We have changed

More than 42 years have passed since we entered IHMS in March 1976, the time when first met each other. Through all these years, we know that we have changed. We can see the change for ourselves. We grew white hairs or lost lots of them. We have moved on and pursued other dreams--dreams we never even thought of back then. And, for most of us who have left, we have seen our kids grow into adulthood.

There were two type of changes that happened in our life. One was drastic, like the time when we first set foot in IHMS 1976, or when we left IHMS after HS to pursue other interests in 1980, or when we finally moved on after College in 1984. The other change was more subtle, slow, and sometimes discernible only when we look back at our life.

But one of the subtler changes that we may not have notice yet is our attitude and interest. On the surface, we may think that we are the same as we have always been. Yet, our concerns and interests are quite different now than it used to be.

It could be due to the role we took on. We have put behind us our carefree days, and we have taken on a more serious and calculated demeanor, as we are charged with the more serious stuff of rearing and caring and educating carefree children.

Or it could all be just part of growing up. Just like Puff the magic dragon’s friend, we have outgrown our toys and pirate ships. And the once oft-repeated jokes, recollections, and biay-biay that once elicited even more jokes and biay-biay don’t hold much sway anymore as they used to, but on the contrary may even elicit a sense of alienation, a feeling that the joke is trite, repetitive . . .  and that we don’t belong anymore.

And that’s when we realize that we have changed.

This is one reality that we haven’t anticipated, since no one has told us about it. Those who came before us probably just faded away from each other, lost contact, and finally lost memory. Out of sight, out of mind—as the saying goes. And they never bothered to make sense of what happened and how they lost each other along the way.

But there are memory keepers among us who we were so enamored with the years that we spent in IHMS and have refused to relegate those memories to oblivion. Those golden years in IHMS never lost luster for them and they have managed to keep those memories alive, yes even after more than 40 years.

Our batch is growing old. We have in fact lost a few since our last reunion in December 2005--like MarJals who came with his wife, and Alex who raved about Scriptum, urging us to continue writing and was looking forward to the next reunion.

Yes, we have changed; but nonetheless, let us not allow time to cloud our memories of IHMS. Let us continue to remember the stories we used to tell under the mango tree, the talisay tree and the avocado tree near the canteen. We still have a few more chances to rekindle those memories and keep the spirit alive. But only if we want to.

So, mark the year, 2020. It may be our last chance to meet everyone in our batch who for a few years had walked beside us.

(nox arcamo)

Bridging the Distance

We have always been fascinated with time. This has been a recurring theme in many of our previous issues.

In fact, our favorite Latin phrase must have been, “Tempus fugit” (time flies), as this has appeared many times in the messages we exchange in our eGroup.

This time, with this issue, we tackle our other fascination--distance. For in the past, we have always talked of “moving on” and of “going away to a distant place”. And in fact, most of us have followed our own path and have arrived in this place where we are now, so far away from the walls of IHMS. Yet, we know that no matter how far we have traveled, we are really not that far from our home, from our beloved Alma Mater.

The Internet has bridged distance substantially. It's amazing how it bridges both distance and time. We should therefore make use of this tool in bridging the divide that separates us from each other. This can even be a way of bringing back time--time when we were young and carefree in the IHMSeminary.

Thus, in this same spirit of bridging distance and time, we will be launching Scriptum on the Internet starting with this issue of Scriptum. From hereon, we will save the trees and use this medium to continue the "storytelling" that we always loved to exchange. We hope you will continue enjoying every issue of Scriptum.

(nox arcamo)

Something Unsettling

Remember life in the seminary at the start of the calendar year?

It was a period when the cool breeze gradually gave way to sultry air and we became excited of summer.

There was the excitement for vacation, without the structure of seminary life. We could be with our family again. We could meet old friends back home and new friends in the apostolate area. And boy, did we enjoy those times, during summer. We lived like real, ordinary teenagers. We even serenaded the beautiful girls in town, especially when the moon was full.
But for those who were graduating, a sense of anxiety hung in the air. Questions remain unanswered as we procrastinated with our decision: Where will I go after this? Am I really called to the priesthood? Should I proceed? Should I just take a year off? Should I take another course? Should I marry that wonderful girl I met the other summer? What will happen to me years from now? Where will I be?

