Bethlehem Steel Company – The Pull Of The Land

Mami

September 9, 2023September 9, 2023 Richard Barnes

I was blessed with a happy childhood. Part of what enabled that blessing was having a mother and father who did not allow a complaining spirit in the home and who were astute enough to remind us of our blessings and daily provision, not least of which was food on our table every day.

I tended towards a bit of “shyness” but my parents did not allow me to shrink away from social events or gatherings; on the contrary, they pushed me into them, which sort of “forced” me to swim or sink. And I am grateful, because to this day gregariousness is not my strong suit; nevertheless, I remember my parents’ and now “force” myself, instead of relying on mother or father to do so.

Ada Barnes, née Rodriguez, was born September 30, 1930, in Upata, Estado Bolívar, in the interior regions of Venezuela. Her home was typical of the era and the region: a rustic, colonial type structure, meaning a front door and heavy wood casement window facing the dirt street. Beyond the door was a small rectangular receiving room. Farther on, an entryway led into an open hallway which led to the kitchen, and beyond it, a larger garden area with fruit trees, chickens, turtles, and pigs.

My mother’s earliest memory was of the men who would be hired to come and slaughter a pig for food. It was a very loud affair and she would run as far away as she could within the house, find a corner, and stop her ears. That memory stayed with her to the end.

She had formal schooling through the third or sixth grade (I heard both versions and was never able to confirm either), however, her grammar was impeccable and her handwriting, beautiful. After a secretarial course, she was hired by the Bethlehem Steel and worked in San Félix until she met and married my father who also worked at Bethlehem, known to all as he who “nos pagaba todas las semanas (he paid us every week)”, as an elderly friend recently wrote to me. But he was better known outside the company as a wonderful baseball player and manager who skippered his rag tag team into Double A championships. Mom was his biggest fan.

They moved to El Pao and our family grew to four children: two girls, Brenda and Elaine, and two boys, Ronny, the youngest of the four, and me, the firstborn.

In that time and era, our parents’ friends were also our friends. So, I remember with great fondness, Mr. and Mrs. Berán and Ninoska, and their patriarch, Mr. Axmacher, and matriarch, Mrs. Panchita. Also, the Belafonti’s and Jackson’s, Carmen Luisa, who was also my godmother (Madrina), Mario Pérez and his wife, Oladys, Paco, who ran the camp gasoline station, and also Sr. Medina, Dad’s mechanic, and Mercedes, his wife, and Mr. John Tuohy and his wife, Clara, and Mr. Giliberti and his wife, Lucila, and Charles Abaffy with whom my father had a hilarious, continual repartee, Mr. and Mrs. Ivanosky from Russia. Those are the names that come up immediately, and more and more also are making their way from my memory banks, but I must stop. The point is that all these folks were adults who, later in my life, were also my friends and advisors. My parents’ friends were my friends. Practically all are gone now. But my gratitude remains.

In 1978, I had planned a 3-week vacation to Venezuela. My plans were detailed and efficient — I had packed lots of experiences into that period of time. Or so I thought.

Then I shared my plans with my mother, who immediately thrust a list — a multi-page list — of names with telephone numbers into my hand. She insisted that I visit each and every one of the people on her list.

“How can I fit these visits into my plans?!” I asked, with a bit of exasperation.

“You must”, was the simple reply.

And I did. I visited every single family or person — with only ONE exception, and that was because the husband was ill and the wife was indisposed, or so they told me over the phone. Later, as I dutifully reported my obedience to her, when I came to the one couple whom I had failed to visit, my mother smiled, “Well, at least you called them. They cannot say they were ignored. And I am not surprised at their refusal. Life has many people like that, but you must not be like them.”

So, she figured they’d tell me to hit the road and still she included them in her list! That’s my mother.

I must say, of all the trips or vacations in my life, including spots in exotic places of the earth, that 1978 trip, jam-packed with visits to friends and family, was among the most memorable because it was focused on people — men, women, and children who meant very much to my parents and to me.

Not too many young men can boast unapologetically that their mother planned their exotic vacation. I am proud to say that my mother planned mine on that occasion, and it turned out to be among the most memorable of all. And it was a lesson that has remained with me to this day: what endures are the personal relationships — friends, family, dear ones — more so than the spectacular sights or experiences. Life is short, too short. But we were created to live forever. In the Lord, friendships, family, brethren will live on. And we will see them again.

