From a column by Scott Johnson on his friend, the late Peter Collier:
“Peter reflected long and deeply on his days as a radical. My favorite of these reflections is his essay ‘Coming Home,’ in Second Thoughts: Former Radicals Look Back at the Sixties.
“In this essay Peter recalled the trip he took with this laconic father to South Dakota, where his father had been born, while his father was dying. During one long stretch of Nevada highway, his father announced: ‘You know, I’m glad I was born a South Dakotan and an American. I’m glad I saw the beginning of the twentieth century. I’m glad I lived through the Depression and the War. I think these things made me a stronger person. I’m glad I came to California, because I met your mother there. I’m glad we had you for a son.’
“Peter commented: ‘It was the longest speech I’d ever heard him make…It was a moment of acceptance and affirmation by someone whose life had often been disfigured by hard work and responsibility and for whom words had never come easily. What he said and how he said it was so different from the chic bitterness and facile nihilism of my radical friends that I was shaken. It was like hearing speech, real and authentic speech, for the first time in years.'”
I was drawn to Mr. Johnson’s column because I had recently thanked God for having been born in Venezuela, for my Venezuelan-citizen mother and American-citizen father, for having worked in Puerto Rico, where I met my wife, and for the children He had blessed us with. A spirit of thankfulness had stirred within me and I can only wish for that to occur more frequently.
Recently a dear aunt passed away in Venezuela. She was utterly selfless, having sacrificed to enable her grandson to emigrate to the United States, knowing she would never see him again on this earth. I am glad I knew her and that I knew her mother. And that such a people still pull me to imitate that which is good.
As a reminder, for the most part, this blog leaves current events and commentary to other mediums, which are plentiful. However, every once in a while, we will publish or report or link to a commentary or report on the current situation in Venezuela. The link below is one of a series penned by Christian K. Caruzo, born in Venezuela, and witness to its deterioration.
I am unable to track down the author of the below. It was an email which found its way to me.
Having read it several times I can attest to his description of life in an American camp, in this case, a petroleum camp, Mene Grande, a Gulf Oil subsidiary. Refer to my prior post, “Memories of San Tomé” (November 2, 2019) for more detail.
The email was written in Spanish by Vinicio Guerrero Méndez, whom I’ve done my best to track down, but with no success. Since his email was clearly sent as a “blast”, I am confident he would be pleased with my translating and sharing it here.
As you read, you will become aware of his subtle (or maybe not so subtle) narration which, in effect, builds a stupendous contrast with life in Venezuela today, where scarcity is the everyday experience of the majority, especially the poor.
Many are the souls alive in Venezuela (or in exile) today who recall better times.
Tuesday, 21 October, 2014.
In 1930, long before I was born, Juan Vicente Gómez [for more on Gómez, see my July 22, 2019 post, “Apple Foot: A Road Trip to Mérida”] had paid off all foreign debt, as a posthumous homage to Simón Bolivar on the centenary of his death. But he cared not for the education of his people, he outlawed all opposition political parties, and he severely punished delinquency, while amassing a fortune of more than 155 million Bolivars.
When I was born in the hospital of San Tomé (a petroleum camp), General Marcos Pérez Jiménez governed the destinies of our country where he had established a political dictatorship, but his mandate was characterized by the growth of the petroleum industry via concessions to American [U.S.A.] companies, which opened the way for contractors, American and Venezuelan, which in turn abundantly increased resources and countless job placements to the residents of nearby villages, towns, and scattered populations. Great and grand public works were realized, and also corruption. He too left no foreign debt.
The process of my birth cost three Reals (“tres reales”, about 30 Venezuelan cents) and this was discounted from my father’s pay up to six pay periods, with no interest. Medicines were available in abundance and were prescribed to us at no charge.
What’s so strange is that even former president Jaime Lusinchi worked there. [Dr. Lusinchi was president in the 1980’s. He was socialistic and Venezuela continued her descent during his tenure. Lusinchi knew better.]
The doctors were honorable and totally dedicated to their profession: men such as Dr. Tulio Briceño Mass who was my godfather and eventually became the Director of Dermatology at the Vargas Hospital in Caracas.
