La Piu Bella Del Mondo - Rumba (Music for Dancing) - Tony Evans & His Orchestra

Polon and Emilie's Visit to Pensacola
April 19 - 21, 2009

Polon and Emilie arrived in Pensacola last Sunday, April 19th, after having driven all the way and for most of the day from Jacksonville, Florida where Emilie enjoyed a get together with members of her Santo Tomas Nursing graduating class.

The last time I saw Polon was at my ordination into the Permanent Diaconate in San Francisco, California. That was February 25, 1995. Time has flown by so fast. And let me tell you folks he hasn't grown a year older in looks and in his sense of humour and swagger. He is the same youthfully exuberant young man that he was years ago when we attended high school at SAS.

A lot of daylight was left still and so we took to the front of the house to continue our conversation. Dusk was fast approaching and in the gathering preamble to the inevitable nightfall we just told and shared our stories - some repeats, but more or less, all originals. The ancient cicadas that lived in the moss-draped oak trees became more vocal as the last signs of light faded away. There was something familiar with the twilight hour here in Florida that gave us a connection to the old world we left back home. As the sun sets, the sands cool off letting off this sweet scent of evening and magnolias. The sound of crickets and sleeping centipedes serenade the nocturnal setting complete with orchestrations from the frogs in the nearby pond.

Life in the countryside could be so serene and tranquil you could easily forget your cares and woes. You can leave behind all the cares of city hustle, city living - the hubbub of the buses and smoky cabs... the flickering neon lights of downtown stores and signs amid the cacophony of boom boxes and loud stereos. I pointed out to the Great Saanen herd grazing. See how calming and peaceful they all seem. Fact is, I noticed a big drop in my blood pressure readings and blood sugar readings just watching these Great Saanen goats graze. They are so peaceful and unhurried. Taking their time to study the blades of grass and the small, tiny flowers that sprouted up in the Spring, they nibble and they eat only the tender shoots and leaves. 

The following day after a good night's rest we took to the road out to the beaches of Pensacola. Miles and miles of beaches stretched out to meet us to as far as the eye could see. Not a soul marred the pristine beaches except maybe for a surf fisherman or two. The sun was shining so brightly we had to wear polaroid lenses to minimize the glare of the sugar sands. Grace and Emilie thought it would be a good souvenir to have their picture taken with me so I felt privileged to be flanked by two beautiful ladies. Polon took the snapshot.

From the sugar sand beaches we took a stroll down the mile long pier that juts out to the Gulf of Mexico. On the pier that day were fishermen and women catching anything and everything from Pompano to Mackerel, to Drum. Polon took some pictures of the catch. He also took pictures of the people who caught them. I believe his aim strayed only once to include some bikini clad babe who happened to be there at the time. The photo at left shows the shoreline view taken from the seaside. Notice how the shoreline appears to be have a fairgrounds atmosphere complete with rides and little booths where people can buy beverages and ice cream, cotton candy, hot dogs - much like Coney Island in New York.

Before we all knew it time has once again passed unnoticed. It was time for Polon and Emilie to go back to catch their flight home to Chicago. Theirs was a short visit but nevertheless filled with pleasant memories. I believe that we made more memories too as a result of their visit to our humble home. It was Grace and I who were privileged to have had the opportunity to spend some time with our friend and classmate Polon and his beautiful wife Emilie.

We wished you were all here with us to join us in the celebration of life, friendship, camaraderie and SAS spirit. We wished you were all here with us to enjoy the succulent oysters freshly harvested off the coast of Appallachicola Bay and to peel the steamed shrimps caught in the Gulf of Mexico while we drank well chilled bottles of dark San Miguel Beer. We wished you were here.

Reminiscing...

May 2009 - by  Sister Josephine Ong, ICM (This article appeared in the SAS Class 1958 Souvenir Programme during the Golden Jubilee in 2008)

Gone are the days when school girls and boys were separated by the parish church and its walled grounds. The only time to hurriedly catch a glimpse at each other was after the flag raising ceremony held each morning. Daily communion had to be marked meticulously. Those who tried to whisper in the dialect were mercilessly fined. However, playing in the nearby river just behind the school had always been enjoyable. Likewise, it was great fun to hike to the seashore for a picnic. What—me worry when one of my friends got her head hit hard by a falling fruit of coconut?