These questions hung like tiny Damocles swords waiting to drop and change our lives. We knew we had to move on. With less guidance on the discernment of spirits, some of us procrastinated, waiting for events to decide for us: Kun madawat, modayon gud! Kun dili madawat, ah dili pud.

So for us then, the start of the calendar year also ironically ushered in an unsettling anxiety of the approaching close of the school year. It sought our attention even if we brushed it aside. Remember that feeling as you read through the articles in this issue.

(nox arcamo)

Remembering Christmas in IHMS

Most of our memories of Christmas in IHMS are always fun.

The class preparation, the caroling, the evening program, the party and, of course, the overflowing spirits, and the most anticipated of all, the Christmas break--all these make up our image of Christmas in this hallowed seed-box.

But behind the veneer of fun lies the other side that can only be described as lonely.

After the festivity, we when we turned off the music or when we travel back to our family for the holiday, we silently went on our way. It was a lonely path we took.

Looking back, we realize that life then was a sink or swim. We had to steel our feelings in order to survive. We always tried to hide our emotions. We enjoyed the compliments of the ladies, but we tried to feel aloof and detached. We thought emotion was a sign of weakness. We were acting our age, yet we had to go beyond our feelings.

We did not know if that was the best way to cope with life. But it certainly made us survive through all those years. And those who couldn’t manage, faltered along the pathway.

We were supervised by young priests who must have been going through their own emotional processes, too. So we trudged down the beaten path mostly on our own. No wonder people would always say that we were less equipped emotionally. After all, we were mostly on our own.

This is the other side of our memory of Christmas in IHMS. When the fun subsided and night settled down, we remember the lonely time we spent as we walked back to the dorm or as we head for home.

It was a lonely walk. But it strengthened us, helped us survive, and made us who we are now. (nox arcamo)

A Brand of Brotherhood

Few understand the different brand of brotherhood that exists in IHMS.

It is not formalized by a blood compact, but it runs in the blood of an alumnus. Mao nga mahinangup--when one meets one.

It is not celebrated with pageantry, for it was forged in the silent companionship, like during siesta time when we conspire to stealthily escape from the dorm to enjoy the freedom of the outdoors . . . didto sa kalibunan or in silent prayer during times of difficulty.

It is not proven by physically hurting someone, like what fraternities do; but it goes beyond the pains that we share for having left family and friends behind and having had no one but each other to lend support.

It did not happen overnight. Rather, it was nurtured like a plant over time. Thus, it also survives time. No wonder, we talked to each other during the reunion as if everything happened yesterday. But come to think about it--it was our silver anniversary in 2005!

It is based on a common love for music--no, not the dumb, repetitive and hypnotic music of the young but the elegant classical music that that woke us up in the morning and soothed our soul.

It is expressed in unbridled boisterous laughter and even in no-holds-barred jokes that are oft-repeated, where one’s failures and weaknesses are exposed, accepted and even loved. And thus one can really be one self without pretensions.

It is also marked by a love for the quiet solitude.

It even makes us communicate with one another without words. Ask Jeffrey and Ram who can laugh at a piece of stick at the slightest hint or remembrance of a person. Or, Soc, Chris and Manuel at the mention of a single word.

Yes, there is a link that binds us together, which other people may not fully comprehend.

It is a different brand of brotherhood forged in a sequestered life inside the seminary, as we went through the pains and joys of growing up to adulthood in IHMS. (nox arcamo)

An Examined Life

In our youth, we were always told that life was a journey. From and to where we were going--we always took that for granted with an easy, un-reflected answer.

And yet, this spiritual questioning cannot be more meaningful as our batch reaches middle age, puts on more weight, and becomes more conscious of blood pressure and cholesterol.

This becomes even more significant as we hear of Roland’s mild stroke, Jun’s arthritis, Soc’s high cholesterol, Arnold’s psoriasis, and several other illnesses revealed during the batch reunion last December.

Back then, in IHMS, we were more conscious of our earthly journey as the world seemed to open up to us with all its possibilities. A vocation--for others, a career,--forked ahead of us. It took a Jones, who was one batch ahead of us, to awaken us from stupor with a single-word question in the yearbook--“Why?”

We were amused and may even have taken it less seriously. But deep within we knew that it held the reason for our life decision on how we would live our lives.

Of course, not all of us went through the deliberate motion of deciding to become a priest or a professional or whatever. There were others who simply went with the flow, like seaweeds in the ocean, going to where the current would take them.

