with modern menu. I missed the pizza, the bread sticks and the Bullfighter posters on the wall of the old restaurant. Mike entertained us with funny stories about his experiences at a New Zealand boarding school. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">After that Mike dropped us off at a shop, I think he needed a break. Dad wanted to buy a pair of mounted carabao horns, but the Step-mom nixed it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Next we went to an Internet Café to check our email and then headed to the Shoe-Mart Mall (SM). We wandered around the mall and checked out the stores. One of the shops sold t-shirt spoofs: </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD4pEGR7HyKTwIqV06E4LH6xUjC-MKJPFlUqCzv94t6J927K_LfIhjEDmUrr5UfDXojYCoDlIwP3TeppxGU-_T_ZVT_hWWMTzoDq5YmtNpKHOZ_wl10cWFA23zuNWCFgEYs5sShuiTCgo/s1600/realview.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719912800548710002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD4pEGR7HyKTwIqV06E4LH6xUjC-MKJPFlUqCzv94t6J927K_LfIhjEDmUrr5UfDXojYCoDlIwP3TeppxGU-_T_ZVT_hWWMTzoDq5YmtNpKHOZ_wl10cWFA23zuNWCFgEYs5sShuiTCgo/s320/realview.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MMB4XdszvViYrFzouME2wWJyoIeHyJTuMDOjVJ2azLgHI9xPz45X-DJArm3dqko8d-zfFs3LTJZhFnTeLQX7ROab1Q4Nk4LOdeukDHTycu_GURX_Cv832yN4LTDQCqQAltkQKMbuX_8/s1600/tshirt-print.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719913651721573234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MMB4XdszvViYrFzouME2wWJyoIeHyJTuMDOjVJ2azLgHI9xPz45X-DJArm3dqko8d-zfFs3LTJZhFnTeLQX7ROab1Q4Nk4LOdeukDHTycu_GURX_Cv832yN4LTDQCqQAltkQKMbuX_8/s320/tshirt-print.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 290px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The mall seemed to be built on or near where the Pine Hotel used to stand. It was four or 5 stories high on top of a mountain. There were huge balconies on the east and west sides with unobstructed views of the city. </span><span style="font-size: large;">We found a little shop called Figaro’s. They served coffee and sandwiches (the Step-mom glared at me). Dad and I had grilled Spam and cheese sandwiches. </span><span style="font-size: large;">We sat on the top balcony and had coffee while we watched the sun set and the fog roll in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On our last day in Baguio we took a taxi over
to the Easter School Weaving Room, where women with large looms were
weaving yards of fabric. From this they sew blankets, tablecloths,
placemats, purses and clothing. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPVErcMJ7y9_x0tVfl98clK-ctDSmP5OOvPxL9KO6toX9MbutDq6GD-r0ns-oKW2Td0bxlY1N7UhHpK6hgKXxHA7kC25iZ74lmk6Smc3IDx1O6Tz2WZba_Tnn2yTf4cqCTrb8KDGNeVCo/s1600/70.+at+night+we+can+watch+the+clouds+roll+in.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a></span><br />
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<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We all picked out some gifts to take back home and the Step-mom said <i><b>"what are you doing?" </b></i>When Maureen explained that she was getting souvenirs for her parents and our kids she gave her a funny look and said <i><b>"why would you want to do that?" </b></i>Maureen just gave her the moron look and said nothing. But shortly after that the Step-mom was scurrying around the store and headed up to the counter with her arms full. Dad did his knick knack paddy wack dance. Again. He looked at me expectantly. I asked him what he would do if I wasn't there to bail him out. </span><span style="font-size: large;">He didn't even have any cash to pay for a taxi back to the hotel! </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My visit to Baguio had not gone the way I hoped it
would. I had been planning to take a day trip up to Banaue and/or Sagada
to show Maureen the rice terraces, but the Step-mom didn't want to go.
When I suggested that Maureen and I go by ourselves, Dad got all worked
up and panicky and somehow I let him talk us out of it. I guess he, too,
was overwhelmed by his memories from 30 years ago. I was used to an
assertive, self-reliant father and didn't know how to deal with him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Just like that our Baguio experience was over. We ate a small breakfast, I paid our hotel bill (of course!) and then we headed for the airport. We got there, went through baggage inspection which included taking everything out of our bags and repacking. Then we got our boarding passes and went to the outdoor lounge and had coffee. There we met Richard Swart, the Dean of Studies at Brent School. He told us some good stories about his years of teaching at boarding schools. Then it was finally time to board the plane. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This time I got to say goodbye.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: ""; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/37681137?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" style="font-family: georgia;" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="400"></iframe></span><br />
<div style="font-family: georgia;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://vimeo.com/37681137">Untitled</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user3431046">Waldo Wanders</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</span></div>
<br /></div>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-6865331307321932342012-02-27T18:08:00.003-08:002012-03-01T14:42:09.213-08:00Sometimes A Great Notion: Part 2 - First Day:Manila<div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;" class="body"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br />"Those who visit foreign nations, but associate only with their own country-men, change their climate, but not their customs. They see new meridians, but the same men; and with heads as empty as their pockets, return home with traveled bodies, but untraveled minds</span></span>"<br />~ Charles Caleb Colton</span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="bodybold"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />"In proving foresight may be vain; </span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> The best-laid schemes of mice and </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">men go oft awry" </span></span><br />~ Robert Burns</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">We arrived in Manila just before midnight and found ourselves disembarking at the old International terminal, the same terminal I had left from 28 years earlier. We were told the "new" terminal was closed, but not why. </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7XXWrhuBcInFXiNKqR208tAjv5V_1B4Ire7xgY7VzhIvFOlSdzboI7XuoksjwB1_zgMY_JwC09DON9TLIG9c0315Ca6om3vUzAZbj7H73_ooH81xRmiQJRzWnxr4c-DPsefFspZ8bVCk/s1600/3057534157_87112d136b.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7XXWrhuBcInFXiNKqR208tAjv5V_1B4Ire7xgY7VzhIvFOlSdzboI7XuoksjwB1_zgMY_JwC09DON9TLIG9c0315Ca6om3vUzAZbj7H73_ooH81xRmiQJRzWnxr4c-DPsefFspZ8bVCk/s400/3057534157_87112d136b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714223031430534082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">But we went through Customs, our papers stamped and got our luggage in what seemed like just a few minutes, despite the large number of "Balikbayan boxes". </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">In reality it took us about an hour, I guess the excitement of being back made time go fast.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Balikbayan</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> is a term that refers to Filipinos </span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;">returning to their homeland (</span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;">there are 11 million who reside and work in countries all over the world). They return bearing "pasalubong" (gifts) in large boxes.</span><br /><br />Suitcases in hand we turned and there was <span style="font-style: italic;">Manong</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Tony,</span> looking much the same as he did the last time I saw him back in '75. He had been like a big brother to me when I was little, and when my two youngest brothers were born he took over some of the responsibilities that had formerly been the sole domain of our housekeeper Auring, like taking me to the movies. After college, he went on to attend seminary and had become a minister. Now we discovered he was a Chaplain in the <span>Philippine Air Force</span> with the rank of Lt. Colonel. He currently was attached to the <span style="font-style: italic;">PSG</span>, the equivalent of the US Secret Service.<br /><br />After hugs and introductions, we took our luggage and headed for the parking lot. It was warm and muggy, and we started sweating immediately. Our noses were assaulted by the blended, sour odor of diesel fuel exhaust, sewage and uncollected garbage. The Step-Mom exclaimed at the stench, but for me, the old familiar smells were stirring the memories and resurrecting feelings long forgotten: home. I'm home.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I was reminded of the movie </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Kelly's Heroes, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">where two soldiers from rural Texas are covered with the contents of an outhouse. Upon being told they stink, Don Rickles comments </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"kind of reminds you of home, don't it"</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> whereupon one of the soldiers replies </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"you know it kind of does"</span><br style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Tony loaded us up, Dad up front and the Step-Mom, Maureen and I crammed in the back, and drove us to the old UCCP Mission Guest House in the area of Metro Manila called <span style="font-style: italic;">Malate</span>. Tony was trying to convince Dad to have us stay with him, but the Step-Mom insisted on a hotel and the Guest House (now called Shalom Center) was the compromise. I wanted to see and experience the old sights and places, and the Guest House was an important part of our pilgrimage.<br /></span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OYb2dUoEO6QfujgIBa0VIEi_yNl7f_X84zcnSzGnolpI2SFaG1iShxnmvcQ0auFyXS3aVbavil9yUpbmfRhw1TR-wmw78qQtZocQQGqIIz0N4Kilgkv5SgAx3JhbqbrH-lS1AKT6JDw/s1600/nightmanila001.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OYb2dUoEO6QfujgIBa0VIEi_yNl7f_X84zcnSzGnolpI2SFaG1iShxnmvcQ0auFyXS3aVbavil9yUpbmfRhw1TR-wmw78qQtZocQQGqIIz0N4Kilgkv5SgAx3JhbqbrH-lS1AKT6JDw/s320/nightmanila001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712481492395693474" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6EMU6PyNc5IUwYeINIClEmhA2sbGwq_AfHVRPM4HiSWrXbAyE16-8r_R2DSD-3EIuhTYBqUUzEfh7YlgNZuwtr_sEkmehb7PYtKND-tF9TLSVe3cWHmDyQ0XWkr6wQXuVKVEkwvPEeTY/s1600/nightmanila004.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6EMU6PyNc5IUwYeINIClEmhA2sbGwq_AfHVRPM4HiSWrXbAyE16-8r_R2DSD-3EIuhTYBqUUzEfh7YlgNZuwtr_sEkmehb7PYtKND-tF9TLSVe3cWHmDyQ0XWkr6wQXuVKVEkwvPEeTY/s320/nightmanila004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712481939693299314" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">The city was still very active at 1:00 a.m. and traffic was heavy. Most of the time our driver just drove through the red lights, simultaneously depressing the accelerator and his horn as we approached an intersection. We had no idea whether the drivers in the on-coming traffic were going to stop or not, so it was rather exciting. But the honking must have been a well known signal because it all seemed to work out. </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesBp1wqnRwCFrIs2rtn5854bMedsURzBDPlZHWzZ4roMOIO316mo4JVa_xgVJ84rVceUII_l4As6HNAGe2u7O1WRDa2v_KgeoxqFD3K9psZ7aNWS1l1oFPZpI75HtTiikatVzeC0aKNw/s1600/4ca8dca1d21ebe1da35c759c16f7_grande.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesBp1wqnRwCFrIs2rtn5854bMedsURzBDPlZHWzZ4roMOIO316mo4JVa_xgVJ84rVceUII_l4As6HNAGe2u7O1WRDa2v_KgeoxqFD3K9psZ7aNWS1l1oFPZpI75HtTiikatVzeC0aKNw/s320/4ca8dca1d21ebe1da35c759c16f7_grande.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713191546823282946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">When we were forced to stop at a traffic light, a small boy or two would come up to our car and press their faces close to the glass, looking so pathetic, begging for money.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The driver would give them some cash and they scurried away. It made Maureen cry and I realized this was an aspect of our trip that I had not anticipated.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">The drive from the airport that used to take twenty minutes now took just over an hour. We got to the Guest House to find that the beautiful turn-of-the century two story guest house had been replaced by a modern tall building. We checked in, not knowing what other changes to expect after all these years.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But the room was cool and clean, the sheets crisp and white, the water hot and refreshing. We cleaned up and crawled into bed, and were soon fast asleep.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">We awoke just a few hours later to the sounds of vendors in the street selling <span style="font-style: italic;">taho</span>, a custardy dish made from tofu, sago pearls and assorted fruit or syrups of your choice. We tried to go back to sleep but we hadn't adjusted to the change in time zone yet. To be honest, I was too excited to go back to sleep.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_7TDtpzIC5eibAm6TAIKhF5zEDcOUja6_UKikdbS4diQwOQ43mSoHoRD6v2vkp_yPQK6jNiFPZsQgjjy3SUyzRxqD_TPY5bNEud5XXKv9hkSOOzDtEJcicqsg5B8iTVQnNiiFj5ucHU/s1600/taho+vendor.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_7TDtpzIC5eibAm6TAIKhF5zEDcOUja6_UKikdbS4diQwOQ43mSoHoRD6v2vkp_yPQK6jNiFPZsQgjjy3SUyzRxqD_TPY5bNEud5XXKv9hkSOOzDtEJcicqsg5B8iTVQnNiiFj5ucHU/s320/taho+vendor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712459194194567714" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGnPquDN-9RDMbfZf21Ef1Wy9ni4a5nKIVB1H6BeAHGGzhciK7gJDwO8I7Ks6KWJzqf0R7c8BvheYlsQrC85pg8-n-McVZTB1tJhz9fkGBxvefAA1QyWIzNf7VaVj42wvOV3lACdmS8w/s1600/tumblr_kyqjkrj6fi1qbnou7o1_500.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGnPquDN-9RDMbfZf21Ef1Wy9ni4a5nKIVB1H6BeAHGGzhciK7gJDwO8I7Ks6KWJzqf0R7c8BvheYlsQrC85pg8-n-McVZTB1tJhz9fkGBxvefAA1QyWIzNf7VaVj42wvOV3lACdmS8w/s320/tumblr_kyqjkrj6fi1qbnou7o1_500.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712459558215492050" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">So, we got up and went downstairs and took some pictures on the street out front and then went through the lobby and out the back door.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidP6JnpwhNOaWA_aEijTZ1ws45H9U9E0F7kOLgS-4ruXkpDXQRM-rvsFN6h0bb8VE9v1lzzefrQWE3K-nCTAKKk6BqBAlQWwePNmcAXfeVFSvjfOuddw8E5S7REmotoyK-9kjuWL7HapQ/s1600/1.2-6.+Manila+street+outside+Shalom+Center.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidP6JnpwhNOaWA_aEijTZ1ws45H9U9E0F7kOLgS-4ruXkpDXQRM-rvsFN6h0bb8VE9v1lzzefrQWE3K-nCTAKKk6BqBAlQWwePNmcAXfeVFSvjfOuddw8E5S7REmotoyK-9kjuWL7HapQ/s320/1.2-6.+Manila+street+outside+Shalom+Center.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712462574247070162" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2xpHzSD-rSyWQmPDEQ6V6Evaozy_iaFyt-7s2Gle7xD088LNkZDHcdFBGrwup1rs24gVDKSQfhRZ7G6V-ik2MQ67zglosTIFGAzzzzx5NQRv3f18nsQzgAiTLbfpiT-vyQ3T4cteyNkw/s1600/IMG_0806.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2xpHzSD-rSyWQmPDEQ6V6Evaozy_iaFyt-7s2Gle7xD088LNkZDHcdFBGrwup1rs24gVDKSQfhRZ7G6V-ik2MQ67zglosTIFGAzzzzx5NQRv3f18nsQzgAiTLbfpiT-vyQ3T4cteyNkw/s320/IMG_0806.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712463032343365922" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2mg7CxImuOi20R2IEWyk9Pzcr1Hc8c0CH5MPPF_KpIv8NqIXzmzUrK25GuanVEwOGgdUJgchsgtdghl7rulNIMJbwFd0ChnxUKAGfH_6k0vj8PX8C99sEvdNpf5XjGe2WuGKO1jIUIA/s1600/1953_1083413158305_1015622954_30279184_2141_n.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2mg7CxImuOi20R2IEWyk9Pzcr1Hc8c0CH5MPPF_KpIv8NqIXzmzUrK25GuanVEwOGgdUJgchsgtdghl7rulNIMJbwFd0ChnxUKAGfH_6k0vj8PX8C99sEvdNpf5XjGe2WuGKO1jIUIA/s320/1953_1083413158305_1015622954_30279184_2141_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712487362589952914" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">There, behind the new tower were two of the original guest houses still standing, looking rather forlorn and uncomfortable. </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">This was one of the things I wanted to see again. Slightly modified, but still mostly the same, there was the house where we lived our first few months in the Philippines.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">It was strange and wonderful, the memories of my childhood came rushing back, of daily sounds, smells, and rituals. Of warm, yet still comfortable mornings, the relative quiet before the hustle and bustle of </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">the city gearing up for another busy day of commerce. </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">The hot afternoons when the city would suddenly go silent, the only sound was the wings of the cicadas humming.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLasSGNL6FtQoN2sCSXh8pOCu17eMwL_ikLW7AX-Vu-4FBAbUvCyuSqNsFvxhgdo6HPycksJCIXkoispPX0UF6YkXeD-pftiQqcGVeOC1W1xCKy1TqNW6gR22PBiz3quGKqWaNjTjO1Fs/s1600/the-reception-desk.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLasSGNL6FtQoN2sCSXh8pOCu17eMwL_ikLW7AX-Vu-4FBAbUvCyuSqNsFvxhgdo6HPycksJCIXkoispPX0UF6YkXeD-pftiQqcGVeOC1W1xCKy1TqNW6gR22PBiz3quGKqWaNjTjO1Fs/s320/the-reception-desk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712460053927576722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">Back inside, I asked at the front desk about changing some dollars for pesos and the clerk said they could arrange for a <span style="font-style: italic;">money changer</span> to come by a little later. Dad and the stepmother were still in bed and we were enjoying the break in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Tagalog</span> lessons, so we went to see about getting some breakfast without them.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><span style="font-style: italic;">The days of a multi-course American style meal served family style at long tables covered in white tablecloths were long gone. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">In the old days, breakfast was preceded by a reading from the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Upper Room</span>, followed by several relevant Bible passages and a prayer. Then eggs, sometimes fried, sometimes scrambled or wonder of wonders boiled eggs perched on little white egg cups. Fruit, toast, bacon or sausage and juice would round out the meal.</span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">The Shalom Center now had a cafeteria and served traditional Filipino foods. </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cDOd0SNwK4liPwtAGAf0n5-0lAFTfp75snygBISnpPT-jqSYDMu3b_JhKNmZoqtcfHUaV5oBusVl6oGlppHmDlAuUqyN2KuAJh9D41-7vyHhs36gjrKeJ3kcTOA8vjdxdPRcRrNatgE/s1600/4894876_f520.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cDOd0SNwK4liPwtAGAf0n5-0lAFTfp75snygBISnpPT-jqSYDMu3b_JhKNmZoqtcfHUaV5oBusVl6oGlppHmDlAuUqyN2KuAJh9D41-7vyHhs36gjrKeJ3kcTOA8vjdxdPRcRrNatgE/s400/4894876_f520.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712483152252637714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">I steered Maureen towards a breakfast of coffee, mango juice, rice, fried eggs and little red sausages called <span style="font-style: italic;">longaniza</span> and was gratified to find that she really enjoyed it. The coffee came in little packets with the creamer already mixed in and you just poured it into a cup of hot water. </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjgydHPzz03T7ViLUvLf_xKAsrEmM63DrGguNpZDRNmPXUda1cD4iSo8CeIBhjPX5oK9xFlI9SGYiglEPXRBsbDX_859AjbhaPIdaKuDU9MvKod-RIQqFR03EaCih3mT0hX8XBtgSWrQ/s1600/10417778_Nescafe_Classic_2g_Stick.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjgydHPzz03T7ViLUvLf_xKAsrEmM63DrGguNpZDRNmPXUda1cD4iSo8CeIBhjPX5oK9xFlI9SGYiglEPXRBsbDX_859AjbhaPIdaKuDU9MvKod-RIQqFR03EaCih3mT0hX8XBtgSWrQ/s320/10417778_Nescafe_Classic_2g_Stick.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712483779039866050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">She was a little suspicious of it at first, but happily discovered that it was quite delicious. We lingered for awhile after eating, sipping our coffee and slowly adjusting to our new surroundings.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">After breakfast we went down to the lobby to meet the money exchanger, running into our "travel companions" as we exited the cafeteria. I suggested to Dad that he take the opportunity to change some dollars to pesos but he brushed it off.<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""><span style="font-style: italic;">Prior to our trip I had spent many hours on line updating myself on the Philippines, reading travel tips and advice, newspaper articles and consular warnings. The country that we had known so well had greatly changed, but Dad still thought that he knew it all, certainly much better than I.</span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="">When we got to the lobby Tony was there and helped us change some money with the money changer while we waited for the parents. They appeared a little while later, and Dad promptly announced that he needed to change some dollars! Too late, the money changer had already left. The step mother needed some sun glasses too, so it was decided we would head over to SM Mall after lunch at Tony's home. 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mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKlA1m-7NYRL7UoXiK28pv5pqV4kLSWhjbDg4n2EbwmODxyB6xXzzPacmSZDY79TkxY08lke_MIKESKGs2aEcmsKJ3lhyA38p2niVS9Tf_y04hgcX-3rPiTSvPHa49BFSsRKADskwa6Wg/s1600/8.Maureen+holds+Kalachuchi+flowers.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKlA1m-7NYRL7UoXiK28pv5pqV4kLSWhjbDg4n2EbwmODxyB6xXzzPacmSZDY79TkxY08lke_MIKESKGs2aEcmsKJ3lhyA38p2niVS9Tf_y04hgcX-3rPiTSvPHa49BFSsRKADskwa6Wg/s320/8.Maureen+holds+Kalachuchi+flowers.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712520012120712898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We arrived at the base and the guard cheerfully waved us through. Tony gave us a quick tour around the base and stopped first to let Maureen pick a Kalachuchi blossom, then to let us have some photo ops with the impressive residence across the river.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyiETm7EQGxzOpdFlSB6b4i7ol9rlitUW9Lcg189MSOfpsolfqOsQBC_Xyaf1FGp4iclCLokXiiLdcGEyxsNVFMiTmyXhKeGH9Sh0Hs4uij0Fq2tbglyryCfzKxS5koxvfiD2NgxC1Cbs/s1600/3.back+view+of+the+Malacanang+Palace.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyiETm7EQGxzOpdFlSB6b4i7ol9rlitUW9Lcg189MSOfpsolfqOsQBC_Xyaf1FGp4iclCLokXiiLdcGEyxsNVFMiTmyXhKeGH9Sh0Hs4uij0Fq2tbglyryCfzKxS5koxvfiD2NgxC1Cbs/s400/3.back+view+of+the+Malacanang+Palace.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712521905731316962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We kind of felt like we were breaking some rules: You usually don't see this side of the official residence, nor can you normally get this close. But we reminded ourselves that this was the Philippines and things are a little more relaxed here.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCE21S5UqQ5gXVWf16zPpFZvLoIrXd63oJ2B8oA68b-cIVjyEGhMETSIivhRQf4HECtN4MJlZKgD4xbD7T8OZICo35GD_AYtqGk7wZxKeIL8rOOlM3u1gy4WdY1NHoStbhxHHunfssY1s/s1600/10.Tony%252C+Leila%252C+Beth+and+Roy.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCE21S5UqQ5gXVWf16zPpFZvLoIrXd63oJ2B8oA68b-cIVjyEGhMETSIivhRQf4HECtN4MJlZKgD4xbD7T8OZICo35GD_AYtqGk7wZxKeIL8rOOlM3u1gy4WdY1NHoStbhxHHunfssY1s/s400/10.Tony%252C+Leila%252C+Beth+and+Roy.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712763226963538178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">The parsonage was attached to the back of the Base Chapel.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> We arrived at Tony's home and met some of his family. Two of his daughters were at work and we would meet them later. His wife, Beth, was the daughter of old family friends and excused herself to prepare lunch while Tony gave us a tour of the Chapel and his gardens. Orchids, flowers, fruit trees were everywhere. I had forgotten how lush the tropics can be. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAhyphenhyphenSijjaUMLWtEXFnXroCod6u3770Eo03DJxnSTqecZegn5WMCCtCXcwzroycillYdRgpUCuogFRDrTzX8GzTiyFOUX1RGvmnmVp1ItkvKyqATey0CuJP2PbXGk4db9lSwN7S0KPM_k/s1600/6.Dad+trying+to+figure+out+how+to+use+video+camera.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAhyphenhyphenSijjaUMLWtEXFnXroCod6u3770Eo03DJxnSTqecZegn5WMCCtCXcwzroycillYdRgpUCuogFRDrTzX8GzTiyFOUX1RGvmnmVp1ItkvKyqATey0CuJP2PbXGk4db9lSwN7S0KPM_k/s400/6.Dad+trying+to+figure+out+how+to+use+video+camera.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712523341635986450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Here is Tony and the parents. Dad is trying to figure out how to use the video camera (he shot hours of the sky, the ground or the interior of the car). </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Then we were ushered in for lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was an excellent meal that included fried fish, rice, a shrimp, beef and vegetable stir fry, green beans, mangoes, bananas, grapes and suman. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvuumh62RHBTaS09E-c6rHrfGCXlS4RLNBxOJDthV22CemblCRlPQWxTLhZ50qLlwA2Rw21mz9p9fFc6pesF_NiOlg2O-CrCCGFWNEuOHG-OBtpmifNdblWwUbOwtc9ISIEMfSRKWek0/s1600/Tuyo.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 396px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvuumh62RHBTaS09E-c6rHrfGCXlS4RLNBxOJDthV22CemblCRlPQWxTLhZ50qLlwA2Rw21mz9p9fFc6pesF_NiOlg2O-CrCCGFWNEuOHG-OBtpmifNdblWwUbOwtc9ISIEMfSRKWek0/s400/Tuyo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712764371425338770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">They even cooked up a few pieces of whole dried fish called <span style="font-style: italic;">Tuyo</span> just for me.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Dried fish is made by heavily salting fresh whole or split fish, which then are dried in the sun. To prepare them you simply heat a little oil in a skillet and fry them up. The oil reconstitutes the flesh and they emit a very strong odor. Most Americans find the smell horrific, but it always makes my mouth water. For almost thirty years I had been dreaming of this moment, the taste of tuyo and rice filling my mouth.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAFGSOIYXazJ17a6mg3OKjk0WIhBgy27tNQHYx-HanB_FV4CyvAt0s6Q_fSwaaFhCMc-zjLUmBtwmmyQVBD_f3XK1Fmn7dEhMlivBAb2T1BRVl2lAZSvFzQZ6o31EhfDQL6-pXGUGh9Y/s1600/16.Tony+and+Paul+making+itinerary.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAFGSOIYXazJ17a6mg3OKjk0WIhBgy27tNQHYx-HanB_FV4CyvAt0s6Q_fSwaaFhCMc-zjLUmBtwmmyQVBD_f3XK1Fmn7dEhMlivBAb2T1BRVl2lAZSvFzQZ6o31EhfDQL6-pXGUGh9Y/s400/16.Tony+and+Paul+making+itinerary.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712771843595182898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">After lunch, Tony and Dad sat down to discuss the itinerary. Our original plans had been to go from Manila to the island of Leyte for a week, then back to Manila and on to the mountains of Baguio with a side trip to Sagada. Dad immediately changed things up by saying he wanted to go to Baguio first and then Leyte. I tried to explain that we had reservations made at hotels in Baguio and Leyte, that people had taken time off from work to see us and that we couldn't just change things up but he refused to listen.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">What I didn't realize then was that he was apprehensive about going back to Leyte. He was afraid that, at best, no one would even remember him. So we changed our plans, which meant we now had to go buy tickets to Baguio and hope we could find rooms.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIfBxxie9XdbKNsCJLSQH0m7acVQgbWsT1ymcZEMKez-xb3KidCxhdLr_rOokjWGazNdoIDhK5XTaEsYtzXGLPOjl1J8d-Oj4h6ZDn36tonqbqUCRHgFB2mq6sM5QbqGEVwd6zifEI_k/s1600/SM001.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIfBxxie9XdbKNsCJLSQH0m7acVQgbWsT1ymcZEMKez-xb3KidCxhdLr_rOokjWGazNdoIDhK5XTaEsYtzXGLPOjl1J8d-Oj4h6ZDn36tonqbqUCRHgFB2mq6sM5QbqGEVwd6zifEI_k/s320/SM001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712488682459622002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">So first we went to get 4 plane tickets to Baguio. Dad did his <span style="font-style: italic;">knick knack paddy whack </span>dance (slapping each pocket in turn) and said he left his credit card at the hotel. Apparently he had only brought dollars to exchange into pesos. So I had to pay for all the tickets.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Then we headed over to SM Mall. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnSiALWDQeFH-pQUuWbHHLLY4BpJkweaoY-iE6PKQXSQ1zHZzSeRqo-WtPpC7YyFW1I57m7kWXh1Tb730D3E0zWuHV2ORirvCE2jEODF5igcdicxY0fOMyvZCxOnm-PDUpc8w3ICPpY1Y/s1600/016traffic.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnSiALWDQeFH-pQUuWbHHLLY4BpJkweaoY-iE6PKQXSQ1zHZzSeRqo-WtPpC7YyFW1I57m7kWXh1Tb730D3E0zWuHV2ORirvCE2jEODF5igcdicxY0fOMyvZCxOnm-PDUpc8w3ICPpY1Y/s400/016traffic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714226120838143986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Traffic was miserable and it took us forever to get there. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I was totally amazed at the congestion of the city. We were even more shocked at the total disregard for traffic signals, the large number of cars trying to fit into a finite number of lanes. Navigating the ever changing maze was like some crazy dance, a game of "chicken" to see who would yield first. At some point Tony determined that we were headed the wrong direction and began to slowly work his way from the far left lane all the way over to the far right lane. Once there we thought he was going to pull in on a side street and head back the other direction. Instead, tooting his horn and putting on his left blinker he executed a wide turn. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7hqVwgeABvfNQAFRDln6s2kYQng2WwizynmnwxzBxlqNDOu9rTNpvcDGi3ttGiEvTaCSIFywQqVlY5gEj3viDKhIdTEERkFeZunXEx6Wce_uNipadrCGVyg6xcjl1OSpL6L19s59A7D0/s1600/012traffic.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7hqVwgeABvfNQAFRDln6s2kYQng2WwizynmnwxzBxlqNDOu9rTNpvcDGi3ttGiEvTaCSIFywQqVlY5gEj3viDKhIdTEERkFeZunXEx6Wce_uNipadrCGVyg6xcjl1OSpL6L19s59A7D0/s320/012traffic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712838570981250258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Cutting across about six or seven lanes of traffic and into the lanes heading the opposite way, smiling and waving as vehicles would stop just inches from our car. It was a gut wrenching experience, but two things were evident to us, there was no road rage, no cussing or angry gestures. With so many people (around 21 million in the Greater Manila area) rubbing elbows, it was essential that decorum be maintained. So, despite the congestion, people kept their cool.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">When we finally arrived we were stopped by guards at the parking garage who cheerfully checked the trunk and under the car for bombs. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5DVI90Zx5V9SBaE7L8f4PiDw4jKGA5-biwdFYWqeV7OGAOKdbN-O9jsVC-jNB7DNw2b2qvPIYU4cU8rUxucjyoLUUgdnOTEniYy6nr3IOt347f_KNGeVBAQgrFHIaI9mp5jQlSkZLiI/s1600/23.+lots+of+friendly+staff%2521.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5DVI90Zx5V9SBaE7L8f4PiDw4jKGA5-biwdFYWqeV7OGAOKdbN-O9jsVC-jNB7DNw2b2qvPIYU4cU8rUxucjyoLUUgdnOTEniYy6nr3IOt347f_KNGeVBAQgrFHIaI9mp5jQlSkZLiI/s400/23.+lots+of+friendly+staff%2521.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712775275398679906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">After we parked, there was another security check, this time for us. We were told that we were not allowed to take pictures inside the mall, but I surreptitiously took a few blurry shots. There were no malls in the Philippines when we had lived there last, and Maureen was impressed at the number of employees (four or five smartly dressed young women in every department) and how friendly and helpful they were.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Dad and Tony went to exchange some dollars to pesos while the Step-mom, Maureen and I did some shopping. Maureen had left her swim suit back in the States, and I thought I'd pick up an embroidered short sleeve shirt. The Step-Mom went to go buy some sunglasses. The exchange rate currently was floating around 56 pesos to one dollar. For some reason this was very confusing to the parents and I wasn't sure why. Dad had done some mission work in Nepal, Central and South America, they both had worked in Africa, so they had relatively recent experience with varying exchange rates. Maureen got her suit, I got my shirt and we wandered over to see how the Step-Mom was doing. She was having trouble picking a pair but finally decided on a stylish black framed designer branded pair. Dad and Tony came up and she said <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"these are only $10 dollars"</span>. Maureen looked at the tag labeled 5,600 pesos and said <span style="font-style: italic;">uh no, they are around $100</span>. The Step-Mom looked annoyed and insisted she was correct and purchased them anyway. Leaving the mall she had an indignant whispered conversation with Dad and after some calculations on a piece of paper the sunglasses were carefully remanded to her luggage for the remainder of our trip, as they too valuable to wear.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRON_fv5lq2K7NmUFykGlQARNmTL-Aw80TEGZ6nnezO2o6Zo0dO9U5f87s-OEFNMsHO10IfI4rSaqs99MsnUuI-qKVJ_PRQiWRTFkEWgoSwG_kzM5vsZnBCki6iJIF0zSmPYfN5k0GzbA/s1600/25.+American+Cemetary+at+Manila.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRON_fv5lq2K7NmUFykGlQARNmTL-Aw80TEGZ6nnezO2o6Zo0dO9U5f87s-OEFNMsHO10IfI4rSaqs99MsnUuI-qKVJ_PRQiWRTFkEWgoSwG_kzM5vsZnBCki6iJIF0zSmPYfN5k0GzbA/s400/25.+American+Cemetary+at+Manila.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712829679526944226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">After the mall we headed over to the American Cemetery. This again took forever due to the heavy traffic. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">We had intended to do some sight-seeing but it now seemed rather late to get started. I was beginning to worry about how much time we would waste everyday just trying to get to the places we wanted to see.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">When we got there it was just after 5 pm, it was raining and they were closing for the day. But Tony showed them his official I.D. and they just waved us in.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqKtD2ylTqiBAhal5BS16dSReA0f2-Uwh9hb_OMX59sMTwyczAqSKqou2ws1mle86Lmx72e7050mOVoWz41HWue2VH44xPWNsjXTQgwgnGvOZzG0j4Ba2WAcbkcMJ7PCqAJmqI1nYQMs/s1600/26.+Many+died+during+Bataan+Death+March.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqKtD2ylTqiBAhal5BS16dSReA0f2-Uwh9hb_OMX59sMTwyczAqSKqou2ws1mle86Lmx72e7050mOVoWz41HWue2VH44xPWNsjXTQgwgnGvOZzG0j4Ba2WAcbkcMJ7PCqAJmqI1nYQMs/s400/26.+Many+died+during+Bataan+Death+March.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712831160885692194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The rain suddenly stopped and the sun tried to peak out. It was serene and beautiful.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Administered by the American Battle Monuments Commission it covers about 152 acres and has 17, 206 graves and an additional 36,282 names inscribed on limestone columns of those missing in action. We walked around for an hour and then it started raining again so we decided to go.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Tony decided it was time to get something to eat and stopped off at McDonalds. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">After crossing the ocean to get here it was not our first choice but he was driving and our host, so we went along with it. We parked right in front and Tony paid some street kids to watch his car. A guard armed with a shot-gun opened the door for us and we trooped in.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAzduVt0S1-B763GoyZRreI1zNkhS5Go-GcXicmA4KRQ_HXADDYHKhpFuF8uDoPpoa9ailBULiTfs4e-xmw8r9JwIRkRSSBwinw-qLyd1zBd38QCQ4NYoMI-ubVh7oxx_xmnULCph1pM/s1600/1.1230330180.international-mcdonaldxs.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAzduVt0S1-B763GoyZRreI1zNkhS5Go-GcXicmA4KRQ_HXADDYHKhpFuF8uDoPpoa9ailBULiTfs4e-xmw8r9JwIRkRSSBwinw-qLyd1zBd38QCQ4NYoMI-ubVh7oxx_xmnULCph1pM/s400/1.1230330180.international-mcdonaldxs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712806572366720930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">This turned out to be an interesting experience because the McDonalds in the Philippines are nothing like the ones back in the States. For one thing rice comes with the meals and french fries are a special side order. Salisbury steak, Spaghetti and fried chicken are also on the menu. We tried these "new" items and found them to be pretty good!<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The Step-mom went to use the restroom and came out shortly and said there is no toilet paper in there. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Maureen pulled some out of her travel bag and handed it to her. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">She seemed most annoyed that we were so prepared.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I can't help it, a decade of living in a rural area of the Philippines, plus being a Boy Scout who was taught to "be prepared", I find my self always thinking of contingencies. Before we had left I had advised her to get some travel "tp" to bring with her, because like when they were in Africa, it is something that is not always provided or available.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">We had an early flight to Baguio the next morning, </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">jet lag had finally caught up to us and we were worn out, so Tony took us back the Guest House. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> We showered and Maureen took a little time to write down the experiences we had so far in her journal. Another day of firsts for her!<br /></span></p><p face="georgia" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><br /></div><br /><br /><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/37705844?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" webkitallowfullscreen="" mozallowfullscreen="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" width="400"></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/37705844">A Day in Manila</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user3431046">Waldo Wanders</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-68509919694619856382012-01-28T15:37:00.000-08:002012-01-29T09:03:28.511-08:00100 Years Gone By: A Baguio Tribute<span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"></span><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"You.<br />You.<br />You are still a whisper on my lips. </span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br />A feeling at my fingertips,<br />That's pulling at my skin.<br /><br />You leave me when I'm at my worst. </span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Feeling as if I've been cursed,<br />Bitter cold within.