Being a very devoted junior legionary the church’s pews were always free of dust. Sacrifice for me was giving up what I loved most—arithmetic for my piano lessons. I recall passing by the church quite often on our way home and noticing our sixth grade teacher there on her knees. After some months she disappeared from our sight. She
was no other than the late Sr. Fely Calica, ICM.

My freshman year had a profoundly painful beginning at the tragic passing away of my Tatang. He taught us early how to love and appreciate hard work and not minding getting our hands dirty. What about our notorious third year class under the guidance of Ms. Amelia David, who later became an ICM sister too. Our physics teacher became a Benedictine sister, Sr. Peters—the late Ms. Primitiva Quilop. I remember getting severely punished for squirting my water pistol at my friend Ching as she sat in the front row of the class.

Gratefully, I remember our truly interesting literature class with our excellent teacher Sr. Juana (nee Delia Coronel). Who can ever forget each spelling contest leaving everybody wide-eyed as to whose paper will be flying over one’s head. I appreciated our training in public speaking. However, acting on stage was not my “cup of tea”. On the other hand my love for the Blessed Mother Mary started right then and there. St. Augustine’s Day (SAS) was a great day of yearly celebration. The charming muses from each class donned their colorful ternas according to the class color and proudly paraded on the school grounds escorted by our own Pre-Military Training (PMT) guys. What beautiful folkloric dances and music that animated the day. Fifty, happy golden long years have come and gone. From different corners of the world we take time out to come to Tagudin to our beloved Alma Mater—the SAS.

Together we celebrate in praising and thanking the Lord for His awesome greatness. He is gracious and compassionate, abounding in love—LOVE in all He does and for all His creation. Our profound joy and gratitude go to you dear Sisters and all, teachers, and Ka-ilian. We love you!!! You have been a part of us and in our becoming as we are now. Our children will proclaim to their children what marvelous deeds the Lord continues to do in us and in the whole universe.

Humble Beginnings - April 2009

by Lolita Jaramilla Hassan

We lived in a largely farming community. Homes were modest bamboo dwelling structures adorned with thatched cogoon grass roofs and movable ladders. Some of the more affluent neighbors had framed capis shells for their windows with fancy wrought iron gratings. In our house, the windows were always open to let the open field breeze freely blow through. Never were our front doors locked. All around the small grouping of houses lay the vast expanse of rice fields stretching to the foothills on one end and to the far horizon on another end broken only by an occasional mango tree, tamarind tree or acacia. There were rice fields as far as the eye could see.

We drew our water from a dug up well, using a bucket attached to a rope to draw the water up. Our family, big as it was, raised all the children to not be strangers when it came to manual labor. There were twelve of us siblings with me being the penultimate child - Lucky Eleven - they called me. I could have easily hidden and stayed away from actively participating in the daily ritual for survival but I didn't. I opted to jump right in there with my brothers and sisters doing whatever I could to help keep the family viable and afloat. I was never scared of hard work; in fact I welcomed the opportunity to prove I was just as good as any of them.

High School found me working hard on both assignment fronts - the household and field chores and academics. There were times when I felt as if our entire existence as a family - being farmers - was meant to discourage me from pursuing my studies. All that manual labor with the interspersed jaunts of studying for tests and other school assignments made for a complex schedule by anyone's standard. But in the back of my mind I knew I had to cope. I remember dosing off on the dining room table on many occasions as I studied by kerosene lamplight. There was something hypnotic about the flickering light playing shadows first on the book pages then on the walls, making the letters blur and the sentences read like run away phrases. There were times when I was just way too tired to concentrate and I would wake up at cock crow to find myself still slumped on the kitchen table.

Throughout the high school years one thing remained constant - and that was the presence of the never-ending, backbreaking field work. Rice planting season was demanding enough. One would think that after the harvest season things would calm down some. Not really. There was the threshing of the rice grain, the drying and winnowing followed by the eventual change in crops that started the cycle all over again. We planted mongo beans, tobacco, sugarcane, and sugar beets. Toward the end of each day I could really feel the strain on my muscles, specially on my arms and shoulders, and on my legs that were mostly mired in the soft mud of the rice paddy. After a few monsoons I literally felt like an amphibian.