Now, at past 40 and facing the challenges of the other half of our life, we are confronted once more with the same life question that Jones asked decades ago. And we know that we have to continue searching for its meaning in our life, if only to make our life worth living and believe what the ancient Philosopher Socrates once said that “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

The batch reunion last December 2005 afforded us that chance to look back at your life--from the IHMS to the present--and wonder how our life took shape in the decisions we made or did not make.

This blog also affords us that same chance to look at our life stories inside the seed box and reflect with new perspectives. This is our way of examining our life.

We may not reach with scientific finality the conclusion in our quest to answer that question, contrary to what the physicist Stephen Hawking said to end his recent lecture that “We are getting closer to answering the age-old questions: Why are we here? Where did we come from?"

But our conduct during the life journey itself is what counts and our humble contemplation before His grandeur is what would make our life meaningful.

It is our constant hope that with this newsletter, we have helped you reflect on your life. (nox arcamo).

The Lonely Road

Many a classmate and friend find the articles in Scriptum entertaining and insightful. According to them, the articles both make them laugh and cry at the same time. They are reminded of that period in their lives--of a time that holds so many memories of a place, of a separate peace.

Perhaps that is a common sway to all those who have trudged the hallowed grounds of our IHMS.

The articles are no mere chronicle of secular and trivial events, but rather of a sublime life journey with God.

We moved in the crowd. We made memories together. But alongside that road--the events chronicled in these pages--is a lonely path that only the individual can walk with God. Indeed our journey was a walk, not unlike the road to Emmaus. It was a journey we young hearts took while discerning the will of God for each one of us.


We laughed with each other; exchanged stories. We were always together, and sought each other. We set common activities together. But in the silence of our hearts we knew we were journeying alone with God. We had to make our own life choices. We had to set our own vision and future path.

It was something that had to be taken.

The stories we weaved were significant distractions in life. Behind each story is a story of awakening, of growing, of finding God in our life.

This is what makes our stories poignant. It speaks of the lonely path that we had to take. It tells of the truth. And it tells of the beauty of traveling down that path with our God.

The journey continues several years after IHMS. The individual sharing during our class reunion confirms that.

We only hope that we will discern His presence in our continuing journey and remain faithful to Him in the end . . . at least, until we meet again for the next reunion. (nox arcamo)

And So Quietly He Passed

Four years we lived with him under one roof. But we never really got to know him that deeply. He kept to himself and to the few intimate friends he felt comfortable with. Well, he must have uttered no more than a hundred words all throughout to those not close to him.

He was not aloof. He was simply low key, preferring to remain quiet and unrecognized in the group. In fact, he was kind and unpretentious--a person without guile.

He never got angry with anyone. Nobody bothered to tease him or call him names. He was that inconspicuous. He could enter and leave the room without catching any one’s attention.

He was not the type who caused trouble to the group. Neither was he uncooperative. Instead he always participated in the group, even if at times the group may have taken him for granted. Nonetheless, he remained faithful to the class.

He must have had simple needs and simple dreams. He became an engineer and found a decent job in Manila. A simple life for a simple person. And life came to a close at such a young age. God must have other plans for him.

So, in November of 2004--and in the same manner as he lived his life among us in High School--Samuel passed away… quietly. (nox arcamo)

This Gathering’s Gift

In May 1976, we were so young. Some of us were 12 years old, others 13. Most of us have never been away from our family, from our home. We barely understood the meaning of vocation and commitment. For some it was a personal decision. For others, it was a parents’ decision. For whatever reason, our paths converged, even briefly for those who did not persevere in the period of painful adjustment.

On December 2005, five months shy of our 30th anniversary, we will gather once more, not only to recollect but also to confront the ghosts and come to terms with our past.

The wide chasm of time is incomprehensible. And many things happened in between.
Three of our classmates have returned to their Creator--Cecil, Leodegario, and Samuel. One has remained missing, Ramonito.

Three were ordained priests--Glenn, Socrates, and Jeff. One took the vows as a Jesuit novice but left, Manuel.

Three migrated to the US--Jess(a medical doctor), Dennis (an aeronautics graduate) and Raymund (a supervisor in a retail shop). One settled for Canada, Marc (an engineer in Alberta). And another opted for Japan, Ram (an economist based in Tokyo).

