School Story:
Mulberry trees behind the technical shop; wooden rifles for PMT; green leaves and sprouting string beans in gardening plots; lessons to learn, essays to read and write; true or false, multiple choice, mix and match, essays to write, poem to memorize, chem formulas to understand, physics problems to solve, algebra proofs to QED (Quod Erat Demonstrandum), band music to appreciate, masses to attend, boyscout knots to do, fees to pay, long winding road to trek everyday, girls to spot and scout (did we have time for this?), teachers to respect/fear/obey and adore/regard, songs to sing, dancing to the beat of the Beatles and Elvis, of Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole... yes, there were bells on the hill, and it was indeed a hard days' night... those were days of roses and pomade, to some, a stage of puberty and cigarettes, of awakenings and rigorous trainings. But we survived and that was all that mattered, we made it and now here we are, reaping what we sowed. Some call it fate, some call it luck, some call it by something else. Never-the-less, whatever it is, it made us stand and live with what we got. School is a ground for life's development. We were there, we submitted ourselves. We did not understand then what everything meant, but now we know- and we know better...yes, much much more. We learned approximation of life's realities. This is why we must write because unless we do, no one would know the past- our colorful adventures, misadventures and escapades. We owe it to our teachers, to our school, and to our benefactors, the Yulo's. Let us not forget. All it takes is a few keystrokes, and then the past begins to be lived again. Happy reading.
