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If It Belongs To All ….

Richard Barnes

After college graduation in 1975, my visits to El Pao were rather irregular yet not infrequent, with visits in 1978 and several times in the ensuing decades when I was able to swing by during business trips. My last visit was in 2005, which, although memorable, had its harrowing moments whose details will have to await retelling.

During my 1978 trip, for which I will be forever grateful, an old family friend and her older children engaged me in lively conversation over coffee and pastries in her home when, pausing and looking at me, which caused me to remain silent, she said, “Nosotros jamás pensamos que el campamento se pondría peor [We never thought the camp would get worse]”.

That was the elephant in the room: surely I had noticed the unkempt open spaces, which as late as 1975 looked like golf course greens but now were overgrown; or the swimming pool which looked like it needed cleaning and maintenance; or the bowling lanes which had clearly seen better days; or the houses, including my family’s, in which we had lived until a few short years prior but which now were almost jungle invaded and “occupied” by surly squatters.

I had noticed, of course; however, I also knew that there was no need to needlessly offend. Prior to and during the “nacionalización” María had been a loud voice extolling the virtues of “public” ownership versus the evils of “Gringo” ownership.

But now she was sincerely looking for a response from someone whom she knew had not been a fan of the jingoistic justifications for theft. Of course, those appeals had been disguised by distortions asserting that the Bethlehem Steel and all such steel and petroleum companies had “stolen” the minerals of Venezuela, had exploited the people of Venezuela, had imposed inhumane conditions on the working class of Venezuela, ad nauseam. 

Carefully, for she sincerely wanted to hear my opinion, I replied, “Bueno, María [not her name], a way to help us understand what we are seeing is to ask a simple question: if something belongs to ‘everyone’, then who, really, is the owner? In other words, who will take the risk to care for the object that is ‘owned’ by all?”

She just nodded, signifying that she understood.

Our conversation rushed back to my mind when, in the late 80s, I visited the even more deteriorated camp. On that visit, I took a photo of the last classroom I attended before leaving for the States (photo below). The ranch style schoolhouse still stood and gave promise of a still bright future if only someone actually owned it. But no one did. María, and many more, had abandoned the camp by then and more recent photos show the pool to be an empty, cracking husk.

A few years after Venezuelan nationalization, Communist Zimbabwe (Rhodesia ceased to exist in 1979) had the presence of mind to keep their elephant preserves in private hands and thereby saved them from ruination for decades. Interestingly, they did not allow their ideological blinders to blind them to the benefit of having their treasured preserves cared for by the actual owners. And they were rewarded with excellent results. Unfortunately, Venezuela opted for the conventional Socialist route with the typical depressing results now well known throughout the world.

María is long gone now but our discussion remains vivid in my mind. 

I had forgotten about that photo until a few days ago when my brother-in-law pulled some envelopes stashed in some corner and old papers and photos, including that of the abandoned classroom, tumbled to the tile below.

And I was reminded that the Bethlehem Steel had built river port facilities about 180 miles from the mouth of the Orinoco River plus about 35 miles of railroad tracks and road inland from there to the site of the ore deposits. Three self-sustaining camps were built: one, Palúa, on the river, the other, El Pao, at the mining site, and a third, Puerto de Hierro, on the Atlantic coast to provide a deep water port for shipment up north. By March, 1951, close to 3,000,000 tons of ore were being mined annually, with most shipped to Sparrows Point, Maryland for processing, with a considerable amount of tonnage stockpiled in Palúa.

In summary, the Bethlehem Steel operations in Venezuela were somewhat complex from a transportation standpoint. Ore was mined and transported from El Pao by rail to Palúa on the Orinoco; then 180 miles down the mighty river by four or five 6,000-ton river steamers, built by a company subsidiary, to Puerto de Hierro on the Atlantic Ocean, from where the ore was transferred to much larger company ships for the 2,000-mile journey to Maryland.

By 1964 US Steel had dredged a 32-foot deep canal down the Orinoco for which other companies, including Bethlehem Steel, paid usage tolls. This allowed deep water shipments directly from Palúa, so Bethlehem shut down the Puerto de Hierro operations and ceded the ports and the camp to the Venezuelan government. All families were transferred to the other two camps.

As the reader can imagine, the capital investment implied in the above cursory descriptions is gargantuan. And that is only one company. In the first half of the 20th Century Venezuela received such investments from many such enterprises in the oil and ore industries.

At the close of 1974, the Venezuelan government nationalized all foreign owned ore properties, agreeing to pay book value, not market value.