Three worked for the government--Roy (with the COMELEC), Al (with the Provincial office), Cris (with leagues); he was a year ahead in HS but joined the class in college.). One had worked against it, Prisco.

Three found employment in private companies--Arnold (an employee of SMC), Loel (an engineer), and Raul (an engineer). One found fulfillment tilling the soil, Hector (a farmer in Ubay).

Three ventured into the area of politics as Councilors--Mario (of San Miguel), Nick (of Duero), Jun (of Bilar). One made it to the topmost position of the province, Rene. While many tried to get by doing odd jobs, one succeeded in the business of sending talents to other countries, Rolando .

Life dealt different cards to each one, even though we started on the same footing. We never knew what was in store for us back then when we first entered IHMS. Now, from hindsight, we look back and wonder where the turning point in our lives was.

The gathering this Christmas season affords us the time to recall those times and revisit one last time those dreams that we have set aside. And perhaps learn to come to terms with ourselves and hopefully muster acceptance. That would be the best gift this gathering can offer. A fitting gesture this season. So don’t miss this occasion.

We hope to see you there. (nox arcamo)

Mga Damgo Paglabay sa Panahon

Kahinumdum ka ba niadtong panahon nga nangandoy si Dennis nga mahimong piloto aron dayban niya si Dante Temple sa seminaryo? O di kaha kang Junior nga mahimong usa ka banggi-itang manunulat? Kahinumdum ka ba sa imong mga damgo kaniadto? (Diha ba’y nangandoy nga ma-pari? Kun diha man, sa hilum lamang.)

Maski na nga nanginabuhi ‘ta sulod sa “seed box” nga para sa mga umaabot nga pari kuno, wala kita magpagapos sa paghimo ug mga nagkalainlaing damgo.
Nagkadaiya ang atong mga damgo, niadtong batan-on pa ‘ta. Ang kalibutan lapad kayo ug puno sa mga posibilidad. Sa Pilosopiya, naablihan ang atong mga hunahuna sa kanindot sa kalibotan. Puno sa “potentials”. Presko kayo ang atong panglantaw sa kalibotan ug sa kinabuhi. Ug ang ugma mora’g nagahulat lamang sa atong mga desisyon.

Mora’g gamhanan ang atong gibati sa kaugalingon, kay dako ang atong pagsalig nga mabuhat nato ang gusto natong buhaton.

Paglabay sa panahon, naghimo kita’g mga desisyon sa kinabuhi nga nagatudlo sa bag-ong direksyon sa atong kinabuhi.

Hangtod nga miabot kita niining punto sa kinabuhi nga atong gilantaw ang atong mga lakang. Ug nakita nato ang mga liku-liku nga agianan ug ang mga desisyon nga atong gihimo. Diha nianang tungora, nakamatikod ‘ta nga paglabay sa panahon nag-anam-anam pud ug ka bag-o ang atong mga damgo.

Daghang damgo nga wala matuman. Diha’y pipila nga natuman.
Ug karon nga kadaghanan sa atoa lapas na sa kwarenta anyos, lagmit nga lahi na kaayo ang atong mga damgo kay sa kaniadto.

Sa pagkakaron, sakto lang nga masayod ‘ta nga importante nga magpadayon ‘ta ug paghimo ug mga damgo para sa atong pamilya, komunidad, nasud ug kaugalingon. Ang atong mga damgo maoy nagasilbing inspirasyon nato nga magpadayon taliwala sa tumang kalisod.

Unsa’y imong mga damgo karon, klasmeyt? (nox arcamo)

Life is a Tale . . .

It is not sufficient to tell a story. For we have to find its deeper meaning.

Shakespeare put it succinctly when he said, “life is a tale . . .” Yes, it is a tale worth telling. Wouldn’t you think so? Isn’t it that, looking back, we find good reasons to continue our stories?
Indeed, with Scriptum, we discovered new perspectives with each new our re-telling. With much richer--and sometimes even painful--experiences behind us, we make new realizations that escaped us in our youth. Each retelling thus brings new understanding.

That makes our story telling, and Scriptum, rather unique. We recall innocent stories that at times entertained us and at some point hurt us. But those stories made us realize things about ourselves and our batch mates.