My passage through that time in my life was nothing short of a miracle. God had been actively preparing me for the rigors of college work. Soon I found myself attending nursing school at Santo Tomas and doing quite well. My dreams began to come into focus and in my consciousness I began to visualize the future. In my mental meanderings I met Sam, a member of the college varsity swim team, a handsome young man who showed a lot of promise and potential. The more I got to know Sam, the more I was convinced that indeed I may have met and found my soul mate. I felt good each and every time we were together. He made me laugh and in his own quiet way always had something thoughtful and inciteful to say. He was good for my morale, spiritual well being and mental acuity.

Last December, Sam and I renewed our marriage vows during the Golden Jubilee celebration of our high school graduating class of 1958. It was our 40th anniversary... forty years of wedded bliss, forty years of working, trying, collaborating, cooperating, sacrificing and making a go of it. Looking back all the way to the very beginning, how could I have ever made it? Only God knows - that's for sure. One thing will always stay with me - that no matter how humble, underprivileged and poor one's beginnings may be, if one embraces hard work, if one keeps a strong faith, and if one sticks to one's dreams, God will see to it that they all come true.

 

1957-1958 Senior Year

by Tom Buenavista - March 1, 2009

It was a time of great uncertainty in my life. I was caught in the cusp of two forces vying and tugging for my attention: the ebb tide of juvenile youthfulness replete with promises and dreams and the pull, irresistible force and gravity of adulthood. There were days when I daydreamed about opulent surroundings and imagined myself soaring away into the far-flung reaches of yet to be discovered constellations and galaxies. Then there were days when I faced the harsh realities of barrio life - life teetering on the edge of sanity where each and every scratch was followed by a peck in the never ending torment of economic and social poverty.

I remember our Junior Year very well. In high school, third year was the slowest; it seemed to drag on forever. We were the "kids" directly underneath the mighty seniors. We carried their water, swept the floors for them - so to speak. During PMT drills the seniors were the elite. Passing review gave them opportunities to show off their resplendent uniforms, sashes, and brass belt buckles. They certainly occupied the lofty positions of cadet corps commander, adjutant, company commanders, and other sword wielding PMT cadet officer positions. As juniors we existed in the gray area of high school. Sure, we were there but mostly invisible. Clearly, the spotlight was on the seniors. And so throughout that junior year we dreamt about the day when we will be the senior class.

The day finally came and our Senior Year had started with a bang. It was a different feeling to be a member of the senior class. I could tell by the way Mr. Vicente Lasmarias treated us. I could tell by the way Mr. Domingo Estolas treated us even as he sold us the idea of doing a play, "The Siege of Alcaraz". Why, even the usually stuffy, huffy and distant Mother Juana flashed a weak smile when she talked to us about music for the folk dances. Call it an elitist feeling but it was undeniably there. There was even a touch of haughtiness built into the spring of our gait as we would line up for morning roll call. Even in the way we dealt with the lower classmen - there was no mistaking it - we were the senior class and they were the water carriers, the bottom of the totem pole and floor sweepers.

School days passed in an accelerated pace. With alacrity we attended classes, did homework, industrial arts and those obligatory retreats - yes, even in the oppressive heat and asphyxiating humidity we had to sit there in the church pews doing some spiritual reflecting, not complaining about the miserable and dank atmosphere. We listened to the retreat master drone on as some of us dosed off into never-never land in semi-deep slumber. We sang Gregorian chants that could wake up the dead. A few of the boys even unashamedly stared at the girls, who - in their most rigid and saintly poses - sat quietly in the pews across the aisle ignoring us good looking young men. Then there were those graduation song rehearsal sessions with Mr. Federico Lazaga held in the library - a room just underneath the priest's rectory. Field day. PMT drill. Basketball games. Book binding with Mother Urban and her henchwoman Agatuna, horticulture with Mr. Agarpao and doormat weaving.