My mother widowed on October 9, 1982. She had no interest in remarrying and remained a widow until her own entrance into glory on September 6, 2023, 24 days shy of her 93rd birthday.

The last weeks of her life as she steadily weakened, the last thing to go was her mind. She remembered me immediately each time she saw me or upon hearing my voice. But not only me: it was the same with her other three children, and her grandchildren, and even her great-grandchildren. She was alert, even when appearing to be asleep. At times she’d exclaim, “Me duele el cuerpo“, or “¿Qué me pasa?“, or at the end of a prayer or the reading of Scripture, with great effort, she’d say, “Amén” or she’d be able to utter, “Dios te bendiga“.

Such utterances became more difficult and infrequent.

Shortly before her passing, we received a visit from Carmen Herminia, one of our childhood friends whom we had not seen for over four decades. It is difficult for me to describe that joyful occasion, other than to say that it was impactful to my mother, who by that time could not speak. She had tears of joy as Carmen Herminia played voice mail messages from several ladies from the church in El Pao and as she heard them express their gratitude to my mother and to my father for their years of service there and their impact on their lives and their consistent reflection of love and devotion to the Triune God and the Christian faith. We sang hymns and prayed and Mami was content.

In addition to her husband, Charles, her parents, Julio Rodriguez and Eleana Pérez also preceded her in death. She is survived by her children, Richard M. Barnes (Lillian), Brenda E. Barnes, Elaine M. Childs (Christopher), and Ronald M. Barnes (Heather); 21 grandchildren; 15 great-grandchildren; many nieces, nephews, and extended family.

She is the last of the fathers, mothers, aunts, and uncles with whom we grew up. My sadness is deep, but so is my gratitude. She died midst her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

Thank you, Mom.

This is not Upata; however, structure on the far left offers an idea; my mother’s birthplace front facade was a single door and casement window in a space slightly wider than what is seen above just left of the utility pole.

This gives a clearer idea; however the above is far “nicer” and beautified for contemporary consumption.

From left: Aunt Sarah, Uncle Wichy, Father, Mother, Miami, Florida, circa 1956. Mom was the last surviving member of that generation in our family.

Mother and Father, September 25, 1957

A day where most but not all her children and grandchildren visited. She talked and smiled much.

Mom received children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The photo does not reflect her gestures and smiles, but they were there. She was content.

Yellow Fever and Juragua Iron Mines vs The United States: Trust the Experts

October 30, 2020October 30, 2020 Richard Barnes

The prior post (The 1964 World Series) alluded to how baseball was “watched” in the mining camp in Cuba in the early 20th century.

Few might know that the American camp had been completely burned by order of General Nelson A. Miles in 1898.

This destruction became a court case between the Bethlehem Steel Company, represented by her subsidiary, Juragua Iron Mines, and the United States Government. The case went all the way to the United States Supreme Court and was decided in 1909.

The Spanish American War was one of the more momentous events in United States history. At the end of this conflict, the United States found itself with a far flung empire, albeit nothing approaching the extent or the depth of the British. Nonetheless, we now not only had protectorates in the Caribbean, we also had temporary sovereignty over the Philippines, comprised of some 7,000 islands in the Pacific. Granted: these were all temporary arrangements. However, whether pro or con, we would be less than honest if we did not admit that we as a country have not looked back since.

So, despite the war’s short duration, April to August, 1898, it was epoch-making.

In late June, American forces landed in Daiquirí and Siboney, towns situated about 2 miles apart on Cuba’s southern shores. The intent was to launch an attack on the major city of Santiago, about 14 miles east. The landing was not well executed as is suggested by a soldier’s journal:

“The horses and mules were jumped overboard from a half to a quarter mile off shore — depending upon the skipper’s digestion or his judgment — and then swam. Horses by the hundred were drowned.”

Some of the battles and campaigns were heroic, with gallantry shown on both sides.

For example, on July 1, the Americans attacked El Caney, on the outskirts of Santiago. Up to that battle, their opinion of Spanish gallantry and courage was not high, to put it charitably. They expected the Spaniards to hightail it off the hill and scamper into Santiago.