<br /><br />Days go by and still I think of you. </span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Days when I couldn't live my life without you.<br />Days go by and still I think of you.<br />Days when I couldn't live my life without you.<br />Without you...<br />Without you"<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzz93GHLICctf_8nuROOI6GEPt5NkNqlh4Hsb5j8qDKjcmHiDC3MMrPA8X0fVRIOs-7BAxyKzMOmogHZIxuBQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-34240611181546350502012-01-18T16:20:00.000-08:002012-01-19T11:55:51.121-08:00Always<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='420' height='366' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxM5BJENmYx38eoeqZdhfY9XKzleMn3HTHu18FZ1ihcBfz4sn-98OINeBe2sRpxn1lRq2Hpsnk84e4rpEa0sQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-11207855335189060632011-08-03T14:48:00.000-07:002011-08-04T08:19:16.995-07:00Sometimes A Great Notion: Part 1 - Plans<div><div><div><br /><div><div><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:-1;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><br />"The past is funny ... it never seems to let things lie, finished. </span></span></span></span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:-1;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> <span style="font-family:georgia;">It never seems to stay in place as it should"</span></span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:-1;" > <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />~ Ken Kesey</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:-1;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"There are some things that can't be the truth even if they did happen" </span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-style: italic;font-family:Arial;font-size:-1;" > ~ Ken Kesey</span> </div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Sometime around the advent of the new millennium my father began voicing the desire to return to the Philippines. I didn't think too much of it at first, it was not like he needed my permission to go. I simply said "you should go" and left it at that. Over the next few years he returned to the subject frequently. I didn't know what the problem was, buy a ticket and go. But he seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. <span style="font-style: italic;">This from a guy who left school and home to travel a 100o miles to west Texas to help round up a herd of wild mustangs, put them on rail cars where they were transported to Galveston, then on to a ship and across the ocean to Greece.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">This from a guy who quit his job and moved his family across the ocean to live and work in the Philippines. This from a guy who over the previous 25 years had visited, lived and worked in rural Mexico, South America, Africa, Nepal, Egypt and had taken several trips to Europe. Often times I wouldn't even know he was out of the country, calling the house week after week with no answer. Finally I learned to call around to his various siblings where I would learn of his whereabouts. </span><br /><br />So why should taking a trip to the Philippines be so difficult? Sometime in early 2003 he was talking about it, <em>again, </em>and fed up I said "quit talking about it and just go!".</span><br /><em><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">I'll go if you go</span></strong></em><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I was totally taken aback. Never in my entire life had he ever expressed needing my help with anything. I didn't know what to say.<br /></span><em><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">I'll go if you go</span></strong></em><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Up to that point I had never even considered going back, at least not after all these years. There was a time in the late 70's and early 80's when I thought of returning often. But now, nearly 27 years since I had last been there I was rather ambivalent about it. All of the people I had remained in contact with were stateside now, I assumed that the majority of my schoolmates were here as well too. Sure, there were places I'd like to see, foods I'd like to taste again, but I wasn't sure what other motivations there were for me to go. If I wanted to go to a beach, I could go to Mexico for a fraction of the price.<br /><br />I was married, we were settled into our lives, two out of three kids graduated, we had jobs and pets to attend to. More importantly, the thought of being trapped with my Dad for an extended period of time was not very appealing. Since my marriage, our relationship had slowly improved, <span style="font-style: italic;">but some things don't change</span> and at times it was tenuous at best. Dad had an expression he liked to repeat <span style="font-style: italic;">every time</span> we came to visit: </span><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong><em><br />"Company is like fish, after three days they start to stink"<br /><br /></em></strong></span></div><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong><em></em></strong></span><div> </div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">This was his way of letting us know he didn't want us around too long and certainly was mutually true of our relationship. By the second day I was always ready to leave. I couldn't imagine being stuck with him on a plane for 24 hours, let alone a few weeks. I let the subject drop, but then he brought it up again a month or so later. And again a few weeks after that. And again the next month. He had seized on this idea and wouldn't let it go.</span><br /><br /><em><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">I'll go if you go<br /><br /></span></strong></em></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">My boss was from the Philippines originally, and made the pilgrimage back to see his parents and siblings once a year. I mentioned my father's desire to go back, half thinking that perhaps he could be my dad's travel companion the next time he went. We discussed cost, safety, things to do and see, the best time of year to travel.<br /><br /></span></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Then my father received a letter from Tony Ngoho, one of our former "students" inviting him to come visit. <span style="font-style: italic;">Back when we lived in the Philippines, my mother had come up with an idea of putting a few deserving kids through college. She started with one, and by the time we left eight years later the number had grown to around thirty. A nurse herself, most of the students were in the local nursing program, some pursued BAs, others got their BS degrees, a few went to seminary after college, of which Tony was one. Of all the students who lived with us over the years, Tony was most like family, more like an older brother to me.</span></span><br /><em><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">I'll go if you go</span></strong></em><br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Slowly, the idea percolated, the desire to return began to outweigh the disadvantages. I thought of bringing my wife, I had always wanted to show her the places I so often talked about. So it was that, in the summer of 2003, having become confused from all the Texas heat, forgetting in an instant all the misery I had gone through over the last 45 years, I finally caved in to my father's request.<br /><br />Things quickly fell apart from there. The original plan had been for just the two of us to go, the stepmother had no interest in going to the Philippines. Then I modified it to include my wife, and when the stepmother found out that she was going she decided she would go too. This is not what I had envisioned, I had figured that two against one would make the situation manageable, but now, two against two, we were clearly outnumbered. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This should have been my first red flag that things were not going to go well.</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> Still, I thought, it shouldn't be too bad, we'll let the old fogies do their own thing and we will go off and have our own adventures. How bad could it be?<br /><br />So I reluctantly purchased four tickets and contacted a friend in the Philippines to secure reservations for us in February of the coming year. <span style="font-style: italic;">This should have been my second red flag: why was I buying the tickets?<br /><br /></span>Dad wrote Tony and together we made an itinerary. You would think after growing up with the guy I would have remembered how easily sidetracked the old cuss could get. <span style="font-style: italic;">This should have been my third red flag; Dad never sticks to the plan.</span> My wife and I scheduled vacation time, applied for passports and waited. Mine was a simple renewal and came back quickly, but this was her first passport and weeks went by, the departure date loomed. She was beginning to panic, then, just a few days before we were scheduled to leave it arrived! It was time to go.<br /><br /></span></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6-LAbYtegMSVTvBe4ISruPlajuZPIPpg2Z6LcqNAz_3UNMHx9lgGCqD5W9osyaPNxEadnwTa0H3poIgEiKWJicGByeaGMdXGguzPXMMTYl5bLL-fi37bqCteCIFn9E-wCL11F38zaGM/s1600/747gateby3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 400px; height: 300px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636793011079641154" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6-LAbYtegMSVTvBe4ISruPlajuZPIPpg2Z6LcqNAz_3UNMHx9lgGCqD5W9osyaPNxEadnwTa0H3poIgEiKWJicGByeaGMdXGguzPXMMTYl5bLL-fi37bqCteCIFn9E-wCL11F38zaGM/s400/747gateby3.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">In February of 2005 we boarded a plane for Detroit where we would meet up with Dad and the Stepmother. There we would board another flight bound for the Philippines. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">We checked in and waited, and waited. Boarding was announced and still no sign of them. We had their tickets and just as we were about to go up to the counter, here they come wandering over. They had gone to get something to eat and didn't hear the boarding announcement.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOXl6b773dFs7LhqPfvfHi0m3fHU_ZZYJirS3iFtikAvtrYc4GYOkT4ZB1goeXscV2Tr4mkyTU_lkaMnUcVE2jLMH2uhH_bzt47No6X87ITsf5mzqjgazWWJ2IO7svqWWVBWIM4_bEzU/s1600/DSC_0282.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 400px; height: 266px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636798056635593490" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOXl6b773dFs7LhqPfvfHi0m3fHU_ZZYJirS3iFtikAvtrYc4GYOkT4ZB1goeXscV2Tr4mkyTU_lkaMnUcVE2jLMH2uhH_bzt47No6X87ITsf5mzqjgazWWJ2IO7svqWWVBWIM4_bEzU/s400/DSC_0282.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">The jumbo jet was packed, mostly with Filipinos, a smattering of Japanese and Koreans; we were among the handful of Caucasians. Looking out over a sea of dark heads from our seats near the rear of the jet, my father commented on how many Filipinos were on our flight. Standing up to see what he was talking about, the stepmother said with her megaphone voice:</span></div><div> </div><div style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">How can you tell? They all look alike to me... Now, Do all Filipinos have black hair?<br /><br /></span></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Four hundred heads turned around to see who was addressing them. Mortified, we slid down in our chairs and hid our faces. My father tried to distract her, getting her to sit back down by saying he is going to teach her a few Tagalog words, starting with the word for "thank you":<br />Dad:</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> <span style="font-size:180%;">Salamat</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Stepmon:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sayluhmet</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Dad:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Salamat</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Stepmom:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sayloomet</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Dad:<span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Sa. la. mahht</span></span></span>.<br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Stepmom:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Say. lay. met.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Dad:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Salamat</span></span> ...<br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />That was when my wife and I realized that we had made a horrible mistake. But it was too late, the doors were closed and we were rolling down the runway. Their loud voices penetrated our earphones and drowned out both music and movie.<br />Dad:</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> <span style="font-size:180%;">Salamat</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Stepmon:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sayluhmet</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Dad:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Salamat</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Stepmom:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sayloomet</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Dad:<span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Sa. la. mahht</span></span></span>.<br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Stepmom:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Say. lay. met.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Dad:</span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Salamat</span></span> ...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBoQxp_7M6w1IWVf3vWf9Tmh8i1bwCmZUvxg9kcqO-vVKhJlg8DwujOg_mfIKVAE0MO5finAWwlMMcs9GRulmNLULpCuJBIxMzH50llsmqSu07sKTSSyNkx4ko9431wqEEL_DmuvupRuQ/s1600/2004.gif"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 400px; height: 200px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636793266635647042" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBoQxp_7M6w1IWVf3vWf9Tmh8i1bwCmZUvxg9kcqO-vVKhJlg8DwujOg_mfIKVAE0MO5finAWwlMMcs9GRulmNLULpCuJBIxMzH50llsmqSu07sKTSSyNkx4ko9431wqEEL_DmuvupRuQ/s400/2004.gif" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">My wife looked like she wanted to scream, she turned to me and mimed stabbing herself with a knife. Their "conversation" continued on until the flight attendants arrived to ask what we wanted to drink, and then picked right back up again til we got our meals. It was going to be a long flight.<br /><br /><br /></span></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaFAAeAksJ1RulN0XxBYsOC7rMfjADRb0EEbRLgawAjbRcGoTiIOx7CiPH3FLClYTcyxoJrNxZ_arpIRms7NfQKOeXto_Sqv72GL2xAREhzC6_XLFLaTqB6Av8lvdjl5hu7LStlTK4sns/s1600/Manila_Philippines_15.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 400px; height: 266px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636793469599297714" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaFAAeAksJ1RulN0XxBYsOC7rMfjADRb0EEbRLgawAjbRcGoTiIOx7CiPH3FLClYTcyxoJrNxZ_arpIRms7NfQKOeXto_Sqv72GL2xAREhzC6_XLFLaTqB6Av8lvdjl5hu7LStlTK4sns/s400/Manila_Philippines_15.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">From Detroit we headed north into Canada, the pilot commenting on the cities as we passed over them. Looking out over the snowy landscape below the stepmom turns to my dad and says:<br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >What is that white stuff on the ground?</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">"Snow" my dad says. She is quiet awhile, pondering this bit of information.<br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >But, does it snow in Canada?</span><br /></span></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Heads turn again. Oh my God. She was a schoolteacher for thirty years. We pretend we are asleep.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">After listening to the same word being repeated for 20 hours, we finally landed in Nagoya, Japan. We disembarked so they could clean the plane, lemmings in an endless queue: out the door, up flights of stairs, down long halls only to find that our destination was the restrooms!</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB24xGNwdDRi_025U964HMwha7jbFKVsJOlYZZmqkjMaNz1ybxugarN167qltZMSz_HJkMJTl_Ce0VLe1FTXTnp_WAA44VnLjgBo_q5DssBd02x6BekmXJRCN7O_OLZkQOzYoktJOqBvjB/s1600/squattoilet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 350px; height: 245px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636721029138385138" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB24xGNwdDRi_025U964HMwha7jbFKVsJOlYZZmqkjMaNz1ybxugarN167qltZMSz_HJkMJTl_Ce0VLe1FTXTnp_WAA44VnLjgBo_q5DssBd02x6BekmXJRCN7O_OLZkQOzYoktJOqBvjB/s400/squattoilet.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> For the men it was a fairly quick and painless procedure, but entirely different for the women. My wife found herself in a slow moving line, eventually ending up before a row of stalls. The woman in the stall directly in front of her seemed to be having some difficulty, bumping and banging against the door. Finally, the door opened and to my wife's horror there was no toilet, only a metal framed hole in the floor! Fortunately, the stall next to it became available <span style="font-style: italic;">and it did have a toilet</span>, so she scurried into it before someone else could claim it! </span></div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Leaving the restrooms we re-queued and snaked our way back to the plane. Back on board we happily discovered that our surly flight attendants have been replaced with a bevy of laughing, smiling, cheerful Filipino attendants. Their mood was infectious and soon we were all smiling and chatting with our seatmates. Maybe it was just getting a break from our long flight, maybe it was knowing that soon we would be there, but that last leg of journey went by in no time at all.<br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-83511271031939300282011-05-11T01:00:00.000-07:002011-06-19T13:50:07.152-07:00Part 52: Lost Horizon<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />"... you can't subject a mere boy to... years of intense physical and emotional stress without tearing something to tatters. People would say, I suppose, that he came through without a scratch. But the scratches were there - on the inside."<br />We sat for a long time in silence ...</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Do you think he will ever find it?"</span><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;">- from Lost Horizon by James Hilton</span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span> </div></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I was hurriedly cramming all my worldly belongings into my footlocker and suitcase for the summer. Five years worth of school magazines, yearbooks and newspapers, old scripts, a few school books and novels, left over school supplies, a photo album, sheets, blankets and clothing.<br /><br />In a small air force flight bag I packed the bare minimum of clothing I would need to get me back to America. I planned to buy all the clothing I needed while I was there and much more.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> I had been busy compiling a list of things I wanted to pick up including gifts for my friends.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />A month earlier, in April, my parents and brothers flew to the U.S. for a four month furlough. I would be joining them now that school was out and I was excited to be heading back to the States for a short visit. I was looking forward to doing some sight seeing, eating American food and visiting the relatives. If I had time I hoped to see some of my friends from Brent who now lived in the U.S. and had made tentative plans to see my girlfriend in North Carolina while she was on furlough too.<br /><br />I had got my bundle of exit papers from the local PC commandant, paid the appropriate fees and document stamps on my exit visa. Then I went to the Mission Board offices and picked up my ticket and passport. The treasurer handed me my documents, then pulled a dusty cash box from a drawer. Fumbling with the key, it groaned in protest at being opened, the lid snapping shut on his hand several times as he tried to extract a single ancient bill from its interior. Scrooge gripped it tightly in his hand for a few moments, stretching out his arm and retracting it several times before finally handing it to me. I looked at him in disgust and amazement. A measly five bucks "travel money" to get me back to the states.<br /><br />The next morning I caught a Korean Airlines 747 out of Manila to Seoul, then on to Los Angeles. It was a long flight with a lousy movie and I had plenty of time to think. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I thought about my five years at Brent; </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I thought about my senior year ahead, planning and dreaming of the things I would do. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Slave Day, Senior Skip Day, Prom and Graduation; now my name would hang in the Gym along with the names of my classmates.<br /><br />The plane was delayed in Seoul and by the time we got to L.A. I had missed my connecting flight to Chicago. There were quite a few stranded kids at <span style="font-style: italic;">LAX </span>and we spent the night in the terminal playing cards. In the morning while waiting for my flight the elderly couple who had been sitting next to me on the flight asked if I had spent the night in the airport and had I had anything to eat. I guess I looked hungry - I hadn't eaten since the day before but didn't want to seem like I was looking for a hand out. They wouldn't take no for answer and bought me breakfast.<br /><br />When I got to Chicago I was surprised to see my mom's sister and her husband waiting at the arrival gate. They bought me a steak, we drank wine and they peppered me with questions. I hadn't seen them for years and happily recounted my adventures at Brent and my plans for my Senior year. Then on to Iowa in a inter-state commuter turbo prop. The plane circled the little airport, preparing to land, I watched the buildings below.<br /><br />Then it hit me all of a sudden, from deep within me I knew with the utmost certainty; I would never go back to the Philippines again. The empty pit within me was a chasm that could never be filled. Then the wheels touched the ground and the plane came to a stop. Walking across the tarmac I searched the crowd for my family; I found confirmation on my parents faces. That was it. The adventure was over.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">I never got to say farewell to the family who raised me, to my friends, my city, my school, my home. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"You sheltered me from harm<br />Kept me warm, kept me warm<br />You gave my life to me<br />Set me free, set me free<br />The finest years I ever knew<br />Were all the years I had with you<br /><br />You taught me how to love<br />What it's of, what it's of<br />You never said too much<br />But still you showed the way<br />And I knew from watching you<br />Nobody else could ever know<br />The part of me that can't let go<br /><br />I would give anything I own<br />Give up my life, my heart, my home<br />I would give everything I own<br />Just to have you back again"<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">- from a song by Bread</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />I never got to look for the little boy lying in his hole in the comote field, to tell him it's safe to come home.<br /><br />I think he lies there still.<br /><br />Waiting.<br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I'm sorry.</span></span> <span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I love you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Goodbye.</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6LEfNde_CaU" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-69975828730411663372011-05-01T01:00:00.000-07:002011-08-09T12:26:35.810-07:00Part 51: The Last Waltz<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >
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<br />"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">I will remember you</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> and hold on to the
<br />fine time that we knew, </span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">sing a memory or two, when there's nothin' left to do</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"</span>
<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">~ from "Love's in Vain" by Jimmie Spheeris</span>
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"The Devon faculty had never before experienced a student who combined a calm ignorance of the rules with a winning urge to be good, who seemed to love the school truly and deeply..."</span></span>
<br />~ from A Separate Peace by John Knowles
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<br /></span><dl><dd style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"What though the radiance which was once so bright</span></dd><dd style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Be now for ever taken from my sight,</span></dd><dd style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Though nothing can bring back the hour</span></dd><dd style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;</span></dd><dd style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">We will grieve not, rather find</span></dd><dd style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Strength in what remains behind..."</span></dd><dd style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">~ William Wordsworth</span></dd></dl>
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<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge0Nu0kA4GYLwErVWmxvrvIeCnhlrbAC-IAhZEUD9LxN0mNU64hv7K2a0k_CeRvHm5Zp8c73cTZ7anK1HWnMGAX3bL81Jmv3vZ9ORFwVd2grVgup3oQppniHRP63EbbWqANekw8qo6SOc/s1600/Nuetrasunset.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge0Nu0kA4GYLwErVWmxvrvIeCnhlrbAC-IAhZEUD9LxN0mNU64hv7K2a0k_CeRvHm5Zp8c73cTZ7anK1HWnMGAX3bL81Jmv3vZ9ORFwVd2grVgup3oQppniHRP63EbbWqANekw8qo6SOc/s400/Nuetrasunset.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638187218992826594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Those were sweet, blissful days. I had fallen from grace, wandered in the desert, was lost and then found. I was humbled and found redemption. </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">
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<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The school year was swiftly coming to an end and I didn't see it coming. I didn't see the signs or learn from past events. </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I didn't remember that all good things must end, that "some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them".</span></span>
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<br />Jaime and I had a lot on our plates that spring. End of the year term papers, a play and we were busy trying to get the yearbook finalized in time to get it off to the printer.
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<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpY1_nsZAzzzBVYTWhIzdgcoH0uGZwbl23_6Iu77_-on6OAC21irOwzHbw8qrUi4C5p9tUUNFOMftwbhxGg9jZg_9bE4Qpks7f0kv3iLh-wKcBNCSroHduxy5L9v4nmksfZg6-t6cFFuk/s1600/ganzaroom.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpY1_nsZAzzzBVYTWhIzdgcoH0uGZwbl23_6Iu77_-on6OAC21irOwzHbw8qrUi4C5p9tUUNFOMftwbhxGg9jZg_9bE4Qpks7f0kv3iLh-wKcBNCSroHduxy5L9v4nmksfZg6-t6cFFuk/s400/ganzaroom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638184859581732018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Aah, the Ganza. Blood, sweat and tears. Lots of artistic disagreements, lots of shouting, lots of compromises. We had many a late night, drank gallons of coffee and smoked cartons of cigarettes. Cutting and pasting, banging away at the typewriter, digging through submitted photos, poetry and art. Jaime was the editor and you could see his hand all over it. Maybe a little of mine too, but it was hard to tell, we thought so much alike.
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<br />This year's edition reflected his anxiety and ambivalence about Brent, about leaving the Philippines. But this yearbook also reflected the tension and uncertainty amongst the students, staff and faculty. Unions, petitions and lawsuits; the Headmaster and a few teachers were facing legal proceedings. Brent was at a crossroads, a very different school from the school we arrived at five years earlier. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">
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<br />The one constant was the Campus, changing yet unchanged over the last 67 years. So, instead of doing the traditional dedication to a faculty or staff member, we made our dedication to the Brent Campus. Our staff photographers took pictures of Amos, Ogilby, Binsted, Weiser, Richardson, Hamilton, the Old Infirmary and the New Dorm. Pages were filled with photos of the Neutral, the soccer field, the gym, tennis courts and the Valley. Maybe it was his way of saying goodbye to each and every building, tree and place that had touched and shaped our lives. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">This Ganza was his eulogy.</span><span style="font-size:130%;">
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<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1A1BFCkb4Dd3_2I_ASEkW6dhImMlha6oXHSKerDeNoylqIAcaNhopzQBZCiILkf4CjygAl6Csp-ziGjho4WSYg6V_zgqTvCwR2spZdJXzKk-h4Y13Ro8buz_h12FAi18a1rn9FpmhHM/s1600/ganza+staff1976.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1A1BFCkb4Dd3_2I_ASEkW6dhImMlha6oXHSKerDeNoylqIAcaNhopzQBZCiILkf4CjygAl6Csp-ziGjho4WSYg6V_zgqTvCwR2spZdJXzKk-h4Y13Ro8buz_h12FAi18a1rn9FpmhHM/s400/ganza+staff1976.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638196167861403906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">
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<br />Each member of the Senior class got their own individual page and they spent a lot of time working on them, carefully crafting their last words and testaments. We finally got the last one and we submitted our almost finished product to the printer, happy, yet slightly unsatisfied, a bittersweet moment. A week later we had the printer's proof back for us to check for errors or to make any last minute corrections. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfAAOKNU7cXWShFMGp3jlpKnU9bP0mns1miPwqY61nsyFI2nCYpwjAZwm-UhcvNyRpjbXWTU7s-nKjnUyecVLTGZQOepyUPlYsB29GH1kpgv2JCutjh4WRebd_cl8Ykp_NcfkpfTbfGg/s1600/OldNick.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfAAOKNU7cXWShFMGp3jlpKnU9bP0mns1miPwqY61nsyFI2nCYpwjAZwm-UhcvNyRpjbXWTU7s-nKjnUyecVLTGZQOepyUPlYsB29GH1kpgv2JCutjh4WRebd_cl8Ykp_NcfkpfTbfGg/s200/OldNick.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638185736592413074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">In an unusual turn of events, the Headmaster insisted that he see and sign off on this <span style="font-style: italic;">blueline</span> before it was released to print. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">He didn't like some of the captions, in particular one next to his photo in his Halloween costume that said "Old Nick". He made some corrections and returned it to us, ordering the Ganza adviser, Mrs Sheffer, to make sure that his changes were made. This really rankled us, especially Jaime. We made some corrections of our own, fixing typos here and there and then Jaime, in a bold move, restored the original caption to the photo. Anarchy! His final act of rebellion.
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<br />I</span><span style="font-size:130%;">t had been a rainless, hot spring and as the months progressed it continued to get dryer. The Neutral turned a rusty brown, most of the grass on the soccer field was dead or dying, brown patches of bare dirt dotted the field.
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<br />Field Day was a hot, dusty affair. I didn't much care who won the competitions, I was just trying to spend as much time with my girlfriend, in a few days she would be leaving on furlough with her parents for the summer. It was a day for hanging out between events with her and my friends. When the last event was completed, the last award handed out, we piled on the bus to head over to John Hay to take showers. Brent had no water.
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<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirA40GvQ1PL-DBQp860OGdbtHKaVSTtzERbqQ6WynHwnIlg0BM94mipXkaGJZd_WihWAPlkzOfDs4jAFD8ifzFSuVZFqPz9HY5gSx3ugkHZKtIr5bMUuAomv69iDFZCrCjU9XaNFS_VFM/s1600/Brent+096.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirA40GvQ1PL-DBQp860OGdbtHKaVSTtzERbqQ6WynHwnIlg0BM94mipXkaGJZd_WihWAPlkzOfDs4jAFD8ifzFSuVZFqPz9HY5gSx3ugkHZKtIr5bMUuAomv69iDFZCrCjU9XaNFS_VFM/s320/Brent+096.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637918641108494274" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitjn8n7nIxD1TqoGCOmmssPdypgrqEgKdiUq5ZKsEcFsKSWI42TnAo-ct9kFciliVhglUIcUkddhN0ELqbi4NQJEI61bHKVpR1PUupmFnPJf4eOi63pwyk6K-aaXGnEsI7nl2Uv0JrJ-Y/s1600/scan0008.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitjn8n7nIxD1TqoGCOmmssPdypgrqEgKdiUq5ZKsEcFsKSWI42TnAo-ct9kFciliVhglUIcUkddhN0ELqbi4NQJEI61bHKVpR1PUupmFnPJf4eOi63pwyk6K-aaXGnEsI7nl2Uv0JrJ-Y/s320/scan0008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637919290661653522" border="0" /></a>
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<br />From the earliest days of the founding of the city, Baguio has had a water problem. Despite having some of the highest annual rainfall of any city, collecting and storing water for the dry season had never been seriously implemented. In the 1930s, Mayor Halsema had worked hard to improve the water works, by the time WWII came it was adequate for the population of 50,000. In the late 60's and early 70's the population increased dramatically, once again the water resources for Baguio were over extended. Part of the problem came from the burgeoning number of tourists who came during the dry months, easily doubling the number of people living in Baguio.
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<br />In 1976, the lack of rain turned into a drought, water rationing was now in effect throughout the city. Downtown Baguio was a grimy mess, the rain that normally washed the streets and sidewalks clean, now just a distant memory. Fires were a real problem as there was no water for the Fire Department to use. The river that flowed past Asin Hot Springs became a tiny creek. Back at Brent the situation was grim, the water tower and cisterns ran dry. The Boys dorm reeked from unflushed toilets, the boys reeked from want of showers.
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<br />Only the local US Airbase had a steady flow of water. Over the years the military commanders and planners of Camp John Hay had continuously improved and supplemented their water storage and collection system; they now supplied Brent with potable water for drinking and for the kitchen to cook and wash dishes with. Brent had 50 gallon drums of water of dubious quality trucked in for flushing toilets in the Administration Office, Ogilby Hall and the girls dorm. My friends and I went to John Hay almost every day now, to shower at a friends home and use the "facilities".</span><span style="font-size:130%;">
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<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYo_9pB70-Ef4LgYvMwRtkWY3K38LaA3fnl-0Wuhf3lNSxMvp1RBkKaLqNCm59mvZ9pZEyRxzAlgM7igMEofhy8-8wNRvQHX69ilKNZTxtV9nRS-lkS_DX54oXoqdTsHq_IfQSuzd4ak/s1600/Brent+100.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYo_9pB70-Ef4LgYvMwRtkWY3K38LaA3fnl-0Wuhf3lNSxMvp1RBkKaLqNCm59mvZ9pZEyRxzAlgM7igMEofhy8-8wNRvQHX69ilKNZTxtV9nRS-lkS_DX54oXoqdTsHq_IfQSuzd4ak/s320/Brent+100.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638177287573097922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">With Field Day out of the way, we focused our attention to the last play of the year, "Flower Drum Song", a musical being directed by Mrs Viduya. It is a story of the struggle of assimilation, maintaining cultural identity and the struggle between the older and younger generations. Sammy Fong, a nightclub owner, is about to enter into an arranged marriage with illegal immigrant Mei Li. But Sammy is in love with club dancer/singer Linda Low, who is romancing Wang Ta, son of a wealthy Chinese businessman. Mei Li falls in love with Wang Ta, but is honor bound to fulfill her contract. It was a convoluted plot, but a lot of fun to produce.
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<br />Most of my classmates were in the play, Beth Wagner was Mei Li, Paul Bautista was Wang Ta and Paul's sister Margie was Linda Low. Jaime had the role of Sammy, Dayne Florence was the father of Mei Lei and I had a minor role as a slightly deaf, dirty old uncle. About half of the cast was Caucasian, which in a play about Chinese Americans can be problematic. But the blond haired kids dyed their hair black, and with some make up it didn't look too rediculous.</span>
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<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPl03zxsShAbwmwFHXZMkWzLXvo4EvxXkd-pOIVQKvh7yZ6UyK7WZHWup_huxxU9riThT85KCHT8RlooeQVR_683TaffF7KNhHgs0vttGxs5KofRj_fN19vBquhAFRIlS1ToTHufu7kX0/s1600/02-26-2011+07_05_11PM.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPl03zxsShAbwmwFHXZMkWzLXvo4EvxXkd-pOIVQKvh7yZ6UyK7WZHWup_huxxU9riThT85KCHT8RlooeQVR_683TaffF7KNhHgs0vttGxs5KofRj_fN19vBquhAFRIlS1ToTHufu7kX0/s400/02-26-2011+07_05_11PM.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638226497594650290" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZ9cD6mFo-fbF3O1iBdo70OociXJB44zPKP8BmvfqMljKQP7ASu_T7-NDCOwBWVB-rYuIrFugeHtxQBD9ryS-kEbkpHhg0eOv3v0mld_8u_b2605bzzqZTNEwwG97eeCebWhzHx6hWx8/s1600/02-26-2011+07_06_33PM.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZ9cD6mFo-fbF3O1iBdo70OociXJB44zPKP8BmvfqMljKQP7ASu_T7-NDCOwBWVB-rYuIrFugeHtxQBD9ryS-kEbkpHhg0eOv3v0mld_8u_b2605bzzqZTNEwwG97eeCebWhzHx6hWx8/s400/02-26-2011+07_06_33PM.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638226875885200018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">The Junior class was busy preparing for the Junior-Senior Prom. As class president I found myself making most of the decisions, but I tried to delegate where and when I could. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">A couple of classmates were looking for a band, others were in charge of decorations and setting up. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">The class treasurer and I went to look at various venues for the prom; we went from restaurant to club, sampled the menus and worried about parking. Finally, one of the kids whose father worked for VOA was able to negotiate us a good price at the John Hay Main Club. With the money we saved</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDINXlwIUv3c6Y3PTMqCpo_dHJqBVC_ivNRCxhNs69ie13eAYbJeXA_8t8MpPVLszufjBuZQHmp-XtkUwe4SCw4g1BaL3LQDD5CmDPNoJToMh_xGTu5VbaG0Ythq5orbUgwvh2zc12pCo/s1600/Brent+107.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDINXlwIUv3c6Y3PTMqCpo_dHJqBVC_ivNRCxhNs69ie13eAYbJeXA_8t8MpPVLszufjBuZQHmp-XtkUwe4SCw4g1BaL3LQDD5CmDPNoJToMh_xGTu5VbaG0Ythq5orbUgwvh2zc12pCo/s400/Brent+107.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637150188487276418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> I ordered 12 dozen long stem red roses which would be handed out to the girls when they arrived (for those slackers who were too cheap to get their dates flowers).