And a mere four years later, my friend, María, asked why the camp had deteriorated….

My old classroom. Photo taken circa 1987

Photos of recently-built El Pao mining camp, circa 1953

Doña Tura

Richard Barnes

Doña Tura’s Spanish vocabulary and grammar tutelage over me was not very long, if memory serves: one school year, maybe two, max.

However, her impact was lifelong. 

She lived in the “otro campo” — the labor camp. Her house served as a school for younger children. She had one or two assistants, probably relatives, who helped keep tabs on the young and restless, or, in my case, hyperactive scholars. We may have been restless, however, we also knew that to irritate or otherwise provoke Doña Tura with our inability to sit still for at least a while, would likely result in a stern warning, loud enough to turn us into innocent pussycats.

In one of the classes, I sat next to white curtains which separated two rooms, similar to the flimsy drapes which separate business from economy class in some airplanes. In my infantile and energetic curiosity, I wondered if I could twist those curtains together and began doing so. The more I turned the cloth, the tighter it got and began to take the form of a nice torsion or spiral. Pretty neat, I thought.

Next thing, I heard a deafening voice, seemingly right in my ear, demanding I cease and desist — “¡Deja esa cortina!” I released the object of my curiosity and swung around so fast that the room spun, as the curtains unraveled back to the state intended by Doña Tura.

My age at the time of attendance at her school, was likely 6 or 7. She drilled us with vocabulary and grammar and penmanship. I was too young to question why my parents would take me there when I was already attending school at the Campamento Americano, and while my mother also drilled me at home.

Of course, years later, my parents’ actions became clear to me. The only other Spanish grammar and vocabulary instruction I ever received was by a teacher who came to our camp when I was eleven. He succeeded in tutoring us in the accent and other, more advanced grammar rules. Both his and Doña Tura’s training were instilled in me for life. 

However, had I not had the privilege of Doña Tura’s early guidance, I doubt that the teacher who came later would have made any progress whatsoever with me.

In Gentle Regrets, Roger Scruton wrote, “The purpose of the school was not to flatter the pupils but to rescue the curriculum, by pouring it into heads that might pass it on.” Even as children, we understood that, if only intuitively. We understood there is a real distinction between knowledge and opinion; Doña Tura taught us accordingly. We knew she was doing more than merely “drilling”; she was imparting knowledge unto us, knowledge we would use the rest of our lives.

So, for instance, when she drilled the Spanish alphabet into us … “Aa, Bb, Cc, CHch … Nn, Ññ … ” she did so knowing she was teaching us the basic facts of the beautiful Spanish language. And she hoped — she had faith — that we would use that knowledge and, over a lifetime, gain wisdom.

We may have failed her in that “wisdom” part; if so, that was not her fault, but ours.

I believe the last time I saw Doña Tura was during my three week visit in 1978 — however, it might have been during an earlier visit; I am not entirely sure. What I am sure about is that she still lived in the Otro Campo but in a different section. Of course, she had aged, but was still very energetic. Her hospitality was impeccable and as we sat across from each other, during a quiet moment, I thanked her for having been my teacher. I’m not sure she remembered — she seemed to hesitate, but then replied simply, “Oh, de nada.” 

That is a common reply to a “Thank you” — “For nothing”.

Only it was certainly not for nothing. And now, many years after her departure from this earth, I again say, “Gracias, Doña Tura”. 

Aerial view of the “Otro Campo” (the labor camp) where Doña Tura lived and where she taught me. Unfortunately, I could not find any photos of her.

George Washington Christmastide

Richard Barnes

When one thinks of Christmas and the history of our country, George Washington’s crossing the Delaware on Christmas night, 1776, most likely comes to mind, and rightly so. This aggressive and highly risky military maneuver during which two Patriots froze to death and a few more were killed, nevertheless culminated in a great victory over the stunned and completely surprised Hessian mercenary forces in Trenton New Jersey. They could not believe anyone could or would march during a blinding snow storm and freezing temperatures.

However, the following Christmastide, in 1777, also marks an iconic moment (actually, moments) in our history. It was during this winter that Washington made camp in Valley Forge, after an ignominious defeat by the British. His troops needed a place to recuperate. However, the place was now barren, having been razed by the British. The men built their own cabins in freezing conditions. About twelve thousand people came to Valley Forge, and about one thousand died from cold and hunger. This was another “starving time” in American history, akin to the Pilgrims’ first winter the previous century, where half their company died.