But they did not count on Spanish Brigadier General Joaquín Vara de Rey. His duty was to hold El Caney. He had no artillery, and was outnumbered 12:1. But with his 550 men, including 2 of his sons, he defended El Caney for 10 hours against the U. S. Army of 12,000 men who were far better armed. The battle raged on even after Vara de Rey was mortally wounded. His sons were already dead. The fighting was not over until 5:00 P.M. The Spanish force retreated only when it had been reduced to 84 men.

This battle proved that if properly led, the Spanish were no pushovers. Vara de Rey achieved his objective: he kept the Americans from taking Santiago, at least in his lifetime. The U. S. troops were so impressed that they buried Vara de Rey with full military honors. Spain awarded him posthumously her highest honor, the Laureate Cross of Saint Ferdinand.

But our focus today is not on the history of the war itself, but rather on one of its events which directly related to the Bethlehem Steel Company.

To better understand the event and its sequel, we need to review, briefly, one of earth’s more frightening plagues.

Yellow fever was one of the world’s great tropical endemics. For centuries it was not known why it was prevalent in the tropical but not in the north or south temperate zones, although it sometimes flared in some of those areas as well.

As was learned in the 20th century, yellow fever is caused by a flavivirus, which infects humans, monkeys, and some other small mammals. The virus is transmitted from animals to humans and among humans by several species of mosquitoes. The course of the disease is frightening: sudden fever, headache, backache, nausea, vomiting, and death — in up to 20% of the cases. The liver is attacked resulting in jaundice which causes the skin and eyes to appear yellow.

Although there have not been any vast outbreaks as had been seen in the 19th and earlier centuries, several areas in the late 20th century did experience yellow fever bouts, mostly due to carelessness in mosquito control, especially in areas with large monkey populations, which act as “vast natural reservoirs” holding the virus.

But none of this was known at the outbreak of the Spanish American War, although Americans were well aware of the devastation caused by the fever. In the 1790’s the fever shut down the federal government in Philadelphia, the country’s capital at the time. Nearly 10% of the city’s population died.

That would be the equivalent of 150,000 people in today’s Philadelphia.

The deadliest outbreak hit the country in 1878, killing up to 20,000 Americans in the lower Mississippi Valley, including major cities like St. Louis, Memphis, and New Orleans. Memphis lost about 5,000 people out of a population of 48,000, or over 10% of its inhabitants.

That would be the equivalent of about 65,000 deaths in Memphis today.

For perspective, that’s twice the number of COVID deaths in the state of New York, the state with the highest number of such deaths, most of which were elderly with comorbidities or in nursing homes. Yellow fever attacks and kills all ages, with or without comorbidities.

As a side note: until very recently, the traditional definitions of endemic, pandemic, and epidemic, included enormous numbers of, or widespread, “deaths”. That has been removed from the more recent definitions. Now, a disease can be called a pandemic merely if many people are “affected”, however that may be defined. I am sure the reader has noticed that, with the current virus, where the world shut down based on frightening estimates of millions and millions of deaths, including 2.2 million deaths in the United States alone, we are now all focused on “cases“. We now seem to be in a “casedemic” as opposed to a pandemic.

But back to our story.

No one could explain the cause of yellow fever or how it spread.

By the time Walter Reed came on the medical scene, most medical researchers believed yellow fever was caused by bacteria in fomites, or objects that are likely to carry infection, in particular things which may have been soiled with human blood and/or excrement. But despite decades of research, no evidence supported this theory. Some thought the fever resulted from drinking river water. However, Reed disproved this hypothesis by demonstrating that enlisted men and civilians near the Potomac River did not contract the fever when they drank the water.

However, he did note that men who had a habit of walking through swampy trails at night did get infected, while those who did not take those walks escaped the disease.

About the time of the war, Reed had been reading the papers of the distinguished Cuban physician, Carlos Finlay, written some 20 years earlier. Dr. Finlay had theorized the transmission of yellow fever by insect bite, but had been unable to prove his hypothesis. He was roundly ridiculed by all the right people. But Reed was intrigued. He travelled to Cuba at the end of the war, in 1898, commissioned to study diseases in the U. S. Army encampments during the war, typhoid fever in particular. He and his colleagues proved that contact with fecal matter and food or drink contaminated by flies caused that epidemic. The disease was quickly controlled by the implementation of sanitary measures.