As far back as I can remember, my father’s car ran on gasoline assigned by the company, even though my father was a laborer. His assigned car was changed for a new one every three years. Should any mechanical fault have arisen, he would take it to the “Motor Pull” [pool] for repair and while they worked on it, the company would assign him a used car replacement. Repairs rarely took a week, depending on the fault. We did not pay for fuel, which would be provided merely on the basis of my father’s signature.
Also, included with his vehicle, was a complete toolbox of the brand “Snap-On”.
As far as living, the camp was divided into two sectors: North Camp and South Camp. In the South Camp lived technicians and laborers and in the North Camp lived the Americans and any Venezuelan with a professional degree or who, over time, acquired a responsible position. In other words “the chiefs”.
In the South Camp, the living quarters were all the same. Of course, the North Camp’s quarters were more commodious and nicer-looking. But we did not lack any services such as gas, water, electricity, phone, etc. We either paid nothing for these, or, if we did pay, it was a token amount.
The same applied to schooling: it was without cost, and so were the books and the transportation. My mother made our uniforms, or dusters, as we used to call them.
We studied eight hours per day and we also took music classes so as to not forget our national hymn nor the Alma Llanera. We had religious conferences at least once per week and they invited us to mass on Sundays.
As for food, we were serviced by a large commissary which was well stocked with all the basics and more. I remember we would buy various brands of milk: Rosemary, Klim, and whatever other brand of the thousands stocked there. Without exaggeration, we’d sometimes exit the commissary with two full cartloads of goods.
My father received a salary as well as regular bonuses and even an additional sum in January, called, if I remember correctly, “liquids”. This was a payment to help employees who might have overextended themselves during the Christmas season. With these “liquids” funds, my mother would take us to Curazao every other year or so to buy clothing made by the Empire.
We had excellent recreational and sporting sites all over, as in Medina Park, etc.
In Carnival our celebrations gained the reputation of being the best in Venezuela and were known as The Black Gold Carnival.
On Easter Week we all went to Mass and we rejoiced when father Arias would rebuke us.
Christmas was a portent because the departments would strive to be the best when it was their turn to host mass that day. They gave away candy, “pastelitos,” firecrackers, fireworks, and innumerable gifts. There was always money for Santa Claus or the Child Jesus (by the way, I was 15 when I learned that both were my parents).
And then, as if the above were not enough, on the 6th of January, the Magi made their appearance.
I asked for the moon in my letters to Child Jesus: whether pistols, or “chácaras” [noisy toys]. I could not begin to imagine how there were so many toys at such low prices in that toy store that was at the other side of the commissary.
My father was sent to Mexico for a training course, all expenses paid. He brought me a beautiful Longines watch as a souvenir. In these days, should I use the watch, they’d call me “El mocho.” [dude; dandy; not a compliment today].
When we’d visit the baseball stadium, Francisco Pinto, “Owl Face”, was the Sporting Section boss and neither teams nor uniforms were ever lacking when celebrations took place. Even Enzo Hernandez (may he rest in peace) hit a homer and I said, this guy is going to be a major leaguer [he played for the San Diego Padres in the 1970’s].
As you can see, it was very hard living with those American imperialists.
Note: If a resident of that era can add or correct something in the above, I would be grateful.
Mene Grande San Tomé Camp
Mene Grande Commissary
Mene Grande Hospital
This plaque commemorates the beginnings of the Venezuela oil exploration in 1914, a century before Mr. Guererro’s email. The site of the above photo is on the coast of Lake Maracaibo and Mene Grande (Gulf Oil) also had massive investments there. It is now a scene of desolation.
Alma Llanera is one of the few “typical” songs or pieces of music that are known throughout the world. I heard it played in Saudi Arabia (Khobar). It is a landmark song, whose composition coincides with the beginnings of oil exploration in Venezuela: 1914. To begin to appreciate Venezuela, you might parcel out two minutes and see the video.
