The last paragraph leaves the reader with the clear impression that the banana industry is: rapidly expanding. slowly disappearing. ACT.71G www. actmi. net 33 GO ON TO THE NEXT PAGE. Passage111 50 bats would appear. They lived above the porch, between the ceiling and the roof. We never saw or heard them during the day. But at nightfall their squeaks began, like an orchestra tuning its instruments before a concert, and it was as if the ceiling came alive. Occasionally. a little one would fall to the floor through a crack in the ceiling either pushed by a thoughtless adult or as a result of its own carelessness. Even though it was not l.eady tu fly yet. by instincl the little bai would open its Tnembranoiis wings, glide 60 down, and laiid *ilive, alihough perliaps somewhai stlinned. SomeLimes an aduli bat would come immedi- ately to the rescue. Thell the little one would cling to the adult's chest and enjoy a safe return knome. But on occasions when no adult came, we had to decide 65 whether to fetch the tall ladder and try to place the baby ba¢k in the nest. or keep it in a shoe box and feed it with my doll's bottle. Fortunately, this only happened once in a while. HUMANITIES: This passage is adapted from the memoir Under the Royal Palms.. A Childhood in Cuba by Alma Flor Ada (Q1998 by Alma Flor Ada). Daily life in Quinta Simoni started very early in the morning. The placid night fragrances of jasmine and gardenias, which entered my bedroom from the garden. were quickly overtaken by the acrid but 5 friendly smell of coffee brewing. 55 Before I was fully awake, rny grandmother would often scoop me in her arms to take me to where they were rnilking the cows she still kept. When we returned to the house, everyone would 10 be bustling about, getting ready to leave-my father to teach at the high school, my uncle Manolo to the radio station, Lny uncle Medardo to his office. my allnt Lolita to her classes, and my grandtnothei to the school she ran. Most nights, my grandmother and I would pretend 70 to count the bats as they left their nest to feed on the fruit froni our backyard: sweet mangoes, guavas, soft and delicious nisperos. We knew already that it was impossible io keep a true i<illy, because in a few min- utes their number would increase from a handful cir- 75 clÉng over our heads to several dozens, coming and going, so that we were unable to tell which were the ones just leaving ihe nest. Counling ihem over and over again, we would finally give up and burst oui laughing, at the bats. ai ourselves, at our game, and at the delight- 80 ful warnith of the night. fragrani with the aroma of jas- mine and gardenÉas. My aunts and my mother would smile, and shake their heads: "There go those two. counling bats again 15 Before long the big house was all my mother's and mine. While she worked on hei bookkeepillg ledgers, I would spend hours playing outside, under the trees, just by myself. Every afternoon, around four o'clocL I had to take 20 a bath and get dressed "for the evening., I would set aside the boots I hated, with their hard insoles to sup- port my flat feet, and put on my white shoes with a Iittle strap on top and a buckle on the side. As my Tnother tied the bow at the back of my dress, I felt like a 25 butterfly, daily forced to return to her chrysalis, and daily freed again. The next thing to be done each afternoon was to gather maravillas. These simple wild flowers-red, orange. white, puryle, or spotted-opened late in the 30 day. It was as if, like me. they led two lives: one curled up and wrinkled ill the heat of the day, one open and splendid in the late afternoon as the sun began to go down. They grew plentifully on all empty lot about half a block frorn the old Quinta Simoni. I would walk 35 proudly down the sidewalk, glancing at my shoes, Teady to gather as many flowers as I could. The quiet serenity of those evenings and the tender 85 love my grandmother and I shared has nourished me often throughout my life. On the many occasions when I have later felt that I am once more trying to count bats. engaged in an impossible task, I have allowed myself to laugh. happy to remember that some of the 90 best things in life are like counting bats: It was never the final count that mattered, but rather the joy of seeing them fly. On my return. rny grandmother would be waiting for me on the front porch, sitting in a rocking chair, i?ady to praise the beauty of my simple offering. Then, 40 we would both go on tip-toes. as if approaching an altar, to place the flowers on top of the piano, a ritual thdi pleased us both,