As we recall them at various stages of our lives, we gain deeper insights. We come to realize that those stories shaped us into what we are at present. They provide us lessons that we can pass on to those who come after us. Hopefully, we have grown wiser because of them, unlike our superiors whom we thought were old-fashioned and unreasonable.

Ah, yes, we remember how difficult and different our superiors were then. They couldn’t understand why first year high school boys should engage in ninja-like operation to infiltrate the teachers’ room and retrieve the previous day’s exam papers. They couldn’t understand why we take pride in being a member of a weird-sounding group called Baboga, which actually referred to the entire class. They couldn’t fathom the reason why we would rather spend time in the bushes looking for spiders, climbing coconut trees, gathering bugnay, cooking mongo, corn, and chicken in the fields, watching birds and planes fly---rather than sleep during siesta. They couldn’t appreciate the reason why we were so curious and daring. For them it was obstinacy, disrespect for the rules and authority, and plain disregard for order. (Or perhaps they understood. They simply had to act their role.)

But, boy, did we have a great time. No amount of punishment, like kneeling for extended period of time under the sun or spending another hour of laborandum, could dampen our resolve to act our age and be like . . . normal boys.

From these stories we see our own development, struggling to get a foothold in a harsh environment. It was harsh, indeed. There was no single decent toilet in the building. The huge solitary rock near the tennis court served as the official toilet of Leodegario, Loel and others at night time. There was no decent meal for growing boys. We had to stay after meal time to gather the leftovers and eat to our fill. There was no counseling given to alleviate our homesickness, after a night spent sobbing and thinking of home. We were so young then. Twelve years old. And it was already a sink or swim for us. There were only the bullies, those in the higher years, who lorded it over on the younger ones. But we survive nonetheless. We learned to steel our selves. But we survived.

Now is our turn to look with understanding on the young ones. Let us hope that our life stories can teach us our lessons and make us wiser. For only then can we find meaning in our stories and ultimately in our lives. Otherwise, our life will become a meaningless tale, or as Shakespeare would put it: “. . . a tale told by an idiot -- full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” So, let us learn from our own tales. But first we have to tell them. (nox arcamo)

Healing Through Our Story-telling

Not all memories of IHMS are good. There are painful ones. But telling them may prove to be good for your health.

In the seminary, we were trained in the tradition of telling stories. It is close to our heart. Our forefathers were good at it. Jesus practiced it. It must be in our genes.
After waking up in the morning, we pray with our précis and listen from the Gospels the story of salvation. We heard, in our drowsiness, the priest’s homily, and we participated in the story of the last supper.

We exchanged stories with each one. Perhaps, those stories even sustained us through the tumultuous period of adolescence. For we must have found solace in those stories, knowing that we were not alone and that we were in the same lot as the others.
We grew up in a sequestered environment--quite unnatural a setting for teenage boys. We were malleable--and clueless. Yes, we did not have a clue as to how our personal development was being shaped in the seed box. We never saw a blue print, if there ever was one at all. We didn’t know the direction our formation was moving towards, or what type of person we were trying to become. We only saw the Boholano priests--in the flesh, so to speak--and in them we saw our own future--which was really not that encouraging! We were not edified at all by them, except for one or two priests who were serious about their vocation--or so it appeared to our idealistic eyes.

So we dabbled in what was given to us, only to realize years later that there were shortcomings. Hindsight affords us this perspective. And we understand the pain that some of our classmates may have harbored through all these years.

Intellectually we were trained well--even if we thought so lowly of each other when we were together. (It must have been the morning Mozart that woke us everyday, but certainly not the arnis stroke on the steel bed and the milk--i.e.“letseng ya . . . yo!”--that shook us to the bones.) We barely expected each other to succeed in life. We never even expected our brand of education to be at par with those of the big schools in the metropolis. We realized later we even had the resource to beat them in their own turf.

In terms of spiritually, we may have been schooled well. We have kept our faith in God, even if at times we cannot fathom His design for us or sometimes we doubt that He has a design and purpose for us at all.

Developing our social skills was a natural result of our constant exposure to the public. And we realize that indeed we have been prepared for life in the community or society.

Things may not turn out well, however, for some of us. And we understand that emotionally, we were ill-equipped for life after IHMS. Our EQ or “emotional quotient” was not one of the aspects of our formation as IQ and spirituality were. It was taken as a given. A sink or swim. We were well and contented adolescents. Like Peter Pans in Never land. And we were happy that way. Growing up was not our plan.