The video posted below is 15 minutes, and if you are interested in an American’s reflections about camp life in Venezuela, you’ll appreciate it. You will find Mr. Howland’s commentary low key but compelling. He reminds me much of that generation of men I grew up with.
The camp was built by the Mene Grande Oil Company, a subsidiary of the Gulf Oil Company. It was located near the town of El Tigre, about 60 miles north of Ciudad Bolivar which lies on the Orinoco River, and about 120 miles northwest of San Félix, which is also also on the Orinoco, only further east. It was about 160 miles northwest of El Pao.
He mentions the South Camp. In Mene Grande the North Camp was the “staff” camp, mostly populated by Americans in its early history. The South Camp was the labor camp. But both were well run and fondly remembered by its inhabitants.
This was “nationalized” in 1975 along with the rest of the oil and iron ore industries.
Some comments below the video say much:
“I was born in Caripito Monagas State in January 1959 and 6 months after being born we arrived in San Tomé where I grew up. Many are the good memories of a town that I consider was an example of society. I thank Mr. Howland for that beautiful video [which goes back over] 80 years of existence.” [emphasis mine]
“Hello Mr. Howland. Your videos bring back many wonderful memories. I lived with my parents in El Tigrito and graduated from San Tomé Staff School in 1953. I saved a little boy’s life in the club pool for which Mene Grande gave me a watch when I graduated.”
“Jake — amazing video. As the Venezuelans would say, it was “muy emocionante” to see such old footage of our beloved camp.”
I have an email that was forwarded to me and am hoping to receive permission to post it. Meanwhile, I’ll only post the mildly sardonic conclusion:
“As you can see, it was very difficult living with those American imperialists.”
To learn just a tad of the massive American investment in Venezuela and a time when conservative outlooks and mores somewhat ruled the day, you might want to parcel out the 15 minutes it takes to watch
Some “ground level” photos of areas alluded to in the film (am a bit surprised at the dearth of readily available photos, as this was well-known site):
Five hundred and two years ago, on October 31, 1517, an Augustinian monk named Martin Luther posted ninety-five theses on the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg. This was a common action in this university town and was intended as an invitation to debate and discuss.
Instead, a conflagration ensued and the world was transformed.
The event was preceded by the labors of men such as Jan Has (John Hus), and John Wycliffe, both of whom lived in the 14th century, and also William Tyndale, whose labors were greatly influential to the translators of both the Geneva Bible (the version first brought to America’s shores) as well as the later Authorized (King James) version.
The Reformation came “in the fullness of time.” The peoples of the world, especially Europe, were “ready” to seek, find, and act upon the Truth.
The following quotes will serve to remind us that, absent the Reformation, especially the work of John Calvin and the the Genevan reformers, we would have been a very different people and place:
“[Calvinists] are the true heroes of England. They founded England, in spite of the corruption of the Stuarts, by the exercise of duty, by the practice of justice, by obstinate toil, by vindication of right, by resistance to oppression, by the conquest of liberty, by the repression of vice. They founded Scotland; they founded the United States; at this day they are, by their descendants, founding Australia and colonizing the world.” — French atheist Hippolyte Taine (1828-1893)
“Calvinism has been the chief source of republican government.” — Lorraine Boettner
“In Calvinism lies the origin and guarantee of our constitutional liberties.” — Goren van Prinsterer
“[John Calvin] is the father of America. He who will not honor the memory and respect the influence of Calvin knows but little of the origin of American liberty.” — Historian George Bancroft
“John Calvin was the virtual founder of America.” — German historian Leopold von Ranke
When we speak of the Reformation we think of men like Martin Luther, John Calvin, John Knox, Ulrich Zwingli, and many such others, mostly hailing from Switzerland, England, Holland, Scandinavia, Germany, and France.
And then there is Spain.
Perhaps the most known Spanish Reformation names are the remarkable Casiodoro de Reina and Cipriano de Valera, the erudite and pious men who translated and revised the entire Bible into Spanish from the original languages. The Reina-Valera version was first published in 1569, less than a decade after the Geneva Bible and four decades before the Authorized (King James). And it remains to this day as influential to the Spanish speaking peoples as the King James is to the English speaking.