As numerous accounts — soldiers’ journals; letters to wives; later recollections — attest, during this dark time General Washington would go to a “dark, natural bower of ancient oaks”, and kneel and pray. Washington was a private man, however, he was seen in prayer on numerous occasions during that terrible Christmas season and winter. 

As you study or read about those years, you are either confronted by incredible “coincidences” which worked to deliver Washington’s forces from certain encirclement or annihilation, including impenetrable fogs which enabled him to hastily deliver 8,000 men from Brooklyn across the enshrouded East River. When the fog lifted, the British were astonished to see the entire Continental army had vanished. 

Incredible coincidences, or perhaps we should use the terminology used by the soldiers and other contemporaries, including Washington: “Providential occurrences”.

I write the above this Christmastide simply to encourage us to not neglect our duty and our privilege to pray this wonderful season. 

May you enjoy a wonderful Christmas season and may you and yours prosper in 2025.

Christmas 2024

Richard Barnes

July 21 marked our fortieth anniversary. These have been years of joy and laughter along with periods of great sorrow and tears. We have been blessed by people — whether friends or short-lived acquaintances — each of whom played a role in molding us. I credit them for the positive impacts and blame myself for the negative. 

For example, earlier this year, as I searched for a misplaced item, I found an old curio and immediately recognized it as a gift from an elderly couple whom we had met on our honeymoon. At one of the ports of call, they had gone to a curiosity shop and bought it, and gifted it to us at dinner. I had not thought of them for decades. But the item instantly brought them back to my recollection. Given their age in 1984, I can only assume they have long since passed away by now, but their sunny disposition and sincere care for us has been an encouragement and inspiration since the moment I again saw their gift. And it was a mild rebuke for my having forgotten them.

As Lillie and I thought about options to celebrate our anniversary, the choice became an easy one: why not return to Kalamazoo, Michigan, where we began life as a married couple and where we still have friends who continue to influence us to this day? As I wrote in Lullaby

“Whenever I count my blessings, I think of my parents and grandparents and the life and heritage they bequeathed me.

“I think of El Pao and childhood friends.

“And I always think of Kalamazoo.

“I vividly recall flying to that town for the first time in the early summer of 1984. As the plane approached and the green fields and lakes — so many lakes! — came into view, my heart was powerfully drawn to that small midwestern city that I had hardly ever heard about (except in a Glenn Miller song).

“The folks I met, my interactions with clerks, executives, factory workers, children, immediately brought El Pao to my mind. The Midwest became more than a geographical touchpoint: it immediately became a part of me … because it was always a part of me, only I did not know it. The ready friendship and transparency of our neighbors, church brethren, professional colleagues, mechanics, you-name-it, was a throwback to my childhood in El Pao and purlieus. It was coming home to a home you did not know you had.”

Thomas Wolfe titled one of his works, You Can’t Go Home Again. In the novel he expands on this, “You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting, but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.” 

Agree. However, one can return — must return! — to some extent: the extent of gratitude and recognition of the strong foundations. One can return to say “thank you” and to build upon that groundwork or to say “I’m sorry” and make things right as necessary. Living in the past is neither healthy nor helpful. Christianity does not worship the past; however, we should recognize it and appreciate it and build upon it.

It was good to be back — back to good people we have long missed but whom, seeing again, seemed like yesterday. Back to sights which never faded in our mind’s eye. 

We returned from Kalamazoo to be met by 12 of our 13 children and five of our eight grandchildren, along with other loved ones, including nephews and grandnephews. It was quite a party. 

And we are grateful.

__________________

I remember the first time someone reacted negatively when I wished him a Merry Christmas. It was 1975 and several of us were signing off for the year. As I headed to the door I saw two colleagues and offered them the traditional Christmas greeting. One replied in kind; the other, with a mocking “Ho! Ho! Ho!”. That only elicited laughter from me as I replied likewise, but in light hearted form.

It was only upon returning to the office in early January when the other colleague informed me that my greeting had offended the “Ho! Ho! Ho!” fellow, which came as a shock to me as I’d never heard of someone being offended by a Christmas greeting. The mining camp of my birth was peopled with folks from all walks of life, yet all enjoyed this special season as reflected in several past posts, for example, here.

There followed an era of hesitant well-wishing, but, thankfully, that ended not too many years later when I saw that some people were outspoken in their celebrations of what can only be described charitably as filth. And this hesitancy was buried even further during and after my years in the Middle East where my Muslim and Hindu friends had no hesitancy in wishing me a Merry Christmas and a Happy Easter even though they themselves did not believe in the Incarnate and Risen Lord.

