A golden jubilee

One weekend in February our high school class of 1965 gathered to celebrate the golden anniversary of our graduation. A good number of classmates and teachers from the United States, Canada and Australia, and Naga City arrived to be part of the celebration, which commenced on a Friday with much picture-taking, recognizing the more mature faces of classmates, catching up on one another, dancing, and feasting on the comfort food of our youth—minukmuk, binanging saging, pancit habhab, sinudsud, and many more.

I was transported back in time to Aling Maring’s stall near our school, where I delighted on pancit habhab straight from a square piece of banana leaf sans fork.

Their high school crushes were revealed by the boys with a bunch of flowers given to their crush. The guy who gave me the flowers upped the ante by taking my right hand and planting a gentle kiss on it. I was only too glad my hand was more fragrant than the flowers. All the pairs danced, and as we did my partner recollected the last time he saw me ages ago and happily shared how he enjoyed his work at his “aposina.”

Take note. One guy’s reply to a question in the registration form was: “They are all old.” I said: “Your sentence is not complete. It must end with ‘like me.’” I hounded him until he did. After all, the high energy on the dance floor did not seem to come from old people. I signed off earlier than the rest who, I learned, stayed until the wee hours of the morning. Dead wood is dead, not dancing and merrymaking until close to dawn.

Saturday found us at our alma mater for a tour. The flame trees we planted around the school grounds are gone, having given way to much-needed structures. But Mama Mary still stands gazing protectively on her children. We reminisced where our classrooms, the principal’s office, and the library were, but no one mentioned the detention room.

Wanting to give back the little we could, we headed to the Kiwanis Home for the Aged to paint the  lolas’  Valentine Day red. As they were being ushered to the activity hall, we were cautioned not to seat one  lola  beside another because they fight. Talk of second childhood! The bags of goodies they received seemed to have added color to their day. But the girls’ impromptu entertainment segment appeared to have touched them more, moving some of them to tears.

With my heart warmed by the experience, I did not mind how late lunch was at the venue akin to a beehive buzzing with conversations among people who have not seen each other for a long time. I sat with classmates in the grades who had transferred school. One was pretty and dusky then, but now is more beautiful and youthful than most of us. I truly liked her “revised edition,” but liked her even more for being as beautiful inside as out.

That lunch was not just physical nourishment for me but also uplifting for my spirit. Here is why. I did not know that a classmate used to study by a gas lamp yet always managed to land a spot in the Top 10. Moreover, he had to wrestle with a decade of working, then studying
later, working again to save up before becoming a civil engineer. Close to tears, another classmate shared that he never went to university and had to make do without a degree. I would venture to say that his PhD in life can match the academic degree he missed. A couple of classmates battled a dreaded illness and triumphed. Another classmate nursed her husband back to a communicative level after his bout with the Big A (neurysm), becoming an expert speech therapist by necessity while raising three small sons. Still another classmate has been caring for his bed-bound wife for some years now.

Maryknoll must be beaming with pride for playing a part in building such characters of faith, perseverance, strength and loyalty.

Past our thanksgiving Mass said by a priest classmate, we recharged for our Valentine Ball where our Queen of the Night arrived resplendent in a shimmering blue gown all made up to a T. She who was a he had the most musical scream in school, and the boys know why.

There was the “wedding” between widow and widower classmates, with an entourage and a ceremony that went without a hitch. Sadly, the marriage was “annulled” shortly after the “wedding” due to the recovery of sanity and because when the groom texted his bride she replied: “Hu ds?” It broke his heart. Confronted with this, she retorted: “He should be grateful it was not ‘Hudas!’”

Sunday, the visit to our US-based classmate and her doctor-husband to enjoy the scrumptious lunch they set was to have been our culminating activity. But it segued to more get-togethers—a maiden despedida here, a Tagaytay/Taal trip, a final farewell there, a night out at RJ’s Bistro, a lunch in Makati, and some more breakfasts and lunches together. The lively lunch in Makati prompted the waitress to ask what school we had gone to and to remark how merry we were.

Pondering on those days of frolic, friendship and fun, I can only say “Thank you” to the Maryknoll sisters for their incalculable contribution to molding me; to my teachers for walking their talk while I was watching; to my classmates for being my friends then and now; and to God Almighty for all that I was, am and will be because of His unconditional love, unbounded mercy and innumerable blessings.

Patricia C. Begonia, a certified senior citizen, is the wife of a retired Philippine ambassador, mother of four sons, and grandmother of eight. She wrote a column in the Qatar Tribune when her husband was posted there and contributed to the newsletter of The International Women’s Association of Bucharest. Writing, she says, remains her favorite way of expressing herself.