Both men, at different times, pastored a Spanish protestant church in London. Valera translated Calvin’s Institutes into Spanish. From his introduction to the Institutes: “Therefore, open your eyes, O Spaniards, and forsaking those who deceive you, obey Christ and His Word which alone is firm and unchangeable for ever. Establish and found your faith on the true foundation of the Prophets and Apostles and sole Head of His Church.”
Both men died in exile after productive lives, despite hardships.
Spain, like her fellow European countries (including Italy, but that’s beyond today’s post), was also ripe for the Reformation. Reformistas Antiguos Españoles is a magisterial, 21-volume work which offers biographies and writings of Spanish reformers, including Juan Valdés, who, in 1529, published Diálogo de Doctrina Cristiana (Dialogue of Christian Doctrine) the first protestant book to be published in Spain. He also translated much of the New Testament from the original languages into Spanish. You could say he was the William Tyndale of Spain. An extraordinary man, as were many others of his compatriots.
Other examples of the spiritual fervent in Spain before and after Luther include the fact that there was at least one protestant congregation in Spain, established around 1510, years before the 95 theses were posted. Also, Adrian Saravia, born in the Spanish Netherlands to a Spanish father and a Flemish mother, fled to England and became one of the English Bible’s (Authorized) translators.
Another powerful indication predates 1517 by almost three centuries: Spain’s open mindedness and piety can be inferred by knowing a bit about the thirteenth-century Spanish king, Alfonso the Wise, who ordered the Bible be translated into Castilian Spanish and thus began to standardize the language. I understand there is still an extant copy of that Bible but to date have not succeeded in finding it. It was this king who laid the groundwork for the Siete Partidas, which includes large portions of the Old Testament in Castilian Spanish and which became the basis for law in Spain and her colonies until the catastrophic French Revolution’s incursions. For more on the Siete Partidas, refer to my May 11, 2019 post, “Simon Bolivar III — Influences.”
To begin to appreciate this king, however imperfect, the following was the instruction behind the Siete Partidas: “The Law-Maker should love God and keep Him before his eyes when he makes the laws, in order that they may be just and perfect. He should moreover love justice and the common benefit of all….If [the ruler] should make a bad use of his power … people can denounce him as a tyrant, and his government which was lawful, will become wrongful.” But this does not justify anarchy. “The union of all men together, those of superior, middle, and inferior rank” would determine what course to take in case of tyranny. This presaged John Calvin’s “lesser magistrates” theories, which we have institutionalized in the United States (federal, state, county, township, governor, sheriff, etc.) by three centuries, and anticipated our Fairfax Resolves and our Declaration of Independence by five!
The Spanish Inquisition, was energetically pressed by Pope Leo X, whose hatred for Luther was undisguised, not to say unhinged. He became alarmed at the incursions of the “Lutheran heresy” into Spain (apparently unaware that the “heresy” had resided in Spain for centuries before Luther) and he forcefully pressed the Spanish Inquisition whose first auto de fé took place in 1559, decades after the launching of the great explorations, including Columbus (1492), Cortés (1519), and others. If you read Columbus unfiltered by modern historians you would be forgiven if you thought he too was a Protestant.
My point is that, while the Reformation fostered unmistakable and long-lasting impact and influence on English and French America, it also affected Spanish and Portuguese America. An influence later truncated, if not extinguished by the Inquisition, which, unfortunately, had severe impact on Spain and its colonies, and even on the Roman Catholic Church in Spain, whose developing “evangelical” component was snuffed out.
As I’ve noted several times in this blog, North, Central, and South America have more in common with one another than is usually assumed. Granted, in some regions one would have to dig much deeper under the surface to find that shared background. For one thing, the French atheistic revolutionary influence forcefully invaded the Spanish colonies centuries ago in contrast to the English, who greatly delayed that infiltration.
Nevertheless, I do hope we will one day see the fruits of the common ancestry of the Reformation. Perhaps within the lifetimes of our children and grandchildren.
May you enjoy Reformation Sunday, October 27, and Reformation Day, October 31.