There were some of us who endured the aches of community life. There were others who simply did not fit in. They found their place outside.

For some of us, after IHMS, we had to accelerate our maturity, on the job--as they would say. A painful experience it may turn out to be for some who faltered, somewhat, along the way. Some ended up bitter.

So, not all of us have grand memories of IHMS. There are those that we prefer to tuck in the hidden recesses of our hearts. And we want to keep them there … for good.

But as we have read from self-help books, re-telling them is the start of the healing process. We know that we have come to terms with the ghosts of the past once we are able to tell those painful stories to other people . . . and laugh at our selves.

So, continue sharing your stories. You may only be healing yourself. (nox arcamo)

Our Timeless Stories

Time boggles the mind.

When we were in high school, in the second half of the 70’s, the “old timers” would tell us stories of how life was during their time. They said they heard mass in Latin. They toured the city, walking in their black cassock--and for the minors was it americana? We never paid much attention to those stories which we thought happened a long, long time ago--that is, twenty years ago.

In year 2005, we celebrated our twentieth year since our college graduation. Twenty long years! And we cannot understand why the young ones would not pay attention to our stories and in fact find it easy to disregard them. For them it happened a long, long time ago. Yet, for us, it seemed to be just a few years ago.

That is how mind-boggling time is.

At this juncture in our lives, we look at the past and feel how fast it all flew by. And as we look forward, anxiety clouds our heart as we think of the things we still need to accomplish and the miles we need to go before we sleep. For we know that like the past, the future will be as quick.
Our perplexity with time should all the more be the reason for sharing them--and sharing them quick! They are treasures that we can bequeath to those who come after us.

Our stories may not appeal to those who do not share our experiences. But let us continue sharing them, nonetheless. For they are stories of finding one’s bearing in this life’s journey, of growing up, of making mistakes, of making amends, of finding meaning and vocation, of finding joy in life, of friendship, of making lifelong decisions, and most importantly of all--it is a story of hope. And in due time, people will realize the depth of our experiences and the lessons contained therein.

Our stories are like tiny dots on the tapestry of time. They affirm our existence. So let us continue telling them through this blog, and hopefully other people can likewise savor the profundity of our simple, mundane stories--ah, as they would with a glassful of cold beer. (nox arcamo)

Something Written

We all have stories to tell. We never tire repeating them nor tire hearing them.

For days on end--and then years on end--we have added anecdotes to our collection of stories that have grown part of the living “mythologies” in IHMS. We remember why “patok” or “kingkong” got his name, or how “maru” or “igit” replaced an otherwise beautiful nickname. We remember how Baston Bobitch Gang became Baboga, although we may have forgotten why we called our class that name. For in fact, it did not mean a thing. It was simply a wild thought devoid of meaning.

How we loved those stories. We always found time for them. After meals when we congregated under the avocado tree near the canteen, in what is now part of the mini zoo. We spontaneously assembled under the mango tree or the talisay tree near the pathway leading to the auditorium. And towards the end of our college days, in 1984, we even sought refuge under the shade of pines and mahogany that lined the sea wall in front of Baclayon church. If only trees could talk, then we would have found the best chronicler of our stories.

The longing to leave something behind, even if they be just simple stories, runs deep within. Thus, we left a photo album of our “exploits” in college. We even passed on our stories to those who came after us. But, as in any oral traditions, we know now that stories will live only as long the storytellers. It has been more than 30 years since high school entrance, when we started telling stories. It has been more than 27 years since our high school graduation in 1980. And it has been 23 years since our college graduation. Those who knew of, and retold, our stories have all moved on too. Those in the seminary today belong to an entirely new generation. They haven’t heard of us, nor do they know our stories.

This is the reason we sometimes feel alienated at the IHMS today. We always say that things have changed at the IHMS. We have become a stranger to the place; yet deep within still strangely at home. The stories we hear are no longer recognizable. The jokes and jargons are different. Yet somehow we feel at peace, for we have tucked within each of us stories of this place that we weaved with our friends.

As we grow old, we can leave those stories as they are--hidden in the fading memories of each participant. Or, we can put them on paper--or online, like this blog--and retell them one more time . . . for posterity. Once written, they stand a better chance of persisting in time.