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<br />The only thing I hadn't done yet was get a date for the prom. Jaime was going to go by himself and then asked Flo Lusk to go. I too had been tempted to go by myself, but then I decided to ask Lisa Marks, one of my girlfriend's friends, so she could go. I warned her that I would be busy making sure things were running smoothly and that this was just a "friends only" kind of date. My friend Jack was taking our buddy Vic Horne's sister Tracey and Vic was taking Pam Johnson; Dayne Florence was taking Jasminda Salapong. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1BPuga20m7d2smb9WmNkWE0JX6saSz83YcewIc4U-GyAGv2slSGsos-j52xfjPswC-f5a7MZM7QbFMDD7goQjbwv9zcbcwElWWeYwDSpBzCM7FeyeENRRmeBeyEWBKO2lpDjCN0ADbc/s1600/Brent+Students+1975-76+Prom+Pam+Johnson%252CDayne+Florence%252C+Baby+Salapong%252CVic+Horne.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1BPuga20m7d2smb9WmNkWE0JX6saSz83YcewIc4U-GyAGv2slSGsos-j52xfjPswC-f5a7MZM7QbFMDD7goQjbwv9zcbcwElWWeYwDSpBzCM7FeyeENRRmeBeyEWBKO2lpDjCN0ADbc/s400/Brent+Students+1975-76+Prom+Pam+Johnson%252CDayne+Florence%252C+Baby+Salapong%252CVic+Horne.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637148147998321570" border="0" /></a>
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<br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Trying to keep an accurate head count so we could order enough food, I was surprised to find a few of my classmates had not <span style="font-style: italic;">RSVP'd</span> yet. I asked one of them if he was going and did he have a date. He said he wanted to ask one of our classmates. Maybe it was my recently restored self confidence, maybe it was the inner peace I felt, but I was emboldened. Not thinking how it might appear I said <span style="font-style: italic;">Do you want me to ask her for you? </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">He said he did, so I sought her out right after our next class and asked her point blank <span style="font-style: italic;">Do you want to go to the Prom with him?</span>
<br />She did, and her response gave him the courage to approach her himself. This would be the first time going to a dance for both of them.
<br />
<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNz6BzG-1hwEbYr3qkZhHcQsY223DwslNNDZt_H3_eK9WCmKTFl3GixaBvJPuMR5gsG5ytdK28zrtxEaj4DekNItwUrW0koYss7VGFXViPwHW9Go_FsTtiiM2RdtN2GuygFRB-dbiPSY/s1600/prom+76.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 391px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNz6BzG-1hwEbYr3qkZhHcQsY223DwslNNDZt_H3_eK9WCmKTFl3GixaBvJPuMR5gsG5ytdK28zrtxEaj4DekNItwUrW0koYss7VGFXViPwHW9Go_FsTtiiM2RdtN2GuygFRB-dbiPSY/s400/prom+76.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638863070104989810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Finally it was prom night. I had to get there early to help set up. The night was a blur, every time I turned around someone was asking me something and I hurried here and there, checking on this, checking on that. Some of the day students had arrived in their own cars and naturally had smuggled in alcoholic beverages. Every now and then two or three would wander out to have a "smoke" or "get some air". I didn't have time, I was getting pulled in all directions. I didn't even get to finish my dinner. Finally, I collared the class vice-president and told him he would have to deal with the questions for the rest of the night. I found my date and we danced and I even made it out to the parking lot.
<br />
<br />Because of Martial Law there was a curfew, those who were not planning to stay had to leave early, but the majority of the guests stayed and danced all night. Just before dawn things began to break up, I made my final rounds, then headed back to Brent with Jaime and our dates. We caught a cab and they dropped us off at the bottom of Brent Road, from there we walked up to the school.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> Out of the mist on the road in front of us, two figures slowly grew in size and then we recognized them, it was Mr Keddie and Mr Spitzer. They were leaving school early, trying to stay one step ahead of the law, they were headed to Manila to catch a plane out of the country.
<br />
<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Then one sunny day it was Graduation. The Gym was packed with parents, students and relatives. Pomp and Circumstance began playing and the Seniors filed out with me leading the procession up the aisle. Our class advisor Ms Estacio whispered loudly "What's he doing! He's not a Senior!" </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMTT3MudOHn9z86OB5ivwKgLfGeYu-9s8rJQeZY_3UnYuFOuYUBDbBSUjaQZn0W5EGxsw2NKxr2qJJXFCtf_0JetUpOvads7OHXs_yyMcKYSFwapGlVJUtpcu64fmu1Gwk-an-5JWI8s/s1600/n809606977_1769403_7010.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMTT3MudOHn9z86OB5ivwKgLfGeYu-9s8rJQeZY_3UnYuFOuYUBDbBSUjaQZn0W5EGxsw2NKxr2qJJXFCtf_0JetUpOvads7OHXs_yyMcKYSFwapGlVJUtpcu64fmu1Gwk-an-5JWI8s/s400/n809606977_1769403_7010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637150677866561170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Apparently after decades of teaching at Brent she had forgotten the long standing tradition of having the Junior class president escort the seniors to the stage. At the foot of the steps I turned and stood to one side, congratulating the seniors as they filed past going up the stairs. There were speeches and awards, the senior class sang <span style="font-style: italic;">"To Each His Own"</span>. They called the names and handed out the diplomas. Then it was over and the recessional began. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">The Seniors posed for pictures with family and relatives and took their last class picture. I worked my way through the happy crowd, congratulating my jubilant friends, meeting their parents. There at the back of the gym was Jaime and his family and as I approached them I was overwhelmed with grief.
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<br />Up to that moment the significance of this graduation had been hidden from me, locked away in some remote area of my heart and brain. Jaime was leaving. For five years we had ate, slept, fought and laughed together. Brent had molded and shaped us and we had grown and changed together. We shared a million memories and experiences. He knew what I was thinking and I knew how he felt. So different and yet so alike. We had the same friends, we liked the same girls. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">We felt the same rage, the same joy. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">We had made choices over the years based not on the facts of the choice itself but on our friendship. As much as two friends could be, we were joined at the hip. He protected my front, I watched his back.
<br />
<br />We were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> He was <span style="font-style: italic;">Phineas</span>: intelligent, athletic, boisterous and charismatic, a magnet that drew everyone towards him, there did not seem to be anything he couldn't do. We all shined brighter around him. I was <span style="font-style: italic;">Gene</span>: quiet and introverted, yet around him I grew more confident, more outgoing. Because he was naturally assertive, I was often accused of being his <span style="font-style: italic;">"tuta"</span>, a puppet, but they didn't know us very well. There was a lot more give and take than they would ever know. They didn't know that when he was his most self-assured and adamant, inside he was tormented by self-doubt and feelings of inferiority; that when I backed his play I bolstered his self-confidence as well as mine.
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<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Lfsr5qCCF0QXo6zb7wKR1qK1rJgzGPpR_sxGOOjNTINkL_5TQHufV-vPCLFwO7MZ0JkU9leT4lBTOOazZ4Gf-Kl04ibPERAPO8ifXJ17EbKvfQXZR5r0tcKSTnL3V00bEoExtwC4Lqk/s1600/imgbutch+cassidy+and+the+sundance+kid1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Lfsr5qCCF0QXo6zb7wKR1qK1rJgzGPpR_sxGOOjNTINkL_5TQHufV-vPCLFwO7MZ0JkU9leT4lBTOOazZ4Gf-Kl04ibPERAPO8ifXJ17EbKvfQXZR5r0tcKSTnL3V00bEoExtwC4Lqk/s320/imgbutch+cassidy+and+the+sundance+kid1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637887881007486738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">It seemed we had always been together, that we had always been friends. Because of this, it never occurred to me that there might come a day when he would leave me behind. I guess I thought we would live and die together. I stretched out my arm to shake the hand of the conquering hero. If he had maintained his composure I could have made it through unscathed, but </span><span style="font-size:130%;">the look on his face told me everything. Time to back his play one last time. The enormity of it engulfed me and the tears began to flow, then to gush.
<br />
<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">It wasn't a graduation, it was a funeral.
<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;">
<br /></span>
<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"To each his own it's plain to see</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />To walk alone you have to be</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />It's all for you and all for me</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">- You'll see</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />I'm gonna miss you, yes, I will</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />No matter who you are,
<br />I'll love you still</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />For my life is my conscience, the seeds I sow</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />I just wanted to let you know.</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />Familiar faces that I've seen</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />Turnin' red and turnin' green</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />They just got caught with writing on their sleeve</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />I guess I'll leave</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />I'm gonna miss you, yes, I will</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />No matter who you are, I'll love you still</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />Will you cancel my papers and lock the door</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">?</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />'Cause I ain't gonna be 'round no more</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />Will I make it through the summer</span>, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />Breaking ties with the old and new?</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />Losing one just gains another</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />There is nothing I can do</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />I'm gonna miss you, yes, I will</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />No matter who you are I'll love you still</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />For my life is my conscience, the seeds I sow</span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">
<br />And I just wanted to let you know"</span></span>
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">~ To Each His Own by America</span> <div style="text-align: left;">
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<br />Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-18998505198879351952011-04-04T01:00:00.000-07:002011-04-04T16:45:10.544-07:00Part 50: For Whom the Bell Tolls<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6crlIf6UopBD024DN2l2KXNBteWTJd0E1juNpu1MHf6DLa-xxlf05X5PAxM8l7hgCPbPjASwCyHRnMTMe7Gf5m6IY2ShICJWWgXL0KxcTN8MfI6ROaCZO05thawRjIWGIrWITgiri1Jg/s1600/n559252075_1206709_2289.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6crlIf6UopBD024DN2l2KXNBteWTJd0E1juNpu1MHf6DLa-xxlf05X5PAxM8l7hgCPbPjASwCyHRnMTMe7Gf5m6IY2ShICJWWgXL0KxcTN8MfI6ROaCZO05thawRjIWGIrWITgiri1Jg/s400/n559252075_1206709_2289.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588160289672001362" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:180%;" >Dong! </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:180%;" > </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:180%;" >Dong! Dong!</span> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:180%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />For four long years I would jerk awake to the sound of the Chapel bells pealing loudly every Sunday morning beginning at 6:00 a.m., calling the staff and their families to the early morning service. </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />Donggggg! .......</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> The Kalinga Quasimodo would wait for the last echo to fade away, allowing you to drift off to sleep again, before yanking the rope again.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:180%;" >Dong! Dong!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> This would continue on for a long miserable hour, then a blissful reprieve of an hour and half of silence before the bells would begin ringing again.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />Dong! ........ Dong! Dong!</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> now ringing to call parishioners to the second service of the morning. By then most of us had resigned ourselves to the fact that our sleep was over and got up.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:180%;" >Dong!.... Dong! Dong!</span><span style="font-size:180%;"> </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJJzWMWgyJDnqb_EeTAqu3a0pNgcFUhfJlpkdi63JyMiPGUyl56xcWljCPNUan-q4EOAk34trnfq89icTlLWjtnQly3F2xZr5cs8lN2aU0K-VMYk7OqJmUXpqnCc1zOmMCiZhE59gR3Y4/s1600/6736_129051289296_812014296_2162318_8204424_n.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJJzWMWgyJDnqb_EeTAqu3a0pNgcFUhfJlpkdi63JyMiPGUyl56xcWljCPNUan-q4EOAk34trnfq89icTlLWjtnQly3F2xZr5cs8lN2aU0K-VMYk7OqJmUXpqnCc1zOmMCiZhE59gR3Y4/s400/6736_129051289296_812014296_2162318_8204424_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588160701542157586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">For four long years I listened to the complaints and threats about the Chapel bell and how they would resolve the problem - everything from placing a roll of toilet paper over the clapper to stealing the entire bell! Anyone trying to sleep in on Sundays had a tough time of it. There was no escaping it, the bells could be plainly heard everywhere on campus, the sound bouncing and echoing off the hills and buildings. The boys had it worse than the girls, as our dorms were situated closest to the Chapel.<br /><br />My first two years in my room below the Infirmary it wasn't too bad, our dorm parents made us younger kids get up anyway and go to breakfast </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >every Sunday</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> at 7:00. Fresh fruit, juice, pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, fried eggs and sometimes cheese omelets. Sunday morning breakfasts were the best. But, for the upper classmen trying to sleep in, it really must have been hell, especially for the boys in Weiser Hall, directly across from the Chapel.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:180%;" >Dong! ........ Dong! Dong!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizk5fn2oAfHeBGWka7fKZsNDUWTc4i8kLGmvbswUfzi-Is0gZgUwbWASpry0bwuEw65so8IH79h07QbctwptnNcyvFV3PyRcQryWoxUqJJck9y9bUBHKb-92w1TEqugeUBti1vRb0GSmI/s1600/scan0037.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizk5fn2oAfHeBGWka7fKZsNDUWTc4i8kLGmvbswUfzi-Is0gZgUwbWASpry0bwuEw65so8IH79h07QbctwptnNcyvFV3PyRcQryWoxUqJJck9y9bUBHKb-92w1TEqugeUBti1vRb0GSmI/s400/scan0037.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588161792919297298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We were not the first, decades of boarding students had their dreams rudely interrupted by the loud clanging. Generations of boarders plotted and conspired against this usurper of their Sunday morning slumbers. It was something that unified and joined us together, our mutual dislike for the Chapel Bell.<br /><br />Now in my fifth year at Brent, ensconced with all the male boarders in the New Boys Dorm, I became more acutely aware of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >that damn bell</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. Situated almost parallel with the Chapel, I could clearly see the bell tower from my bedroom window. I tried stuffing cotton balls in my ears, I learned to sleep with a pillow over my head, turned the radio on in an attempt to drown out the noise. Nothing worked. Weekly I listened to this new batch of boarders bitching about the bell. Bleary eyed, they would sit on the student lounge steps cursing bell and bell ringer. Schemes and plans, variations of which I had heard a thousand times before spewed from their lips.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">One Saturday afternoon, in the spring 1976, I decided enough was enough. I was done with just cussing about it. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><br />If you hate it so much</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >why don't you guys do something about it?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />There were some non-committal responses and mutterings.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Fine. I'll do something about it. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Leaping to my feet I pointed to Andy McMullen and another kid. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><br />You guys come with me.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHpT_0lTuo5ZI5bun0JX6cY19NiM85t1qmtJjqkavnMjFAD8_Rc5V3KgzjAju_h2L_Bsg0n9aVoBxQsxBJEnJlEe0m97pe7pUMas0_uxoRRdeiWu90L6RRv1gjfeaEerdiZMphFy05GE/s1600/chapel.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHpT_0lTuo5ZI5bun0JX6cY19NiM85t1qmtJjqkavnMjFAD8_Rc5V3KgzjAju_h2L_Bsg0n9aVoBxQsxBJEnJlEe0m97pe7pUMas0_uxoRRdeiWu90L6RRv1gjfeaEerdiZMphFy05GE/s400/chapel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588159778332417730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Sending one to get a roll of toilet paper, Andy and I scrounged up a ladder. Heart pounding, with the two kids holding the ladder I climbed up into the bell tower. Once up there I realized that the toilet paper roll idea would not work. What to do. Then looking at the knot an idea popped into my head. Carefully reaching up I leaned forward and untied the rope from the bell - just enough to disable the bell, but not enough for the rope to fall. Success!<br /><br />The following morning was blissfully sweet, not one ring from the hated chapel bell. Silence. Blessed Silence. For the first time in almost five years I got to sleep in. Some who claimed to be awake swore they heard a low clunk as the clapper vainly tried to strike the bell. By supper that night the word had spread amongst the boarders. We were instant heroes!<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgddQXZMlGVw4mQgHTr7tOLJMcjwLYUuwax4vlqPwEpahRyl_XCMbiXjn_r9yCevEwgKECLOaRZCadwWnS20l6wdpEhVrvoBc_NeBl49gi7jXAAyRoosHcgLb0fnhFhEmTA5kfnDT-8fl8/s1600/DrRodriguez1976.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 397px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgddQXZMlGVw4mQgHTr7tOLJMcjwLYUuwax4vlqPwEpahRyl_XCMbiXjn_r9yCevEwgKECLOaRZCadwWnS20l6wdpEhVrvoBc_NeBl49gi7jXAAyRoosHcgLb0fnhFhEmTA5kfnDT-8fl8/s400/DrRodriguez1976.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588172634999256610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">On Monday morning, however, for the second time that school year I was called into the Headmaster's office. Someone had seen us carrying the ladder. Teachers were outraged. Some wanted us expelled, others wanted us suspended for a month. Dr Ralph Rodriguez was in charge and asked us for a description of our shenanigans. I told him the whole story in vivid detail, and he laughed when I was done. Shaking his head he said </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Boys, I know it was just a silly prank, but the staff is very irate about the whole thing and are screaming for your blood! I am going to have to do something. I am considering suspending you from school for two weeks." </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />Vaguely I could see that it had less to do with the Chapel Bell and more to do with the general labor situation at Brent and the new generation of "disrespectful" students. They needed an outlet for their frustrations and we were it. Better than being expelled, but still bad news. Gathering up my courage I spoke up. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><br />But Sir, just last week Dick was caught with alcohol in his room and he was only campused for a month. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Dr Ralph swiveled in his chair looking out the window across the campus. His desk clock ticking loudly, we waited in silence awaiting our sentence. Finally, he turned back with a big smile on his face.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Ok. Two weeks campused, woodpile duty. Apologize to the staff. That's my final decision."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />It was a wonderful world.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqwJwCFPvaRD066VSoUBc6EDkBpNJRQ9KJOCQyOHnY9Lf3kduiFZNN4jTQKep_CNZihGKn31iA4vvq_oiHsGDsK3r9Sgz7v3O4cY3ATS2UXRa_x11SQ3n8GFIimaS7yh6Q3qKkbEJbzsw/s1600/woodpile.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqwJwCFPvaRD066VSoUBc6EDkBpNJRQ9KJOCQyOHnY9Lf3kduiFZNN4jTQKep_CNZihGKn31iA4vvq_oiHsGDsK3r9Sgz7v3O4cY3ATS2UXRa_x11SQ3n8GFIimaS7yh6Q3qKkbEJbzsw/s400/woodpile.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588162827302390370" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QyzO4QQwbbE?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-26167828105778452312011-04-01T01:00:00.000-07:002011-04-01T18:47:27.769-07:00Part 49: Surprised By Joy<div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"To love at all is to be vulnerable.<br />Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">-C.S. Lewis</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkt66wVZW3f9ttZI4ZOVVTFrw_aLUuXEYjIXYTxdmblqbwWZPqITp4VjsIabMyG5LVb8Y1Ku4rhTCh8mDZiqxx92F7XiSFQSKrlpOE0QX4Qp1VCD8DVrTwrELxIwX4fdyrSNy-HYQPwdg/s1600/Brent+078.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkt66wVZW3f9ttZI4ZOVVTFrw_aLUuXEYjIXYTxdmblqbwWZPqITp4VjsIabMyG5LVb8Y1Ku4rhTCh8mDZiqxx92F7XiSFQSKrlpOE0QX4Qp1VCD8DVrTwrELxIwX4fdyrSNy-HYQPwdg/s400/Brent+078.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590683010590608978" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />It was a warm, dry January when school started again. The soccer field and Neutral were not their normal vibrant green. Noticeably absent was the daily afternoon shower that usually rolled in between 3:30 and 4:00. Water shortages were already beginning to be a problem around the city.<br /><br />We took advantage of all this warm weather by playing football, Frisbee and Red Rover after school. The football games were played with no pads or helmets, 12 to 14 players per team, all on the field at the same time. Other than the quarterback there were no set positions, everyone was a linebacker and a potential receiver. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDv5TC1A9i_rV8xLU1jptcVhDQNvy0x1A1CE1xRFW8YgarqcaedjAxjK5LxiKqzJ-UBPRRQgVN2LA8jX3BeO45kAIvcUpVv61bFs241-P9pWZrwurQQGdqb6WCardUyYmMrqiNc4ixPMY/s1600/JCase.1976.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDv5TC1A9i_rV8xLU1jptcVhDQNvy0x1A1CE1xRFW8YgarqcaedjAxjK5LxiKqzJ-UBPRRQgVN2LA8jX3BeO45kAIvcUpVv61bFs241-P9pWZrwurQQGdqb6WCardUyYmMrqiNc4ixPMY/s400/JCase.1976.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590693572645937474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We'd play with abandon, crashing in to each other like some medieval horde, without regard to potential injuries. Clothes were torn, lots of cracked skulls, bloody noses and bruised ribs.<br /><br />We played Red Rover the same way. One day I was sprinting across the line when I was grabbed from behind. I wrapped my arms around a tree and tried to pull myself across. Someone grabbed one leg, somebody else grabbed another, lifting me off the ground, trying to pull me away from the tree. Then a third person peeled my hands off the tree. I slid down the tree on my face, the bark peeling away strips of skin from my nose and cheeks. Jack and Jaime helped me to my feet. I thought I was down only for a second, but when I got up Neutral was mostly empty, the opposing team having vanished. <span style="font-style: italic;">Where did everybody go? </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Well, you know, people are kind of scared of you"</span><br />I didn't know what to make of that, I guess I had been a little intense lately.<br /><br />Brent was competing in the annual week of citywide </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >PRISSA</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> games and the whole school went down to watch. Basketball, soccer, track and field events were part of the line up </span><span style="font-size:130%;">at Burnham Park</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. Mario Sarmiento and Peter Naylor were especially talented in the track and field events and we whooped and hollered every time they took the field. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61QaFvjiOoQ7q_XnOYm2e9QK6CsVHaIFEPI_F3rn9v5y-bBN0J9M_X6-mEsCBWD27uvoNiAAAeNoa8DF-Ifk8VK4aeWsj-WxmYuJb3jrJS66beaxoR3Ywv47dlU5cjU-6W-NEYtXA41o/s1600/PNaylor.1976.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 324px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61QaFvjiOoQ7q_XnOYm2e9QK6CsVHaIFEPI_F3rn9v5y-bBN0J9M_X6-mEsCBWD27uvoNiAAAeNoa8DF-Ifk8VK4aeWsj-WxmYuJb3jrJS66beaxoR3Ywv47dlU5cjU-6W-NEYtXA41o/s400/PNaylor.1976.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590694858962851762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Peter was from</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> New Zealand</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and liked to compete barefoot which endeared him to the local mountain men.<br /><br />After the competitions ended for the day we would wander about downtown, shopping or getting something to eat. Some days there was enough time to catch a movie before I had to be back on campus. We would go as a group and one day I found myself sitting next to my former girlfriend from my very first year at Brent, who now was a Sophomore. Her friends were trying to hook us up, but it was a casual friendship; we hung out together, she made me laugh. That afternoon while watching </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The Return of the Pink Panther </span><span style="font-size:130%;">she reached out and took my hand in hers. Still a little gun shy, I wasn't sure about this, but I was surprised to find that after four years my hand still remembered hers. In that round about way that people do, we talked about going steady again,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> she wanted to,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> I was hesitant about entering into another serious relationship. I told her I needed to think about it and promised her an answer soon.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiwG0m43ZAOvUnT7WcnLp5w1Lrn8eZBHL6Z2HV6IQldXoUAIby5hQGRag_cYRTGBR-auQFhkXku54GDxjuhtKMxpgasam4m3EQfNW6ariHcOOjuA-M_QvckvdfGyZ0i7gwEKhlywMHGw/s1600/RegionalScienceFair.1976.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiwG0m43ZAOvUnT7WcnLp5w1Lrn8eZBHL6Z2HV6IQldXoUAIby5hQGRag_cYRTGBR-auQFhkXku54GDxjuhtKMxpgasam4m3EQfNW6ariHcOOjuA-M_QvckvdfGyZ0i7gwEKhlywMHGw/s400/RegionalScienceFair.1976.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590695258660585234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">I was one of half a dozen science fair winners from Brent who would be going to the Regional High School Science Fair being held in the town of San Fernando. We loaded up the bus with our exhibits and headed down to the beach. It was anti-climatic for me, I got eliminated when the judges came through during the very first round of judging. That was fine with me, I could hardly concentrate anyway.<br /><br />That night after supper I walked down to the beach by myself and watched the waves crashing on the shore. I thought about the girl and the decision I had to make, I didn't know what to do. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I was in turmoil, once again thoughts and feelings I thought I had left behind came boiling to the surface.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> I prayed for guidance, I prayed for peace of soul and mind, I prayed for release from my despair. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">The wind whipped about me as I paced back and forth in the dark; and then there on the beach a wave of joy passed through me.<br /><br />No angel appeared, the heavens didn't open up, there was no burning bush, I heard no voices. But there on the sand, by the churning sea, time stopped for a moment and I was left with hope and peace.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">In the morning I caught a bus back to Baguio. I was eager to get back home and see the girl. By the time I got to Brent </span><span style="font-size:130%;">the calm I had felt the night before had left me and I reviewed the pros and cons once again.</span><span style="font-size:130%;">.. I was going up the hill towards Ogilby Hall when it occurred to me all of a sudden. I could trust her. She would never lie to me, she would always be there. Walking through the locker room I saw her standing by the book store, talking with some friends. I slipped up beside her and she searched my face for an answer. She must have found it, because she smiled and took my hand.<br /><br /></span><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/IRDnEqW1vAc?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="640"></iframe>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-83101916350197099082011-03-13T01:00:00.000-08:002011-03-13T20:56:50.968-07:00Part 48: The First Cut is the Deepest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMp1BW6CyE2wadJN34wQ489f0fxZ406vReoLbf-6DjSCrFjwb9okXmn7-1k0TNk7QXI2a-xOjvv3kjcmsmNpy3M5EhTmRW1JCJxyhlcQtVbIvlj9_G1-eorhCajANp2SdiGS0hqjhpFkY/s1600/1975-76.KeithMcCullough.jpg"><br /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"I used to be a King and everything around me<br />turned to gold.<br />I thought I had everything and now I'm left without a hand to hold.<br />But it's all right, I'm O.K. How are you?<br />For what it's worth, I must say I loved you.<br />And in my bed late at night, I miss you.<br />Someone is going to take my heart<br />But no one is going to break my heart again"</span><br />- from "I Used To Be A King" by Graham Nash<br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg505BxifoK18wRCA_77dXMSM9Ldz6xnc6W8CF8g6Hr6wv0k4CNZ2p5eGSsiGRB0G5GnyUZyxp2bv8YdmGvR4uT8rfLrphJqBSXbOykInccUhLZFz43K2p8IRdnAKmze5Ky4gxZdzEU9IU/s1600/MarkWalther.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 190px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg505BxifoK18wRCA_77dXMSM9Ldz6xnc6W8CF8g6Hr6wv0k4CNZ2p5eGSsiGRB0G5GnyUZyxp2bv8YdmGvR4uT8rfLrphJqBSXbOykInccUhLZFz43K2p8IRdnAKmze5Ky4gxZdzEU9IU/s320/MarkWalther.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580980544358946882" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Funny how life goes on around you; the sun rose every day, people laughed and sang. So I adjusted to the single life. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">made new friends, hung out with a different crowd.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />As so often happened at Brent, some kids didn't return after the holidays, leaving us to wonder what happened to them. Mike Kendrick never came back to Brent after the Christmas break, I got a letter from him a few weeks later telling me that they had moved back to Australia. He told me to write him, but he didn't provide a return address.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlTYRs_HsYzJvIBoMebIZgllp2m1iYQqfwCTJRdBXaDBQ9IvYfGKfaKGhCsqOPDmKqXrcxvtxIFkEmRZ3YzvmsuZqRgynCad9VEPfOxagavckKUAuHX6_FVVYEVg8Iab-hPfyoBLgYC8g/s1600/1975.1976.JackMcMullen.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlTYRs_HsYzJvIBoMebIZgllp2m1iYQqfwCTJRdBXaDBQ9IvYfGKfaKGhCsqOPDmKqXrcxvtxIFkEmRZ3YzvmsuZqRgynCad9VEPfOxagavckKUAuHX6_FVVYEVg8Iab-hPfyoBLgYC8g/s320/1975.1976.JackMcMullen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583597291530439458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">One of my new friends was Jack McMullen, I liked his sense of humor and admired his toughness. He was strong as an ox and his temper made it best to be on his good side. One day I saw him pick up a picnic table and hold it above his head with one hand and then throw it across Neutral. But mostly he was a good natured, jolly fellow and fun to be around.<br /><br />I was still avoiding the ex, so Jack, Jaime and I spent a lot of our weekends off campus, hanging out with some of </span><span style="font-size:130%;">our </span><span style="font-size:130%;">day student </span><span style="font-size:130%;"> friends </span><span style="font-size:130%;">from <span style="font-style: italic;">Camp John Hay</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">, Dayne Florence, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Vic Horne</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Keith McCullough</span><span style="font-size:130%;">.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Jack displayed his non politically correct sense of humor one day by making a wooden cross, then cutting up his sheets to make two hooded shrouds. Then soaking the cross with lighter fluid, he set it ablaze and we stood covered by our sheets waiting for the Base "Blue Bus" to arrive from John Hay. It then occurred to me that maybe this was not such a good thing to be doing. Keith alighted from the bus stopped and then fell down laughing when he saw us at the top of Neutral. He got up and ran up the hill toward us and tackled Jack and they wrestled for awhile. Keith spent the rest of the school day wearing Jack's sheet. He was a big guy, thank goodness he had a good sense of humor.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMp1BW6CyE2wadJN34wQ489f0fxZ406vReoLbf-6DjSCrFjwb9okXmn7-1k0TNk7QXI2a-xOjvv3kjcmsmNpy3M5EhTmRW1JCJxyhlcQtVbIvlj9_G1-eorhCajANp2SdiGS0hqjhpFkY/s1600/1975-76.KeithMcCullough.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMp1BW6CyE2wadJN34wQ489f0fxZ406vReoLbf-6DjSCrFjwb9okXmn7-1k0TNk7QXI2a-xOjvv3kjcmsmNpy3M5EhTmRW1JCJxyhlcQtVbIvlj9_G1-eorhCajANp2SdiGS0hqjhpFkY/s320/1975-76.KeithMcCullough.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583598027026615218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqveMzCOtnahJtbMO1SONwcQFCkx5g7j2vpCNPK5y97n4Bzc2YRDSjFAjMjl8CG273CD1h5vQ0-_6VnnPNZLj-Sd6ALnbD2uq2DJQxpAxIrE6vpaENA6f5syBry_xTwLwf7SevHYZ36VA/s1600/Pirates4.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqveMzCOtnahJtbMO1SONwcQFCkx5g7j2vpCNPK5y97n4Bzc2YRDSjFAjMjl8CG273CD1h5vQ0-_6VnnPNZLj-Sd6ALnbD2uq2DJQxpAxIrE6vpaENA6f5syBry_xTwLwf7SevHYZ36VA/s400/Pirates4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580981295977982178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We were working daily on Gilbert and Sullivan's "The Pirates of Penzance", they were trying to whip us into shape. Mrs Villaba rehearsed us individually and in groups on the songs and Mrs Viduya worked with us on our lines. It was tough for me, not only was I not much of a singer, but my ex and her new beau were in the play as part of my pirate band. Most scenes where I was on stage they were on it too. I pretended to be over it but it was killing me. Fortunately most of my singing was relegated to a few lines here and there and for the rest I was backed up by a chorus of "pirates".<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m4CUkyf8ahvd95pmCgB1ekkUVUeZU_91AySCV3O93c87JJQA9LiQZFloZOlmE4ncZTdXA87qrE1b3BEn6cllHYf77Mm2uOtllLGn9JI7Jrfqs4W-z6GdtSRcDBApt0V5N65y8ckl40E/s1600/Pirates2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m4CUkyf8ahvd95pmCgB1ekkUVUeZU_91AySCV3O93c87JJQA9LiQZFloZOlmE4ncZTdXA87qrE1b3BEn6cllHYf77Mm2uOtllLGn9JI7Jrfqs4W-z6GdtSRcDBApt0V5N65y8ckl40E/s400/Pirates2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583652673753304562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPOLe1Q8nD22PP2r_rNTDTgc9-ydgu2kN3362E81DqgyfuceUFpQyEZJP-7Ez_ruDcU9eSXhJYFrzqLjBuBt56PeiR7uNq9qULci5Lw0D6r1JpTG7JWYT8LZNfNwh-bYthTmXMwp3uf2I/s1600/Pirates3.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPOLe1Q8nD22PP2r_rNTDTgc9-ydgu2kN3362E81DqgyfuceUFpQyEZJP-7Ez_ruDcU9eSXhJYFrzqLjBuBt56PeiR7uNq9qULci5Lw0D6r1JpTG7JWYT8LZNfNwh-bYthTmXMwp3uf2I/s320/Pirates3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580981845178477346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Finally, it was time for our performance. We were as good as we would ever get. I remembered all my lines and my voice only cracked once or twice. All in all we did moderately well, we had good material to work with, the audience laughed at our lines and songs and we didn't embarrass ourselves too badly. I got something out of it anyway, I kept my pirate costume and wore it at Brent's Halloween Carnival later that month.<br /><br />I decided not to go home for Christmas that year. I put off getting my tickets until the last minute. Then when I was sure there were no available seats till well after the holiday season, I telegraphed home my apologies and watched my friends pack and leave one by one. None of them invited me home, but that was my fault, I didn't tell any of them I was staying. <span style="font-style: italic;">Misery loves company</span> and I was it.<br /><br />It wasn't too bad at first, although the silence in the dorm was deafening. I cleaned my room daily and listened to <span style="font-style: italic;">AFRTS</span>. I joined the Christmas shoppers and browsed the markets. I ate most of my meals at the school. Mr Keddie and Mr Spitzer were there along with a few other of the boarding faculty so the dining room would be operating for the duration of the holidays. I was sitting in the lounge after lunch one afternoon, reading by the fire, when I was surprised to see an old familiar face from my first year at Brent. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I recognized her right away, she vaguely remembered me</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, but we slowly reacquainted ourselves.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> Homesick for her family, friends and the country of her childhood, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">she hadn't been back for four years. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Now she was home from college and had stopped by to see her old school. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I supposed her classmates had all moved away and I was the only one she sort of knew. She wanted to know what I was doing there on the empty campus and I told her I was staying in the dorm for the holidays. I saw her almost daily after that, sometimes we would drive around so she could see the landmarks of the city where she grew up.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">A few times I went over to her folks house for a meal, sometimes just to hang out and watch them bake cookies and build a gingerbread house. It was nice to have someone to talk to and I felt safe with this college girl. She invited me to spend Christmas day with her family and at first I said "no, I don't want to intrude", but later when her mother asked me again, I agreed. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgie8Mz-je4Gdlr4qwb4AzqrBYEcDFA_J_3PZUCNfISazXMXtjauvsd-Eo5uMzUITI-k9NshMtwcMGhoJXgCWgOyee8tqf0fDjNeIj9Z5Hp32_yHJxF619L7L1IGcoPDSMNypxWPicMSgM/s1600/Thanksgiving-Feast.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgie8Mz-je4Gdlr4qwb4AzqrBYEcDFA_J_3PZUCNfISazXMXtjauvsd-Eo5uMzUITI-k9NshMtwcMGhoJXgCWgOyee8tqf0fDjNeIj9Z5Hp32_yHJxF619L7L1IGcoPDSMNypxWPicMSgM/s320/Thanksgiving-Feast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580996479516555250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">It had been kind of lonely at night and I had been dreading Christmas. I really liked her family, I liked their warmth and laughter, the love they showed for each other. They probably didn't approve of my hair, but they never said a word about it and made me welcome. Christmas morning came and I was surprised and touched when there were gifts for me; later we sat down for the best Christmas meal I could ever remember.