Enough time has passed to allow my posting on my visit to Zagreb, Croatia in 2015. This and the next post are journal entries made when I visited in 2015. Croatia is a member of the European Union (EU) but its positions are not consistent across the board which reality, I believe, reflects the ambivalence of its people with regards to the EU’s obvious intentions to control the internal politics and policies of its member nations as well as to the “official” EU stances on issues ranging from forced injections to the war currently raging in eastern Europe.
This first post relates an incident which readers may find amusing as well as instructive.
My colleague’s friend’s mother for a long time had wanted to drive to Venice but her husband was reluctant because their car was old and he feared it would not make the round trip. But he did not prohibit her from going. So, on his next business trip, she went, having assured him that all would be well and expressing her confidence that the car would do just fine.
The trip, which is quite scenic, went very well indeed.
However, approaching Venice, a truck (meaning an SUV), swerved onto her lane and crashed head on with her. Providentially, the speeds were low and she was stunned, but not badly hurt.
Actually, she was more worried than she was stunned or hurt. She sat behind the wheel, worrying about what she was going to tell her husband. Clearly the old car was badly, badly damaged. It is their only car. They are not well off. And now, it turns out the car really did not make it to and from Venice after all, as her husband had said. Although, surely, he was not thinking about an accident!
As she sat there, behind the wheel, her mind going a mile a minute, the driver of the truck had gotten out and was walking to her. He came up to her window and began speaking to her, “Madam, please let’s not call the police. I promise that I will take care of this situation for you. Please trust me. As you probably know, the Italian police are horribly bureaucratic. If we go to the police with this, I will be tied up for weeks. And I cannot afford that, I cannot be tied up in police stations and Italian courts. Please allow me the opportunity to make this right,” etc.
While he spoke, his friend had gotten out of the passenger side and had come over and also began speaking to the surprised lady, “Madam, my friend is telling the truth. I vouch for him. And I promise that I too will help him make this right. We will fix your car and leave it as new, I promise you.” Etc.
She really had no choice but to believe these Americans.
So they drove her to her hotel and took her car (or had it towed away).
A day or two later her car was delivered to the hotel. Only it was not her old car; it was a brand new automobile. The Americans called her and explained that her old car was totaled (a typical American term) and could not be repaired. So they happily bought her a new one. They had to assure her that they were not joking.
So she wished the driver, George Clooney, and his passenger, Brad Pitt, a very happy visit and all the very best and a thousand thank you’s and she said good-bye and began her drive back to Croatia.
True story. But her husband still doesn’t believe it!
This happened to the mother of my colleague’s best friend. And they now do have a new car. The timing fits: The Clooney’s were married in Venice, Italy in September, 2014, which was when she drove there. No photos were taken and she was too shocked to think of asking for an autograph. And she is not known for having an imagination that would make up something like this.
I believe my colleague; however, she may have confused Brad Pitt with Mat Damon. Even so, her story has the ring of truth.
George Clooney and Amal Alamuddin celebrate their wedding in Venice, Italy, September, 2014.
When on work assignments, I’d often write journals, hoping to share with friends and family later on in life.
At the end of an assignment in the Arabian Peninsula, my departure took me via London. Having seen recent, disturbing reports from there, I thought you would like to read my personal impressions and interactions as I returned to the United States in 2015.
London, 2015:
The cab driver said, “I’m sure Dallas is a fine city. But I’ve travelled much, and I’m even what most would call ‘a right winger’, but, to me, London is the best city in the world.'”
You do not have to agree with him, but you certainly can understand his sentiment. We can at least agree that London is a fine city, whose Christian capital has endured far longer than I would have estimated. I cannot imagine it can last much longer, absent another Reformation. But, for now, if you gave me a choice between Dubai, New York, Singapore, and London, I’d go for London.
I’ll have more about my conversations with two cab drivers further below.
Visiting the famous Burlington Arcade I saw that several stores had “disappeared”, including Pickett, the fine leather goods store. However, I was happy to learn that Pickett had merely moved outside, between the Arcade and Regent Street. I bought a portfolio there. The one that Arthur Andersen had given me finally bit the dust after 33 years of service. Good things, if cared for properly, will last half a lifetime, or more.