This blog--unofficial and unauthorized this may be for this is started by a couple of balding alumni who have other things to do in between--provides that venue. We do not have the luxury to meet and talk, as we used to do. But we can continue telling our stories through this blog.

Here, thus, we share with you our memories of our days in IHMS. Journey with us as we turn our memories into “something written” -- a Scriptum.    (nox arcamo)

A Batch Reunion in 1998

Batch reunions almost always bring back happy memories. But not all.

The hurriedly-assembled reunion last October 30, 1998 was no exception. Imagine. It had been 22 years since entrance day, when some of us first met in the hallowed grounds of the seminary. It had been 18 years since high school graduation, when some of us left the group to pursue college education outside. And, it had been 14 years since college graduation, when some of us finally went on our individual, separate ways.

Even the oft-repeated phrase in our school days still rang true that day: "Tempus Fugit". Looking back, we realize that indeed time flies so fast!

For wasn’t it only yesterday when we, neophytes, tried to hide our muffled sobs on our first night away from our families?

Wasn’t it only yesterday when our class adopted the weird-sounding name, Baboga, and formed a credit cooperative (Baboga Sinking Fund) to help seminarians in need, and then closed shop as majority of the borrowers defaulted on their obligation?

Wasn’t it only yesterday when we literally rolled on the ground laughing when the late Quiao made several failed attempts to hit the right note during a solo part in our Christmas presentation?

Wasn’t it only yesterday when tears trickled down our eyes as JunTabs carrying his personal belongings that morning after breakfast hugged the gates of IHMS for the last time and then started to walk towards the junction, leaving our batch and his dreams of missionary life for good.

Many things have happened in between, as the reunion showed. Of the 42 or so that started in high school, only 25 persisted until graduation. Only 11 chose to remain for college, out of which only 4 made it to college graduation in IHMS. There were three who joined the batch midway in college. Of the total that started in High School, only 3 made it to the priesthood: Soc, Oloy and Glenn. From the batch, two have died already--Cecil and Leodegario. One remained missing, Ramonito. Several have figured prominently in the political arena, notable of which is Rene who is the incumbent governor of Bohol.

We may have followed different paths, navigated our own troughs and crests, and came out triumphant over our own adversities. What ever became of us--whether we admit it or not--we can trace our success or failure to a common root--a "seedbox" where were were molded into what we are now.

Some may have been stunted while others may have thrived well under the formation. There were painful experiences. But it is the same "seedbox" that formed all of us. This mold made us.

So, what better time then to reminisce and share with each one the fruits of our formation than during the reunion? And what better time to decide to share with others the benefits we gained from our beloved AYEYCHEMES than during the reunion and in the future reunions that we have planned. Your active participation therefore, batchmates, is important.

Join our batch reunion!  (nox arcamo)

One Fine Rainy Friday

October 30, 1998. It was past nine in the morning as the multi cab I rented negotiated the familiar pot-holed roads of Taloto. The seminary mused under sleepy overcast skies, like I did before a familiar figure distracted my reverie. It was Jun Tabs who hurriedly asked to be excused to attend to a family obligation but promised to be back immediately. He was checking the premises for cur batch reunion. And he was gone before we could talk further.

 Fortunately, I was not the only brooding, sentimental soul that day, for sitting quietly under the mushroom-shaped waiting shed, near the main gate, was another solitary figure. It was AlPats--the other half of the dynamic duo for whom the famous CesPat coliseum was named after. He must have been the first to arrive among the attendees--proving once more the adage that indeed “those from the farthest are always the earliest." Actually that was only half true since he came not so far away, from Sikatuna.

 The pleasantries I exchanged with AlPats was cut short as Baloy together with his family drove in from Cortes. The three of us then huddled like PBA referees in front of the high school building, trying to reach back through time with stories from each of our different worlds. The casual his and hellos then gave way to excited recollections of the seminary and people that we knew.

 In my heart I heard the bell pealing as it used to hang in one of the windows fronting the Rector’s office. The section of the Refectory and the study halls ... they are different from what it used to be. The place we once called home had undergone a facelift. Even the Talisay tree near the flagpole put on a display of sturdy branches that extended not sideways but upwards as if in supplication. Likewise, under the kaimito and eucalyptus, the well-kept zoo--which merely complemented the diverse pack of animals that roamed corridors and sometimes prayed in chapels--had underwent its own transformation. More diverse animals now occupied the cages. A new baby crocodile had taken the place of the old lady crocodile who lived for many years in a deep concrete cage at the back of the canteen. That crocodile, accordingly, died a few years ago. Indeed many things were altered, but the essence and our feeling of being at home persisted...