The much anticipated graduation day ceremony loomed closer. I remember thinking about what will happen after high school was all over. I must confess that at that time in my life I had not the vaguest idea about what I wanted to do, or places I desired to visit, or goals I wanted to achieve. I was way too young to be concerned about serious things such as going on to college and/or getting married. To make matters worse the hormones had started to wreak havoc with my emotions. I thought about how sweet it would be to have a girlfriend. One girl to call my own - to be attached to. Suddenly it was such a delicious feeling to be involved in a caring relationship with a girl. The feeling was so real I could literally taste it in my mouth. I don't recall having had any appreciation for girls until then. I'd see them walking to and from school, in the playground, in the market, in Church - but big deal, I thought - they're just girls. But now, I am feeling some kind of an inner awakening. Girls... they do look very good with their silky hair and curls falling down in beautiful tresses.

Strict parents tended to kill such fanciful thoughts and youthful longings. The entire subject of "Girls 101" had to be downgraded into an elective subject and relegated to the back of my mind - given low priority. There will be plenty of time to contemplate, pursue, and go after them, I was told. Reluctantly, I directed my focus on other things. Things like, where to go after high school. College maybe? But what of it? I didn't feel like college was all that important. Besides, my parents already informed me they couldn't afford to send me to college. There just wasn't any money to be found. My thoughts were scattered. The possibility of going to school in Manila was brought up by my grandmother. She said I could stay with my aunt and uncle who were finishing school at the time. That was comforting but I hated Manila however. A bad experience when I was 10 years old left a sour taste in my mouth about the big city of tall buildings, dirty streets, stinky canals, street vendors buying and selling empty bottles, and people speaking a different dialect? No thanks.

How about Baguio City? St. Louis College was a rising star in the firmament of higher education. I could go there. Maybe. But what course of study would I pursue? I wanted to write stories for a living but wiser folks discouraged me from pursuing such goals. They said I would starve to death. There is no market for writing and besides writers are a dime a dozen. After a few conversations with my parents I concluded that they knew better than I ever could what was best for me. The possibility of attending college on a band scholarship was achievable - thanks to the help of Mr. Maximino Lardizabal, our music teacher. He was a tough music master on the Solfegio and he would spend time with us in the afternoons going over music exercises. Fr. John Van Bauel, who used to teach World History here at St. Augustine also had just been newly promoted to a professorship at St. Louis College and he spoke very highly of the school. In fact, it was Fr. John who recruited me to attend school there, introducing me to the college band master, Mr. Macario Fronda. Bless all their souls.

In hindsight, I don't rightfully know how I ever made it through that phase of great uncertainty in my life. Like most high school graduates I was too young to make good, viable decisions. Yet, for some mysterious reason I was able to cope for the most part. Now that I am older I have come to realize that I truly didn't make it on my own. God played an active role in my deliverance and redemption. It was God and his mercy who saw me through during those early days in college where I was a total stranger in a strange city - just a face in the crowd among many college freshmen and women from all parts of the country. I was both too young and too naive to really sense God's presence in my life. I am glad He gave me sometime to be able to reflect upon this gift with which he has blessed me.

To God be the glory and praise! Amen.  

A Poem by Sister Domiciana Laguardia

REFLECTIONS - February 9, 2009
Domiciana V. Laguardia -SAS Class 1958 -08-13-08

As I sat and pondered before my writing table
Recalling happy times at St. Augustine’s School
Treasured memories began to flow and unravel
Nostalgia raised strife, joy, and successes in full.

First Grade saw me at St. Augustine’s School
Though intimidated I learned to like my teacher
Excited, eager to learn, I was young and hopeful
Ms. Guirnalda, strict but kind, and I admired her.

My learning stint was fun, was brief, shortlived
Me, mom and youngest sis off to Atok, Benguet
My eldest sister’s first assignment; we had to leave
To Atok where my sister’s teaching was earlier set.

Nine long months in Atok I didn’t learn as I should
Had fun with highland classmates, saw their abode
Schooling wasn’t the same but in some cases good
Coming back home to SAS, I was back in the fold.