Regent Street is known as a “shoppers paradise.” Since I am not a shopper, it’s not paradise to me, but it is a nice street to walk and observe peoples from all over the world and laugh at little children tugging at their parents to get out of Burberry’s and go to Hamley’s.
Hamley’s, founded in 1760, is five stories of toys. Being Saturday, it was pandemonium. On the fourth story they had “snack bars” of cotton candy, sweets, chocolates, shakes — just the sort of thing to keep the little kiddies quiet for Mommy and Daddy. It was a circus: vendors loudly proclaiming the wonders of their flying machines, magic lights, boomerangs, plush animals. They should have filmed Jingle All The Way here.
One major disappointment, though not surprising: almost everything was made in China. Even the London double decker toys and the England history toys and the die cast English vehicles. I saw a few things made in Belgium and one thing made in France. But nothing made in England. Of course, I did not check “everything” (I would have still been there!); but it was sad. What? Westerners can’t make toys anymore?
When you say “Let’s go to the food court” to an American, they’ll imagine you mean the Dallas Galleria, or, when in Puerto Rico, the Plaza Las Americas. However, to a European, “Food Court” conjures up a completely different scene. I had a light lunch at a sidewalk cafe in a food court off Regent Street: caprese salad with homemade bread dipped in olive oil.
And there is Berkeley Square, dating back to the 1700’s. Used to be only residential. Today only one residential block remains and it’s not cheap but flats rarely come up for sale anyway. No, I didn’t hear a nightingale, but I’m sure it sang in Berkeley Square, because Nat King Cole heard it there once.
The cab driver who drove me to London Center was of Indian heritage. We talked about how quickly subsequent generations forget their own history. His children know nothing about “the largest migration in history”, which occurred a mere 70 years ago, at the time of the partition of India. He said that about 130 million migrated from India to Pakistan or vice-versa. In addition, many hundreds of thousands, if not millions, left the sub-continent altogether. Including his own parents, who came to London, where he was born.
“And about 10 million were slaughtered,” I added.
“No,” he corrected me, “20 million.”
I do not know if his figures are correct; but I do know that is an ugly part of modern history of which we hear very little. It is also a blot on British colonial (mis)government. There was no need to succumb so quickly and so pathetically to calls (including calls from the U.S., I might add) for “de-colonization now!” But they supinely did so. And now they are criticized for mismanagement of the event. You never win in these situations.
But, back to London. The cab driver went on to tell me how the younger generations simply do not care. They’ll take fish and chips over Asian spice; English over Urdu; hip-hop over Punjabi; etc.
That last one is truly tragic. But I understood where he was coming from and sympathized with him.
“Even I myself have begun forgetting my history; not to mention my descendants. They forget their religion, their history, their food — now it’s fish and chips and Irish beef.”
As we drove by the Ritz, I noted, “I understand that Prime Minister Thatcher lived here towards the end of her life.”
“Yes she spent the last 6 months of her life here. She died here. But she was content. Many of her friends would come and visit her. She was content. She and Ronald Reagan were the best political partnership in our time.”
I also spoke with the cab driver who took me back out to the hotel in Terminal 5 at the end of my visit.
He too said, “Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher were the best partnership ever. And George W. Bush and Tony Blair were a disaster from which we still cannot recover.”
He buys his shoes at Church’s, although he did not know they had been acquired by Prada. I warned him the shoes were now looking more and more “ritzy.” He was disappointed. He has been married 29 years and still uses the Church shoes he bought for his wedding day. “I always wait for a sale. Sometimes a GBP300 pair of shoes is down to GBP 90!” That’s about $480 down to about $234.
He’s been driving a cab for 29 years.
He owns a house in Cyprus (in addition to his home in London); he buys his shoes at Church’s; he visits Cyprus 3 or 4 times a year. And he has 4 grown children; all doing him proud. Yes, he and his wife are thrifty and his children too.