 Approaching the canteen, which was once our popular hang out, we met Stephen and his family. Then, the others started to arrive one after the other: Roy Amora, who grew twice or probably thrice his normal size in high school; Nick Castro, still with his usual antics and penchant for dramatic entrances; and, of course, the veritable (or should it be honorable?) Rene, our incumbent Governor. Our initial hesitation towards Rene betrays a quandary on whether to be formal and diplomatic or to be our old wisecracking selves Perhaps it was a natural reaction from us in front of a former colleague who rose up to occupy the highest position of the province. A sense of pride for having a Provincial Governor coming from our class pervaded all throughout our meeting. What used to be senseless jokes thrown here and there this time became fond recollections of people and events. Rene was spared from the jokes this time--probably for two reasons, 3 few classmates ventured to speak out: he was present and he had 3 bodyguard. True enough, those who were absent bore the brunt of the cruel jokes. (Ask JunTabs, Oloy.)

 Later, came Arnold with his beautiful wife who, we were informed later, was celebrating her birthday that same day. With his son, Cecil arrived, then JunTabs with his wife.

 The group then proceeded towards the Elijah Hermitage, a multi- Purpose structure built near the grotto, on the same wooded spot we used to frequent during those covert chicken-hunting expeditions, yes the same hunted spot we used point to neophytes as the source of those frightful, spine-chilling midnight scream.

 I led the group in the Thanksgiving Mass, which we offered also for the eternal repose of

the souls of our two classmates: Cecil who drowned and died a hero while saving his girlfriend and Quiao who was stabbed and died a violent death.

 Midway through the mass, Nox came in--yes, just in time for the kiss of peace. After the Mass, we had our photo and talking sessions, undecided on how to feed the wives and children. It was already noon time. There were plenty of small talks and laughter, but no food. (Translation: Daghang pagkaon walay istorya.)

 Several camera flashed later, Loel and his son came, followed shortly by Eric (in his new hairdo) together with his wife, Ringkoy came from work in Greenwich Pizza just in time for the start of a brief discussion led once again by JunTabs whom Rene fondly accused of being “hari-harion".

 Other than the usual exchange of “sigurado” and “ako’ng bahala” were brilliant ideas from the group. Three items were agreed upon: 1.) to support financially a seminarian; 2.) to have a Christmas party on December 26; and 3.) 10 have another class reunion next year and every year thence. Again, with assurances of "sigurado" and “ako'ng bahala” regarding the plan, we trooped to the Bohol Tropics for lunch.

 The gathering was for me not only a class reunion but a family reunion. “Lami-a man mo!", was the spontaneous reaction of Atty Inting, also an IHMS alumnus, when he saw us seated around a long table.

 While waiting for the food to be served, Liklik with his brother arrived. Then Ringkoy and Nox who went home to fetch their wives came back to join us. Rene hurriedly left for an important appointment, but not before paying for all the drinks and food. It was a sumptuous meal all right, but it was only Reluya who was prepared for the notoriously hard meat. He brought with him his own razor-sharp knife. (Lesson learned: Next time, bring your own sharpened knife if you plan to order meat at the Tropics.)

 A total of 15 classmates attended the reunion, not bad statistically for the first ever BABOGA class reunion. But too bad, not everyone could make it. One consolation for those who attended was the fact that they were spared from the jokes.

 (Paging the other members of the class: Oloy, MarJals, Batchoy, Do, Jess, Ram, Ondoy, Ikeng, Alcala, Besas, Raul, McIgors, Glenn, Samuel, and others I cannot recall.)

 The day did not end at Bohol Tropics. Drinking continued at Nox's residence in J. A. Clarin St. It was the first death anniversary of Nong Pedro, his father. At around 4 PM, as the drizzling stopped, I said mass for the family at the Dampas cemetery.

 The rest of the gang then proceeded to Am Cespon's residence near the NIA office. It was his wife's birthday. And so, until the clock struck midnight truth did reign, as the saying goes: "In Vino Veritas”.

 It was midnight when we parted ways. And to echo Cecil’s repeated expression, we said “Hasta la Vista!” (Soc Mesiona)