Some people, sadly, are permanently offended and if we kowtow to them we allow the universe to be ruled by the dog in the manger. This does not give us license to be rude; however, it surely must not muzzle our joy in the Lord, which is our strength.

Our celebration has a Focus; it is not a celebration for the sake of a celebration; it is not a rejoicing merely for rejoicing. Such merrymaking is surely short lived and hollow. The Lord makes our rejoicing very real, indeed. We know Him and so we rejoice. And we sincerely desire and invite others to also rejoice with us.

In that spirit, we wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas and a prosperous 2025.

Elizabeth, Tyler, Jonathan, Joseph, Samuel, Nathan, Esther, John, Rachel, Rebekah, Andrew, Richard, and Christopher. Brothers-in-law Les and wife, Nancy, and David and nieces Emma and Olivia. Lillie’s mother: Myrna. Grandchildren, Grace, Emily, Beverly, Sarah, James. Not pictured, nephew Jordan and his family. Unable to be present: Charles, Essie and grandchildren, Ebenezer, Ada, Rosemary.

Pilgrim Thanksgiving Documents

Richard Barnes

After arriving late the prior year, fifty percent of the Mayflower’s company had perished in the harsh Massachusetts winter. They were buried without rites for fear the Indians would take military advantage of the company’s severely diminished numbers.

However, it turned out the Pilgrims and Indians became friends and allies, signing a treaty that endured for seven decades. And Bradford’s journal tells of their celebrating and communing together, in one another’s abodes. 

The Pilgrims’ survival was nothing short of miraculous and wonderful and served to encourage them in their convictions and determination.

I remember our annual Thanksgiving meal in the El Pao club where all families were invited and many if not most came and joined in the memorable celebrations.

Historians tell us there are few original (primary) sources from that first Thanksgiving in 1621. 

We have Edward Winslow’s Journal of the Plantation at Plymouth (modern spelling):

“Our harvests being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together, after we had gathered the fruits of our labors; they four in one day killed as much fowl, as with a little help beside, served the Company almost a week, at which time amongst other Recreations, we exercised our Arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and amongst the resst their greatest king, Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five Deer, which they brought to the Plantation and bestowed on our Governor, and upon the Captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful, as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want, that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.”

And we have Governor William Bradford’s, Of Plymouth Plantation, 1621 (modern spelling): 

“They began now to gather in the small harvest they had, and to fit up their houses and dwellings against winter, being all well recovered in health and strength and had all things in good plenty. For as some were thus employed in affairs abroad, others were exercised in fishing, about cod and bass and other fish, of which they took good store, of which every family had their portion. All the summer there was no want; and now began to come in store of fowl, as winter approached, of which this place did abound when they came first (but afterward decreased by degrees). And besides waterfowl there was great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many, besides venison, etc. Besides, they had about a peck of meal a week to a person, or now since harvest, Indian corn to that proportion. Which made many afterwards write so largely of their plenty here to their friends in England, which were not feigned but true reports.”

Finally, we also have the letter of William Hilton, passenger on the Fortune, written in November, 1621:

“Loving Cousin: At our arrival in New Plymouth, in New England, we found all our friends and planters in good health, though they were left sick and weak, with very small means; the Indians round about us peaceable and friendly; the country very pleasant and temperate, yielding naturally, of itself, great store of fruits, as vines of divers sorts and in great abundance. There is likewise walnuts, chestnuts, small nuts and plums, with much variety of flowers, roots and herbs, no less pleasant than wholesome and profitable. No place hath more gooseberries and strawberries, nor better. Timber of all sorts you have in England doth cover the land, that affords beasts of divers sorts, and great flocks of turkey, quails, pigeons, and partridges; many great lakes abounding with fish, fowl, beavers, and otters. The sea affords us great plenty of all excellent sorts of sea-fish, as the rivers and isles doth variety of wild fowl of most useful sorts. Mines we find, to our thinking; but neither the goodness nor quality we know. Better grain cannot be than the Indian corn, if we plant it upon as good ground as a man need desire. We are all freeholders; the rent-day doth not trouble us; and all those good blessings we have, of which and waht we list in their seasons for taking. Our company are, for most part, very religious, honest people; the word of God sincerely taught us every Sabbath; so that I know not any thing a contented mind can here want. I desire your friendly care to send my wife and children to me, where I wish all the friends I have in England; and so I rest, Your loving kinsman, William Hilton”

The first formal proclamations came later; they all acknowledge the God of all comfort for His blessings and mercy.