Earlier, upon arrival in early morning, I had breakfast at the Heathrow Terminal 5 lounge. Then I did a bit of work in the business lounge area and once again saw the TV preachers on screen. Their hair styles were cute and their smiles were sweet and, depending on their audience, one wore a neat leather jacket, like Marlon Brando in The Wild One, and another looked like he had just stepped out of Saks Fifth Avenue. The musicians gave the impression they were performing on some night show.
I remembered that as I pondered my conversations with the cab drivers.
The mass migration facilitated by our politicians, both in Europe as well as in the United States, can overwhelm and transform us negatively. But it need not be so.
The Church, the masculine Church, can also make it a great and grand opportunity, much as the Puritans did when the Crown was sending its criminal element to our shores. Our fathers would meet them at the docks and instruct them in the Bible and in colonial laws.
If later generations forget where they came from, as the cab driver said, then why can’t the Church tell them where they can head to, in Christ? We possess a great arsenal. We must use it to advance God’s Kingdom. And, simultaneously, we would be defending our own culture and country while also helping those who arrive.
Interestingly, both cab drivers I interacted with, one of Indian descent, the other, Anglo, had similar outlooks. Decent outlooks. I would proudly call either a friend and wish I had had more time with each.
I enjoyed dinner at La Belle Epoque, a fine restaurant at the hotel. It was not as expensive as others, but, again, we must note that elegance is not “ritziness.” It is simplicity; it is as little clutter as possible, even on the dishes.
Mostly under the radar to the rest of the world, but very much on the minds and attitudes of the people of Guyana and on the Venezuelan political class, the long simmering Venezuelan claim over a vast, oil rich area of the Guiana Highlands is dangerously close to erupting.
The highlands are “a heavily forested plateau and low-mountain region north of the Amazon and south of the Orinoco River. This extensive natural border, coupled with nonexistent infrastructure and insufficient political willingness to cooperate from both sides, has left Guyana — and its institutions, customs, culture, and people — as an enigma to the majority of Venezuelans [Caracas Chronicles, February 2, 2024]”. No doubt the same can be said about the Guyanese people’s perceptions about Venezuela.
Two months ago, on December 3, 2023, the Maduro regime claimed an overwhelming “victory” in a referendum where over 95% of the Venezuelan people in effect voted to take over the region and to reject any past or future international arbitration agreements. Of course, since the early naughts any results from “elections” or “referendums” in Venezuela are trusted only by those who believe in the tooth fairy.
Nevertheless, the Maduro regime is proceeding as if an invasion is the “will of the people” (Rousseau is very much with us, no?).
As noted by the Caracas Chronicles, “In the slums of Caracas and in towns closer to the border with Guyana, people remain focused on their many other problems and see the chauvinistic campaign as a bad thing.”
As well they should.
Since the referendum, the people and authorities of Guyana see the 20,000-plus Venezuelan immigrants as Trojan Horse infiltrators and are making life increasingly difficult for them. These are not “military age single men” such as are being seen in the United States southern border, but rather very poor people who escaped Venezuela in search for a way to feed their families. Guyana has historically never refused them entry.
Brief Background
British Guiana was a possession of England since long before Venezuela had come into existence in the 19th Century. It was only after the terrible revolutionary wars of South America that Venezuela, seeing that the British region contained gold deposits, claimed much of the British colony for herself.
The British were not impressed; however, they were willing to settle the controversy. As far back as 1840 they commissioned Sir Robert Schomburgk to ascertain the true boundary. He made a careful survey which the Venezuelans promptly dismissed.
Then, in 1895, the Venezuelans turned to the United States whose Anglophobe Secretary of State, Richard Olney, wrote a fierce letter to England’s Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, who replied several months later, correcting Olney’s interpretation of the Monroe Doctrine, which barred European powers from imposing their systems of governance onto the Americas but did not enter into border disputes. His reply also had the air of a college professor correcting a freshman student’s obvious grammatical errors.
Salisbury was undoubtedly correct; however, he was diplomatically unwise, not having read the American mood at the time, which was not very pro-British. Lord Salisbury turned his attention to England’s far flung empire, no doubt figuring the Americans would not bother further over that jungle-matted territory.