<br /><br />She had been looking through her sister's Ganza yearbooks, she had read some of the things I had written. She asked me about them, commenting about a line here or there, asking for the back story behind a poem or two. She wanted to know if I was still writing and asked to see what I was working on. I had given up writing by then, I had written everything I could till I was all dried up. But she persisted, so reluctantly I showed her my notebook and after reading through it she asked me about it. Slowly but surely she coaxed out the story of my misery, things that I thought I had buried away for ever. I don't remember how long I talked, or the words she said to me afterwards. I do remember the hurt and pain at having to relive it.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ZVrFSeE1Z6iI29cXiJfxfD-9p2ckSzd5vGYV5BQQUYnOQK7sdqLc6UaUnt6CbqC9aBJEWjbT0D-cpZCd90gKc3noeQBqd35G8AdHl0CfrM75-nslCMKYBF4V4imjanY2ua4iFZSjP5E/s1600/5612_106338197859_546747859_2031810_1907386_n.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ZVrFSeE1Z6iI29cXiJfxfD-9p2ckSzd5vGYV5BQQUYnOQK7sdqLc6UaUnt6CbqC9aBJEWjbT0D-cpZCd90gKc3noeQBqd35G8AdHl0CfrM75-nslCMKYBF4V4imjanY2ua4iFZSjP5E/s400/5612_106338197859_546747859_2031810_1907386_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580988799697450082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">One day while touring around the city in her parents car we stopped to admire the scenic view. There by the side of the road she put her arms around me, then kissed me. The passengers of a Jeepney driving by whooped and hollered but she wouldn't let go. A wave of emotion rolled over me: confusion and fear. My heart screamed out it's rage and pain, then another wave flowed through my hardened heart: a whisper of hope.<br /><br />She was gentle and patient; by the time she left and school began I was ready to try again. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Gfw9OBxDFLk?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Gfw9OBxDFLk?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-9719905199283467412011-03-01T01:00:00.000-08:002011-03-24T08:53:36.998-07:00Part 47: Only Love Can Break Your Heart<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">When you were young and on your own</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">how did it feel to be alone?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />... But only love can break your heart</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">try to be sure right from the start</span>.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, only love can break your heart</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;"> What if your world should fall apart?</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />- Neil Young</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BAiuTf4MZy3Jxw_17tjJsEnAskfkzhuF9Dg7KKJ3pb5ytsUVZgloQ808F6mxl2Gt9rRqJdCzU0_YL6lV1HPQpuqSrP02KySwo0VaTH1Eywwuw4P5dygrWQd4sJ7_8QJ85hsQHH3zpVQ/s1600/bataan.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BAiuTf4MZy3Jxw_17tjJsEnAskfkzhuF9Dg7KKJ3pb5ytsUVZgloQ808F6mxl2Gt9rRqJdCzU0_YL6lV1HPQpuqSrP02KySwo0VaTH1Eywwuw4P5dygrWQd4sJ7_8QJ85hsQHH3zpVQ/s400/bataan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576198947569517842" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;">I spent a week before school started with Michael Kendrick at his home on the tip Bataan peninsula. His dad worked for the Australian Ford company and his house was in a small modern company development in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest village, surrounded by tall cogan grass. There was a newly paved two lane that ran in front of the housing development and past an abandoned unfinished ten story hotel and finally ended at cliffs overlooking the island of Corregedor. It was an odd place to find a community of Australians. There was nothing to do out there, but every morning there was a ferry that took the bored housewives into Manila. We did that a few times, we listened to records, he liked some Australian singer called Olivia Newton-John. But mostly we spent the days riding mini bikes up and down the empty road. One day we were blindly tearing through the tall grass and after awhile decided to pull up and walk around. We could see a glimmer of sky ahead and pushing our way towards it we suddenly found ourselves standing on the edge of a precipice! If we had driven another ten feet we would have gone right over!<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >I arrived back for my fifth year at Brent with a new sense of purpose and confidence. I was a Junior and felt like I was at the top of my game. But as the days and weeks progressed I came to find a Brent radically different from the way I knew it. Sure, the campus was the same, I had the same dorm room, arranged in the same layout I had the year before. But for the first time since I had started there in 1971, there were more new students than returning students. This was true with the faculty as well, we had all new dorm parents for both Hamilton Hall and the Boys Dorm; new teachers now outnumbered the old ones. In the dorms Jaime and I now had been there the longest. It was odd to be the "old timers" at Brent. There were just a few other boarders coming back, Mitz Lizares was returning as a Senior, James Jensen and Mike Kendrick were the only two returning from our class; it was only their second year at Brent. There were no returning Sophomores or Freshmen. Over at the girls dorm Leigh Gilmore, Susan Kendrick, Chris Fassnacht, Kelly Low and Renee Case were the only returning girl boarders. Amongst the day students it was slightly better, there was a slightly larger sprinkling of students who had been there for ten or more years. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Brent depended on returning students to maintain the continuity. In years past, the old timers (teachers and students alike) shepherded the new students through the process of acclimating to parochial school life. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8TjhtZaxpqXkxPSyclFZYISlALgpnTqsYgX-N3yBNW3JitBlbdMdRU95lxoh8_20Y3yWAsqbqiD5FBdMnRFnB8JU3OT2LLEkHuB3W5NzIkoIZMtYoHjoUQNpdq2gdEbBmifOsOZrwc8w/s1600/woodpile.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8TjhtZaxpqXkxPSyclFZYISlALgpnTqsYgX-N3yBNW3JitBlbdMdRU95lxoh8_20Y3yWAsqbqiD5FBdMnRFnB8JU3OT2LLEkHuB3W5NzIkoIZMtYoHjoUQNpdq2gdEbBmifOsOZrwc8w/s400/woodpile.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576204090985281218" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This was especially true in the dorms, where the restrictions and confinement of boarding life were especially tough on kids who never had to deal with so many regulations before. Now they railed against the system and viewed us as out of step, out of touch and weird. They rebelled against the rules, the food, Chapel, prayer at meal time, even singing the Philippine National Anthem at flag raising. Never in all my time at Brent had I seen so many boarders being "campused" or on "woodpile duty" on a regular basis. Things seemed out of balance and on the verge of chaos and anarchy. </span><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />The school year had started normally enough, I went through my usual routines and when the boarders began to arrive my room already had that comfortable lived in look, as if I never left. We had new dorm parents, Mr Keddie and Mr Spitzer, two former Peace Corps volunteers. They were really laid back, casual in attire and attitude, casual about rules, drinking and drugs. Jaime took the room across from mine, the same one he had last year too. Michael had the room right next to me, James was next to Jaime. New students Jack McMullen and Jon Peiti were on our floor, Jack's brothers Andy and Ron were on the floors below as was Jon's brother Robert.<br /><br />One morning I was crossing over to the locker room when a taxi pulled up and a woman and a teenager got out. They stood there indecisively, alternately turning from Binstead, to Ogilby, then to the Office and back again, clutching suitcases and looking lost. I went up to them and taking a bag, walked them to the Office. When they emerged a while later after registering I helped them with their luggage to Hamilton Hall. Leigh Gilmore was there and I introduced her to the new boarder. The mother was effusive with her thanks and her daughter who was a Sophomore flashed a smile at me, her eyes sparkling. My heart leaped from its locker and flopped about on the floor. <span style="font-style: italic;">Euphoria</span>. I was smitten.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWRzQAyfqLdnw4cyW6JNvnPWhaa9WhgmvUbLFznJDOj7c890ziUGKJECUtRl8RgG3BNhai8fAxk3EZH36pSncqHYY54NGZt-ZJyBMFGXhVr95UjghgWER_rgQXgaznWQwaEFXBg5ctiY/s1600/scan0002.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 324px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfWRzQAyfqLdnw4cyW6JNvnPWhaa9WhgmvUbLFznJDOj7c890ziUGKJECUtRl8RgG3BNhai8fAxk3EZH36pSncqHYY54NGZt-ZJyBMFGXhVr95UjghgWER_rgQXgaznWQwaEFXBg5ctiY/s400/scan0002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570731865015124738" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;">She joined us at our table that night, the following weekend we went to the movies and by the next week we were a couple. She seemed to like my quirky ways, she asked to wear my jacket. I was on cloud nine. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">The more I got to know her the more I came to believe she was ideal for me. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">The world was a wonderful, beautiful place; everything was as it should be. Things were looking up in school too, I was surprised to find myself nominated and elected class president, although I suspected that no one really wanted the job. Still, the year was turning out to be perfect.<br /><br />This new found love took the edge off classes, as the new teachers were just as annoying as the new students. We had a new art teacher (another former Peace Corps volunteer) who, on the first day of class, asked us to paint a color wheel. But she didn't want it to look like a traditional color wheel.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFVEvW-vIstnbZpCsUHicWI389mssxxM8LDyWI6EXu6Dw3QI1RKeoxb8Ta4Wms1Cam8hK_B2V7zLyMR_DbK26bDWiE1ixF4zn-LoPW4xQrEGS4cm7KwRS-kYM-miVUnp1TwFGBCiOgSA/s1600/newfaculty.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFVEvW-vIstnbZpCsUHicWI389mssxxM8LDyWI6EXu6Dw3QI1RKeoxb8Ta4Wms1Cam8hK_B2V7zLyMR_DbK26bDWiE1ixF4zn-LoPW4xQrEGS4cm7KwRS-kYM-miVUnp1TwFGBCiOgSA/s400/newfaculty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576191225220788898" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> So I made one that was amoebae shaped and got a "D"! I looked to see what everyone else did and theirs were the regular circle exactly like the one in the textbook. They got "A's". What the hell.<br /><br />Then there was my English Lit teacher. He loved James Joyce, he even wore a little Irish cap and had an Irish temper to match. His temper regularly got the best of him, on more than one occasion he got into shoving matches during student/faculty basketball games. (The thing I really didn't like about him was the way he treated his Filipina wife, publicly ridiculing her in front of the students, faculty and staff.) On the class syllabus I noticed that the only author on the list was Joyce, and all of his books were on the reading list. I was not a fan of Salinger and <span style="font-style: italic;">Catcher in the Rye</span> and found Joyce's <span style="font-style: italic;">Portrait of An Artist As A Young Man</span> equally annoying. One day after a protracted argument about why I thought the young artist was an idiot, he marched me over to the office. There in the Headmaster's office he ranted, raved and foamed at the mouth. He wanted me expelled, suspended at the very least. Dr Ralph Rodriguez, assistant headmaster and in charge while Dr McGee was in Manila, stared at him bemusedly, then asked me to state my case. I calmly told him my side of the story and why I found Joyce so irrelevant. When I was done, Dr Ralph turned to my teacher.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Has he failed to submit any homework?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">No</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Has he failed any exams?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">No</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Has he been disruptive in class or disrespectful to you? </span>(this had me worried, I was sure I was guilty on both counts)<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Well, no, but he was arguing with me </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />So your objection is that he disagrees with your point of view?</span><br /><br />My teacher started raving again and Dr Ralph turned to me and with a pat on the back he lead me to the door.<span style="font-style: italic;"> "I don't care for Joyce much either" he whispered. </span>Aloud he said <span style="font-style: italic;">"You can go to your next class, there are few things I need to clarify here."</span> As I left the office I heard renewed shouting behind the closed door.<br /><br />Over the coming months these new teachers (and our dorm masters) and their disregard for laws and local customs would find themselves in and out of trouble with the authorities. Even our Headmaster would find himself in court facing charges.<br /><br />Meanwhile, life continued at Brent. There was a school dance at Camp John Hay and Kevin Martin, as Senior class president, auctioned off the freshmen and new students to raise funds for Senior Skip Day. The Junior class would be sponsoring the Prom this year and I was surprised when Bessie Manois, our class treasurer, told me how much cash we had in the bank. Of course, under the strict supervision of our class advisor Ms Estacio, we had saved every penny we earned since seventh grade. Bake sales and our booths at the Halloween Carnival had done very well. This year at the carnival we had the rights to the "restaurant" and that should bring in a lot more cash.<br /><br />Mrs Viduya held tryouts for the play <span style="font-style: italic;">Pirates of Penzance</span>, where, despite my inadequate vocal talents, Mrs Viduya gave me the role of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Pirate King</span>. Fortunately, I didn't have too many solos. Mark Viduya was the <span style="font-style: italic;">Major General</span>, my classmate Greg Clavano had the lead role of<span style="font-style: italic;"> Frederic, </span><span>Marie Strasser portrayed his love interest</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Mabel</span> and my girlfriend played <span style="font-style: italic;">Ruth</span>, the <span style="font-style: italic;">"piratical maid of all work"</span>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6YN4WcN5kXbJwfhJFfCTXd8aZwNy7Rn4K4BOvjxuGqmX2Hz1XHfe9OBoDIWNOkgoLJSHXxzbmX7PLBkd8JCDsKuSj0oQ8PPvjVdV9GhJ4z91Wzc4yppWRPKMoYv-33yJSmNwrvs7GWJE/s1600/thrilla-in-manila.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6YN4WcN5kXbJwfhJFfCTXd8aZwNy7Rn4K4BOvjxuGqmX2Hz1XHfe9OBoDIWNOkgoLJSHXxzbmX7PLBkd8JCDsKuSj0oQ8PPvjVdV9GhJ4z91Wzc4yppWRPKMoYv-33yJSmNwrvs7GWJE/s400/thrilla-in-manila.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570748266772444562" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Out in the real world <span style="font-style: italic;">"The Thrilla In Manila"</span> was getting underway. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">We were excited and impressed that the fight of the century would be taking place in the Philippines. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(President Marcos had offered to sponsor the event - which everyone suspected was to divert attention away from all the arrests going on under Martial Law)</span>. We gathered around the TV and watched while Ali and Frazier battled it out for 14 rounds. I was a little sorry for old Joe, he took a beating. A few days later I took a worse thrashing.<br /><br />It was a big surprise when, on one sunny day at breakfast, that I found myself without a girlfriend. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Apparently she liked the captain of the basketball team better. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I was devastated, I never saw it coming.<br /><br />Some of my friends knew it but didn't bother to tell me. The signs were there of course. One night a few weeks before I awoke to the sound of laughter coming from the next room. I got up and went next door to find Leigh and some of the girls had snuck over from their dorm. A bunch of the guys on our floor were there and so was my girlfriend. I didn't think anything of it, I waved at her, but I was too tired to stay up and went back to bed. I didn't recognize that she was being distant.<br /><br />I was crushed. I stumbled around like a zombie. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">There was no consolation, I had poured my heart and soul into that relationship. I felt so betrayed. The worst part was that she seemed so happy, much happier than she had ever been with me. I attempted to be brave and tried to make the best of things. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />I was the idiot with a sick smile on his face. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">It was hard, there was no escaping them. She was there at every meal, sitting at his table now. I could hear her voice, her laughter. There they were together on the steps of the student lounge, cuddling on the Neutral. He was on my floor, I saw him in the bathroom, in the halls, they were together in our dorm sala, there he was with his arm over her shoulder and she was still wearing my jacket. So, I began avoiding any place I thought they might be. I kept to myself, hung out at the library or just stayed in my room. Days and weeks went by, the loneliness and isolation, at first so unbearable, now seemed like an old friend. I wore it like a mantle, my crown of thorns.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"If I laugh, just a little bit, maybe I can forget the chance</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >that I didn't have to know you. And live in peace, in peace</span><span style="font-size:130%;">.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >If I laugh, just a little bit</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >, maybe I can recall the way</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >that I used to be, before you.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >And sleep at night - and dream</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >If I laugh, baby if I laugh just a little bit... "</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:85%;">- Cat Stevens</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/MqVtmIVD9xc?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe></span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YUaTJORlWdU?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YUaTJORlWdU?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-49403588337175211622011-02-11T01:00:00.000-08:002011-02-11T14:59:14.239-08:00Part 46: There and Back Again<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"As all things come to an end, even this story, a day came at last when they were in sight of the country where Bilbo had been born and bred, where the shapes of the land and of the trees were as well known to him as his hands and toes."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">-J.R.R. Tolkien</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />Back at Brent I stripped my bed and packed up the last of my things for storage. We didn't have to haul our trunks down to storage this year, as long as they were clearly labeled they would be moved for us. Then, after racing up to the dining hall for a quick bite to eat, Tommy Quinto drove us to the airport.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">It was a long wait at Loakan airport, the flight was full and there was a lot of extra luggage, mostly from Brent students going home for the summer or back to the States. They were having difficulty getting all the luggage stowed away and had to repack the plane. They didn't make us wait on board, but kept us in the departure area. While we were waiting the airline passed out glasses of orange juice. I was thirsty and drank it down. Shortly thereafter I made a mental note to never eat bacon and eggs and drink orange juice so early in the morning after a night of drinking.<br /><br />Finally, the plane was loaded and we boarded. Cindy was sitting next to me in the window seat, I had the aisle. After the Prom, things between us had returned to the status quo. We taxied to the far end of the tarmac and came about. Then we began lumbering down the runway, engines straining. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiANiBD_OJRE-9i9QxM_3KeTChy39_BpaYzTjsfW32VM9PFL25Sa_QtzRU9ds1luCV7llKUlR_OZKOx7WnT4DCHtCAzfcq9Xqmt_QQxqqkHWXsFQuYxzTeKFQFW60tfGqwr64Z9uwmVUKk/s1600/Baguio+Airport2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiANiBD_OJRE-9i9QxM_3KeTChy39_BpaYzTjsfW32VM9PFL25Sa_QtzRU9ds1luCV7llKUlR_OZKOx7WnT4DCHtCAzfcq9Xqmt_QQxqqkHWXsFQuYxzTeKFQFW60tfGqwr64Z9uwmVUKk/s400/Baguio+Airport2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571027772704677378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We didn't seem to be going very fast and after a certain point I realized that the wheels were not lifting off the ground.<br /><br />Baguio's Loakan Airport is known for it's short, concave runway with cliffs on either end. Because the runway is so short, larger planes cannot use it. Even for the F-27 with it's large wingspan this runway was a little tricky. To help the pilots out, the Airport had installed markers every 50 feet along the runway. Large black lettering on a white background told the pilots how many feet were left till the end of the runway. A long hazard yellow line crossed the runway at the point where the FAA felt the wheels needed to leave the ground and a corresponding yellow marker at the same point shouted out a warning. From that point on the runway was crosshatched with thick painted lines. We called it the "Point of No Return".<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2P0S2KVJjLm2uL5_U1WsyNLGfyY70Ke8pR1tLmRDR-ZFyGzr9whC2SFC63O8SuJiqFmuJuj-p7eblhB06yzeEY_GQgSLb57ZnpGizDxQ1KZ8ikvFrN0sgBp6awujDzh8eD-YdB0rg6vY/s1600/loakan.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2P0S2KVJjLm2uL5_U1WsyNLGfyY70Ke8pR1tLmRDR-ZFyGzr9whC2SFC63O8SuJiqFmuJuj-p7eblhB06yzeEY_GQgSLb57ZnpGizDxQ1KZ8ikvFrN0sgBp6awujDzh8eD-YdB0rg6vY/s400/loakan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570038663848058786" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;">I had been chatting with my seatmate, casually glancing out the window, noting the markers as we passed them. When we passed the yellow warning marker I turned with a grin to Cindy <span style="font-style: italic;">"We should have lifted off by now!"</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Oh No!</span> She covered her face with her hands and assumed the crash position. We continued to barrel down the runway, no sign of slowing down. Leaning over, I could see the fence rapidly growing larger. Finally, the wheels left the ground and a split second later we passed over the fence, then the road on the edge of the cliff. As we cleared the road the overloaded plane dropped for a few long seconds into the canyon below. Passengers screamed, some shouted, then burst into nervous laughter as we slowly began to rise again.<br /><br />Leeanne, Lulie, Jaime and I were going to spend a few weeks together. Jaime's dad was going to drive us around Northern Luzon and I was just waiting for them to get to Manila to pick us up. Leeanne was busy saying goodbye to her boyfriend and I didn't like being the third wheel all the time. It was raining heavily in Manila and some parts of the city were flooded. I did a little shopping with Cindy, went to the movies and out for some pizza. Her folks maintained a home in Manila too and one night after I dropped her off I found myself stranded due to the high water. After some extensive arguing with the housekeeper, Cindy was allowed to put me up for the night. The Ya-Ya showed me my room, gave me the evil eye and pointedly shut the door firmly behind her as she left. I got the message. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >No Funny Business Mister!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> I have to admit I was tempted. By the next afternoon the waters had receded and the family chauffeur drove me back to the Mission Guest House.<br /><br />Jaime and his Dad showed up a few days later with Lulie in tow. A short time later Leeanne arrived by taxi and we were off. For the girls, this would be their first time to see parts of the country not normally visited by tourists; they were going to get to taste new foods. Away from the cities, restaurants and shops, they got to see the life in the rural areas that Jaime and I experienced growing up. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12RZ6VnnKS5VxTRI342t_diZNF1x1neHdOdA05B1FaFk8qJjYOoMQMzy89DncL3t38dw_KQzcjAqhrfzK17UFlnNHERF2Zzh9K434XTZfNovblHnD0uciE6rbe0ElC3Rv7sJ6_916cIQ/s1600/jaws-Peter-Benchley.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh12RZ6VnnKS5VxTRI342t_diZNF1x1neHdOdA05B1FaFk8qJjYOoMQMzy89DncL3t38dw_KQzcjAqhrfzK17UFlnNHERF2Zzh9K434XTZfNovblHnD0uciE6rbe0ElC3Rv7sJ6_916cIQ/s400/jaws-Peter-Benchley.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570801647855586210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We took the National Highway north to the very top of Luzon to </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Aparri</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, the highway ending at the sea. Like</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Vigan</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, Aparri was a centuries old Spanish town located in the province of <span style="font-style: italic;">Cagayan</span> and had been an important port during the heyday of the Spanish Galleon trade. There the ships would pick up bales of tobacco from the Cagayan valley before heading on to Manila.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">There was little tourism there in those days, no big hotels or fancy restaurants. We had the beaches to ourselves; white sands and crystal clear water. Leeanne had been reading Jaws by Peter Benchley and was a little skittish in the water, constantly looking about and jumping if something brushed past her legs. Of course, this set my devilish mind in action and I scoured the beach for a suitable piece of driftwood. I found a large chunk of wood shaped like a dorsal fin and slipped in to the water when her back was turned, holding it under with my feet. Then, easing off behind her I slid under the water and holding the driftwood above me I swam towards her. She didn't notice the "fin" til it was just a few feet from her. Then the screams! I could hear them plainly even under the water! She was out of the water and clear up to the truck faster than you could say "We're going to need a bigger boat". She had some choice words for me when she saw me holding the driftwood.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">There was an underlying sadness on this trip, despite the fun we were having. In the quiet moments, between the laughter, the somber misery returned to our faces. Leeanne was heading off to Montreal to law school, Lulie to Hollins College in Virginia. Besides the friends she was leaving behind at Brent, Leeanne was thinking of her boyfriend in Manila. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVEcQZSjodS7NRLrk5-XinDE_mmtc-gSYbKOwpuSM8g-gSOqNaRYePtPcZeHeeibuOJiAaggFWSJgNFMjnf8MB9xJYPZzlRbKvUEOipru1rtyBxSC9pH2F5cT3iR5v_0wp-m3VdG2McA0/s1600/165009_170510392987311_100000850550839_330547_4581870_n.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVEcQZSjodS7NRLrk5-XinDE_mmtc-gSYbKOwpuSM8g-gSOqNaRYePtPcZeHeeibuOJiAaggFWSJgNFMjnf8MB9xJYPZzlRbKvUEOipru1rtyBxSC9pH2F5cT3iR5v_0wp-m3VdG2McA0/s400/165009_170510392987311_100000850550839_330547_4581870_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570014842466920418" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;">So, when a few days in to our trip she came down sick, I think it was the sadness and loneliness more than anything else. While Jaime' s Dad drove her back to Manila, we remaining three caught a open sided Dangwa bus to Sagada.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">The Episcopal Church ran a guest house called St. Joseph's and we reserved ourselves some rooms and went out to tour the town. We wandered through the woods, climbed the limestone crags; we spent a few quiet days relaxing, reading, writing. Then I caught a bus back to Baguio and then on to Manila; Jaime and Lulie took a bus to his home in Solano. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVWen_YVI463CtC71QA8rbPblk6W94MBRhOHzgtbswEyqNZEdI-KKNzDuGvAsWr8fCTbIXGJFd0MEHA-S-Ti3eKoRRA7xfde-q6Sos1jt0mECl5IhSqbGbOEgYbqpdjpPRt_wgrsBrtA/s1600/jaimeluliesagada.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 335px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVWen_YVI463CtC71QA8rbPblk6W94MBRhOHzgtbswEyqNZEdI-KKNzDuGvAsWr8fCTbIXGJFd0MEHA-S-Ti3eKoRRA7xfde-q6Sos1jt0mECl5IhSqbGbOEgYbqpdjpPRt_wgrsBrtA/s400/jaimeluliesagada.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571030872999247602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We had been together as a group since 1973. A lifetime of tears, laughter and loving; now these were our last days together. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">In the glory days we would have fought and died for each other. How could an insignificant calendar date in time abruptly conclude our relationships? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Our Fellowship was at an end.</span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" class="youtube-player" type="text/html" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QAH5zEtO0zU?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" width="560" frameborder="0" height="345"></iframe>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-86595332575747751702011-02-01T01:00:00.000-08:002011-02-11T12:17:37.523-08:00Part 45: Picasso's Last Words<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"What do you think an artist is?... he is ... constantly aware of the heartbreaking, passionate, or delightful things that happen in the world, shaping himself completely in their image. How could it be possible to feel no interest in other people, and with a cool indifference to detach yourself from the very life which they bring to you so abundantly?" </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">- Pablo Picasso</span></span><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVwvRkOzWpwcF5Xw-zVHWsOQVUYnT5tGJNBkxtO0xOLsEURI0U28SUZXA9ExiTolAtT8fPwnJmKq_Sp7fhyphenhyphen_DRuCGIXIhdLsnxP84cpurJeqQen4mp0AkCN6rxBh7PMKRsZ5lGy1V0wA/s1600/n559252075_1245056_8316.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFVwvRkOzWpwcF5Xw-zVHWsOQVUYnT5tGJNBkxtO0xOLsEURI0U28SUZXA9ExiTolAtT8fPwnJmKq_Sp7fhyphenhyphen_DRuCGIXIhdLsnxP84cpurJeqQen4mp0AkCN6rxBh7PMKRsZ5lGy1V0wA/s400/n559252075_1245056_8316.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567838736810321970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Brent School held a Cultural Fair in early May, organized by one of our new teachers, Dr Robert Fox. He had been in the Philippines for four decades, serving in various capacities with the <span style="font-style: italic;">National Museum of the Philippines</span> since 1948 and formerly taught at both the <span style="font-style: italic;">International School in Manila </span>and the<span style="font-style: italic;"> University of the Philippines</span>. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">It was a real </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >coup</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> by Dr McGee to get this prestigious Professor of Anthropology to teach at Brent.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"In 1958, Dr Fox led a National Museum team in conducting extensive excavations on two sites in Batangas, considered to be the first systematic excavation involving the National Museum in the country. In the 1960s, by then the head of the Anthropology Division of the National Museum</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >, he led a six-year archaeological research project in Palawan, focusing mainly on the caves and rockshelters of Lipuun Point in the southern part of the island. Its most outstanding site is the Tabon Cave complex where the only Pleistocene human fossils found in the Philippines at that time were discovered. The fossil finds included a skullcap, jaw bones, teeth and several other fragmented bones."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" > <span style="font-size:85%;"><br />- from the history of The National Museum of the Philippines<br /></span><br /></span>The Cultural Fair was a school wide event held over a three day period, it brought together archaeological and anthropological exhibits, artisans and dancers comprised of various representatives of the Mountain Province tribes: </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Bontoc, Ibaloi, Ifugao, Isneg, Kalinga, and Kankanaey</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. Faculty and students from Baguio Universities and High Schools were invited to attend, as were various dignitaries and clergy. A special luncheon in the dining hall was served for the big shots and we boarders were relegated to slightly warm sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper handed out by Domingo and Arsenio from tables on the Neutral. At least there were chips and soft-drinks to go along with them. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf60MLwbqN7WDptUPiEAJvyCr5aU-wMjYbfvkIE5EafholJotUXozpdGeHAezNZnMxQkSpXe7550a7XioE22SUZysh8CL5fEWJM_nFvHXiXwdflzHsbcd_0wTRJgdJZipQfc_kaCoikhc/s1600/Brentstuff1+007.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf60MLwbqN7WDptUPiEAJvyCr5aU-wMjYbfvkIE5EafholJotUXozpdGeHAezNZnMxQkSpXe7550a7XioE22SUZysh8CL5fEWJM_nFvHXiXwdflzHsbcd_0wTRJgdJZipQfc_kaCoikhc/s320/Brentstuff1+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568128824044786802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">And there always was the Canteen. What with school out and so many people on campus, Freddie and his canteen were doing a furious business.<br /><br />No classes were held during this event, but we had been given assignments by our teachers, and most had to write some kind of paper on various topics. We wandered from display to display, taking notes, but it was the live performances and interactions with the artisans that really fascinated me. I was particularly interested in watching the basket makers making the backpacks called </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >pasiking</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, the weavers sitting on the floor with their hand looms and the potters making clay jars for storing rice and water. They were selling the items they made and we were encouraged to help support these cottage industries. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzmL14AcpxmrftkSl18NquRdOBkgbOT07ygTg6T7uWwhRqmnZNU-m2Y1IAeWxtMsvZM39u46BNbWRy641OBbI3aoC4vBIhpggRNqu7H8qBMzyFPQoQUlz4BqBAM4atEoKDWMVCEsrH4-0/s1600/n559252075_1206706_1710.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzmL14AcpxmrftkSl18NquRdOBkgbOT07ygTg6T7uWwhRqmnZNU-m2Y1IAeWxtMsvZM39u46BNbWRy641OBbI3aoC4vBIhpggRNqu7H8qBMzyFPQoQUlz4BqBAM4atEoKDWMVCEsrH4-0/s320/n559252075_1206706_1710.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568129268690930194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">From a selection of unfired pieces I picked out two small jars, a tea pot and a larger jar. On Friday they took all the items and covered them first in rice hulls and then firewood before lighting the fire. They kept the fire burning all day and night, adding more hulls and wood when needed. Early Saturday morning they let the fire burn out and by late afternoon they raked the ashes away from the fired pieces. The clay had turned brick red with spots of black, where the ashes had discolored it. I was disappointed to find that my large jar had cracked during the firing process, but my smaller pieces were still intact.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">After the Cultural Fair ended, talk quickly turned to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Junior-Senior Prom</span> that was coming up in a few weeks. I wanted to go but couldn't because I was a Sophomore. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">For the past five months I had been trying to get this certain girl to go steady.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> No luck. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"> Cindy and her sister Kelly were from Canada and their Dad managed a paper mill in <span style="font-style: italic;">Bislig</span>, a town on the far southern side of Mindanao. Cindy was my age but she was a Senior. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Jaime's sister Renee was always teasing her half jokingly that she was <span style="font-style: italic;">"natangsit"</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">"mayabang"</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">"hambug"</span>, which is to say she was a little stuck up. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">She sat at our table at dinner every night and afterwards I walked her back to the dorm. She sat next to me in Chapel and we went to movies together every weekend; but I wasn't really getting anywhere, no kisses, no hand holding. She often told me she "just wanted to be friends", so I was quite surprised when one day she asked me if wanted to take her to the Prom! I didn't mind that she asked me, I would be one of the few guys in my class who would be going. In the next breath she said "Of, course you will first have to get something suitable to wear..."<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />With the Prom quickly approaching, I had to hurry. Now that I had a date, I needed to get a complete outfit. So the next afternoon, Dana Busse and I headed downtown to <span style="font-style: italic;">Lambino's</span> to get something made. A really fine tailor, I had been having all my pants made there since Norman first took me there four years earlier. First we selected fabric for shirts and then we both decided to pick the same fabric for our pants and vests. Then, after getting measured, we went to look for shoes. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Normally, I was an earth shoe kind of guy, which was totally unsuitable for the Prom. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I found a pair with two inch heels which were all the rage. Some of the guys had even taller heels, but I found it kind of hard to walk in them.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZe27b3ucVUxf4L1DXNTGNsRNhUJBb-egmt0tYtXZyzHiIO3YGz0kRwEUg8TSaZ0ny88MyUoBCobhNIbOJGemMehOqyIVhtrJQokn4jzuEYavmZMpYJ76-D6yfYQrlWcAIVmvUUZryHA/s1600/prom.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZe27b3ucVUxf4L1DXNTGNsRNhUJBb-egmt0tYtXZyzHiIO3YGz0kRwEUg8TSaZ0ny88MyUoBCobhNIbOJGemMehOqyIVhtrJQokn4jzuEYavmZMpYJ76-D6yfYQrlWcAIVmvUUZryHA/s400/prom.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566931038869275826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">A few days before the big night we went back to Lambino's to pick up our suits (sans jackets). They fit perfectly and we agreed that we looked really cool.<br /><br />The night of the Prom, Dana and I walked up to Hamilton Hall to pick up our dates. I presented Cindy with an orchid corsage and she gave her stamp of approval to my clothes. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">All the other girls came down to admire the finery and see us off. Then it was time to go; George drove up in the school's VW <span style="font-style: italic;">"Combi"</span>, he would be taking us over to </span><span style="font-size:130%;">the Main Club at Camp John Hay. The dinner was a wonderful formal affair, afterwards we all got up <span style="font-style: italic;">en masse</span> to dance. Making sure we were on the floor for every "slow" dance, I finally got to get my arms around Cindy. Oh, what a night.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsQV6krl_Fw0rYyc_LxB1YXSFTKATmKWA0RG0ohwJPpALnSe-5A4bv3M2KMT1UsF8YcMswtZ6ma1jVP3OA9pIZCqMAOwSJBMVYu6BzWvJ7vBuyd2-asgSLgiTKsh6hwjscontG3pWrwY/s1600/Brent+Students+1974-75+Jaime+Case%252CLaura+Merchant.