Diálogo de Doctrina Cristiana, first edition (1529) facsimile. Only one copy survived the Inquisition and that was discovered in 1925.
Geneva Bible, First Edition Facsimile, 1560
Authorized Version (King James), 1611
King Alfonso the Wise (1221-1284)
Edition of the Siete Partidas dated 1555. However, note the source atop the page: Don Alfonso Sabio Rey (Wise King) who reigned in the 13th century.Casiodoro de Reina (right; 1520-1594) and Cipriano de Valera (1531-1602). Eminent translators of the universally loved and respected Reina-Valera Spanish Bible.
Juan de Valdés (1490-1541), published the first protestant, evangelical book in Spain. Died in exile in Italy where he played a role in the Italian Reformation.
Christopher Columbus (1451-1506). A man of his time, however extraordinary; many of his writings read like those of the reformers.
Hernán Cortés (1485-1547). A man of piety; he pleaded with Montezuma to forsake human sacrifice and cannibalism, practices which “lead to hell.”
William Tyndale (1494-1536), executed by strangulation; then his body was burned at the stake. His last words were “Lord, open the king of England’s eyes!” Within the decade several Bible translations were published in England, with the king’s approval. What the king ignored was that all were fundamentally Tyndale’s work. His prayer was honored.Martin Luther (1483-1546). “Therefore, it is clear and certain that this faith alone justifies us…. Nothing of this article can be yielded or surrendered, even though heaven and earth and everything else fails.”John Calvin (1509-1564), the father of the American Colonies. “It were cold and lifeless to represent God as a momentary Creator, Who completed his work once for all, and then left it. Here, especially, we must dissent from the profane, and maintain that the presence of the divine power is conspicuous, not less in the perpetual condition of the world than in its first creation….”
I saw this book in a Texas museum. The small town, early twentieth century setting piqued my interest, given my respect for folks of that era. Looking back, I see that my early childhood experiences were not dissimilar to what’s reflected in the excerpts below. Furthermore, my boyhood placed me among men and women who played an important role in my rearing and who could easily have been characters in Homer’s Place.
Granting the unreliability of early life memories, to my best recollection, the folks and mores which can be inferred from the below are consistent to what I recall in the mining camp before the early 60’s. I invite the childhood friends who read this to contact me if their recollections are dramatically different.
Homer’s Place is not Little Britches, but it reflects much of the same mores and morals of that earlier book and series. And these were conventions readily apparent in an American mining camp far from cities and related conveniences.
Regardless, the novel has a terrific plot which I’ll leave to you to discover.
Excerpts:
“We kids were like chickens in an Asian village. Every adult knew who owned us, and where we lived, and we were aware the entire town indirectly observed and controlled us. It was as if we were everyone’s responsibility, and this was sometimes annoying. But even without the services of a town psychiatrist, or the expensive present day counselors, this community situation made us feel very secure. No one ever snatched us off the street.
“As an example of how it worked, one day when I was in the fifth grade, I was in a large, vacant lot directly behind the Commercial Bank. I sailed a coffee can lid high into the air, immediately lost sight of it in a flash of sun, and like a boomerang, the tin lid came back and struck me squarely on top the head. It was nothing serious, but head wounds do bleed profusely, and very shortly I looked like attempted murder. Blood streamed down my forehead and into my eyes. Before I could panic, the observant bank cashier, Tom Perry, ran from behind the cage to the lot, grabbed my hand, rushed me the half block to Doc Clapper’s office, and then quickly returned to cashiering at the bank.
“There were no forms to complete — abominable health insurance was not even in the imagination stage. Doc shaved the wound, used three metal clamps to hold the wound together, and then personally walked me around the corner to the Majestic [theater owned by his father]. He told Homer of Tom Perry’s quick action. My dad thanked Doc, promptly paid his four dollar fee, and invited Tom to a game of dominoes at the Snooker Parlor. Good Samaritan deeds worked smoothly in 1933 without insurance or fear of lawsuits. It was a matter of looking out for ‘one another.’
….