He figured wrong. President Grover Cleveland sought approval from Congress to appropriate funds for American arbitration of the border dispute, which request was approved unanimously, with a whoop and a holler, by both houses of Congress. The mood was of war with England, should it be necessary.
This was, of course, foolish on the part of the jingoists. England’s navy alone could wreak havoc on America’s coasts. Also, most American’s did not even know where British Guiana was on the map and could not care less, meaning enthusiasm was only temporary.
Across the ocean, similar sentiments prevailed. Most Englishmen agreed that a mosquito-infested piece of the South American jungle was not worth any war, no matter how many gold reserves it might have; after all, England had a corner of the world’s gold without counting the disputed highlands. Besides, the British were far more concerned with the rising power of Germany and also the obstreperous Boers in South Africa, which Germany was cheering on.
Europe’s discords continued to work to America’s advantage.
So the British agreed to arbitration and provided the Americans with massive amounts of documents and data which helped greatly in the push towards a reasonable and fair settlement. The Americans persuaded the Venezuelans to sign a treaty with England which called for the submission of the border dispute to international arbitration. This was a significant concession by England who knew that arbitrations tended to “split the difference”. The concern was that Venezuela, most unreasonably, claimed most of British Guiana, while England claimed far less of Venezuela.
The decision was issued about two years later and generally followed the Schomburgk line, with two important exceptions. “First, Venezuela secured a considerable area at the southern end; secondly, and much more significantly, she obtained control of the mouth of the Orinoco River [A Diplomatic History of the American People].”
It was Venezuela who had sought “Yankee intervention”. And when Cleveland died in 1908, Venezuela lowered her flags to half mast.
Current Situation
And now, Venezuela has moved “light tanks, missile-equipped patrol boats, and armored carriers to the two countries’ border in what is quickly turning into a new security challenge…. [Wall Street Journal, February 9, 2024].”
Historically, “revolutionary” regimes, which emphatically include Communist and Socialist inspired governments, seek confrontations and conflicts as they point fingers to “the other” as excuses for their own failures. History has ample evidence of this, from the French Revolution and it’s progeny throughout the earth, including the South American revolutionary wars of the 19th Century, the Russian Revolution and its progeny in the 20th, and the thirst for wars of the “free” governments of the 21st.
Essequibo refers to the name of a major river in Guyana. Venezuela aims to push their territorial claims to that river as they seek to take over most of her neighbor’s territory.
Pray for the peoples of Venezuela and Guyana.
Sir Robert Schomburgk, 1804-1865
Lord Salisbury, 1830-1903
United States Secretary of State Richard Olney, 1835-1917
United States President Grover Cleveland, 1837-1908
My wife’s paternal grandparents had fourteen children, twelve of whom survived into maturity. But now, like the elves in The Lord of The Rings trilogy, they are departing, along with their generation.
The night before last we learned that Aunt Ruth had passed away, just a couple weeks short of her hundredth birthday.
For some reason her death caused me great pause, even though I had not known Ruth that well, as she had moved to New York even before my marriage to her niece.
She was the daughter of Tomás and Andrea Vélez who passed away in 1993 and 2001, respectively. They were hardy folks whose life stories held endless fascination for me. For example, their childhood poverty was enough to cause Tomás to leave home as a boy to seek work. He knew not whither he went, but does recall that, alone in the midst of tall grass which impeded his view and utterly confused his sense of direction, he was suddenly called by a young man a number of yards behind who asked him, “¿Adónde vas?“
Tomás answered truthfully that he did not know, to which the young man said, “Come this way,” as he walked off signaling ahead. By the time Tomás got to the spot where he had seen the youth, he had lost him. However, he followed the general direction pointed out by the stranger and eventually came to a cane field operation where he remained for a number of years, even meeting his wife and marrying her there.
To his old age, Abuelo Tomás expressed gratitude, first to God, and second to that young man who somehow took compassion on him but whom he never saw again.