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGsQV6krl_Fw0rYyc_LxB1YXSFTKATmKWA0RG0ohwJPpALnSe-5A4bv3M2KMT1UsF8YcMswtZ6ma1jVP3OA9pIZCqMAOwSJBMVYu6BzWvJ7vBuyd2-asgSLgiTKsh6hwjscontG3pWrwY/s400/Brent+Students+1974-75+Jaime+Case%252CLaura+Merchant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568399276611359730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Two days later and I watched as some of my closest friends marched down the aisle and up on to the stage. As president of the Junior class, Jaime lead the way, the graduating seniors in procession behind him. It was a somber moment as <span style="font-style: italic;">Pomp and Circumstance </span>swelled. A time for endings, a time for beginnings. The Seniors choked their way through a song by Seals & Crofts, <span style="font-style: italic;">We May Never Pass This Way Again</span>. Afterwards, lots of hugging, lots of tears.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">After graduation that night we went to a party being held off campus at the home of one of the graduates. Honestly, I can't tell you a lot about the party. Most of the seniors were there, there was lots of food; I remember there was chocolate cake and cases of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Cold Duck. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Lots of cases. Turned up loud on the stereo was Paul McCartney and the Wings new album </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Band on the Run</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. We all seemed to know the words to every song and when </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Picasso's Last Words</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> came on we lustily joined in. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">" Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can't drink anymore"</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Well, we sure could and we did. Cases. We were still up when the sun rose the next morning and a bleary eyed Mr Pettitt drove those of us who had to catch a plane to Manila back to Brent to pick up our luggage. He was still suffering from the previous nights over indulgence and we came close several times to running off the road or into a tree. As we weaved back and forth across the yellow line, I made a mental note to add </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Cold Duck</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> right next to </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Ginebra San Miguel </span><span style="font-size:130%;">on my list of alcoholic beverages I would never drink again.</span><br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/dbSV1SfboKk?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-11762303851950801462011-01-16T01:00:00.000-08:002011-01-16T19:00:35.532-08:00Part 44: Ride the High Country<span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uaR8LLRZKBCfcy1RxDEt9vtDOMQSkTz7k8TOo7o_Z1duP4hvtEdB9TYIoAbS1nHwfGRQZYVZae0fxmDuv8qVQeRuDNQrPitjB13DD7eADn2PdyzvZ-r7oXUM19uO7pEx0JcCNk86rzc/s1600/gnh2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uaR8LLRZKBCfcy1RxDEt9vtDOMQSkTz7k8TOo7o_Z1duP4hvtEdB9TYIoAbS1nHwfGRQZYVZae0fxmDuv8qVQeRuDNQrPitjB13DD7eADn2PdyzvZ-r7oXUM19uO7pEx0JcCNk86rzc/s400/gnh2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560674524004585762" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Since the very beginning of Bishop Brent's Baguio School, outdoor excursions were an integral part of the curriculum. Santo Tomas, Asin Hot Springs and trips to the beach were regular parts of student life. On February 28, 1910, the first annual </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Great Northern Hike</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> up into the mountains of the Cordilleras was undertaken. For the first few decades the entire school would take part in this adventure. Headmaster, teachers, students, the cook leading a pack mule loaded with pots, pans and supplies would head north on foot. On occasion even Bishop Brent would make the 250 mile trek; from Baguio up 2000 feet to Haight's Place, on to Suyoc, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxd7VJHvFXCudit5Qr4qb21e9_zFSROfqwgBFyLAqtcs-cFkSGtP_yjVweFDLy5TeHrAGqUw8T8ti00l1Z0HvmhDmEnuKSeGXrjoDRe6cu8AMFgBDujAygX1fHxINyY4Z-63nR5AJJ7TY/s1600/148171_146714545377118_100001157214835_237790_4044948_n.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxd7VJHvFXCudit5Qr4qb21e9_zFSROfqwgBFyLAqtcs-cFkSGtP_yjVweFDLy5TeHrAGqUw8T8ti00l1Z0HvmhDmEnuKSeGXrjoDRe6cu8AMFgBDujAygX1fHxINyY4Z-63nR5AJJ7TY/s400/148171_146714545377118_100001157214835_237790_4044948_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560326039653293266" border="0" /></a>Cervantes, Sagada, Bontoc and finally Banaue and then back to Baguio.<br /><br />After the school went co-ed in 1926, it was deemed to be unladylike for the girls to take part in the annual hike. Post WWII the Great Northern Hike had become a class activity, limited to those who signed up to go, usually Seniors and Juniors and now they went by van, bus or truck.<br /><br />So it was that I found myself part of Mr Pettitt's field trip into the Mountain Province. We were to collect field research and write a term paper that would count as 25% of our final grade. Norman, Curby, CJ, Scott Jazynka and Lulie were just some of students who had signed up. We loaded up a truck with our gear and supplies, gym mats on the truck bed and a tarp over the back half to keep them dry and give those of us riding in the back a little shade. Canvas straps were woven between the end posts to keep us from bouncing out on the rough narrow mountain roads. The chaperones took turns riding up in the cab which was not as much a luxury as you might think. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7EbPUnWQ8RgehGDuXqez38GO73nYND4xAIIfA6mpSE4w9zn_Ua67c5GgTPIaV5YPGCF8rJ79ozSc0RaFGZRdKBXixkpdrw_06NfJdUIUTxtK8_F9fth3p4HWEI-tns_HaPaB3_ngUSnk/s1600/George+Latawan.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7EbPUnWQ8RgehGDuXqez38GO73nYND4xAIIfA6mpSE4w9zn_Ua67c5GgTPIaV5YPGCF8rJ79ozSc0RaFGZRdKBXixkpdrw_06NfJdUIUTxtK8_F9fth3p4HWEI-tns_HaPaB3_ngUSnk/s400/George+Latawan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562198141653870562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">The roads were very narrow, at times one side of the truck would scrape the cliff walls while on the other the outside tires hugged the edge of the road. It was much more scary being inside the truck than in back where we could only see the road behind us.<br /><br />Our driver was George Latawan, a mountain man who wore cowboy boots, a cowboy hat and US Army surplus coat. He drove fast in Baguio and drove faster on the open mountain roads. I don't think Pettitt or the other teachers on our trip knew it, but George always kept a bottle of Ginebra San Miguel behind the seat of the truck. Now that he was away from the school he was able to partake of his favorite beverage from time to time. Ginebra was very popular among the mountain tribes. We would pass villages where mounds of empty bottles were stored in fish nets, waiting to be taken down the mountain to be sterilized and refilled. The youngest member on this field trip, I got the </span><span style="font-size:130%;">distinct </span><span style="font-size:130%;">feeling </span><span style="font-size:130%;">that quite a few of them didn't like having an underclassmen along on the trip. Some of them complained to Pettitt</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> but he had already made up his mind. So I spent my free time hanging out with George. I helped him each morning to get the truck loaded and ready to go; I became his "sidekick" during this trip.<br /><br />We spent most of the first day driving, it was hot and dusty in the back of the truck and after a few hours we got used to the amazing scenery around us. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdNBpUzsBNfEzHHF8eld3q9tLOPrB7PcyRocqfP2wAJkvASy4VF-beH4z3gVJGvklIUJ0IUHUu97Z1fvhj_-fVCa8r1FfivRY5PiHT1JR0LqzyhOQK3PMgFKq0yB2yUan2y-pYLQCzx30/s1600/107.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdNBpUzsBNfEzHHF8eld3q9tLOPrB7PcyRocqfP2wAJkvASy4VF-beH4z3gVJGvklIUJ0IUHUu97Z1fvhj_-fVCa8r1FfivRY5PiHT1JR0LqzyhOQK3PMgFKq0yB2yUan2y-pYLQCzx30/s400/107.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560676889408481858" border="0" /></a>But then the fog started rolling in, so thick now that we could only see the road thirty feet or so ahead or behind. Here and there the tops of the tall Benguet Pines poked out and then rock formations, looking like ghostly towers or parapets of castles appeared! Sagada. Home of famed anthropologist William Henry Scott. Clean, pristine, pine forests right up into the town; white and green houses and buildings that looked like Brent. The old church looked medieval which added to the mysterious atmosphere. Sagada was the second largest Episcopal mission in Mountain Province, older than the one in Baguio. Long before Bishop Brent opened his school, Fr. Staunton, another Episcopalian legend was at work in Sagada. He started schools, a lumber mill, acquired a printing press; later a convent was opened.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsX-DrJ_sAB8_XpIk5I7Nc1a1Cox4193U2SgCy7xD2Z0cj_FjgWp9fTW2_Y_4UtAiIo9NjPlyzDTTpfeuqVEOQbAAXw-cLhcyQCyQ9-DeXF9lCyamA4NggIzI-rw16TQI3M9RK2qc1mw/s1600/103.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsX-DrJ_sAB8_XpIk5I7Nc1a1Cox4193U2SgCy7xD2Z0cj_FjgWp9fTW2_Y_4UtAiIo9NjPlyzDTTpfeuqVEOQbAAXw-cLhcyQCyQ9-DeXF9lCyamA4NggIzI-rw16TQI3M9RK2qc1mw/s400/103.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560676528720824610" border="0" /></a>Dirty and tired we hurried up to unload the truck because it looked like it was going to rain; we were going to sleep in classrooms of one of the schools. Later, when it started to pour, Lulie and I grabbed our soap and shampoo and went out to shower under the downspout. It was wonderful to get the grime of the road off our bodies. Afterwards, we started work on supper. George went up to Mr Pettitt and asked " I need to go into town to pick up some supplies, can I take one of the boys to help me?" That meant me. We left and George made a beeline straight to a local watering hole. He bellied up to the bar and ordered gin with a water chaser and a beer for me. The bartender poured a tall water glass full of Gin and the same size glass with water in it. George drained the Gin and then chugged the water. Mouth open, I stared at him in horror, my stomach burning, beer halfway to my lips. Yikes! He had another, this time drinking it much slower while I drank my beer. Refreshed, we headed back to the school. This would be our routine when we hit a town. Gin for George, Beer for me.<br /><br />That night as part of our class assignment, a village elder came and told us the old legends of his tribe, of their gods and how his people came to be. George was our interpreter, interjecting his own comments from time to time. The old man told us a story of how the luck of the village had changed when their sacred tree had been cut down. Many years before a group of young men came from a rival village and cut down their tree in retaliation for cutting down that village's sacred tree.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> Things went from good to bad to worse for the village after that. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">As we sat around the fire listening to the old man's story George turned to me gleefully and whispered "I was one of the young men who snuck into the village and cut down the tree! Better to cut down a tree than to cut off each others heads!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfiNKNE7pbGS_vzV5RsIZO8oZxTZBzY9T_rltHYmrKbcYFlEAbRDaZNTOivI7vja1GE1uEsHOeCqDLrENdUASdEBI0ftBlZI-GZD7A3R_nOelwRnqdG5MRioJdtFJfmqOXgUvfEpHGJM8/s1600/mark+w+chicken.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfiNKNE7pbGS_vzV5RsIZO8oZxTZBzY9T_rltHYmrKbcYFlEAbRDaZNTOivI7vja1GE1uEsHOeCqDLrENdUASdEBI0ftBlZI-GZD7A3R_nOelwRnqdG5MRioJdtFJfmqOXgUvfEpHGJM8/s320/mark+w+chicken.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562202799807558130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">The next day we pulled out, headed to the next town. At the next village the local shaman came to read chicken entrails. Apparently you foretell the future by looking at chicken guts. I got delegated to hold the <span style="font-style: italic;">live </span>chicken while it's wings and body were beaten with a stick, something to do with forcing the blood to certain parts of the body. That's me being totally disgusted. Each village was different than the other, not only did the locals dress differently, but the architecture of the homes changed too. It was amazing that from one side of the mountain to the next things could be so different. We were to find that Sagada was an anomaly among the other towns we visited, cleaner, friendlier and more familiar to our Western eyes and tastes. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOm2ltK3k4l3gBBN4brvfZZcrdy6n-i3YUZyRjQLOtvkSFh9K_h-1p9SsnHGN9axxnGh-zubCwRAMdyHSC_IdUkQYBS-PV23XjnuuC81szJuXj2E5NAu-6FpKCe2_m0GPdCb06sg5V1A/s1600/Curby.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOm2ltK3k4l3gBBN4brvfZZcrdy6n-i3YUZyRjQLOtvkSFh9K_h-1p9SsnHGN9axxnGh-zubCwRAMdyHSC_IdUkQYBS-PV23XjnuuC81szJuXj2E5NAu-6FpKCe2_m0GPdCb06sg5V1A/s320/Curby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562200594411939666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We stayed dirty for days, stopping once at a river to wash. By this time neither the boys or the girls cared about bathing in their underwear, we just wanted to get clean.<br /><br />The last stop on trip was Banaue, famous for the impressive views of the rice terraces. This time we would be spending the night at a hotel there, overlooking the famed rice terraces. We would have the use of our own beds with clean sheets, flushing toilets, showers and a swimming pool. Heaven. A few hours later, washed, a full stomach we were lazily lounging in the pool watching a single engine plane come up the valley. Thirty minutes later there was a commotion by the bar, and one of my schoolmates came hurrying up. "hey that plane we saw, it crashed! They say some Americans are hurt!" </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBibC7EdLICsRTIPREvnJJcDgm16W4oEL6haB693p9njsoPZ-30c_9VUj3hLVtIWlgy6hZ8OCTT1aKRk_pwXzVJEaAU1Gql3q-YgbNU928hx01RC7XZ353J7VD7CZvg1WocTmRxabf1g/s1600/banaue_rice_terraces450.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBibC7EdLICsRTIPREvnJJcDgm16W4oEL6haB693p9njsoPZ-30c_9VUj3hLVtIWlgy6hZ8OCTT1aKRk_pwXzVJEaAU1Gql3q-YgbNU928hx01RC7XZ353J7VD7CZvg1WocTmRxabf1g/s320/banaue_rice_terraces450.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562207924511755890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Some local farmers had seen the plane crash and had stopped a passing car to send word to get help. We threw on our clothes and ran out into the parking lot where a truck was getting ready to pull out. We climbed aboard and away we went. We drove a few miles and pulled up next to another truck stopped by the side of the road. There was a heated conversation going on between the local police, the farmers and the occupants of the other vehicle. Apparently the occupants were dead, they were Americans and being apprehensive about handling dead bodies no one wanted to touch them. "They have sent for the PC, they are worried about the dead spirits" someone said. Crude stretchers had been made from branches and blankets by the farmers. Norman and some of the guys grabbed stretchers and headed over the side of the road and I followed. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">We got to the plane and</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> they were in fact dead and we were going to have to get them out of the plane and back up the mountain. I avoided looking at their faces. Where the seat belts were their clothes were torn and the bones badly broken. They were so heavy. I wondered how their shoes got off their feet. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"> All of a sudden I wasn't so sure I wanted to do this. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Fortunately for me there were twice as many Brent students as were needed. Norman took charge and in short order had the bodies out, strapped on the stretchers and mostly covered in blankets. As they filed past me I involuntarily looked at the foot of one of the bodies, it was grayish blue. I found myself wondering at how fast life leaves us; in a short hour the things that mark us as alive are gone. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">As we made our way back up we passed soldiers climbing down. The PC had arrived.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />After we got back to the hotel we had a meeting over drinks, I know I needed one. We were supposed to spend another day there, but no one felt like hanging out. We took a vote and it was decided that we would head back to Brent in the morning. I went to bed early that night, though some Seniors were tempted by the hotel bar.<br /><br />It was fairly quiet in the back of the truck for the first few hours, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Scott, Curby and I were leaning up against the straps at the end of the truck. It was a little tricky, keeping your balance and leaning back without bouncing out of the back of the truck, but we managed to get the hang of it. One of the girls turned on her cassette player and all of a sudden we were singing along to <span style="font-style: italic;">ABBA</span> and then the three of us did an impromptu dance number to a new song by <span style="font-style: italic;">The Three Degrees </span>called "When Will I see you Again", singing at the top of our lungs. Life goes on</span>.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/B7sfs4gWI0E?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/B7sfs4gWI0E?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-689213228884407622011-01-01T01:00:00.000-08:002011-01-02T10:45:34.382-08:00Part 43: Whistle Down the Wind<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"People forget that when you’re 16,<br />you’re probably more serious than you’ll ever be again."<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">- John Hughes<br /><br /></span></span></span> </div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiF79KA7p1KLUwRwvAJr3nW7A0XnCOBHMx_HS9QVQR7Mm_q8FvWaipOpaCN6kndyDFLnA-_qQZvogvLIQiyZgUXtsvuGjJN4-YdE5YGyta0gVw3J237qvg2yboJz-cV6_C1S9r4RhsJOI/s1600/scan0003.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiF79KA7p1KLUwRwvAJr3nW7A0XnCOBHMx_HS9QVQR7Mm_q8FvWaipOpaCN6kndyDFLnA-_qQZvogvLIQiyZgUXtsvuGjJN4-YdE5YGyta0gVw3J237qvg2yboJz-cV6_C1S9r4RhsJOI/s320/scan0003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557440094293412210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">In December of 1974 I turned 16 and I was terribly serious (when I wasn't being goofy). This generally was an impediment, girls like boys who are not so serious or too goofy. It was hard deciding on one or the other and the middle of the road seemed kind of <span style="font-style: italic;">blase</span>. The Seniors were cool and seemed so mature, they were on their way to change the world and I, well sometimes I still wanted to be a kid.<br /><br />Being a kid meant playing Frisbee or Red Rover on the Neutral and Capture the Flag in the Valley. It also meant doing the duck walk down Session Road arm in arm with my favorite girls. It meant sneaking into Paul Bowman's room every night to turn his electric blanket on high, then waiting for him to wake up screaming. Or helping my buddies Mike Kendrick and Tom Lowman build a secret hideout in the ceiling above our rooms. We opened up the recessed florescent ceiling lights to make a hatchway up into the attic of our dorm. We drug up a couple of mattresses and some throw pillows from the lounge and Tommy wired it up for lights and a fan. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Tommy was a fun guy to hang out with, he loved The Beatles, martial arts, scuba diving and was something of a genius. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">The hideout didn't get much use, after all we had the entire campus to hang out in, but it gave us something to do.<br /><br />Mr Pettitt was directing a play called <span style="font-style: italic;">Henry IV</span>. No, not the one by Shakespeare, the one by Luigi Pirandello. It is an examination of the fine line between sanity and insanity. A wealthy man falls off his horse during a historical reenactment and wakes up thinking he is Henry IV of Germany. A lot of the characters had pages of dialog, Jaime</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPLOwpfn5PQliJEclwGGhg8fj7gxc6FveytHQi43lWH2xvr7_cw6OUrOOVbIpeFS-XIy6NeZYTWvV8VfZLOzUeRYxCv2154GomHVixa7fCb3ZfclAErsd7a5qExlNfeD-yP15c5TAo0c/s1600/Brent+083.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPLOwpfn5PQliJEclwGGhg8fj7gxc6FveytHQi43lWH2xvr7_cw6OUrOOVbIpeFS-XIy6NeZYTWvV8VfZLOzUeRYxCv2154GomHVixa7fCb3ZfclAErsd7a5qExlNfeD-yP15c5TAo0c/s320/Brent+083.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557374207957798930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> was playing the title character and had a speech that was 3 pages long. We were all struggling to memorize so many lines, and Pettitt was getting really impatient during our rehearsals. He got fed up one day and issued an ultimatum: have all your lines memorized by next week or the play is off. We practiced hard, each of us helping the other work on their lines when ever we had a free moment. Finally, just a few days before the deadline we thought we had done it. Well, most of us did. A few were still having trouble. I had been working with Jaime and Kevin and they finally had it down. The rehearsal came and we went through our lines and a few made some minor mistakes but not too bad. But then Kevin did his part and forgot a few words of his last speech. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">That was it. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I had worked with Kevin in <span style="font-style: italic;">Murder in the Cathedral</span> and knew he could get it down, but Pettitt was like my dad and had no patience.<br />Pettitt said "<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">it's off</span>".<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">For days we tried to reason with him but he wouldn't budge. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Months of hard work down the drain. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEqbSZfbGiYtuZPAxj_DchpmtqfLlOGYlDPpqCXTQzqFiscVGBes_hCRuNt47WqJYfu493_1t2r-0hDIv7onIaNOEYliYu4F5tYzMsosIG8gkqhHMOdoSKsx4xTmqsbWyrnI7MQa6eGc/s1600/n559252075_1245055_8008.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEqbSZfbGiYtuZPAxj_DchpmtqfLlOGYlDPpqCXTQzqFiscVGBes_hCRuNt47WqJYfu493_1t2r-0hDIv7onIaNOEYliYu4F5tYzMsosIG8gkqhHMOdoSKsx4xTmqsbWyrnI7MQa6eGc/s400/n559252075_1245055_8008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557436944397121314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Some of the cast were pissed at Kevin, most were mad at Pettitt for being such a hard ass.<br /><br />A few months later some of us found it rather annoying that Mr Pettitt took a part in the play <span style="font-style: italic;">Oklahoma! </span>Jaime was still pissed and didn't even try out.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-size:130%;">It was a big production, it seemed like most of the school was involved one way or the other in the play. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Mrs. Tabafunda was real busy sewing costumes for everyone and Mrs. Villaba had her hands full as music director. Some of the roles had multiple actors which made rehearsals complicated and confusing. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkfwZlpOWxRHShD4V_v_hwb2nF7J1QeHMD3v1ntP0mufzOvmvy8ck3F8pDajUue4n_kWrmJqdmgSSA2O0gel522mH9GiBGyBibbWZuA5lKQBhDyPBp0qpZfau2Aj2VUwhbBPkCfjFCu8/s1600/Oklahoma15.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkfwZlpOWxRHShD4V_v_hwb2nF7J1QeHMD3v1ntP0mufzOvmvy8ck3F8pDajUue4n_kWrmJqdmgSSA2O0gel522mH9GiBGyBibbWZuA5lKQBhDyPBp0qpZfau2Aj2VUwhbBPkCfjFCu8/s400/Oklahoma15.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557434517053520130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Leigh & Leeanne got the part of Aunt Eller, Kevin & Jim Evans were Jud Fry, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Cindy Johnson and Noni Donohue were Ado Annie, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Dayne Florence was Ado Annie's father Andrew, Dana Busse was Curly, Beth Wagner was Laurie.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> I had a tiny part as one of the cowboys, but I didn't mind, it gave me plenty of time to flirt (in the dark) backstage with Marie Strasser and Margie Molina. Kevin poured himself into the role and gave a memorable performance.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />Life in the dorms at Brent School was a wonderful, transformative experience. A school within a school, our education did not conclude with the last class each day. Not having parents or a family to guide me, I put into practice the archaic things I picked up from old movies and novels: a gentleman </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >always</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> holds out the chair for a woman at dinner and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >always</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> carries a </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >clean</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> handkerchief to present to a lady for those inevitable moments of tears. I learned to listen or at least to pick up on a stray word here or there, a look on the face. In spite of and because of my limited budget I learned to give thoughtful, insightful gifts.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_4ojQ8XkAprYwS1XEBuFE2k-2S-79CCVDXJwXXagg_twzTvj13lOqRpyJjYgwxX1S2M5wGfY8Dt7gcY8jQYT1rU-QAx8cKXKwEFMO-0yfRhaurze9zECAFyMPMh7rhYVtJ8ZI_SOUY4/s1600/borders+001.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 398px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4_4ojQ8XkAprYwS1XEBuFE2k-2S-79CCVDXJwXXagg_twzTvj13lOqRpyJjYgwxX1S2M5wGfY8Dt7gcY8jQYT1rU-QAx8cKXKwEFMO-0yfRhaurze9zECAFyMPMh7rhYVtJ8ZI_SOUY4/s400/borders+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557338207198376594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We were a diverse lot, we all came from different social and economic backgrounds. We didn't watch much TV after school or at night, we usually sat on the student lounge steps and talked about the books we were reading and what was going on in the world.<br /><br />Nixon had resigned, Ford took his place and in February we were let out of class to watch TV as a large group of recently released POWs arrived at Clark Air Force Base. Music was changing too. Something called "Disco" was infiltrating the airwaves. The times they were a changin'.<br /><br />We didn't always agree and many a heated debate that started on the steps of the student lounge would carry on into the dining room, sometimes afterwards they would carry on late into the night back at the dorm. But in spite of it all, in some strange way, we were bonded together.<br /><br />In a discussion about empathy, Rug once said that it was all relative. Everyone sees the same event slightly different. My worst or best experience could be minor in the eyes of someone else. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"So how can we empathize with someone if we don't experience things the same way?</span><span style="font-size:130%;">" a classmate asked. </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >You first have to admit that their point of view is valid. Then you have to try and learn what experiences may have formed and shaped them into arriving at that viewpoint.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The boarding students were my surrogate family and though the boys lived in one dorm and the girls in another, most managed to form close bonds. Some were to last a lifetime, some were lost, others found again.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Whistle down the wind, let your voices carry</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Drown out all the rain, light a patch of darkness</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >treacherous and scary</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Howl at the stars, whisper when you are sleeping</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >I'll be there to hold you, I'll be there to stop</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >the chills and all the weeping</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Make it clear and strong, so the whole night long</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >every signal that you send, until the very end</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >I will not abandon you my precious friend</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >So try and stem the tide, then you'll raise a banner</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Send a flare up in the sky, try to burn a torch</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >and try to build a bonfire</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Every signal that you send, until the very end, I'm there</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >So whistle down the wind, for I have always been right there"</span><br /></div>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-88276239174307052982010-12-20T01:00:00.000-08:002010-12-20T09:06:46.612-08:00Part 42: Holiday Road<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The holiest of all holidays are those</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The secret anniversaries of the heart,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >When the full river of feeling overflows;--</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The happy days unclouded to their close;</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The sudden joys that out of darkness start</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >White as the gleam of a receding sail,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >White as the whitest lily on a stream,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >These tender memories are;--a fairy tale</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Of some enchanted land we know not where,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >But lovely as a landscape in a dream. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">- "Holidays" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</span><br /><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;">While lowlanders considered </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Baguio <span style="font-style: italic;">the</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> vacation destination</span>, we </span><span style="font-size:130%;">who lived in the city </span><span style="font-size:130%;">on the other hand usually went somewhere else for our holidays. We got about a week at Thanksgiving and another at Easter, but the longest holiday was Christmas break, lasting close to three weeks. In my first years at Brent I spent the shorter holidays in Baguio with whatever missionary families my parents could pawn me off on. Sometimes I got to spend it at Camp John Hay at a classmate's home. Later, Jaime and I more often than not spent the shorter vacations together with his family in Baguio or at his house in Solano.<br /><br />I was still nursing crushes on Leeanne and Lulie, but the former had a boyfriend in a band in Manila and Lulie was dating Jaime. But we were still friends and this year we took several trips together down to the lowlands where we'd spend a long weekend at Linda Schwartzendruber's home in Forbes Park or at Lulie Lawry's home on Clark Air Force Base.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQXL-gXGJI9iDH2fqH2iKRQ9b_ULLI2_LUXCyhZOCJGT1KJqzwT89mOfpbCleJJLOufs4l9srM-n5LgVycEp-ixZGW4lP1U_T_KhLeRDS-ikJtcaoRjNJuxxkBt75TwJVs7pjeEiksZo/s1600/WCF_1131.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 168px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQXL-gXGJI9iDH2fqH2iKRQ9b_ULLI2_LUXCyhZOCJGT1KJqzwT89mOfpbCleJJLOufs4l9srM-n5LgVycEp-ixZGW4lP1U_T_KhLeRDS-ikJtcaoRjNJuxxkBt75TwJVs7pjeEiksZo/s200/WCF_1131.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552518933602124258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Named after William Cameron Forbes (<span style="font-style: italic;">who in 1904 at the age of 34 became the Commissioner of Commerce and Police in the Philippines; 5 years later he was appointed Governor General</span>), Forbes Park was a gated community founded in 1940's. The wealthiest families had homes there; Manila Country Club and the Polo Club were within its boundaries.<br /><br />Besides the armed guards at the main gate, Linda's home had its own guards at their gate too. Situated right next to the Polo stables, I could see the riders practicing from the upstairs window. The house was enormous, the entry more like a hotel lobby, with a Chinese Rickshaw from Hong Kong under the curved stairway, an antique elephant chair from India and a huge Siberian Tiger skin on the floor. Our whole house in Tacloban could fit into the living room area (really a series of 5 living rooms)! The large dining room was circular and the table in it was too. and there were three kitchens back to back. Despite all the trappings that surrounded them, the Schwartzendrubers were a warm and down to earth couple. He was tall, looked kind of like Cary Grant but spoke more like Gregory Peck. She was dark haired and petite, she reminded me of <span style="font-style: italic;">Harriet Nelson </span>from<span style="font-style: italic;"> The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimS6yJUV1-2sGFT-nsS2YkTndere36rGTKrEAlVFeu-PEjEpYpE-QV4tAu3uVyOeId-tlP3rVtLIMOt9lJSy6jR4W-QMU8GHm9Zgj-LJta6Uuq3NIP8xjUSkODKRQsnehyQVrcF8F3Vgw/s1600/Rizal+Theater.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimS6yJUV1-2sGFT-nsS2YkTndere36rGTKrEAlVFeu-PEjEpYpE-QV4tAu3uVyOeId-tlP3rVtLIMOt9lJSy6jR4W-QMU8GHm9Zgj-LJta6Uuq3NIP8xjUSkODKRQsnehyQVrcF8F3Vgw/s200/Rizal+Theater.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552521627603304290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">When we went to Manila we would stop and pick up a dozen roses to bring to Mrs. Schwartzendruber. Our afternoons were spent shopping in Makati, sometimes we would catch a movie at the Rizal Theater. Leeanne and I saw <span style="font-style: italic;">Young Frankenstein</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Earthquake</span> there. In the evenings we'd meet up with other Brent students, congregating together at someplace like <span style="font-style: italic;">Italian Village</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">Shakey's</span> for pizza and beer. Afterwards, we might go to a schoolmate's home. A few times it was back to Linda's home to swim in her pool, play billiards and take advantage of one of the many fully stocked bars.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcjspMBSrUnvXx8gVVl4MfTASemOMFGY8cuKvSCcKwwhjHRAy5R3j3GkAvxFILWTNdVvvTcZ1cluc7SHEWfx-GJzWuBNtybZLNPeVLqBRob5RTpObn204cjO2vxeuNY806T-PcLjHj4c/s1600/ftln7.jpe"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcjspMBSrUnvXx8gVVl4MfTASemOMFGY8cuKvSCcKwwhjHRAy5R3j3GkAvxFILWTNdVvvTcZ1cluc7SHEWfx-GJzWuBNtybZLNPeVLqBRob5RTpObn204cjO2vxeuNY806T-PcLjHj4c/s400/ftln7.jpe" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550385088427065698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Going to Clark was a totally different experience. It was like being stateside, albeit a tropical U.S.A. American cars and trucks, stores and shops, even the neighborhoods looked American.<br /><br />Founded in 1902 as a US Cavalry post called Fort Stotsenburg, it originally was home of the 26th Cavalry and the 86th and 88th Field Artillery regiments. Eventually the Army Air Corps established an airfield there and <span style="font-style: italic;">Clark Field</span> was born. A bustling air base at the height of the Vietnam War, Clark Air Base was at that time the largest overseas U.S. Military base in the world, covering 156,204 acres. While in the early days most of it was uncultivated grasslands and jungle, the base grew up and around the old army post, a small city surrounded by tall, magnificent trees. The 13th Air Force Headquarters occupied buildings that went back to the early 1900's. The base was an odd mix of American Colonial bungalows and modern track housing. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">The Officers' Club surrounded by the graceful old homes with large verandas, was a stark contrast to the modern rectangular block housing of the single enlisted men.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> There were shopping centers, bowling alleys, movie theaters, restaurants, clubs and schools. In the late 60's and early 70's there were around 8,000 American kids in the base's school system.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2vaaWIbsdNTV9pZidSl_qOEaqzMefTxzsHpjt4McZXBLvYltizY73w9ZN3lXywerVH1kX40H6LdzlexNkdhWgvRb9gDuucY8bVot6NNT9ZuZNqKYAwMmx-oT0OMNsHl89qC9MWut_gQ/s1600/Mikeystreet3.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2vaaWIbsdNTV9pZidSl_qOEaqzMefTxzsHpjt4McZXBLvYltizY73w9ZN3lXywerVH1kX40H6LdzlexNkdhWgvRb9gDuucY8bVot6NNT9ZuZNqKYAwMmx-oT0OMNsHl89qC9MWut_gQ/s400/Mikeystreet3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550386516305919426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Lulie's mother Chloe met us in front of the house with hugs and kisses. A beautiful southern belle, she took a real shine to me and showered me with attention, which kind of annoyed Jaime because he was Lulie's boyfriend after all. But maybe she knew I was the odd man out and was compensating for the agony I was going through. She took me by the elbow and walked me into the house, completely ignoring Jaime. She asked me what I'd like to eat while I was there, she would fix whatever I was hungry for. So we had roast beef, ham, turkey and mashed potatoes, hamburgers and steaks, German chocolate cake, pecan and cherry pies, peach cobbler and ice cream. I was in 7th Heaven. On my second visit to their home she met me at the door with a big pitcher of screwdrivers calling out <span style="font-style: italic;">"Marky, look what I've got!"</span>.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0qgbeNfRwzjlyjIw26GDaeBdAUqxsu7EfeNJBj0Ip52u-jGCpCB_UoS0IMOpUVcgg3DPhWtT3_9DeHJxCxNgTm8S9OF8KFO7H00fh32VZjjhAZNrEot4Eikz3aUcDwiF-xxMPdSq0Ao/s1600/MikeyF4s.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0qgbeNfRwzjlyjIw26GDaeBdAUqxsu7EfeNJBj0Ip52u-jGCpCB_UoS0IMOpUVcgg3DPhWtT3_9DeHJxCxNgTm8S9OF8KFO7H00fh32VZjjhAZNrEot4Eikz3aUcDwiF-xxMPdSq0Ao/s400/MikeyF4s.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550386944461129442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">One night well after midnight we were sitting around listening to music and talking when Lulie's dad came out in his uniform strapping his side arm to his waist and grabbing his automatic rifle from the closet. "We're on full alert. You kids stay inside till I find out what's going on" he told us. The next morning he called to say we could go outside but we had to stay on the base. Later that morning Lulie got her mom's car and we drove over to the Hobby Store to pick up some leather crafting supplies. She drove around the base to see if we could see what might be going on. The Main Gate was closed and they had big trucks blocking the entrance. The fighter jets were out of the hangers and they were all being armed. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0MeR0-Tfb6RqIh65rYzNjgKC_mKUeLlS2nI1QVP-NPbR9YefwLlRuCBsu2zKjoHCP-3sJ_2k-JoOJ9qURII9QjPn62CDbYNh7GaZ7uUiu1ufyOPg1hXzMuTebKZd0PsJuPauj03eiWNs/s1600/erteam2c.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0MeR0-Tfb6RqIh65rYzNjgKC_mKUeLlS2nI1QVP-NPbR9YefwLlRuCBsu2zKjoHCP-3sJ_2k-JoOJ9qURII9QjPn62CDbYNh7GaZ7uUiu1ufyOPg1hXzMuTebKZd0PsJuPauj03eiWNs/s320/erteam2c.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550406063256612866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Base security trucks with .50 caliber machine guns in the back were driving the perimeter and even patrolling through the residential areas. Lulie and I were out sunning ourselves in the drive way when a jeep drove by slowing down to see if we were OK. It was pretty exciting but I never did find out what was going on.<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />It was at Clark that I had my first taste of good Irish Whiskey. One night Lulie's parents were having a dinner party for some of their friends and we were helping out in the kitchen. After the meal, it was time for coffee and dessert and Lulie's mom was making <span style="font-style: italic;">Irish Coffee</span>. She carried a tray of cups into the living room but soon returned bearing a single mug. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Mark, taste this, it doesn't seem quite right."</span> It looked delicious, whipped cream floating there with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top. I took a big swallow and choked, my eyes watering, the liquid burning it's way down my throat and into my stomach.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Uhmm, There's no coffee in it"</span> I sputtered and coughed, Jaime pounding my back.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Whoops! I knew I forgot something!"</span><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjo50q9791byXc3sZi_47q1XKMRKP82AdnjSkFk3WknyA-3JKUkeE6maGdlmXSNC1zWneZ0HK90MBtyhCYAfXyGfvME0CQuh0euUqklyiTom-l2K_J4NJKm3hIzlKZFCh8KMpo4uk8Tk/s1600/kelly2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjo50q9791byXc3sZi_47q1XKMRKP82AdnjSkFk3WknyA-3JKUkeE6maGdlmXSNC1zWneZ0HK90MBtyhCYAfXyGfvME0CQuh0euUqklyiTom-l2K_J4NJKm3hIzlKZFCh8KMpo4uk8Tk/s320/kelly2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550385630480403298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We went to the movies, sometimes to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Bobbit</span>, other times to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Collin Kelly</span>. One weekend we went over to the </span><span style="font-size:130%;">high school football field</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> called the <span style="font-style: italic;">Bamboo Bowl</span>, to </span><span style="font-size:130%;">see Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman in <span style="font-style: italic;">"Papillon"</span>. We sat on the field watching the movie; I was painfully aware of the couple snuggling on the blanket next to me and vainly tried to ignore them. But they were in love and their happiness and contentedness spilled over, enveloping me in the warmth.<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/84tIx7KF60Q?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/84tIx7KF60Q?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-41883264965057837732010-11-18T01:00:00.000-08:002010-11-20T07:57:28.548-08:00Part 41: The Tempest<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air... We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with sleep."</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">from The Tempest by William Shakespeare<br /><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRHyNgk1TrFhgExhqjRtBhm60dG-HCVMmSMzE2ZUuhzMfuCAmIUc-u1mB2a_otwTvY8xf0ejeTinlcbbes-5L0EvvVjow2UmMFzKEhc6YaayXi0H0WzHCk3-4kde94GEJMMuYx6ujPqfk/s1600/Alice1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 348px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRHyNgk1TrFhgExhqjRtBhm60dG-HCVMmSMzE2ZUuhzMfuCAmIUc-u1mB2a_otwTvY8xf0ejeTinlcbbes-5L0EvvVjow2UmMFzKEhc6YaayXi0H0WzHCk3-4kde94GEJMMuYx6ujPqfk/s400/Alice1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541370973201553634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm sure there were school activities those first few months of school, some field trips maybe; my friends Leigh, Lulie and Leeanne had lead roles in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Alice in Wonderland</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, but I can't really tell you much about the first part of the semester, because I was preoccupied, I had a girlfriend. For some reason it seemed to take up all my free time and I was neglecting my friends. I think they were sort of happy for me although they often appeared concerned. OK, so things got a little tempestuous at times. It was turning out to be an on again off again relationship. We would break up and then a few days or a week or two later we would get back together again. Things would be great at first, but then they would slowly start to fall apart and neither of us seemed to know why.<br /><br />Mirroring my life, the 1974 Typhoon Season was a busy one, there were 35 typhoons or tropical storms between January and December that year. Not all the storms impacted the mountain provinces, but we had more than our share. Baguio had an early warning system, a siren located near City Hall which could be clearly heard around the city. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">It consisted of a single or a series of siren wails; </span><span style="font-size:130%;">the Mayor would determine the number of signals depending on what the weather bureau </span><span style="font-size:130%;">(</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >PAGASA</span><span style="font-size:130%;">) </span><span style="font-size:130%;">would announce</span><span style="font-size:130%;">:<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Typhoon Signal #1</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> - some elementary schools had the option NOT to go to school, or if during the day, have parents pick them up.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Typhoon Signal #2</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> - elementary and high school kids go home, universities and government still at work. Heavy rain coming within the next 4 to 8 hours.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Typhoon Signal #3</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> - no work, no nothing, get home. Emergency/disaster groups and utilities get ready. Heavy rain, strong winds expected within the next 4 hours.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Typhoon Signal #4 </span><span style="font-size:130%;">- Typhoon is here, don't go out, very dangerous conditions.<br /><br />Brent didn't recognize the first two signals, it was only when the third signal would commence that school would be let out. I never actually heard #4, by then the wind and rain were so strong that the sirens could not be heard.<br /><br />There were a few minor storms and typhoons the first few months of school, but nothing that caused the school to close. This all changed when Typhoon </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Susang</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> hit Baguio one Thursday afternoon in October. I was in English class when we heard the first siren go off, no big deal we heard these often enough; then the second siren sounded and we all sat there pretending to be paying attention while listening with a cocked ear for the third siren. There it was! School was out! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Susang</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> struck Baguio on the 10th of October, bringing 30.8 inches of rain in less than 24 hours. A week later and we heard the sirens again, waiting with baited breath for that third siren. That typhoon was </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Tering</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and it was followed by </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Uding</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> 6 days later. This was getting kind of old, it seemed my clothes were always damp. Typhoon </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Wening</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> hit four days after that. On the first of November, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Yaning</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> blew through and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Aning</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> hit us a week after that. Each time now you could hear the classes around Ogilby counting out the sirens: </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >one... two... three!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> The roar of cheers and the boarders would go running back to the dorms to fill the wood boxes with firewood, then to the canteen to stock up on snacks. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7MIhZNOcYBRE6bHDfhZ4C6Ze5m5fp38KBx7zC2Uo1a5V0wj7O67ZUrXPMca68M6yaB_jJH76UnhBoMp7Cb2YswA00kK2bt_H11fSiMuyLBer4BQ3SqmYiORFvAvDHwdUzgp3-UhG6FE/s1600/jelly+rolls.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7MIhZNOcYBRE6bHDfhZ4C6Ze5m5fp38KBx7zC2Uo1a5V0wj7O67ZUrXPMca68M6yaB_jJH76UnhBoMp7Cb2YswA00kK2bt_H11fSiMuyLBer4BQ3SqmYiORFvAvDHwdUzgp3-UhG6FE/s200/jelly+rolls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540967614193592562" border="0" /></a>The rain would start, then came the winds, eventually the power would go out; usually shut down by the power company to avoid injuries. We ate dinner by candlelight, later that night two raincoat clad houseboys would show up, one bearing a petromax lantern in one hand and a thermos of coffee and another of hot chocolate in the other; the other houseboy gingerly carried the inevitable tray of jelly rolls (we had the same snack every night for five years!).<br /><br />Weekends during these typhoons were spent at Hamilton Hall (although the girls did surprise us a few times by showing up at the boys dorm), playing cards, eating snacks and listening to someone play the guitar while singing along. We would make the trek up the hill, leaning into the wind and by the time we arrived we would be completely soaked. There was always a roaring fire going and the girls would give us clothes to change into; we would line up our shoes on the hearth, hang our socks, shirts and jeans over the fireplace screen and watch the steam rise from our drying clothes.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Late one night during a typhoon we got a call from Hamilton Hall, Mr Pettitt needed some help boarding up a window that had broken in the storm. Jaime and I went over and on the way we picked up a piece of corrugated roofing that had come off the covered walkway. It was really tough trying to hang on to that tin sheet in the strong wind! When we got there we carried it up to the "<span style="font-style: italic;">4 L's" sala </span>and helped Mr. Pettitt nail it over the window. While we were doing this Linda went to use the restroom, but came out a few minutes later screaming! There was a rat in the toilet! When she went to flush she noticed something wet and furry looking up at her from the bowl! Jaime grabbed the fireplace poker and I the tongs and while I held it down Jaime killed it! I was totally disgusted. From that day forward I always look in the toilet first...<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Jaime and I were still in our sopping wet clothes, so the girls offered the use of their blazing fire to dry them out.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCOto0bDmC5l3rgDuso3xLqXV7T4Blk-Ov8EINzZVz8oSFds4tuEagpREMmialyjtG-TSs57RH0HnCAt4Jm-5HmafPRT6-y_bpXMnxgG7OAy2ayFu_IAKiMIhDeClcTDIwz6b5VS1Hqc/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 161px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCOto0bDmC5l3rgDuso3xLqXV7T4Blk-Ov8EINzZVz8oSFds4tuEagpREMmialyjtG-TSs57RH0HnCAt4Jm-5HmafPRT6-y_bpXMnxgG7OAy2ayFu_IAKiMIhDeClcTDIwz6b5VS1Hqc/s200/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541012908350939138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> We took off our clothes and I eventually found myself </span><span style="font-size:130%;">trying to get warm, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">huddled under a blanket with a pretty classmate in her room. How I got there or where the dorm master was I couldn't tell you. I was vaguely aware that we were both in our underwear (<span style="font-style: italic;">I can't tell you why she was because I never asked</span>), but it never occurred to me that this might be an opportunity for hanky panky! <span style="font-style: italic;">Or at least it didn't occur to me till the next day when Jaime said something about it!</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0dVl6alrFCY3H5f7xdP_qdNEOG6_S4eZERpkZ-GBswr6kdZrVZkG7yNKSD0PBxcs0SBQmtsX2A9SYzlUse7rw_K7FYh0u1P23RiO6UbrnWEgOorkwieqmjBdKOpo6HARB2OU1bQrgN_g/s1600/851106-Bangka-at-100-Islands-0.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0dVl6alrFCY3H5f7xdP_qdNEOG6_S4eZERpkZ-GBswr6kdZrVZkG7yNKSD0PBxcs0SBQmtsX2A9SYzlUse7rw_K7FYh0u1P23RiO6UbrnWEgOorkwieqmjBdKOpo6HARB2OU1bQrgN_g/s400/851106-Bangka-at-100-Islands-0.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540968142957574834" border="0" /></a>After </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Typhoon Aning</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> we had a break in the weather and Mr Asiatico decided he had better take advantage of the situation and make his annual trip to </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >100 Islands. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">We got to the coast and it was still a bit overcast and the water was choppy as we headed out to sea. About half way out we heard a shout from the bow and Mr Asiatico was pointing out to a pair of dorsal fins a hundred feet or so from our boat! This was the first time I had seen sharks other than the dead ones brought in by fishermen. Two of my classmates and fellow boarders, Tommy Lowman and Michael Kendrick were with me, Tommy had brought along his scuba gear and two extra pairs of swim fins and masks. He had brought along so much gear that Michael and I had to help him get it all in the boat. That first night after supper, we helped him get geared up and he tested out his new underwater flashlight. I was swimming along side using a snorkel when Tommy poked a bunch of sea cucumbers which suddenly expelled their innards! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrRhqPRlT3JasF6ydUPMWHhy21Sz40y7nWQa-ZLeo0RhyJfz1cCKYkj-AH10lUbsZ4tWSZKM7or95SoQmtxwmDdvtX_haYHDp0LWbi2791dtPC75DQQAecY0Iyr3yHf3bj2p-wmbdnw4A/s1600/Hundred_Islands_National_Park%252C_Philippines.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrRhqPRlT3JasF6ydUPMWHhy21Sz40y7nWQa-ZLeo0RhyJfz1cCKYkj-AH10lUbsZ4tWSZKM7or95SoQmtxwmDdvtX_haYHDp0LWbi2791dtPC75DQQAecY0Iyr3yHf3bj2p-wmbdnw4A/s400/Hundred_Islands_National_Park%252C_Philippines.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540973449997655970" border="0" /></a>This was totally unexpected and with muffled shouts we swam quickly back to the beach. I guess they were as startled as we were!<br /><br />Later that night Tommy and I snuck out to swim over to an island that was a few hundred feet from the one we were on. There had been a concrete bridge connecting the two, but Typhoon Susang had destroyed it. Now there were just the supports sticking out of the water. We were about half way there when churning waves threw us against the the busted up bridge. I felt a burning pain on my thighs where I scraped against rebar and broken concrete. We climbed on to one of the supports and Tommy shined his flashlight on my legs, they were covered in blood! He had a bad gash on his hand and we looked at each other and said </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"SHARKS".<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicA3g6vB7WGWXlefapmDTt3pvUH2c1egirGeTFsKKMmeeiSMIFmWZrA5dujWQJTW4DNCrFJc2cLlogGtj0A2HR3wfF9UVJZz2I609qf1efgwmFYxb32Wq9SIPCz1h_dgC7eqEJAym4jn8/s1600/sea+urchin.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 345px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicA3g6vB7WGWXlefapmDTt3pvUH2c1egirGeTFsKKMmeeiSMIFmWZrA5dujWQJTW4DNCrFJc2cLlogGtj0A2HR3wfF9UVJZz2I609qf1efgwmFYxb32Wq9SIPCz1h_dgC7eqEJAym4jn8/s400/sea+urchin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541379298860792146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We couldn't stay there, so we once again swam as fast as we could back to shore. When we got back to camp, our classmate Marie cleaned our wounds and anointed us with iodine. Most of the scratches were not too deep, but my legs were a little stiff and sore the next morning. After breakfast we began collecting our samples and answering our worksheets. The sky was clear, it was warm and sunny and the water was calm. A couple of sea urchin fishermen showed up on a bamboo raft, they had long poles with a steel spike attached to the end. They would go along till they spotted a cluster of sea urchins, then used their poles to skewer them and bring them up. I was watching them from the edge of the water when I felt a sharp pain in the bottom of my foot. Thinking I had stepped on a thorn or a piece of glass I went up the beach and sat down in the sand to examine my foot. I was surprised to see a fish attached to my foot! </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJtQdwsaKPZS4lv8MRdccJs80xCxSz5Da-EUEFqJDZpJdDsJ9hBBcqVIavxmzHTcVVBZva7WH8r2Iel3omBTszM4OGJBEchnoOxhjTk8kv2mvmKP9mgSqRerrKbOnCTKjb_YuFTwZXrpU/s1600/Remora_albescens%252CI_RR2994.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJtQdwsaKPZS4lv8MRdccJs80xCxSz5Da-EUEFqJDZpJdDsJ9hBBcqVIavxmzHTcVVBZva7WH8r2Iel3omBTszM4OGJBEchnoOxhjTk8kv2mvmKP9mgSqRerrKbOnCTKjb_YuFTwZXrpU/s200/Remora_albescens%252CI_RR2994.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540978127321322434" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;">I yanked it off and it left a little bloody hole in the sole. It turned out it was some small species of <span style="font-style: italic;">Remora</span>, about 4 inches long, that used a sucker on the top of its head to hang on to sharks and would feed off the remains of whatever the shark was eating. A great specimen for our science class, but I was not happy that it had been collected at my expense.<br /><br />We still had not learned our lesson about safe swimming practices because that afternoon while snorkeling alone on the backside of the island we suddenly felt ourselves in a strong current and were being pulled out to sea. After some desperate hard swimming we managed to catch hold of a coral reef. After several attempts at trying to cross the sharp antler coral barefoot, we ended up having to walk backwards in our swim fins.<br /><br />Nights on the islands were a strange thing. There was no electricity, the only artificial light at night came from our camp fires and lanterns. When it was overcast it was pitch black, but when the skies were clear you could see fairly well. We kept waking up, thinking it was almost sunrise only to find out that it was one or two o'clock in the morning. On our last night I woke up knowing it must be hours till sunrise, but decided to walk down to the beach and watch the waves. I was sitting there, pondering my life, my relationship with my girlfriend that I knew was coming to a final end, when I heard someone come up behind me. I turned to look and it was a wondrous sight. Clad in a bikini, her waist length blond hair glowing silver in the starlight she came and sat close beside me, smelling of lavender and apricots and she was most beautiful. Jaime once said of her that she was the kind of girl his mother warned him about and accordingly gave her wide berth. I didn't see it, she was young and fresh, vivacious and alive. But I followed a code; I had a girlfriend back at Brent and this girl had a boyfriend there too and I felt honor bound not to break "the rules".<br /><br />We didn't talk much, we shared a cigarette or two and she put her head on my shoulder. We sat and first watched the waves, then the sun rising up out of the water till we heard the voices of our waking classmates. Rising to her knees she kissed me lightly and went back to camp.<br /><br />A lot has been written about living a life without regrets, but maybe you really haven't lived if you don't regret something. As I rode the bus back to Brent I know I was regretting my inaction, when my girlfriend broke up with me a few days later I really regretted it. Although mutually agreed upon, it didn't end well. Then, as if to put a final period (or maybe an exclamation point) to the end of our relationship, <span style="font-style: italic;">Typhoon Bidang </span>slammed into</span> <span style="font-size:130%;">Baguio the following Thursday, the 28th of November, knocking down trees around the city and on our campus.<br /></span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/LzUQZw3wfro?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/LzUQZw3wfro?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-42315019271688204372010-11-10T01:00:00.000-08:002010-11-10T20:21:35.054-08:00Part 40: Routines, Rituals and Traditions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7y0sl6uPBYs-n4RwmtElz7dr799uDsBuPVf7Hx51W6emkIUmRf3acSyRgnMXGjSOGtfzrgCaXDg2ODs1DeKMvVyYeKJzmH2zunayc6rKtgoh6Y7s4bAgmZ1doSvHjYjSFUvzDncMul4Y/s1600/Brent+75.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7y0sl6uPBYs-n4RwmtElz7dr799uDsBuPVf7Hx51W6emkIUmRf3acSyRgnMXGjSOGtfzrgCaXDg2ODs1DeKMvVyYeKJzmH2zunayc6rKtgoh6Y7s4bAgmZ1doSvHjYjSFUvzDncMul4Y/s320/Brent+75.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538137862016122722" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;">As per my annual routine I returned to Baguio a week before school started. Arriving at Brent things were comfortably the same. Crossing Neutral to Binstead, I peeked in the lounge to see if anyone might be there. It was empty, but it was a friendly expectant emptiness, as if the room was waiting for us to return and bring it back to life.<br /><br />Yet to say that school was unchanged from the previous year was not true. Like every other year since I started going to Brent, the 1974-75 school year brought big changes. When I got to the dorm one of the first things I discovered was that I was now on the top floor on the east side of the dorm (as a sophomore I had expected to be on the second floor again). </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgleId7r6y4MtOTsoQOItCZ1z_40rqUaSs_U5qL5R3j1Gi0h3F02OL17u4osiCKJ7MgcLvDshChX-kDwVIfIKk_LmbWEQdWxrYFVidLX3FoiBd27ihB-FAhWcPCOmPmn1UMR_Tj-e_HqqE/s1600/86.+%2526+Heck+Hall+after+former+headmasters.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgleId7r6y4MtOTsoQOItCZ1z_40rqUaSs_U5qL5R3j1Gi0h3F02OL17u4osiCKJ7MgcLvDshChX-kDwVIfIKk_LmbWEQdWxrYFVidLX3FoiBd27ihB-FAhWcPCOmPmn1UMR_Tj-e_HqqE/s320/86.+%2526+Heck+Hall+after+former+headmasters.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538138281549000098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">This was comforting in its own way, I had woken each day my first two years at Brent with the sun rise, from my high vantage point I could see the tree covered mountains in the distance. I went and collected my trunk and other belongings and then went to select mattresses for my room. My queen size from last year was no where to be found so I assumed some teacher had got to it first. After digging through a dozen or more I was able to find two kapok stuffed mattresses that were plump, firm and at the same time soft. I spent the rest of the day arranging, then rearranging my room. That night I lay in bed watching the lightning flashes on the distant mountains. It was good to be home.<br /><br />The next morning I decided to take a shower and then head downtown to do some shopping. Knowing the dorm was empty I just threw my towel over my shoulder, picked up my shower kit and walked out the bathroom door only to discover another change. We had new dorm parents, the O'Neils, and there was Mrs O'Neil walking up the steps to introduce herself! Whoops! There I was doing the Full Monty! I think she was more embarrassed than I was, all she said was</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > "oh, my..."</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. I skidded to a stop and did an abrupt about face (in case she wanted a rear view) and went back into the bathroom and wrapped my towel around my waist. After a few minutes I decided the coast was clear and made my way to my room to get dressed. At dinner that night she turned bright red as I was laughingly introduced to them by my former dorm mother Mrs Pettitt. The Pettitts were now dorm parents of the girls dorm. After having them as dorm parents for two years I kind of thought of Mrs Pettitt as my surrogate mom and I wasn't too sure I liked this change.<br /><br />The next few days were quiet ones, I replicated my yearly routine of collecting my school books from the book store, getting a head start on my required reading, going to the library, making a trip downtown for siopao or shopping. Along with a slew of other kids, Jaime showed up the Friday before school started; he had the room across the hall from mine. Jaime and his family had just got back from short furlough in the U.S. and I was eager to hear of his adventures. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS5N7QKzfie3G071KqJnU91ddqZY-RBmf0ReVQvUfa7ng_DfPeBygzeTgTsBJjcz0BqVwDCj1vcJN4b-IxyisqhVR3vxB9kW10zGa543rebI-S4i9rJWQe69jB6B2t9VdaneeOTnfGP3U/s1600/CANSTEELDECKU2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS5N7QKzfie3G071KqJnU91ddqZY-RBmf0ReVQvUfa7ng_DfPeBygzeTgTsBJjcz0BqVwDCj1vcJN4b-IxyisqhVR3vxB9kW10zGa543rebI-S4i9rJWQe69jB6B2t9VdaneeOTnfGP3U/s320/CANSTEELDECKU2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538054546624606658" border="0" /></a>One of the things he brought back was a pair of brown leather work boots which he called "shitkickers". I really liked them and so we went to town to see if we could find me a pair in the "army surplus" section of the market. This section of the market was mostly black market goods that somehow made it from the bases at Clark or Subic to the stalls of the Baguio market. There you could find American candy, cigarettes, Army, Air Force and Navy apparel. After a hour of searching I found a pair of brand new black Navy steel toed deck boots with vibram soles and they fit perfectly. Jaime picked up some brown shoe polish and a bar of saddle soap and then we headed over to the Rose Bowl for some chicken fried rice. I tell you of these mundane facts because these items became part of our routine. If we happened to be in the dorm when the dinner gong sounded, Jaime would come to collect me saying "let's go Kid" and off we would march side by side, our boots beating out the time on the pavement, then drumming on the wooden part of the sidewalk of Binstead, our feet hitting the swinging doors to the dining hall at the same moment which would burst open with a crash, a half second pause at the top of the landing, then Jaime would step to the right and I to the left, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >ka thump, thump</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> down the two steps, our </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >grande entree</span><span style="font-size:130%;">!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0CqBdOqNbZAUy-W_xuzHGFgwyuToGJrJKFp0J8Yet9mmiPJBfqtywpYoxutfkch0PfOPPcLMDQFnVGng75w1fPoZBaAMCXevvqEMertf_vYdZa7hPPOr0XCh7xtaQGtl3LnISPYjXNs/s1600/KellysHeroes4.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0CqBdOqNbZAUy-W_xuzHGFgwyuToGJrJKFp0J8Yet9mmiPJBfqtywpYoxutfkch0PfOPPcLMDQFnVGng75w1fPoZBaAMCXevvqEMertf_vYdZa7hPPOr0XCh7xtaQGtl3LnISPYjXNs/s320/KellysHeroes4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538068114223115922" border="0" /></a>The next day we went back into town again with Leeanne and Lulie to catch a movie and go to a used clothing store we had heard of, the forerunner of the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >ukay-ukay</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> shops that are so prevalent in Baguio today. I picked up a black cable-knit sweater and an olive green zip up jacket like the one Clint Eastwood wore in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Kelly's Heroes"</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. At the urging of the girls Jaime and I also purchased matching pairs of striped bell bottom Levi brand hip huggers. Now we were stylin!<br /><br />There were a lot of new kids in the dorms this year, Michael and Susan Kendrick from Australia, Juli Tin, Margie Geronimo, Chris Fassnacht, Donna Stackhouse, Cathy Blowers from Africa, Cindy Hill from Saigon, Marianne Salvo from Laos, Paul Bowman, James Jensen from Liberia, the Lipka brothers from Indonesia, Chuck Wheeler and Joan Barber who came from Saipan, Tommy and Mary Lowman out of Vietnam, and a bunch of Canadians, much to the delight of Leeanne Colvin. There was Dana Busse, Pierre Sabourin, Garth Patterson, Cindy and Kelly Low. Garth came to the dorms with his hockey sticks, I am not sure where he thought he would be playing. I think this was our most culturally diverse year, with the Canadians, four British kids, three Australians added to our normal Filipino and American mix. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinendaADFU_QFtZUiYP7Mwd0uPIwaSOWTfnCsRGQ515G63RXChn4b9uTqg9qCNav7RxcUuv0JQmpjD2xizfJc6ljUrKnHAeGmmo_mvIooDV__yVV3GjRgf5GJGLe-iT7JdQ-1nVJ9AtFs/s1600/BC+AugSept++1974.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinendaADFU_QFtZUiYP7Mwd0uPIwaSOWTfnCsRGQ515G63RXChn4b9uTqg9qCNav7RxcUuv0JQmpjD2xizfJc6ljUrKnHAeGmmo_mvIooDV__yVV3GjRgf5GJGLe-iT7JdQ-1nVJ9AtFs/s400/BC+AugSept++1974.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538141340396933634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">The Brent student population really swelled that year, my class which in previous years bounced between 11 and 14 students, now numbered 22. Besides the high school students we also had that year for the first (and last) time Junior College students!<br /><br />The first few weeks went by quickly, class and student council elections; the new Senior class president Norman Van Vactor quickly gaining huge popularity by securing Rug's old room off the dining hall as a private "Seniors Only" lounge. With all these new students, the annual Senior class fundraiser "Slave Day" was a huge success. The auction which normally ran about 30 to 40 minutes from beginning to end, dragged out to an hour and half. Relationships seemed to form quickly that year too, by the time Slave Day rolled around most of the "available" girls had boyfriends. Somehow I found myself with a girlfriend too. </span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Rituals. We all have them, the little things we do when we get up in the morning, when we go to bed at night. Humans are creatures of habit, we tend to like doing things in a certain order, step by step instructions, bullet points, map directions, the laundry lists of our lives. There is comfort in the sequence, a sense of accomplishment after completing a step. It is an unspoken acknowledgment: we can't control what is happening out there but we can control this. For some of us it is something more. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The ritual of my annual return to Baguio and Brent is something I have written about many times; I am writing about it again to emphasize how much it meant to me. I could leave Baguio any way I liked, plane, car or bus. But I had to return exactly the same way each time now. I think subconsciously I was afraid to break my routine, as if it might jinx my new life. So I followed my routine: plane to Manila, taxi to the PNR bus station, bus to Baguio, closing my eyes and waiting for the scent of pine and the coolness on my cheek before opening them again. But there was something else I haven't mentioned before. When I stepped off the bus I experienced this emotional release; like the sensation a child experiences when they think they are lost and beginning to panic when suddenly they catch sight of their parents: the heart drops to the pit of the stomach and rebounds equally fast, pulling with it all the pent up fear and agony, the hiccup before the torrent of tears comes exploding forth with relief at being safe again. This is what I felt each time I returned, this is how much it meant to me.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"I'm back" I would silently whisper, wrapped in their warm embrace. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"... </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >And like he told me, when she holds me, </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >she enfolds me in her world."</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">from the song "Corey's Coming" by Harry Chapin</span></span><br /><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TfTtG_awEJY?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TfTtG_awEJY?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-20616485366490380392010-10-29T01:00:00.000-07:002010-10-29T15:00:16.436-07:00Part 39: Reap the Wild Wind<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlIKtlRpxrbxR4XyeRJFVIKbGeZmbFy90ks5et2OF3j43IKVWxpMtsMnOJyJHFrTQchhArRvhwzCbl9p1MXfmPn_hhroGx60kGFfytOl7Ws_zYjv5HiaOQc0Ye2jTS-Ix-9lyaScecaAo/s1600/50646231.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlIKtlRpxrbxR4XyeRJFVIKbGeZmbFy90ks5et2OF3j43IKVWxpMtsMnOJyJHFrTQchhArRvhwzCbl9p1MXfmPn_hhroGx60kGFfytOl7Ws_zYjv5HiaOQc0Ye2jTS-Ix-9lyaScecaAo/s400/50646231.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533080380069266914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Mindanao has a rich and colorful history, the Moro natives there as different from other Filipinos across the archipelago as the natives of Kiangan or Bontoc in the mountains of Luzon were unique to their region. Upon the arrival of Magellan in 1521, Mindanao was Muslim </span><span style="font-style: italic;">(as was most of the Philippines) </span><span style="font-style: italic;">or <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Moro"</span> as the Spanish called them. The Spanish were only able to gain footholds here and there along the coast, building stone fortresses to protect them from the natives who fiercely resisted the Spanish rule. By the time the Americans arrived 377 years later they still had no control of the island. The Moros transferred their war from the old master to the new. From 1898 through 1913 the US Army fought the Moros with 4,234 US troops killed.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Then in 1915, Dr Frank Laubach arrived in the Philippines.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Initially trying to work in the Lanao Del Sur region, it wasn't till 1929 that the US Army felt it was safe enough for an American missionary to take up residence in the Maranao area of Mindanao. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">With Camp Overton in Iligan and Camp Keithly in Marawi and a small floatilla of gun boats on Lake Lanao it was felt that they could balance the disruption that a Christian missionary would bring.<br /><br />The word </span><i style="font-style: italic;">Maranao</i><span style="font-style: italic;">, means "People of the Lake", referring to the indigenous people who inhabited the lands around Lake Lanao</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> whose principal town is Marawi</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">They are famous for their artwork, sophisticated weaving, wood and metal craft, and their epic literature. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Realizing that he had to fundamentally change his western views of the Maranao and other Moro tribes he wrote:<br /><br />"<span style="font-weight: bold;">..I must confront these Maranaos with a divine love that will speak Christ to them, though I never use his name. They must see God in me and I must see God in them. What right then have I or any other person to come here and change the name of these people from Muslim to Christian, unless I lead them to a life fuller of God then they have now? Clearly, clearly, my job here is not to go to the town plaza and make proselytes, it is to live wrapped in God, trembling to His thoughts, burning with His passion." </span><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDwEoix3vTVsc_H9G-qWMYxjL1FU340kVFJq-y_QTw4B71S3NBpdVo8FLQ56VP7jO0psGInR-rFC0hAsbwuN2owv2K5tNIhx_KxpFAyUJ5cT6fONqdHRFSJWuv3d7yxjhJvgq_25NT-H0/s1600/laubach180v2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDwEoix3vTVsc_H9G-qWMYxjL1FU340kVFJq-y_QTw4B71S3NBpdVo8FLQ56VP7jO0psGInR-rFC0hAsbwuN2owv2K5tNIhx_KxpFAyUJ5cT6fONqdHRFSJWuv3d7yxjhJvgq_25NT-H0/s400/laubach180v2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532766715504049666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Over the years he opened a school for Maranaos and he developed the "Each One Teach One" literacy program. It has been used to teach an estimated 60 million people to read in their own language</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. He was deeply concerned about poverty, injustice and illiteracy</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, and considered them barriers to peace in the world.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Laubach is the only American missionary to be honored on a US postage stamp.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">(For a brief history of the Moro Wars: </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:78%;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">http://www.morolandhistory.com/00.Text%20Document</span></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:78%;">/brief_history_of_america_and_moros.01.htm)</span></span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Summer Vacation. Again. In contrast to previous summers I was really looking forward to this one. Norman Van Vactor, a fellow boarder at Brent, had unexpectedly invited me to spend the summer with him. I had known Norman since my first day at Brent; our parents worked for the same mission board and my father had been to their home before.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2BUJ222t3zEV9rPdZFvDkOlG6T1SamOtQyIydd3kaRSOqPCJGtqTLHKsmO0LZQMJ6LbL0LfcstYRkG1bOC625IGZQIkljozCB46RXOpghgs6tr7tmSVm_6dRpTTxeHoAdO8cNl1sx18/s1600/view-of-lake-lanao-from-msu-golf-course.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2BUJ222t3zEV9rPdZFvDkOlG6T1SamOtQyIydd3kaRSOqPCJGtqTLHKsmO0LZQMJ6LbL0LfcstYRkG1bOC625IGZQIkljozCB46RXOpghgs6tr7tmSVm_6dRpTTxeHoAdO8cNl1sx18/s400/view-of-lake-lanao-from-msu-golf-course.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532902474603638818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> I had visited Mindanao several times, had been to the cities of <span style="font-style: italic;">Zamboanga</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Davao</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Cagayan</span> and even <span style="font-style: italic;">Cotobato</span> before but I had never been to <span style="font-style: italic;">Marawi</span>.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Marawi was situated on the shores of Lake Lanao. The Van Vactors were <span style="font-style: italic;">old hand</span> missionaries, Norman's folks having first arrived in the Philippines in 1948. They lived in Cagayan de Oro from 1954 through 1967, then they were reassigned to Marawi where Dr Van Vactor served as president of Dansalan College.(</span><span style="font-style: italic;">Established in 1950, Dansalan College was opened to provide an opportunity for the Muslim young people to gain a higher education. At the time there was only one other secondary school in the area, a trade school.)</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VW5PCIEb9ureh2kySKVW9QrOBMRIttKprDcTcbLzuV87L8oPjqsTxk6vUeFrx2aW6vzZhDfsZ9Mr6q-_xQy2KeCIhzWiqYjxC_r9aG3BHCV2Ao_I_-6KlQpm54PnqRuADN1V99lYqa0/s1600/1jpg.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VW5PCIEb9ureh2kySKVW9QrOBMRIttKprDcTcbLzuV87L8oPjqsTxk6vUeFrx2aW6vzZhDfsZ9Mr6q-_xQy2KeCIhzWiqYjxC_r9aG3BHCV2Ao_I_-6KlQpm54PnqRuADN1V99lYqa0/s400/1jpg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524697633336093202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">So after sweating it out for a week or two back home in Tacloban, I was packed and ready to go when we received a telegram. Norman's mother Maisie had become quite ill and my trip to Marawi would have to be canceled. I had been struggling to maintain my sanity and composure, but now the thought having to spend the rest of the summer at home seemed impossible. Then a week later I got a second telegram telling me to come on down!<br /><br />So I boarded a plane from Tacloban to Cebu, spent most of the day waiting in the airport for my flight to depart for Iligan, which like Baguio's airport was notorious for getting socked in by fog and bad weather. Unlike Tacloban's tiny provincial airport, Cebu's<span style="font-style: italic;"> Mactan Airport</span> was large, sleek and modern. They even had TV monitors scattered around the waiting area and I watched <span style="font-style: italic;">"The Man called Flintstone" </span>while waiting. We didn't even get any television reception in Tacloban, so I thought it was great! Finally, my flight was called and I was on my way! Norman met me at the airport at Iligan which was about the size of Tacloban.<br /></span><u><br /></u><span style="font-size:130%;">The first thing we did after being met at the airport was to head to a barber shop. Norman told me that the locals took a real dim view of long haired hippies and he didn't want to attract any more attention than was necessary.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFL9ccHXQzdoqiAyIsNWSN7N8cGEcRQM1qqMGzWH1qhjqkWGhmCZzw06n8KbNp9uw38oJ1MDFHKQnqP14I-iBHy4y4MpMDibS1zDD1oc4bnPStlNNxoECcxgBxPA6ksq4eaS2bSI9_LTQ/s1600/Iligan+001.