My career boot camp was Arthur Andersen, of which it was often said, “You can take the man out of Arthur Andersen but you cannot take Arthur Andersen out of the man.” 

My wife and I lived the first 4-plus years of our marriage in Kalamazoo, Michigan. To borrow from the Andersen lore, You can take the family out of Kalamazoo, but you cannot take Kalamazoo out of the family. At least it is true for us, as I’ve noted in his blog over the years (I Remember, Lullaby, Evocation).

In 1984 I read in the local paper that Russell Kirk was going to deliver a lecture in town at Western Michigan University. Lillie and I arranged to attend, after which we chatted a while with the great man. 

Dr. Kirk was a man of place. He was born in Michigan and died there in 1994 at age 75. He wrote about seeing aged men working mightily to uproot large stumps in their ground, knowing they were doing so for future generations. According to Kirk, this was a truly American motif for most of her history until the early 20th Century when the focus became more self-centered and less future oriented.

One of his definitions of what makes a good society came to my mind today as I contemplated my mother’s 92nd birthday:

“A society in which men and women are governed by belief in an enduring moral order, by a strong sense of right and wrong, by personal convictions about justice and honor, will be a good society — whatever political machinery it may utilize; while a society in which men and women are morally adrift, ignorant of norms, and intent chiefly upon gratification of appetites, will be a bad society — no matter how many people vote and no matter how liberal its formal constitution may be.”

Elsewhere he wrote of the “Permanent Things” of which the above quote gives an idea.

My mother was born in the interior of Venezuela, in a small village called Upata. She tells of her horror of hearing the men killing a pig for roasting. No matter how far she ran, the squeals and shrieks could not be escaped. She was acquainted with poverty but always had something to eat and was humble enough to learn American as well as Latin rules of society from wonderful people in El Pao who took an instant liking to her.

Other than my father’s conversations with friends and family about the rapidly deteriorating situation in Cuba and the obvious connections between Communists there and the military in Venezuela (see for example, Nexus), our home was not characterized by political discourses and debates. It was more defined by the “Permanent Things” of which Dr. Kirk wrote so eloquently: faith, home, hearth, immediate and extended family, friends, and more.

And my mother was a most critical key to that scene.

In 1978, I was working in Puerto Rico with Arthur Andersen. I had not visited Venezuela since 1975 and was determined to do so before the year was out. I told my parents about my plans to travel to the country of my birth in December.

A few weeks later I stopped by home on my way to a conference in Chicago. My mother promptly handed me a small, black address book and asked me to sit with her, which I did. She then asked me to open the book and as I — incredulously — slowly flipped each page, crammed with names, phones, and addresses, she insisted that it was my duty to visit each person or family in the book. And if that were absolutely not possible, then to at the very least call each number.

I mildly protested, “But, Mami, I’ll only be there three weeks. These names are spread from Caracas to Upata and numberless places in between. There’s no way….”

“¡Querer es poder!” she exclaimed with finality (roughly translated, “To want is to do!”)

I was a bit dejected, thinking my plans of visiting exotic places I’d not had the chance to do while living in the country had gone up in smoke by all these visits that my mother had demanded I execute.

I made every single visit, except one who could not see me due to severe illness. But I did speak with them by phone (“I’m not surprised Mrs. M did not receive you; she was always a bit cold, but you did the right thing in asking to see them.”)

And it was among the most memorable trips ever, for it honored the Permanent Things.

Thank you, Mami. Thank you very much.

God’s grace to you always.