They had two children who died early: one in infancy, the other at the age of twelve. Tuberculosis was a terrible scourge in those days, the early 20th Century. When the infant died, Abuelo Tomás made a small box, placed the baby inside, carried it to the train station, and boarded the train to the municipal cemetery to give it a proper burial.
He sat at the head of the table, hungry and eager to eat after a long hard day’s work. But he saw his children looking at him, obviously hungry. They often recalled to me how their father would take pieces of his bread or other foods and pass them to his children, even though he needed the food more than they given that the next day would be another exhausting one in the fields.
These were tough men and women.
Grandmother Andrea, having been born in 1901 and having died in 2001, lived “along” the 20th Century. She lived during the horrible Boer War, the sinking of the Titanic, the Great Depression, two world wars, the rise and fall of the Iron Curtain, the attack on New York’s twin towers, and much, much more.
As those “great events” developed and subsided and confused and perturbed millions, Abuela Andrea was, first, a good daughter; then, a good wife; then, a good mother; good grandmother; and more. Her Christian faith upheld her and led her to perform her duty with joy and energy throughout her life.
Her children recall seeing her working under the blazing sun, washing clothes, carrying water, cooking, harvesting sweet potatoes, and more. They remember having seen her living in a tent. And singing hymns and taking Communion in church. They vividly remember her helping her husband hold walls that seemed to implode during the terrible San Felipe Hurricane of 1928 and then again during the devastating San Ciprian Hurricane of 1932. In both, their children heard them pray to the Father Almighty for mercy and protection.
By the time she died, over 99% of all those born in her day, had already passed away, not just in Puerto Rico, but throughout the entire world.
As the world shook and reeled from the upheavals of the 20th Century, the Triune God had His eyes on Abuelo Tomás and Abuela Andrea, as He has his eyes on all Who believe on His Son, Jesus Christ and seek to please Him. Such may be unknown to most; however they are known to Him and their impact was and continues to be great. Eternity will One Day reveal that to all.
Their twelve children — Noemí, Ruth, Esther, Eva, Samuel, Lydia, David, Abigail, Miriam, Joaquín, Andrea, and Isaac — had the privilege of burying their parents. However, today, only Samuel, Joaquín, Andrea, and Isaac remain.
I am very grateful to have known them, as I am most grateful to have known my own parents’ friends of that generation.
Few are left, and we would do well to see them as we are able. To thank them and to learn from them.
Ruth’s mind remained sharp to the end. In her last weeks she said, “I feel my strength leaving me.” On her last day on this earth, she was seated in her walker-chair, said, “This is it”, lowered her head, and passed into glory.
I don’t know if Det. McCole’s grave is one of those many who are unvisited, but I do know that he is one of the many who were faithful in their callings and who, though dead, still speak.
My uncle, Alfred L. Barnes, was murdered in the early hours of October 19, 1968. Later, in the afternoon, hunters found his body in a lonely forest clearing in Monroe County, PA. That night, our beloved Aunt Sarah had taken us to a concert in Miami — and you did not say “no” to Aunt Sarah. As usual, however, we were happy she had made us go and were in a joyful mood as we entered the house.
But we found our Uncle “Wichy” sitting next to the phone, weeping. He told Aunt Sarah that Pennsylvania police had called and insisted on speaking only to her. They would not tell Uncle Wichy what this was about, but he noticed that the number they asked her to call was Uncle Alfred’s number. He naturally assumed the news was not good.
And he was right.
Aunt Sarah sat next to the phone, dialed the number and did not wait long before Det. McCole answered. “What?” she said as she then listened. “But how can that be? … Yes, of course. I will come ….”
She hung up the phone, and remained seated for a while, her face in her hands.
“Uncle Alfred has been murdered,” she told us with great simplicity and with no hysterics. Then she stood and walked to her bedroom, closing the door after her.
The next few days were a whirlwind. Aunt Sarah with her daughter, Cousin Janis, flew up, met with authorities and also arranged for transport of the body to Miami for burial in the family cemetery.
My father and Uncle Max flew up from Venezuela and so the three surviving siblings buried their brother.
