SOONER or later we all have to stop the world and get off. Last week, I did
just that.

There is something profoundly wonderful about leaving all your cares behind.
For three full days over the weekend, I didn't watch television, send or
receive a text message, read a newspaper, listen to the radio, or care a
farthing for what went on in the world. World War III had broken out?
Congratulations and more power. Gore replaced Bush? How very interesting but
my weekend is waiting. Sen. Tito Guingona cleared President Estrada? Tell me
on Monday.

To the surprise of a news junkie who sometimes turns CNN on at three in the
morning because he might miss some piece of breaking news in the world, I
not only survived but thrived. The Roman Emperor Diocletian who had ably
governed for 20 years before retiring to his farm was asked to return to
power in the face of the political chaos that had succeeded his abdication.
His reply was both succinct and brief: "If you see how my cabbages grow you
would not ask me to come back." He knew what he was talking about. Having
power, or observing it, is not a tittle as wonderful as seeing a sunset on
Subic Bay.

This was no ordinary weekend for me but a very special one. After almost 35
years, the UP Prep Class of 1966 was having its grand reunion. We were not
more than 90 when we graduated that March. A few had passed away, some
heroically in the martial law years. Many had become engineers, doctors and
other professionals and had emigrated to the United States or Australia.

There were 25 we just couldn't locate, even after a year and a half of
constant trying. Another 25 couldn't, or wouldn't, come. One had the
unbelievable misfortune to be run over by a forklift a few weeks before the
reunion. A forklift! Others had to cancel for family or personal reasons.
But 35 of us came together with our families.

Up to this point, you probably shouldn't care a fig. The private happiness
of a group of reminiscing 50-year-olds in the autumn of their lives, however
decent or talented they might or might not be, is hardly a matter of public
interest. I shall therefore refrain from infecting you with our joy.

But let me briefly lament the passing of this marvelous high school founded
in 1954, which has, since the early 1970s merged with UP High. It was small.
It had the most rigorous entrance standards. Ours had an impressive faculty,
most with master's or doctoral degrees from abroad, unusual for a high
school, and everyone of them inspired teachers.

UP Prep was egalitarian (my classmates lived the range from mansions in
Forbes park to middle-class accessorias in Manila). It had unique
educational tours that had the whole school decamping for Bicol or Mindanao
for a week at a time. If to this day my classmates can do algebra in their
heads, quote effusively from Shakespeare or Balagtas, discuss DNA
intelligently, or evince a familiarity with history, blame our teachers. To
them I light a daily candle of thanks in my heart.

It was great fun. The '60s were wonderful. And high school is a happy time,
perhaps the happiest. Music was evolving. The Beatles. Dave Clark Five. Chad
and Jeremy. Joan Baez. The Rolling Stones. And we grew, and grew up with the
music.

It was this music that brought us back in time. We had a great band, the
Electromaniacs, with a heritage going back to our youth. They played, we
danced. The Bye Bye. Cha cha. Mashed Potato. Soul. Etcetera, that being the
most fun. They sang, we sang. We all had a wonderful, crazy time. The
younger folks had never seen the old folks behave that way before. Doo Dah!

We spent long hours talking with lambent smiles, as if we didn't have time
enough to tell it all and catch up on all the years we had been separated.
Some of my classmates worked their posteriors off to make this come
together, and what unfolded was their best reward. To this day, I can't get
over what a bunch of fine, decent and talented human beings it was my
privilege to have been classmates with those many years ago. They will, as
many of them prefer, remain unnamed in this column.

We talked about our hopes and fears. What it had cost and what we had
gained. Of might have beens. Of our country and those who left it. We talked
of our past and future, and not just our present. Some of those abroad
called or were called so they could share the fleeting moment with us.

Caught up in McArthur's reverie we remembered our days of old which "have
gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one
of wondrous beauty, watered by tears, and coaxed and caressed by the smiles
of yesterday."

So perhaps I can close with some piece of advice for a reunion. Don't make
it just a one-night affair. If you can, have a weekend. Go to a great but
accessible hideaway. Subic is superlative. Everyone is solicitous. The place
is magical. And Subic Bay Metropolitan Authority, led by Chair Tong Payumo,
went out of their way to make everyone feel welcome. They even gave us a
briefing.

Find a great band. Play retro music. But be prepared so that the minus-one
tapes are ready and the band has a clear repertoire. Give yourselves enough
time to picnic together or take a sunset cruise on a ferry and get
reacquainted. Bring your families along and stay at least overnight,
although two is even better. Invite your teachers along as your special
guests. Leave all your cares and worries behind, if only for a weekend.
Bring your memories with you and come armed with the soul of a child. In
return, you will be dowered with happiness.

And so another Christmas comes and another year draws to a close, this one
at a time of great national trial, in both senses of the word. We cannot
impose peace, brotherhood, joy, or goodness on each other. For this each
person must look into his own soul. A blessed Christmas to you and yours.
 

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