Second Grade was a serious challenge; I couldn’t read
Was told to repeat first grade but my mom negotiated
Ms. Espiritu suggested I’d learn and get some speed
Mom requested I stay, my home study she refurbished.

Mom’s nightly instruction helped; I read much better
On to Third Grade with Ms. Andaya honing my skill
To our classroom by the church bell tower I’d scamper
Soaking up all the learning till I became an honor pupil.

Self-confident, blessed with a sweet-smiling teacher
Most of us loved her truly, our studies she inspired
Motherly Ms. Bustamante made our lives much rosier
Fourth Grade memories and ribbon I cherished with pride.

Fifth Grade came and I entered with more optimism
Under the proficient tutelage of the late Ms. Apusen
A teacher I truly admired for her pep and enthusiasm
God saw to it I was class salutatorian that year’s end.

The late Ms. Apusen left us many precious memories
She was our teacher, mother, counselor, choir mentor
We pray her soul now rests peacefully in celestial bliss
She inspired us to attend Mass, sing songs to our Creator.

Our Sixth Grade teacher, Ms. Calica was the best
Taught with humility, patience but only five months
Left for the convent, her religious vocation to rest
Feeling distressed, lost, we got back to our old haunts

Ms. Lallana replaced her, she was young, dynamic
We liked her youthfulness she had so much zest
Interesting, with novel ideas, alive, never anemic
Her vivacity rubbed on me I graduated second best.

Biology and Economics Ms. David taught our class
Jolly and articulate, she was knowledgeable and quick
She left to become a  religious, Ms. Bangaoil rescued us
And Ms. Lardizabal taught Pilipino, her chosen schtick

I enjoyed Fourth Year with Mother Juana as mentor
An excellent teacher, English her major expertise
Petite, very witty, gifted with a fine sense of humor
I am forever grateful I now speak English with ease

Ms. Orallo taught Philippine History and Government
She was charming, so intelligent, witty and very petite
Philippine History facts she added, mixed as in cement
With Current Events and important dates to complete

I cherish fond memories of my fourth year school days
Mother Juana enlivened every lesson with her charism
Loved the laughter Mother Juana’s jokes would raise
Everyone got so inspired with her charm and enthusiasm

From elementary to high school, joy filled my school life
Activities and festivities added luster to all our studies
It was fun growing up in camaraderie despite much strife
While picnics, outings, bonding formed friendship subsidies

Thank you St. Augustine’s School beloved Alma Mater
We’re blest to have been educated in her bosom and care
Prestigious school and institution, we take great pride in her
God bless St. Augustine’s School with more days so fair

To the good religious sisters and priests with hearts so full
Of love and service for God, and to our town as a whole
Never ending thanks we convey to them; hearts grateful
And to Mother Luisa, Foundress of St. Augustine’s School

My student life at SAS was blessed, happy and meaningful
I was rightly taught and nurtured and prepared for a career
My teacher’s love and care, with instructions real purposeful
Which brought my goals to fruition, thanks Alma Mater dear

 

INDUSTRIAL WORKS & ARTS - January 23, 2009

The Mother Urban Legacy and the Mystique of Agatona

Apolonio L. Villanueva III, P.E, Class ‘58
September 20, 2008

Most days during the school week, I found myself looking forward to a class period called Industrial Works. Not that I had less interest in other subjects - Arithmetic, Reading, Language, Music or Social Studies, but the thought of being able to incorporate “play time” while doing things outside the school room personally gave me a care-free feeling and a sense of having accomplished something. Plus the fact that Agatona, Mother Urban’s ever faithful, mindful assistant and “hatchet man,” was the over-all enforcer during those industrial periods, giving us young boys a readily available source of incredible glee and major amusement as we played our myriad tricks and committed minor and harmless but nevertheless agravating juvenile mischief toward her. It was fun big time! For example, we got under Agatona’s skin by calling her, "Sikatona" after the fierce warrior Datu from Jolo.

In grades four, five and six under the tutelage of Misses Rosita Ulpindo, Adoracion Sarmiento and Anselma Laguardia respectively, our schedule and assignments varied from class period to class period and upon the time of the seasons – dry or rainy.