I suppose that what happened next will explain my eventual, obsessive desire to see this case solved: my father flew up to Bethlehem, PA, where my uncle lived and worked. I asked my father if I could accompany and he agreed. He was interviewed at length by Det. McCole. I remember the detective looking at me and then, turning to my father, “Would you ask your son to step outside? I need to discuss some sensitive matters with you.”
Of course, I stepped outside and many years flew by before I learned what those “sensitive matters” were. More importantly, I could see that Det. McCole was concerned he not overstep the bounds between a stranger — himself — and a father-son relationship. He figured that some things were best handled by the father of a 14-year-old, as opposed to being addressed by an unknown person, regardless of rank.
In summary, McCole determined that my uncle had been shot as he sat in the driver’s seat of his Thunderbird by someone to the right rear of the car. He also determined that the shooter then pulled my uncle from the car while still alive. My uncle slumped to his knees and two more shots were fired downward into his skull.
My father and the detective corresponded well into the following year, during which time the investigation accumulated many man years of “gumshoe” work, having visited no less than 400 potential witnesses or people in the area who might have heard or known of something. It was exhaustive work, all dutifully and carefully documented.
And then, he died suddenly of a heart attack, not having solved the case. My father was in great shock, but was hopeful that McCole’s second in command would carry on the work with the same zeal. But about six months later, that detective also died. You could not make this up, but it is true.
The case went cold.
And I, a pimply-faced kid would visit Bethlehem often and do my own follow ups, which of course were met with barely concealed contempt as I was dismissed from “grownups” work.
But one detective, even as he pushed me out the door, did say to me, “A murder case is never closed.” I grabbed onto that declaration and wielded it forcefully four decades later.
My own father was murdered in 1982 and I became a pest to the GBI, insisting that they were looking in the wrong places — which they were. When they finally listened, precious time had been lost; however, the murderer was found — over a thousand miles away. About thirteen years later he died suddenly of blood poisoning in prison.
In 2010 I again looked through old correspondence between my father and Det. McCole and decided to write persistently and methodically to the Pennsylvania State Police. After a few false starts, I established a relationship with Captain McAndrew and he assigned a young trooper to this cold case.
I was working in Saudi Arabia when I received the following email from Captain Mcandrew:
HI Richard,
Hope all is well in the Middle East. The Monroe County District Attorney has in fact approved murder charges in your uncle’s case. That essentially means we have an arrest warrant for an individual. As I mentioned we will be flying to Texas next week in an effort to locate and arrest the individual. I will keep you posted.
Be Safe,
Tom
I replied that I too would be in Texas that following week. His reaction:
The coincidence is unbelievable….as I mentioned, we will be flying into DFW that same day. Our arrival is 9:40 AM. We will attempt to make the arrest the following day (Thursday, October 17). Is there a number I can reach you once we are in Texas?
The arrest was actually made on October 19, 2013, which added an even greater “coincidence” to this saga: that was 45 years to the day of my uncle’s murder.
This turned out to have been the oldest cold case in Pennsylvania history and one of the oldest in the United States.
During the trial, I was amazed at how Det. McCole’s work kept coming up again and again. He had been thorough and precise. His work was key to getting a conviction.
The murderer was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison without parole, according to 1968 Pennsylvania law.
After the sentencing, one of the district attorney staff pulled me aside to tell me that the daughter of Det. McCole had been following the case and the trial with avid interest. “She said that her father was obsessed with the case; that he was determined to see your uncle’s case closed and the perpetrator brought to justice.”
“Well,” I replied, “Her father certainly did bring it to conclusion and justice.”
He surely did. He is one to whom we owe the fact that “things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been,” because men and women like Det. McCole “lived faithfully a hidden life” even though he might be resting in an unvisited tomb.
Pennsylvania State Police Detective Bernard “Old Stoneface” McCole. He investigated my uncle’s October 19, 1968 murder.
Similar to the furniture where Uncle Wichy sat as we entered the house that night and where Aunt Sarah sat as she returned the call from the Pennsylvania state police.
Visiting my grandparents’ and related family tombs in Miami, FL.