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFL9ccHXQzdoqiAyIsNWSN7N8cGEcRQM1qqMGzWH1qhjqkWGhmCZzw06n8KbNp9uw38oJ1MDFHKQnqP14I-iBHy4y4MpMDibS1zDD1oc4bnPStlNNxoECcxgBxPA6ksq4eaS2bSI9_LTQ/s400/Iligan+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532744464316249186" border="0" /></a> I wasn't sure if he meant the <span style="font-style: italic;">PC</span> (<span style="font-style: italic;">Philippine Constabulary</span>) or the <span style="font-style: italic;">MNLF</span> (<span style="font-style: italic;">Moro National Liberation Front</span>), but at this point I was so relieved to be there I would have gotten a military style buzz cut and was telling the barber to do so when Norman said No, that wasn't necessary. Funny how I steadfastly refused to give my father his wish and at the drop of a hat I was more than willing to shave my head at the askance of a friend. So this is the cut I got. I felt like Samson after Delilah had his hair cut, as if my hair had been my strength. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9j-eoT0uirkJiiGEnqHqskzpKeXcNaJwNgtRmDEOWjmdOg1vSpscCcpMhkXhnSXekmcoJpPrc4ygR8unwL-ajJs7ZJaQhp4BJs2tRrgPI5cNSRaeWqGrfH0WcK7xRZsuqCZuaihgtUA/s1600/Iligan.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9j-eoT0uirkJiiGEnqHqskzpKeXcNaJwNgtRmDEOWjmdOg1vSpscCcpMhkXhnSXekmcoJpPrc4ygR8unwL-ajJs7ZJaQhp4BJs2tRrgPI5cNSRaeWqGrfH0WcK7xRZsuqCZuaihgtUA/s400/Iligan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532909698599986930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">From there we headed up the mountain to Norman's home. Marawi is nestled on plateau, 27oo feet above sea level. It was a long drive up winding roads and over rolling hills surrounded by tall <span style="font-style: italic;">Cogongrass</span>. Norman nonchantly mentioned as we were driving that on this very same road the previous week a PC convoy had been ambushed by the MNLF. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">It was a perfect place for an ambush and it brought home the fact that the civil unrest so far removed from my life in Baguio and Tacloban was alive and well here on Mindanao. Norman explained that as long as we were off the road well before dusk we would be fine. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>We had some autonomy of movement because of the services and good works Dansalan College provided and the way the Van Vactors and the Laubachs before them dealt with the Manranao people. Still, it was more than prudent to be careful. </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Norman's summer job was running errands and picking up supplies for the college, so we would be driving this road weekly. <span style="font-style: italic;">(On one such trip we headed back home late in the day when we were stopped by a column of PC. They ordered us to haul them back to the army camp in Marawi. I was pretty nervous, as were the soldiers in the back of the truck, keeping their eyes peeled for MNLF soldiers) </span><br /><br />Maise Van Vactor was propped up with pillows and wrapped in a blanket when we walked in the door, but she greeted me warmly. A beautiful woman, she had sparkling mischievous eyes and a matching smile. She held out her arms and gave me a vigorous hug. I knew right then that I was going to have great time there. There was the sound of rapid scampering feet and here came their dachshund <span style="font-style: italic;">Willy</span> at full speed sliding around the corner. He may have been 14 years old but he still had a lot of energy! Norman showed me to his room where I could stow my bag and pointed out the bullet hole in the wall above his bed, a recent addition. He had been reading in his room and his mother was hanging up some clothes in his closet when it happened. That night we were on the veranda and I saw flashes of light on the horizon. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Look,"</span> I said <span style="font-style: italic;">"there is a big thunderstorm over there</span>".<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">No, that is artillery fire.<br /></span>Another grim reminder of the conflict, for the first time I realized that there was a "real" war going on here.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We spent the weekdays plying between Iligan and Marawi, picking up lumber, building materials, groceries and other supplies for the college. Weekends we toured the town and its markets: shiny brass urns, pots, platters and gongs, wavy bladed <span style="font-style: italic;">kris</span> swords, hand woven and dyed fabrics; I picked up some cotton <span style="font-style: italic;">batik</span> for my mom. I thought about buying a Malong. Here most men and women wore <span style="font-style: italic;">malongs</span>, a traditional "tube skirt" like the sarong worn by peoples in Indonesia and Malaysia. The most beautiful are made by Maranao, Maguindanau and T'boli weavers. They can function as a skirt for both men and women, a dress, a blanket, a sunshade, a bedsheet, a hammock; most of my friends</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> used them to sleep in.<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJluuyVJm2Fg2MsxGnB1O0XllhbESlh6IKhzZPuavN6pCKpOv7APj3l90ypJWRhxZJ0XZe7HKUALvRmbM5m4EOpGZf6KmdRBRGO4ScA3iVSxgUAF0AbxLkJ1spzLFtKZUqsJ5MMO3V-1E/s1600/maria-christina-falls-sm.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJluuyVJm2Fg2MsxGnB1O0XllhbESlh6IKhzZPuavN6pCKpOv7APj3l90ypJWRhxZJ0XZe7HKUALvRmbM5m4EOpGZf6KmdRBRGO4ScA3iVSxgUAF0AbxLkJ1spzLFtKZUqsJ5MMO3V-1E/s400/maria-christina-falls-sm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533507624661848226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">There were around 20 waterfalls in the Iligan area, I don't remember which ones we went to but I do know we went to <span style="font-style: italic;">Maria Christina</span> falls, where we swam in the cold water. We also boated and swam in Lake Lanao. When Norman and his family moved to Marawi in 1968 he had to leave his beloved </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >banca</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (outrigger canoe) behind. So he found plans for a English style punt in Popular Mechanics and the maintenance shop of the college built it for him. It was 18 ft boat powered by a Johnson 4 horse engine, great for the calm waters of Lake Lanao. I was in the water swimming when Norman crawled back in the boat and started up the engine, and took off across the lake. He was just a speck on the other side and I was beginning to wonder how long I could keep treading water when he began heading back towards me.</span> <span style="font-size:130%;">I was pretty tuckered out by the time he got back to pick me up. </span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB-naI06yugx88r5ArEFLzc1d2dfqRmsW-rqswlL1fFc3AkYkM_u7NuZTdHrK2ifAO3bmt-A91BLiP6CmjNYFWFyDYFOL_FrPiL9Wec5ePCEtK2MPUsXHKOwLNmmUB4y6cr_2EOHaGI68/s1600/1970_Toyota_Crown_Station_Wagon_Front_1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB-naI06yugx88r5ArEFLzc1d2dfqRmsW-rqswlL1fFc3AkYkM_u7NuZTdHrK2ifAO3bmt-A91BLiP6CmjNYFWFyDYFOL_FrPiL9Wec5ePCEtK2MPUsXHKOwLNmmUB4y6cr_2EOHaGI68/s400/1970_Toyota_Crown_Station_Wagon_Front_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532725478222243090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Besides the truck, we also drove his families </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Toyota Crown</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. Crown was Toyota's top of line luxury model, it came in coupes, sedans and station wagons. In Japan the sedans were used for limousines but for some reason Toyota never really tried to market the Crown very strongly in the US. The Van Vactor's Crown was only a lowly station wagon, but underneath the unassuming hood was a souped up hot rod! Due to the increasing violence in the area it had been decided that, in case of an emergency, the already large engine should be modified for quick get-aways. A Hurst speed shifter and a Holley 4 barrel double carburetor had been installed and that wagon could fly! We would drive the "old family wagon" when ever we could. Norman would depress the accelerator and you could hear the click of the Holley kicking in. It was quite a sight to see a plain old station wagon </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >burnin' rubber</span><span style="font-size:130%;">! The 26 mile drive from Marawi to Iligan that normally took us around an hour or so in the truck could be be cut down to 20 minutes if there was no traffic! Norman really loved to put the wagon through her paces. He had been given some evasive driving lessons (including controlled braking and 180 degree spins) and was eager for any excuse to practice. Decades before the term </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Tokyo Drift</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> came into common usage, Norman was busy on the mountain roads honing his shifting and braking skills. One night we flew down the mountain, reaching speeds up to 124 miles an hour! I swear I could feel the front end lifting off the road!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">One of the services the College provided was a clinic. Part of Norman's job included driving the nurse to villages in the area. One night Norman, his brother Ross and I were parked in front of a <span style="font-style: italic;">Datu's</span> (Chief headman) house, waiting for the nurse to finish her work, it was getting late and we were eager to get back home. It got darker and then I heard Norman hiss:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Whatever you do, don't make any sudden moves, keep your eyes straight ahead!<br /><br /></span>Then a dozen or so heavily armed men came filing by on either side of the car. We kept still and pretended they didn't exist. They went into the house and we continued to wait. Finally, Norman said I guess we had better go see what is going on. I had strong misgivings about getting out of the car but didn't want to sit in it alone either so followed him into the house. We were greeted and welcomed into the Datu's living area and were offered refreshments. As the servant went through a door way that was blocked off by a large batik curtain I saw an astounding sight: dozens of shiny new M-16s, a 50. caliber machine gun, rocket propelled grenades and box after box of ammunition. I quickly averted my eyes thinking to myself, <span style="font-style: italic;">"We're all gonna die"</span>, but half a hour later, we finished our snacks and were on our way home. I gained a lot of empathy for these people whom I now saw were just farmers trying to hang on to their land and way of life from the ever encroaching land grabbers and speculators. This did not necessarily make me feel any safer, but at least I was able to begin to see their point of view.<br /><br />Then it was time to head back to Tacloban. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">It had been a wonderful summer, the best in so many years and I was so grateful to the Van Vactors for letting me come in spite of her illness and told them so repeatedly, but </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I was surprised to see tears in her eyes when Mrs Van Vactor hugged me goodbye. </span>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-22783712143732000812010-10-01T01:00:00.000-07:002011-03-10T14:34:55.321-08:00Part 38: Mourning Becomes Electra<span style="font-size:130%;">With conclusion of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Joseph"</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, work began on </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Everyman</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, a medieval morality play, to be performed once again at Brent's St Nicholas Chapel. Rug surprised everyone by promoting Gordon Strachan from his role of archbishop (in the play Murder in the Cathedral) to the role of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >God</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> in Everyman! This was definitely not a case of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >typecasting</span><span style="font-size:130%;">! Jaime got the role of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Death</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, Elmer was </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >the Messenger</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. There were new faces to our theater group as well: Paul Becker got the lead, his brother Mark was </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Fellowship</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, Fred Thomas was </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Kindred</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, Robert Rivera was </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Good Deeds</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, Norman Van Vactor got the role of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Knowledge</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Everyman I will go with thee and be thy guide</span><span style="font-size:130%;">); and as for me, well I was relegated to lying under the front pew, holding a flashlight to provide extra lighting at key moments during the play. But at least I got a front row view!<br /><br />This play turned out to be a real crowd pleaser and was another feather in Rug's cap! And he didn't slow down; right after the last performance of Everyman, he caught a flight to Italy so he could direct "</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The Most Important Man</span><span style="font-size:130%;">" by Pulitzer prize winner Gian Carlo Menotti. He returned three weeks later with autographed postcards from the theater signed by Mr Menotti for us!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivErOeE2WGJGALcHJt_zHN5Fdq1_3EFaQXy76ROHKHJVJ7ibzZ6dn00o7MIPbFnKCQB-PC0qVqFxjRZHnxy9Gd_E_Hy00yvzWo1HzErr_el7xAFNFXfwfa6mku5XG-1FMdqzT5y6Cs8D4/s1600/BrentFieldDay1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 312px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivErOeE2WGJGALcHJt_zHN5Fdq1_3EFaQXy76ROHKHJVJ7ibzZ6dn00o7MIPbFnKCQB-PC0qVqFxjRZHnxy9Gd_E_Hy00yvzWo1HzErr_el7xAFNFXfwfa6mku5XG-1FMdqzT5y6Cs8D4/s400/BrentFieldDay1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522799476904635938" border="0" /></a>Time was moving swiftly. The mile posts that signaled the final days of the school year came and went: </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Senior Skip Day, the Science Fair, PRISAA Nationals, Field Day</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Junior-Senior Prom</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. Even at Brent, where a single school year could hold an eternity of lifetimes, another year was all too quickly coming to an end. Teachers and students, people we had loved, laughed and lived with, would be leaving. Most we would never see again. Growing up with a transient lifestyle I knew this and comprehended it. But I wanted an end to the constant changes and movement. I wanted permanence. I tried to extract the most out of each moment, sucking up words, memories and mementos, storing them away, as if that could somehow slow the march of time.<br /><br />I wasn't the only one who felt this way, the little farewells were taking place. Cathy McAlister had just been reunited with her boyfriend Nathan and now they would be separated again when she left for college. Daily now, faculty and staff would approach and hug graduating seniors like Jean Clark, Ginger Hamilton and Michelle Woods, some they had known their entire lives; now they were about to enter universities in the United States, a country they barely knew.<br />Then one day before graduation, Peg appeared with a </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >pasiking</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> on her back. Peg Hamil. Always quick to put me in my place, to correct my mistakes, pointing out errors in my judgment and thought process. More than any other friend she molded and shaped me. Typical anti-establishment Peg, she was leaving, not waiting around for graduation day. Her friends gathered around for hugs and goodbyes and she turned to go. Beth started sobbing and turned away, but Renee and I walked with her to the gate. She gave us some last words of advice and a whack on the head for good measure. We watched her figure growing smaller as she walked down Brent Road; I turned to say something philosophical to Renee (whose eyes were streaming) and she slugged me. Renee hit harder than most guys, her punches always left huge bruises. It was just her way of telling me to shut up.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ILP0mhyphenhyphenpD9FBDQJWSbPwMHq0xPJBGSyQ82zmJcH5nctenFtbNxSo6dHD2GBtFkwUH3jk7f7HE-ng7rc4pR0e6vKg7rrd1W9FPo_zMV1L1WKhc5y4TPpQJpsjPQZomt6QH3i-452OzT0/s1600/FrankBarbaraJenista.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 341px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ILP0mhyphenhyphenpD9FBDQJWSbPwMHq0xPJBGSyQ82zmJcH5nctenFtbNxSo6dHD2GBtFkwUH3jk7f7HE-ng7rc4pR0e6vKg7rrd1W9FPo_zMV1L1WKhc5y4TPpQJpsjPQZomt6QH3i-452OzT0/s400/FrankBarbaraJenista.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522910856245791266" border="0" /></a>The Jenista's were moving on. Mrs Jenista full of life and laughter; standing me up and singing in the dining hall impromptu! Mr Jenista brought history to life for me. Connections, he would say, it was all about connections. Random acts strung together precipitating monumental events. He showed us how the actions of individuals and governments could affect events decades or centuries later. He taught me to soberly reflect and review, not to be so caught up in the emotions of the moment. I wondered how it would be to grow up in the Philippines, to graduate from and then come back and teach at Brent, then have to leave again. Was it what he thought it would be, was the experience diminished by the changes at Brent?<br /><br />And Rug was leaving us too. We had a going away party for him one night, Leigh and I went to town and picked up a bottle of wine as his going away present and we made him a card put together from the programs of the different plays he had directed. Later that night, after the throng had left, there remained those closest to him: Leigh, Elmer, Jaime and myself. He shared the wine, shared some advice, shed some tears. Of all my teachers he affected me the most. Not so much with his constant strive towards excellence and perfection, but in showing me that before one can stand firmly behind ones convictions first he must reflect upon his own character, its weaknesses and flaws before passing judgment on others. This has always been hard for me because it runs contrary to my upbringing. But I strive for it everyday.<br />Then, just as suddenly as he came into our lives, Rug was gone.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"...And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven and excessively romantic. Not in the wildest days of his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring shape of such an extraordinary success. For it may very well be that in the short moment of his last proud and unflinching glance he had beheld the face of that opportunity, which like an Eastern bride had come veiled to his side. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnjWNH5X3CJ3NKdr1kAR-VJKlSD1I7ficsZbFXubI-ZvEeNBKIMjOe9JKNG5BkBap75MpzQ3PyLuqW2A9aDR0JVYXWzJFqaPmkc3UnMfr91M9ZiqZuHPsqwv8hgZK_JNaBydJj3qRbcc/s1600/Rug.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 289px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnjWNH5X3CJ3NKdr1kAR-VJKlSD1I7ficsZbFXubI-ZvEeNBKIMjOe9JKNG5BkBap75MpzQ3PyLuqW2A9aDR0JVYXWzJFqaPmkc3UnMfr91M9ZiqZuHPsqwv8hgZK_JNaBydJj3qRbcc/s400/Rug.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522872518841460450" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >But we can see him an obscure conqueror of fame tearing himself out of the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his exalted egoism. Is he satisfied quite now, I wonder? We ought to know. He is one of us and have I not stood up once like an evoked ghost to answer for his eternal constancy? Now he is no more, there are days when the reality of his existence comes to me with an immense, with an overwhelming force and yet upon my honour there are moments too when he passes from my eyes like a disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this earth, ready to surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own world of shades..."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> from </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Lord Jim</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> by Joseph Conrad</span>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-71630403072451874832010-09-25T01:00:00.000-07:002011-04-11T15:49:27.292-07:00Part 37: Visitors<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWhg92nZfAsSxfNnulrZxvJgz6jmimxVtiWxgvBauCGw8cpwvr3qqJKHgYNZkvSuBeSWQPYT7TT31CSED_J7FVEaWwDlGW74f__A9F9eIgzcmY8kyDji0_DDVbGVF8wg-T9Pkcti5mYw/s1600/Josephtest.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 235px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWhg92nZfAsSxfNnulrZxvJgz6jmimxVtiWxgvBauCGw8cpwvr3qqJKHgYNZkvSuBeSWQPYT7TT31CSED_J7FVEaWwDlGW74f__A9F9eIgzcmY8kyDji0_DDVbGVF8wg-T9Pkcti5mYw/s400/Josephtest.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519921198193008018" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We were rehearsing twice a day now and Rug was pulling out what remained of his hair, trying to get us to properly enunciate the lyrics for </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">We finally got it down fairly well, but I think he just gave up hoping we would get it perfect. Besides, we were going hoarse from all the singing and the kitchen was now supplying hot tea steeped with ginger root to sooth our sore throats. It was a little awkward performing in the narrow Amos assembly hall, there wasn't enough room for the chorus </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >and</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> the band to join the actors on the same stage, so we were positioned about halfway down the room while the band was off to one side of the stage. We were facing the audience so we couldn't see the action on stage, focusing our attention on Rug, just where he wanted it to be! Jaime and Elmer really got in to their roles and we picked up on their energy and sang with gusto!<br /><br />Between theater productions our Junior Varsity team got the opportunity to play soccer on the Varsity team. We were playing an </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >exhibition game</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> with</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >PMA</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (the Philippine Military Academy) at Brent and they were killing us. They were physically so much bigger than the players on our high school team and injuries were taking their toll. The varsity coach (Mr Jenista) was even playing trying to keep us from looking too bad. Early in the game the Coach Allegre passed the word for the JV team to suit up and I ran back to the dorm to grab my uniform. He was going to rotate us in as filler to give the Varsity players a chance to rest. As I stepped off of the Neutral on to the asphalt my cleats slipped on the pavement and I landed on my ass! Right in front of the girlfriend. Ah, the humiliation! But I didn't look back to see if Trini was laughing at me and headed gingerly down to the field. Just as I got to the top of the steps I saw Mark Becker trying to steal the ball from one of the PMA forwards. They both kicked at the ball at the same time and Mark Becker fell over. He tried to stand up but fell over again. The ref stopped the game and Coach Allegre ran over to see if he was OK. By the time I got to our bench he was helping Mark off the field. A broken leg!<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"you're in Walter"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> ... uh, that would be me.<br />My stomach was in knots as I ran out on to the field. These PMA guys were huge! Well, maybe our guys can keep the ball on the opposite end I thought. It didn't last long and soon this human tank of a player came barreling down the field towards me and I bravely raced forward to meet him. My foot connected with the ball, his shoulder hit mine and then the world got funny. I was flipping </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >horizontally</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> in the air, I saw the sky three times before landing on my back with the wind knocked out of me. I struggled to my feet trying to divine the location of the ball and hoped he wouldn't score. Our goalie managed to save the ball and once again I prayed that the ball would stay on the other side of the field. No such luck. Here came the tank again and when he spied me he got this big grin on his face. This time he just ran right over me. Literally. I saw stars and felt my teeth rattle as he stepped on my head, then heard the referee's whistle and felt someone lifting me up, the field out of focus; there wasn't any part of my body that didn't hurt.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Walter you're out!" </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">...Thank You Jesus.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAuyekI6uExmcJyhq0XbMiTmbkDrgPwP3IHIwDtx1O2QSKH8LuZ6NwZB3eQFYVih80ydZt6aEr15hJTIUveeGToZbl7i00R19Bllr1-3kdFJH_OXk7c4cApP-WtAdcv4WkJ-LZZIboamk/s1600/Vigan.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAuyekI6uExmcJyhq0XbMiTmbkDrgPwP3IHIwDtx1O2QSKH8LuZ6NwZB3eQFYVih80ydZt6aEr15hJTIUveeGToZbl7i00R19Bllr1-3kdFJH_OXk7c4cApP-WtAdcv4WkJ-LZZIboamk/s400/Vigan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516434996227599378" border="0" /></a>On the first of March the International Club (</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Pilipino, French and Spanish classes</span><span style="font-size:130%;">) took a field trip to the old colonial Spanish town of Vigan. We left Brent around 5:30 one morning and stopped in Bauang for breakfast provided by the parents of my classmate Bessie Manaois. When we got to Vigan a few hours later we headed over to St. Paul's Cathedral with it's free standing octagonal bell tower for a tour of the church and the Archbishop's palace all dating back to the late 17oo's. We then toured the Mestizo district with it's old Spanish homes, considered to be the best preserved colonial Spanish town in Asia. It was a city steeped in Philippine history: home to Father Jose Burgos, one of three priests executed in the early 1800's during a rebellion against Spanish rule; a hundred years later it was the headquarters for General Emilio Aguinaldo (first president of the Philippines) who fought against the Spanish and then the Americans. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_PgHBPGT_8jeBb8gkSZs2i5s6RdUM7HO8JRqghnMJ2YMb3nhK0rHTq7LzNwD3A1HBBxpSd1OD9-StqITC6uoFU33PJdzimwrkDBDPR9ESYvLFS6DmA5iZbAk5GUKWrBuKr65nUiuQDE/s1600/vigan2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_PgHBPGT_8jeBb8gkSZs2i5s6RdUM7HO8JRqghnMJ2YMb3nhK0rHTq7LzNwD3A1HBBxpSd1OD9-StqITC6uoFU33PJdzimwrkDBDPR9ESYvLFS6DmA5iZbAk5GUKWrBuKr65nUiuQDE/s400/vigan2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518437021848413490" border="0" /></a>Then the Governor of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Ilocos Sur</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> invited our group over for a lavish barbecue luncheon at his ranch. The meal was more Spanish than Filipino in style, pit cooked beef, pork and goat served on sword-like skewers, Spanish appetizers called </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >tapas</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, big platters of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >paella</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, meat filled </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >empanadas</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >leche flan</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> for desert. There was </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >San Miguel beer</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and icy cold pitchers of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Sangria</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, which unfortunately we were not able to taste. Well, at least not when any of the teachers were looking! Afterwards, stuffed and sleepy, we went back to town to shop in the open air markets and stores. Then, to top off a most excellent outing, on the way back to Baguio we stopped at the beach to swim before returning to Brent.<br /><br />A few days later our dorm mother Mrs. Pettitt gave birth to a baby boy! We were excited to have another addition to our dorm. All was well with the world. Then one day all my sense of well being vanished. I received a letter from Mom telling me that my Aunt and Uncle were coming from Japan and that her and Dad were going to bring them up to Baguio for a visit. At the bottom of the letter she wrote </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"your father wants you to make sure you cut your hair..."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />We had been reading </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >My Name is Asher Lev</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> in Rug's English Literature class, the story of a boy with an artistic talent, a gift his parents, relatives and neighbors cannot relate to and do not understand. I saw my life mirrored in those pages, strong domineering father often absent from home, parents wrapped in work and academia with little time or patience for their son. While I found solace in the words, I found no solutions or answers. Only the directive to be true to ones self. So, of course I didn't get my hair cut. As the day of their visit neared, I grew more agitated, this was not going to be a good thing I predicted. My friends grew concerned about me, so much so that they approached some of my teachers and broached the subject. I guess they were concerned too because on the day they arrived I got called to the office and was told my family was at the gate, but to wait at the office. Then Mr Jenista went down to the gate to escort my parents on to campus. I could see him talking with my parents before they began the walk up the hill.<br /><br />The tension was palpable as we walked towards each other but before my Dad could say anything my Aunt said </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Paul his hair isn't that long! The way you talked I thought it must be down to his knees! </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">My son's hair is about as long as his!"</span> </span><span style="font-size:130%;">This simple statement endeared her to me for life. It not only altered the way my parents viewed me, it toned down the way Dad spoke to me. <a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhciEQoKIbRiYmtgnGSkN78WK0QgWL063o1N3vPBvT-k9yrnMg719HrVbnZkriFWo0v2MwGQ5gJzm8WETgoaBt3A1hSSk6Tow_wsQp0AG-FOXgvhEb0npkDM8Fi-L2WgI-yIbNyzKCR2sQ/s1600/Scan2625.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhciEQoKIbRiYmtgnGSkN78WK0QgWL063o1N3vPBvT-k9yrnMg719HrVbnZkriFWo0v2MwGQ5gJzm8WETgoaBt3A1hSSk6Tow_wsQp0AG-FOXgvhEb0npkDM8Fi-L2WgI-yIbNyzKCR2sQ/s400/Scan2625.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516424993048126450" border="0" /></a>Well, a little bit anyway. Mr Jenista gave my family a tour of the Brent campus while I went back to class. Later that afternoon I changed into some nicer clothes and met them for dinner at Mario's. I'd like to say we had a pleasant visit but you can see from the expressions on everyone's faces that no one is too happy.<br /><br />I didn't see too much of them the rest of their stay in Baguio (the first and only time my parents came to the campus to see me), they toured the city and the markets, visited some other Lutheran missionaries and then they were gone.<br /><br /><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rOOTpFTQvyc?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rOOTpFTQvyc?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="480"></embed></object></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Below are excerpts from the program for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlbfibPzZQkxbqJwY-xKJAToE4ifaPjeyM8HIDo3C3npBik2nTk_XNoW1NRr2v2jJY2iHc2_z77cDB4boLxXCHrlNCG0pcSxqPQERp5ME4MeEro9Z9UKBVB52mO7cx3-IBDDQ3ryMKiY/s1600/Joseph2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlbfibPzZQkxbqJwY-xKJAToE4ifaPjeyM8HIDo3C3npBik2nTk_XNoW1NRr2v2jJY2iHc2_z77cDB4boLxXCHrlNCG0pcSxqPQERp5ME4MeEro9Z9UKBVB52mO7cx3-IBDDQ3ryMKiY/s400/Joseph2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518396116973305058" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjULgyOAF1ml5JKXmDWDj9BX8PcAGDIdKe48A1K3ShyphenhyphengvE1BKy2l6xypiG8O02EHFHCNPWldiS5fPWQxJ-7aL8bwMeFqfPn8GlEHTZNsyhWwM9rNiNJ8t7uMLxawZcfZgeoqBMqftkVOTg/s1600/Joseph1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjULgyOAF1ml5JKXmDWDj9BX8PcAGDIdKe48A1K3ShyphenhyphengvE1BKy2l6xypiG8O02EHFHCNPWldiS5fPWQxJ-7aL8bwMeFqfPn8GlEHTZNsyhWwM9rNiNJ8t7uMLxawZcfZgeoqBMqftkVOTg/s400/Joseph1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518395831357465458" border="0" /></a>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-34716563150410790902010-09-09T01:21:00.000-07:002012-01-10T16:49:12.599-08:00Part 36: The Great Escape<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="body"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">All the best stories in the world are but one story in reality - the story of escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times..." </span></span><br />~ Walter Bagehot</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Ah, Herr Bartlett. And Herr MacDonald. We are together again. You're going to wish you had never put us to so much trouble..."</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOxm7OTfDRH447iEhvxUSvV2N08Px3IP7EKVfPyVSmnHTsKcyKoPHmyrjgqiFExZ7K2DdMYpNdhDE7J0YXOrskVUndpIvCytDt51gAY7ShlbETMSzGYDu5lcQ7c4smwvdSCHE63ayuws/s1600/24964_1148133401948_1785986457_279711_2924002_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 400px; height: 261px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514201417908178834" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOxm7OTfDRH447iEhvxUSvV2N08Px3IP7EKVfPyVSmnHTsKcyKoPHmyrjgqiFExZ7K2DdMYpNdhDE7J0YXOrskVUndpIvCytDt51gAY7ShlbETMSzGYDu5lcQ7c4smwvdSCHE63ayuws/s400/24964_1148133401948_1785986457_279711_2924002_n.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">I adhered to my ritual when I returned to school: plane to Manila, taxi to bus station, bus to Baguio, taxi to Brent, two or three days with the campus to myself. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Freedom.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> On the bus I would close my eyes in silent benediction, waiting for the first wafts of cool angel's wings to brush my cheeks, the scent of pine trees holy incense, then lifting my lids in supplication. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Salvation.</span> </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Like a returning soldier or a man released from prison, I wanted to fall to my knees and kiss the ground; sometimes I did. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Zion.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioTeyIJVzo6P3GljuVhWfr8u1LD8DbpNTS3VpsGcBkjourMSaTbyh1FtZtOjREWE27Udf-JKd4alCcuo_gZHWj81vpas04_f0R7NsQSZW6_X_skdDpj7qtPRXSwDpX43Kv3xB5NFpX6H0/s1600/tree-and-tire1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px; height: 150px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514910403954355554" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioTeyIJVzo6P3GljuVhWfr8u1LD8DbpNTS3VpsGcBkjourMSaTbyh1FtZtOjREWE27Udf-JKd4alCcuo_gZHWj81vpas04_f0R7NsQSZW6_X_skdDpj7qtPRXSwDpX43Kv3xB5NFpX6H0/s200/tree-and-tire1.jpg" border="0" /></a>Jaime showed up the next day, his family was spending a few days at the United Methodist Mission cabins. He invited me over and we went down to Jean Clark's house to hang out. The Clark's had a tire swing on a long rope and there were a bunch of kids already there climbing to the top of a platform and jumping off. First one kid would drag the tire up to the top of the platform and start it swinging, when it returned they would climb on and then another kid would leap on the next time it came back. This would continue, with each cycle the tire getting further away from the platform, the rope twisting and spinning, kids on the tire making way for the next jumper. This was a rough game, there was no telling where the jumpers head, elbows, knees or feet would strike and sometimes the jumper would miss completely and belly flop in the dirt below. We did this for hours and were all pretty scraped and bruised up when Michelle Woods leaped from the platform and missed the rope. She managed to get one hand on the tire and another on someone's belt but was drug beneath the tire for several feet before letting go. This was a mistake because when the tire came back it struck her in the head. We all quickly piled off to see how she was doing. She had a bloody lip and bruised face; there were some tears and some first aid, then back to the swing!<br /><br />That first Sunday back we had a new student at our table, Linda Schwartzendruber. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16tGzI9woOARMv-euLBNvlyIBG2UGPb5BeRaK_emHRD0VedeATN7MievYwqnikKm6Xg70QdJbEbDFZ3hLZABqeALki9hkHi6ZDWQ9ykTUcL7OVwVG3Mfa5CvV7z3GupzgtDUdUSDqewM/s1600/1974-75.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 186px; height: 139px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514910990519880514" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16tGzI9woOARMv-euLBNvlyIBG2UGPb5BeRaK_emHRD0VedeATN7MievYwqnikKm6Xg70QdJbEbDFZ3hLZABqeALki9hkHi6ZDWQ9ykTUcL7OVwVG3Mfa5CvV7z3GupzgtDUdUSDqewM/s200/1974-75.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJi88IdJR2-at4WgQC0p5IafLyyPKQzoCpvWdoBSwdDuogBsvpG3scAm6NttlwpsCeIClkeKgX0jIk0Wbj8Z9KE4vwXymqm74TyaNL8orlJS8M2jEBE7vYJOsEwH81Kl5E6AbcdWfjAsE/s1600/LeeanneLulieLeigh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 140px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514937647119186962" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJi88IdJR2-at4WgQC0p5IafLyyPKQzoCpvWdoBSwdDuogBsvpG3scAm6NttlwpsCeIClkeKgX0jIk0Wbj8Z9KE4vwXymqm74TyaNL8orlJS8M2jEBE7vYJOsEwH81Kl5E6AbcdWfjAsE/s200/LeeanneLulieLeigh.jpg" border="0" /></a>Like Leigh, she had moved to the Philippines from Hong Kong and Leigh was tickled pink to have someone to talk to about it. Now there were</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" > 4 "L's"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> at our table: </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Leeanne, Lulie, Leigh and Linda</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. Intelligent, sharp, witty and cunning, they were to become a cardinal force never to be crossed. We were fortunate to be on their good side for the most part. Except on one occasion, when we were invited to join the girls for dinner off campus. Jaime and I had our </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"SPs"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (special permits), were dressed and heading to the gate and as we passed the canteen below the kitchen we could smell supper cooking. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Tapa</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. Our favorite. Tapa is a marinated then cured beef dish that the cooks at Brent made especially well, although not particularly beloved by those with western palates. Neither Jaime or I said anything but our pace slowed and when we reached the covered walkway we stopped. Then without ever saying a word we directed our feet up the hill to the dining hall. Boy, were they pissed that we stood them up! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >But they were serving tapa!</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> I tried to explain.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxT2sBdKgsh-b1tKmzMu57j-Ff4yqO-MQlUlsmR4HIUODIDdSeu8dxuo1Fi5wMjVFNc-bxKRLgidBumZjN_pWKA25Ym7tHgx7m8t4yGEBkbFpHUmk4KLEvxCIZ-Bgcp5tn0bz9OCIX0MQ/s1600/BrentCourier+jan-feb+1974.