And do see that someone takes care of my orchids, or my wife will skin me alive.”. What syllogisms could one invent to rub him out of the public school system? The only bed properly belonging to the Home Economics Building was a four-poster with a canopy and the superintendent was to be given the honor of slumbering upon it. She had spat the words contemptuously back at him. Superintendent,” said the principal. All the years she had been in Pugad Lawin, Mr. Ampil had come: in him there was no sickening bureaucracy, none of the self-importance and pettiness that often characterized the small public official . There was a brief discussion on whether the French soap poster behind the kitchen door was to go or stay: it depicted a trio of languorous nymphs in various stages of dishabille reclining upon a scroll bearing the legend Parfumerie et Savonerie but the wood working instructor remembered that it had been put there to cover a rotting jagged hole – and the nymphs had stayed. Visitation was, after all, 99% impression – and Mr. Olbes, the principal, had promised to remember the teachers’ cooperation in that regard in the efficiency reports. The welcoming committee was waiting on the stone steps when the visitors alighted. Reporter: suckling pig, macaroni soup, embutido, chicken salad, baked lapu-lapu, morcon, leche flan and ice cream, the total cost of which had already been deducted from the teachers’ pay envelopes. They were, however, the principal said, not for sale to colleagues. “If only our reading could also be in fashion!” — Which statement obtained for her the ire of the only two teachers left talking to her. If you wish to opt out, please close your SlideShare account. © Never a day late. Four pairs of hands fought for the singular honor of wrenching open the car door, and Mr. Alava emerged into the sunlight. You’d think, why this old fool had been thirty-three years in the service. “If he meant why I refused to dance with Mr. Lucban…”, “No, just things in general,” said Mr. Sawit. Vainly, Miss Noel searched in the crowd for the old Language Arts supervisor. “Structuring the Rooms” was the responsibility of the third group. You’d think at least he’d get a decent burial – but he hadn’t reached 65 and wasn’t going to get a cent he wasn’t working for. Now they were, like the grounds, miraculously abloom – with cartolina illustrations of Parsing, A mitosis Cell Division and the Evolution of the Filipina Dress – thanks to the Group Two leader, Mr. Buenaflor (Industrial Arts) who, forsaken, sat hunched over a rainfall graph. Pink paper napkins blossomed grandly in a water glass. Mr. Alava’s terpsichorean knowledge had never advanced beyond a bumbling waltz. Mrs. Alejandro’s willoware server rivalled but could not quite outshine the soup tureens of Mrs. Cruz. As I always say,” Mr. Sawit raised his arm and pumped it vigorously in the air, “let’s get to the heart of what matters.”, Miss Noel looked up with interest. Learn more. He was dedicated to the service of education, had grown old in it. She had worked, she had slaved – with a sting of tears she remembered all the parties missed (“Can’t wake up early tomorrow, Clem”), alliances forgone (“Really, I haven’t got the time, maybe some other year?”) the chances by-passed (“Why, she’s become a spinster!”) – then to come face to face with what one has worked for – a boor like Mr. Sawit! The Feast of the Visitation is a loving invitation to us of Our Blessed Mother to imitate her in words and deeds.