“Another Winelda [town where the story develops] code or standard was that every kid in town clearly understood, that under no circumstances, was he to be disrespectful toward any adult. To do so would have been a gross miscarriage of courtesy, and Homer and other fathers would have been super quick to correct such crass manners. I don’t recollect how these lessons evolved — certainly not from counsellors, because parents neither wanted nor needed them — but it seemed the families all taught ethics from the same book. No matter what the adult’s station in life, we were always to say ‘Mister’ Patton and ‘Mrs.’ Miller and thank you ma’am, thank you sir — yes sir and no sir. When speaking with adults, the word ‘Yeah’ was never a part of a kid’s vocabulary. A donkey-like ‘Uh huh’ was a close step toward a perilous precipice. The business of saying yes sir and no sir had absolutely no military connotation whatsoever nor did it imply subservience. They were simply the unwritten rules of behavior everyone expected between juniors and seniors. It was a pleasant departure from today’s sometimes crass egalitarianism. The grownups liked or loved us, but we were not to consider ourselves their buddies unless some special rapport permitted it.
….
“So, because the community bonded together when it came to kids, Wineldans were able to turn their offspring loose to figuratively graze from one end of town to the other, and into the surrounding hills. I recall no kid that was killed or maimed, and none ran away or disappeared. If there were some few that were molested, it was the deepest kind of secret. Such a despicable act might well have spawned unmanageable Winelda vigilantes.
“Kids were never told they could not go in Mrs. Dutweiler’s house or to Mr. Wentworth’s barn because Winelda had no real strangers living among them. Everyone was a known quantity. But even in Winelda there were a few cautions.
“‘I don’t want you riding around the Square in Haywire Dwyer’s car.'”
“Haywire was different from most, and somewhat strange for the times. He was a happy-go-lucky, twenty-eight-year-old who drove a bright yellow Model-A roadster with a rumble seat, chromium plated wire wheels, mud flaps, a coon tail, and an Ah-oo-gaw horn. On weekends he especially liked to drive slowly around the Square with a couple of his boy friends who some might very well have called ‘sissy.’ As they cruised the Square, one of them occasionally yelled to a curbside gawker, ‘Hey, you wanta ride with us.” They were always tickled pink when some young kid frothing for a chance to ride in Haywire’s rumble seat would join them. That insignificant act would energize Winelda’s all-seeing community eye. Word would swiftly pass to the dad, ‘Hey, Emory, yer kid was a riding’ with Haywire’s bunch Saturday afternoon.’ And Emory would seek out little Marvin and make his instructions crystal clear, ‘Don’t you ever again git in Haywire’s car. You understand, Boy?’
….
“I got my ample share of being yelled at and boxed around. Perhaps this will sound strange in this day of abuse issues, but I seldom felt like some poor, mistreated kid. I figured [my father’s] punishments were probably no more severe than what any other kid endured. This was a big people world; consequently, in my kid’s world, I always strived to avoid wrongdoing that would enrage big people. In my view, [my father] wasn’t so bad. A few neighborhood girls had confided in me that on a number of occasions their parents had ordered them to bed without dinner. To me that was indeed bestial; that was abuse of the first order. Mild beatings were decidedly better.
….
“It was a wonderful, simpler time when there were no driver’s licenses, and no niggling sales taxes. Many of the other socialistic taxes were slyly generated to be paid by those who worked, and then handed out to those who didn’t work.
….
“We weren’t choir kids, but neither were we hooligans. Other than a few pranks, none of us ever found ourselves in serious trouble. Come graduation day, Winelda’s kids were well prepared to face either college or the world. We learned to earn our own money, and by doing so we had acquired a work ethic. This gave us all an inner feeling of competency and self-reliance, and we had the basic manners needed for getting along in everyday life. Not one of my forty-three Winelda classmates was a failure as an adult. All could read, all could write an acceptable letter, and none went to prison. Something must’ve been very right with Winelda’s simple lifestyle in the thirties and forties. Unfortunately, American families in the fifties and sixties allowed the government to systematically destroy what some later called the Greatest Generation.”