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 290px; height: 400px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514681842353811890" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxT2sBdKgsh-b1tKmzMu57j-Ff4yqO-MQlUlsmR4HIUODIDdSeu8dxuo1Fi5wMjVFNc-bxKRLgidBumZjN_pWKA25Ym7tHgx7m8t4yGEBkbFpHUmk4KLEvxCIZ-Bgcp5tn0bz9OCIX0MQ/s400/BrentCourier+jan-feb+1974.jpg" border="0" /></a>The second half of the school year started out with the same flurry of activity as the first. First was the Science Fair, then Rug held auditions and began rehearsals for </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Joseph and His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. This was a joint effort between the upper and lower schools with some help from teachers, parents and some students from St. Louis University. The lower school was going to act out the story while the upper school was going to do the singing. Jaime got the part of the Narrator, Mr Pettitt was singing the part of Joseph and Elmer Strasser was Pharoah.<br /><br />There were field trips, beach trips and dances: the anthropology class headed up into the mountains, the Explorer Scouts went to Bobok, the Art Department went to Crystal Cave and then dug some clay to experiment with. I tried to kiss Cecily Drury on the way back from the beach but Terrence Spencer, a perennial thorn in my side, kept turning around and grinning at us, chanting </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Mark and Cecily sitting in a tree... </span><span style="font-size:130%;">and that is as far as that went. Brent had a Valentine's Day dance at the Mile Hi Club on John Hay where Kathy Duncan was voted Queen, with Cindy Johnson and my classmate Marie Strasser (voted </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Princesses</span><span style="font-size:130%;">) placing second and third.<br /><br />Madame Chan, the proprietor of the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Old Pagoda</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> came and gave a lecture on Li Po, Chinese poetry and art. She got a big laugh and lots of applause when she said if we didn't know who Li Po was we were not getting a good education.<br /><br />And then Lulie wrote an article for the school paper about the quality of food in the dining hall which culminated in the "Great Escape". The food was getting a little</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > iffy</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. There was a lot of grumbling amongst the boarders, some kids regularly filled up on Freddie's burgers before supper or visited the dorm canteens after hours. Sometimes Domingo, our waiter, would put the platter on the table, poke at it with the serving spoon and sniff disparagingly. The cooks were doing the best they could with the budget, menu and recipes provided and they knew when they had produced something questionable. Part of the problem was that a lot of the kids were used to better fare, few were familiar with the Filipino dishes that occasionally frequented our tables and none were used to institutional type meals that now graced our plates.<br /><br />I don't know where or when the idea originated, but soon the topic of skipping off campus to eat somewhere was being whispered everywhere. The Seniors and Juniors formulated the plans, issued strict instructions, picked a date, made reservations and alerted our friends in the kitchen not to expect the usual number of victims. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5dYZG5RkG9FpFLnxcOGWy4efmLMRG7FlWnSSgYYtCFAsMnius1no4_60oWF8zTntjmZ2cEmHhH4TzxokOAf0zzS1Ep-LfB9jlmj_AzQiXmvjeqv_fpT7uMLBcyYX5lEw8q7dL420O6I/s1600/Marios.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 316px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514919829690526226" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5dYZG5RkG9FpFLnxcOGWy4efmLMRG7FlWnSSgYYtCFAsMnius1no4_60oWF8zTntjmZ2cEmHhH4TzxokOAf0zzS1Ep-LfB9jlmj_AzQiXmvjeqv_fpT7uMLBcyYX5lEw8q7dL420O6I/s320/Marios.jpg" border="0" /></a>The basic plan was we were to abide by school rules (other than sneaking off campus!), stick together (no side excursions) and return to the campus </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >en masse</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. We snuck off campus in twos or threes one Friday night, each group picking different locations to jump the fence and headed to </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Mario's</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> for supper. Mario's was a great little Italian restaurant owned by the Benitez family and a favorite haunt of ours. All the Benitez kids went or had gone to Brent, so it was a little tricky because we were known, but it all worked out and the faculty never suspected a thing. Before we began eating Norman tapped his glass with a spoon, we stood up and said our school dinner prayer. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br />Bless us O Lord, this food for our use and us to Thy service, make us ever mindful of the needs of others, through Christ our Lord, Amen.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />After supper, the bill paid and tips left, we walked back to campus, singing songs, laughing till we got in sight of the Brent gate, where it all died out.<br /><br />There waiting for us were Mr Pettitt and Mr Jenista and they did not look happy. They divided up the girls and the guys and marched us back to the dorms. We got a lecture when we got back to the dorm about breaking the rules and respecting the feelings of the dietitian and the cooking staff, we were informed that the entire dorm (</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >sans </span><span style="font-size:130%;">the cowards who didn't go) were </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >campused</span> <span style="font-size:130%;">for the rest of the weekend and Mr Pettitt hinted there would be additional punishments as well. Then we were sent off to bed.<br /><br />The additional punishments began bright and early the next morning when we were all awakened and told to get up, get dressed in work clothes and go eat breakfast. Domingo and the other waiters pretended to be angry with us, frowning and wagging their fingers at us. A few of the cooks stuck their heads out of the kitchen and grinned to see so many tired faces, the biggest turnout for a Saturday breakfast yet!<br /><br />After we ate Mr Pettitt and Mr Jenista announced that we would be forming work details. The boys dorm was led down to the pig pens, we were handed shovels and wheelbarrows and told that we would be digging pits for cesspools and emptying the old ones. The new ones were dug by early afternoon, but it was the emptying of the full pits that was giving us trouble. The contents had the color and consistency of stiff chocolate pudding , but there just was no easy way to remove it without getting filthy. A wooden plank was placed over the pit and we took turns walking it and shoveling it out. The smell was overwhelming. It was a wretched, dirty mess. Every so often someone would yell </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"Who's shit is this?"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and the rest of us would shout in reply </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"Pettitt's!"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> or </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"Jenista's!"</span><span style="font-size:130%;">.<br />They just laughed, we were doing the dirty work.<br /><br />As the day progressed the plank grew slippery with manure. I was on the plank and turned to empty my shovel full into a wheel barrow when I slipped off the board. Up to my chest in pig manure! I struggled to get out because no one really wanted to give me a hand! I stripped out of my reeking clothes and there were leaches on my arms and legs, fortunately none in my underwear! Someone used a cigarette to get them off me and then I headed back to the dorm to take a shower. At least I got out of digging!</span><br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QHQcmUB7nJ0?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560"></iframe>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-25014864764667663362010-08-30T01:15:00.000-07:002011-12-10T12:06:05.854-08:00Part 35: Christmas in Manila<div style="text-align: center;"><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">"She asked him why:<br />Why I'm a hairy guy?<br />I'm hairy noon and nighty-night night<br />My hair is a fright<br />I'm hairy high and low<br />Don't ask me why<br />Cause he don't know<br />It's not for lack of bread<br />Like the Grateful Dead<br />Darling<br /></span></p><p style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Gimme a head with hair<br />Long beautiful hair<br />Shining, gleaming,<br />Streaming, flaxen, waxen<br /></span></p><p style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Give me down to there hair<br />Shoulder length or longer<br />Here baby, there mama<br />Everywhere daddy daddy<br /></span></p><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Flow it, show it</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Long as God can grow it</span><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">My hair" </span></span><br />~ The Cowsills<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjlJtHLfvQFwwFZMsiPUSY3Jt8cxe2d7xvTUSyq7QwdOXilGEP2jDKi6UK2PKZ7FD3tQJXVsCHNBnwCiTO3yyAU9o96Qch7xlp-g3uh6zlYsUpDPUaZgCbXYi_Htup8A7SFbre23XOno/s1600/n1015622954_30225933_1136.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 273px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjlJtHLfvQFwwFZMsiPUSY3Jt8cxe2d7xvTUSyq7QwdOXilGEP2jDKi6UK2PKZ7FD3tQJXVsCHNBnwCiTO3yyAU9o96Qch7xlp-g3uh6zlYsUpDPUaZgCbXYi_Htup8A7SFbre23XOno/s400/n1015622954_30225933_1136.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684589701999343394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">My hair had grown quite long; I hadn't had a haircut for sometime now and I was beginning to be a little apprehensive about the upcoming Christmas holidays. I let my hair go partly because it set me apart from everyone else, partly because it made me feel </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >cool</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, but mostly because the girls liked it. Because of this I was more than willing to face my father's wrath. After lunch I'd sit on the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Neutral </span><span style="font-size:130%;">and one or more girls would comb, brush, braid and style it. As it grew longer they would eventually give me a long braided pony tail</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;">or maybe a</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > French Twist</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, using chop sticks, barrettes, hair clips and bobby pins. Sometimes I'd leave it for the rest of the day and sometimes a teacher would yell at me to take it out. I got teased occasionally but I didn't care, mostly it was because they were jealous.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsEh6-xEjpOhB647xXq_P0rJGDqp6cz4wIEvQVwXibp7ggPv6pnu2QVPPPHwBwnIBNB_NW44lbQEzdKvSGRIcE_BLjkadhCpNNwYGrzrdMauG0k_qky0DaO6Gpsw1rKYqpTFQ3xYCY7E/s1600/61608_1564055614066_1015622954_31616773_6351583_n.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 388px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsEh6-xEjpOhB647xXq_P0rJGDqp6cz4wIEvQVwXibp7ggPv6pnu2QVPPPHwBwnIBNB_NW44lbQEzdKvSGRIcE_BLjkadhCpNNwYGrzrdMauG0k_qky0DaO6Gpsw1rKYqpTFQ3xYCY7E/s400/61608_1564055614066_1015622954_31616773_6351583_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684592108510178530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Peg Hamil, Cathy McAllister and sometimes Kathy Duncan would spend hours after school talking and working on my hair. For Cathy McAllister it was therapeutic, her boyfriend had been "detained" by the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >PC</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. One day he never made it home from school. No one knew where he was or what happened to him. Then two or three weeks later his parents found out he was being held at </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Camp Crame</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, headquarters for the Philippine Constabulary and one of many detention centers for "dissidents". So, we tried to keep her mind off of it, keeping her company, telling stories, going to movies and working on my </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >coiffure</span><span style="font-size:130%;">.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwXZWRPv9eVhgiyv3oE5rQEzGUqesAMa305M8YWTKK9wAWPOXSt2t2wahkOTR795DHwCIxjTDUw8vpT1Op49OvoKgCv13l2G7eB11XqbGj3qHexSxpKT1Aa0XlPBppLd92zluecyI3Ajg/s1600/Brent+084.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwXZWRPv9eVhgiyv3oE5rQEzGUqesAMa305M8YWTKK9wAWPOXSt2t2wahkOTR795DHwCIxjTDUw8vpT1Op49OvoKgCv13l2G7eB11XqbGj3qHexSxpKT1Aa0XlPBppLd92zluecyI3Ajg/s400/Brent+084.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510870401910543266" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >I was over at Hamilton Hall helping clean up the day after a dance and the girls started working on me, clips in my hair, a little make up and a</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > crepe</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >paper skirt.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Mrs Jenista wanted a picture so here I am posing, with Elmer Strasser down on one knee in mock proposal.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_UBQByU3fSHQk8aOQOYkM3iCwJaOpzF_9L5d9dX40aX_wDNvtyC3hMTDVAHshEN81GBsZE1sb5eYSvlWmiW7BmeZj3xaopIduCmdOnorlvPIYO8jRCGlLMTj-n156MII0AvGIlkrzlk/s1600/kathyandBethDuncan.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_UBQByU3fSHQk8aOQOYkM3iCwJaOpzF_9L5d9dX40aX_wDNvtyC3hMTDVAHshEN81GBsZE1sb5eYSvlWmiW7BmeZj3xaopIduCmdOnorlvPIYO8jRCGlLMTj-n156MII0AvGIlkrzlk/s400/kathyandBethDuncan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510876016314637362" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Brent was participating in a citywide Christmas festival and we were organized to be in a parade and then some folk dancing down at Burnham park. Peg, Cathy, the Duncan sisters and I were at the back of the line.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Here we are waiting for the parade to start, notice I am pulling a bottle of Mateus from under my jacket. Hmm, the Duncan sisters seem a little too jolly.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirV-EumvNkujPT0s8sJ_FQknfkiomq8vCdka6pat8zln_gtgGVfwVrNas2TmrGau8vO2sQrjEL_rv31jOT8PmJrgrfLN5qpSnFJunOV_Y4Bhnhl83XDrMeUaIkwkODkrTxbwQSQredfjY/s1600/1973-74+Parade2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirV-EumvNkujPT0s8sJ_FQknfkiomq8vCdka6pat8zln_gtgGVfwVrNas2TmrGau8vO2sQrjEL_rv31jOT8PmJrgrfLN5qpSnFJunOV_Y4Bhnhl83XDrMeUaIkwkODkrTxbwQSQredfjY/s400/1973-74+Parade2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511247161519599010" border="0" /></a>This is as far as we ever got, because as soon as the parade started we ditched and first went over to Madame Chan's to do a little Christmas shopping. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The Old Pagoda Shop</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> was one of my two favorite places to shop for gifts, the other was the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Pied Piper</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. The Old Pagoda was filled to the rafters with things to buy. Some were genuine antiques and artifacts, others artful fakes, all of it very interesting.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWbUd6hveQVgyqlnvicrD7bPEAIefEwf0kq285LVjM01BlSiNrhHYhqAXlwd5SSwJiJhFMJR2ylUGV-e3C84ZYWpoz5aWxZpZZm59BUujRzchKZIaZPNSPGZ_F92QREj3_lJOV6cyP90/s1600/60515_1549231421049_1542996507_1351575_1465286_n.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWbUd6hveQVgyqlnvicrD7bPEAIefEwf0kq285LVjM01BlSiNrhHYhqAXlwd5SSwJiJhFMJR2ylUGV-e3C84ZYWpoz5aWxZpZZm59BUujRzchKZIaZPNSPGZ_F92QREj3_lJOV6cyP90/s400/60515_1549231421049_1542996507_1351575_1465286_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684593096705652690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"> I picked out some incense, a few things for my mother and special friends, then we headed over to the Rose Bowl for some fried rice. It was vaguely disconcerting to see these slightly tipsy, normally straight laced, follow-the-rules kind of girls nervously clutching their bottles of San Miguel, Beth laughing uproariously with her booming laugh at the slightest joke.<br /><br />What with the plays and parades I forgot to make my airline reservations to get home that Christmas. No, really, I forgot. So, when school let out for the holidays and I got to Manila I was stuck at the Guest House. First available flight out was December 27th. Not too bad a place to spend Christmas I thought, they had a fairly good selection of books and there were plenty of shops and department stores within a few blocks. It was fun to shop and browse those first few days, but then my parents decided I needed to spend Christmas with a "family", so they telegraphed some missionaries they knew and I ended up spending a few days at "Sydney's" home. I hadn't seen her since the Christmas before and she still was as cute as ever and her volumes had gotten bigger too. Her Dad was painfully aware of this and kept a close eye on us whenever he could. She was used to him playing watchdog and devised all manner of evasions that would give her a minute or two alone with me. But most of the time we hung out in the kitchen with her Mom, baking cookies and other treats for Christmas. Sydney had some peculiar habits and tastes one of which was dill pickles dipped in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Elmer's</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> glue. I'm not kidding and she kept trying to get me to try it. I thought of all the nasty stuff glue is supposed to be made from and would put her off. But girls are real good at getting boys to do things and she turned her feminine wiles on full blast. Not the worst thing I have ever tasted, but not the best either. I was surprised, but pleased when on Christmas day they had presents for me too, thinking that at least I would be getting something for Christmas. It was interesting to see how other missionaries lived, especially those in the cities with access to imported American products. Their lifestyle was so different from ours in the boondocks where even getting comics or magazines in English was tough.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nRAVk0UwY3ii5kXWrJQzTSwBxb59nZcmexoYnvXulKJJU9hcYq74c-RyXwIEXv2mPAaXJEszrMoNUtE1bUAi2tZ0RV8tJQbnj84MBfTrli_waxZJHodaFllkkM8F_l1wHUkHDtwSn9I/s1600/album-14754.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nRAVk0UwY3ii5kXWrJQzTSwBxb59nZcmexoYnvXulKJJU9hcYq74c-RyXwIEXv2mPAaXJEszrMoNUtE1bUAi2tZ0RV8tJQbnj84MBfTrli_waxZJHodaFllkkM8F_l1wHUkHDtwSn9I/s400/album-14754.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510894423332552210" border="0" /></a>I did make it home for about a week that year, though it hardly seemed worth the effort. It started with the usual </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"My prodigal daughter returns"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and ended with </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"My prodigal daughter returns to school"</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. Mom really tried hard to make it a good Christmas for everyone, she had even asked me what I wanted and tried to get them for me, although when I said I wanted an "ELO" or "The Beatles" album I meant </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Electric Light Orchestra</span> <span style="font-size:130%;">not</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Enoch Light and his Orchestra</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >play the Beatles</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. She also gave me some cash and a bundle of <span style="font-style: italic;">Enid Blyton</span> paperbacks, really out of my age range but they were real gifts this time and she was trying to pay attention to the three boys, kissing and hugging us, playing the piano and singing. She brought Mrs Hinakay over from </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Samar</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> exclusively to make me some shirts and Mom and I went to buy some fabric where I picked out some off white muslin and assorted cotton pastels. Auring didn't really approve of my hair either, but she still made my favorites: beef adobo, fried chicken, roast beef and browned potatoes. Of course I had </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >tuyo</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >bulad</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> every day.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1qBdk42S2Uc?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560"></iframe><br /><br /></span><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oovgX1SAtpM?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oovgX1SAtpM?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="480"></embed></object>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-26863699587182062942010-08-01T01:00:00.000-07:002011-12-04T08:56:07.967-08:00Part 34: Murder In The Cathedral<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="body"></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"So the darkness shall be the light,<br />and the stillness the dancing.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> Of death and birth</span></span><span;><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">...</span><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >As, in a theatre,</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> <span style="font-size:130%;">the lights are extinguished,<br />for the scene to be changed</span></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br />With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,</span><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" > And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> and the bold imposing facade<br />are all being rolled away"</span></span><br />~ T.S. Eliot</span><br /></span;></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"There is Holy ground, and the sanctity shall not depart from it</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> though armies trample over it,<br />though sightseers come with guide-books<br />looking over it"<br /></span></span>~ T.S. Eliot<br /></div><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8oBZFc4g2b_B8ofIiiVOgk3ZU8CW_iDNMkgDyCoNJHo3FEZj5hiFQTFFGUgQN0sypfVXFjV2Bwfiza-EoN4jQ_rZ0ITTczSXzINKIhr2T0PvdJ3AiIvTzrua6t48is3RfnCi32RDIPQ/s1600/23987_1349741416345_1015622954_31054236_6449980_n.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8oBZFc4g2b_B8ofIiiVOgk3ZU8CW_iDNMkgDyCoNJHo3FEZj5hiFQTFFGUgQN0sypfVXFjV2Bwfiza-EoN4jQ_rZ0ITTczSXzINKIhr2T0PvdJ3AiIvTzrua6t48is3RfnCi32RDIPQ/s400/23987_1349741416345_1015622954_31054236_6449980_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497234085193562034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">We began pre-production work on </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Murder in the</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Cathedral</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> the week after the last performance of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >After the Fall</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. While the principals of that play</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> were mainly Juniors and Seniors, the cast of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Murder</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> were mostly Sophomores and Freshmen. As with the previous production, Rug went into great detail in giving us the history and background for this play. We learned about the struggle for control of the Church in England between King Henry II and Thomas Beckett. He talked about the similarities for the purpose of the chorus in this play and those used by the ancient Greek playwrights. One of the first things we did was to decorate St. Nicholas Chapel: the maintenance shop made wooden shields and we painted them with Church symbols which were then hung around the sanctuary. Rug ordered iron candle holders, swords, helmets and shields from the metal shops of some of the local mining companies. He designed costumes which were made by Mrs Tabafunda, the school seamstress. The actors who were portraying the acolytes, priests and archbishop took classes on how to respect and wear the real vestments (donated by the Catholic Church) we would be using for the play. Because we would be using the school's chapel as the "stage" for our play, Rug impressed upon us the importance of respecting the sanctuary. This was very difficult with Gordon Strachan who would be portraying the Archbishop of Canterbury; he loved to cuss everytime he forgot a line.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0d2wH6yLsUY4Uk9dNp1rOCprQGBmnomzVgsN_3qNCuvxeh73cSseM-X4lHqcDdCULB7sO19c5F3T7Nm06GEAjAWTc4AJw9bzUE4F8OQMeY4uq351i__OIePl-bvdJnWjM8qXVXF9EPE/s1600/23987_1349741576349_1015622954_31054239_7435824_n.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0d2wH6yLsUY4Uk9dNp1rOCprQGBmnomzVgsN_3qNCuvxeh73cSseM-X4lHqcDdCULB7sO19c5F3T7Nm06GEAjAWTc4AJw9bzUE4F8OQMeY4uq351i__OIePl-bvdJnWjM8qXVXF9EPE/s400/23987_1349741576349_1015622954_31054239_7435824_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497248662643534690" border="0" /></a>There were a lot of lines to learn, pages of dialogue for us priests and the Christmas sermon was especially long and caused Gordon and Rug much grief.<br /><br />While all this was going on I still had tons of homework in his English class. We read </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Catcher in the Rye</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >A Separate Peace. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I didn't care for the former, I thought Holden was a whiny idiot. I did like the later and found many similarities between myself and Gene. It was about this time that I had my first fight with Jaime. It was during P.E. class and we were on opposite sides of a volleyball team. The ball kept getting knocked out the open doors of the gym and someone would have to run outside to fetch it back. This delayed the game repeatedly and Jaime was getting frustrated. Then during his serve, the ball bounced off my hands and out the door. As I was coming back into the gym with the ball, Jaime met me at the door.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >What did you do that for?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />I automatically replied with some off the cuff sarcastic remark never dreaming that it would lead to the following event: time stopped and I saw his fist suspended in front of my eye. I could see the hairs on the back of his hand and the pores of his skin with microscopic clarity. Even as I comprehended what was about to happen, I couldn't help but marvel at this amazing spectacle.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >POW!</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Jaime walked off and I went and sat on the bleachers, hand over my blackened eye. A member of the other team came over, Bill Amedee. He was a big, tall senior.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Are you OK?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />At his words, my shoulders began to shake, shamed and embarrassed as I was I couldn't stop the tears from running down my cheeks. It didn't really hurt, but I was shocked and stunned, the betrayal shook me to my core. I couldn't say anything but nod my head. He came over and put his hand on my shoulder.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >I'm sorry</span><span style="font-size:130%;">.<br />I wondered then and still wonder to this day why he apologized, he didn't hit me. But it did make me feel better.<br /><br />That night I sat with Peg Hamil and the Duncan sisters at their table instead of my table with Jaime. After supper, Peg said to me </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Do you want to spend the night?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />I must have got a funny look on my face because for the second time that day I got hit in the head.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Don't you have a boyfriend?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> I asked and jumped out of the way of what would have been my third punch of the day.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Just because a girl asks you to spend the night doesn't mean sex!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">And so began the many lessons I learned about women from Peg Hamil. I snuck out of the dorm that night and was met at the back door of Hamilton Hall by Renee Case who lead me up the stairs to Peg's room. There Kathy and her sister Beth had already gathered, clad in pajamas, bearing chips, popcorn and soft drinks. We played cards till the wee hours of the night, then arranging the mattresses on the floor we snuggled up together and went to sleep, Peg's comforting arm across my shoulders. It was then I realized that all I ever wanted was someone to love me.<br /><br />Jaime didn't stay mad at me too long, which was good because I saw him everyday at rehearsals. The number of rehearsals continued to increase weekly as we approached opening night, and it wasn't just the students; Rug and Mr. Pettitt were practicing the Gregorian chants they would be doing during the play. We only had one rehearsal with the horses and they were skittish and Gordon was cussing up a storm: </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >You're stepping on my F___ING Robe!</span><span style="font-size:130%;">; Rug looked worried.<br /><br />The play began at dusk Friday evening, the audience gathered outside the chapel behind ropes as the Chapel bells announced the beginning of the play. The Chorus came down the steps from Ogilby Hall, telling the back story of the dispute between King Henry and Thomas Beckett. Then the three priests came out and filled in the gaps. A messenger arrives announcing the arrival of the Archbishop and then up the hill from Richardson Hall comes Gordon on horseback. We all held our breath, but other than a muttered </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >"Stupid Horse"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> he stuck to the script. He made it off the horse with out incident and we entered the chapel. The Chorus escorted the audience into the chapel, the acolytes lit the candles and the sun set. The rest of play was performed by candle light. The Christmas sermon stands out vividly in my mind, the billows of spicy sweet incense as we went up and down the aisles. Then the tempters/knights arrive and the Archbishop is murdered. The second night went even smoother, as it should have, it was my birthday; I was 15.<br /><br /><br /></span><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OdnM0wILNsE&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OdnM0wILNsE&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="480"></embed></object>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6989586416422502426.post-68965127908745951002010-07-30T13:18:00.000-07:002011-11-30T18:46:39.865-08:00Part 33: Brother Sun, Sister Moon<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><br /><br /><br />"... grant that I may not so much seek<br />to be consoled as to console;<br />to be understood as to understand;<br />to be loved as to love.<br />For it is in giving that we receive;<br />it is in pardoning that we are pardoned ..."</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >- Francis of Assisi</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qRkKR_ja5o1k6hhixUnXi0q9WHy9c2Yd9Q8D_FlLsxv_n1dZ7GLh4UF-gPlTFxzD785iJY_BPUYHPxnYePXMU0U8oKmwL5SZwptT4oU7-Xe30SmxM5kYRvX-ASsYkbINcdGsXyeIywg/s1600/BrotherSunSisterMoon1972.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 269px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qRkKR_ja5o1k6hhixUnXi0q9WHy9c2Yd9Q8D_FlLsxv_n1dZ7GLh4UF-gPlTFxzD785iJY_BPUYHPxnYePXMU0U8oKmwL5SZwptT4oU7-Xe30SmxM5kYRvX-ASsYkbINcdGsXyeIywg/s400/BrotherSunSisterMoon1972.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505005539490733026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">This was a year of momentous change for me. Maybe it was moving from middle school to high school; but not only had I finally grown a little taller, but I also had begun to see things around me differently too. New teachers, new friends, new books and new ideas were opening the world to me. I was active in extra curricular activities; the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Student Council</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, student representative on the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Disciplinary Committee</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Ganza</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> year book staff, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Brent Players</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and the Junior Varsity soccer team.<br /><br />It was sometime in September that I got a letter from Mom telling me that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer and she was going to have radical breast removal surgery in Manila, but not to worry. I did anyway and bought her some gifts at an Arts and Crafts show that was being held in Amos Hall. I went down to see her one weekend after her surgery at St. Luke's Hospital and she looked weak, tired and gray but in good spirits. Mom's brush with death had an interesting effect on my parents; it changed her and her outlook on life and parenting. She asked about me, school, if I had a girlfriend and really seemed interested in hearing my answers. It didn't seem to affect Dad at all, he was still mad about my hair and made sure I knew it.<br /><br />It was while I was on the Disciplinary Committee that I got to defend my friend Leeanne Colvin. Periodically the lockers and dorm rooms were searched for contraband. During one of these searches a pack of cigarettes had been discovered under her mattress. Intelligent, an Honor Roll student, Leeanne was also brash and outspoken. The school paper ran an article about new boarding students and qouted Leeanne saying she<span style="font-style: italic;"> "liked dorm life and have already broken all the rules!"</span> This statement put her on the watch list of some of the teachers on the Disciplinary Committee and when they finally caught her at something they decided to make an example of her and expel her.<br /><br />It was a dour looking group as the charges were somberly read, the incriminating evidence placed on the table before us and the recommendation for expulsion presented; I was reminded of cartoon caricatures of vultures, they seemed to be drooling. When it came my turn to speak I reminded them of her excellent scholastic record and then played my trump card: enumerating previous "crimes" and the punishments dealt by the committee to other students and noted that expulsion for having an unopened pack of cigarettes as compared to the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Campusing</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (being restricted to the dorm or campus) of another student for a month for being caught drinking alcohol seemed out of balance. I asked if they felt that smoking was worse than drinking and could they in good conscience deal out so severe a punishment to a good student. After several moments of uncomfortable silence the committee voted for a two week </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Campusing</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. The vultures would have to go hungry. After the results of the trial were announced and my role in the outcome got out, I had minor celebrity status and Lulie began calling me the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Wizard of Words</span><span style="font-size:130%;">.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkcEq5tRciYT8WxNUsjZgnpp96YJSdGD_IMP1dSqfjl2YR9PVi7Ajs1qndvQa5BBuJrb18lfYPuRF0CFhFRzMRTmX1b9xMGsPKus97WpeoNnAAMoO4W-EetkO3-Y18_hsSbeJJ7ZEzsc/s1600/godspell.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBkcEq5tRciYT8WxNUsjZgnpp96YJSdGD_IMP1dSqfjl2YR9PVi7Ajs1qndvQa5BBuJrb18lfYPuRF0CFhFRzMRTmX1b9xMGsPKus97WpeoNnAAMoO4W-EetkO3-Y18_hsSbeJJ7ZEzsc/s320/godspell.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505010271816623842" border="0" /></a>I saw two movies that year that subtly affected me as well: </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Brother Sun, Sister Moon</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Godspell</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. Rug took a group of us to see the former, he had a minor role working with Franco Zeffirelli on the production of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Romeo and Juliet</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and I was interested to see this one as well. It really bowled me over, the images, the music and the message. I wanted to be a Franciscan monk too.<br /><br />I loved the music of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Godspell</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and felt that the songs seemed vaguely familiar. The following Sunday I was sitting in chapel thumbing through the hymnal and there was one of the songs. Intrigued, I searched through the first lines index and one by one I found most of the songs from the film.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6t3xYTIfIQQc27FNgyrJ6RYixtYrdg92ld-hBrEyh17B6v96mUl42uFPCvdVYH_7ptVFjPSTP8nseRy0sNhIlt5GXkCLPMvKGeSZSijboa6d7msyz3D16klr7N30spsLXdguRYaAgK-U/s1600/CCP.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6t3xYTIfIQQc27FNgyrJ6RYixtYrdg92ld-hBrEyh17B6v96mUl42uFPCvdVYH_7ptVFjPSTP8nseRy0sNhIlt5GXkCLPMvKGeSZSijboa6d7msyz3D16klr7N30spsLXdguRYaAgK-U/s320/CCP.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581768878679202402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">In late September we spent three days at the Cultural Center of the Philippines in Manila to see some operettas directed by Rug. The place was enormous. The first two days we took a tour of the Center, learned about lighting and set design and watched rehearsals. The last night we dressed in our best and were escorted to our reserved seats in the nose bleed section. Still, we could see and hear the performances fairly well. This was the first time I had seen an opera performance and it was exciting to be there knowing that my teacher was the director. We watched scenes from </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Madame Butterfly, Rigoletto and Faust</span><span style="font-size:130%;">. After the show ended, Rug came out and took his bow and we embarrassed him by standing up and screaming, hooping and hollering! Not proper Opera etiquette!<br /><br />After the show eleven of us crammed into Mr Pettitt's little </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Minica</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and went to the cast party. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbP_5YaqbD5xXV6HWwisucEMFFb6U8mkOSvxntU4_lnUQLMkPj-HFhnMXafvK3g_3ndfKptPJxaKQKnTY1gNQPjykZfBLjAJtLyRjsV-eR1R-sLRBHnzGDm94iLvD9gTyiReao_7hnZQ/s1600/MinicaF4.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbP_5YaqbD5xXV6HWwisucEMFFb6U8mkOSvxntU4_lnUQLMkPj-HFhnMXafvK3g_3ndfKptPJxaKQKnTY1gNQPjykZfBLjAJtLyRjsV-eR1R-sLRBHnzGDm94iLvD9gTyiReao_7hnZQ/s320/MinicaF4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505036679633216290" border="0" /></a>It was a tight fit, with elbows and knees all akimbo and me with my face smashed tight up against the glass of the rear hatch as we zipped in and out of traffic through the busy night streets of Manila. The party was a lavish affair, with tables piled high with food. Waiters in white jackets roamed the crowd carry trays of <span style="font-style: italic;">hors d' oeuvres</span>, others carrying trays of champagne. There was caviar to go along with the champagne, neither of which I cared for. I had a champagne cocktail</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> which was a little tastier and grabbed a plate and filled it up. Leigh was really enjoying herself, reveling at being able to hob-knob with the rich and powerful high society folks of Manila. I was more interested in the free food and being able to drink cocktails without retribution.</span><br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/PZ0i4RUnDcs?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560"></iframe><br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Tmb0VtL-DFE?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420"></iframe>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09411518608801557847noreply@blogger.com0