In 1900, he returned to Cuba to examine tropical diseases, including yellow fever. It was during this assignment that he and his colleagues proved and confirmed the transmission by mosquitoes. This was done using volunteers who were fully informed of the risks. One of the primary researchers, Dr. Jesse William Lazear, infected himself purposefully and did not survive. The isolation camp set up to continue the research was named Camp Lazear.

The confirmation of Dr. Finlay’s theory was a great advancement in medicine and towards the prevention of yellow fever around the world, saving thousands of lives every year. A few years later, from 1903 onwards, this knowledge served to greatly reduce the incidence of yellow fever in Panama during the American construction of the canal. Prior to this, about 10% of the workforce had died each year from malaria and yellow fever. And a quarter century earlier, the French had resigned from building it, having lost thousands of lives due to mosquito-borne illnesses.

True to form, the Washington Post ridiculed Reed’s presentation of his findings thusly in 1900:

“Of all the silly and nonsensical rigmarole about yellow fever that has yet found its way into print — and there has been enough of it to load a fleet — the silliest beyond compare is to be found in the arguments and theories engendered by the mosquito hypothesis.”

The Post mocked that which differed from the reigning Zeitgeist. At least they reported it.

Reed was nevertheless allowed to keep pressing his case and eventually prevailed. Although he received much of the credit, he was always up front and vocal in crediting Carlos Finlay with the discovery of the vector. Reed often cited Finlay’s papers in his own articles and speeches and his personal correspondence.

In November, 1902, Reed’s appendix ruptured. He died on November 22 of that year at age 51.

Now, with that background, we return to Siboney and Daiquirí in July, 1898, a mere two years before Reed’s work. American soldiers were succumbing to yellow fever. The army’s public health expert determined that the source of the fever was in “the buildings occupied as hospitals, dwellings, and offices in Siboney.”

The Cuban physicians who were assisting the Americans were adamant that the source was not in the buildings. But the Americans would not accept that assurance even though it came from people on the ground who had dealt with this disease far longer than they.

It was at this point that General Miles made his fateful decree: the destruction of the town of Siboney. “In thus destroying this dirty little town, we were, at least, sure of limiting the number of new cases about us ….” The buildings were burned or otherwise destroyed on the 12th of July, including property belonging to the American company, Juragua Iron Mines.

Of course, deaths did not decrease but rather increased as the fever continued to develop rapidly and overwhelm the medical resources.

Juragua sued the United States government for damages in the form of the cost of rebuilding their destroyed property.

In 1909, the United States Supreme Court ruled against the company because Cuba was technically the enemy, regardless of the fact that many Cubans fought alongside the Americans, not to mention that Juragua was an American company and their buildings, occupied by Americans. They were deemed to be enemies as well given that they were in enemy territory: “…. all persons residing in Cuba … were to be deemed enemies … including citizens of the United States there … doing business.”

Citing another case from 1887, the court declared, in a statement that would have appalled Patrick Henry, “The safety of the state in such cases overrides all consideration of private loss.” We had come a long way from 1776.

This ruling overruled the fact that the actions by the United States Army, obeying the order by General Miles, did not reduce the yellow fever decimating its forces. In fact, with eerily familiar language, the ruling stated that this was done “…. for the purpose of protecting health and lives ….” and “…. deemed necessary by the officers in command … to protect the health … and to prevent the spread of disease ….”

It did no such thing, of course. In reading the ruling, it becomes clear that the government, at least in this case, will not admit wrong, even in 1909, years after the discovery of the true vector of that epidemic. Even with testimony noting that the local physicians insisted this was not necessary nor would it work. And they were proved right.

So if other doctors disagree with the “correct” doctors, the other doctors must be considered wrong, even though they are right.

Some things never change.

My paternal grandfather, Max Albert Barnes, in Santiago, Cuba, circa 1898.

Americans and their horses arrive in Siboney in June 1898. Hundreds of mules and horses drowned.

Americans land at Daiquirí, where my father was born 19 years later. Daiquirí is about 3 miles from Siboney. The Americans quickly achieved control over the entire Daiquirí and Siboney area.

Carlos Finlay, Cuban Medical Doctor credited for theorizing the transmission of Yellow Fever by insect bite. This was proved 20 years later by Walter Reed who always gave credit to Finlay.

Named for Dr. Jesse William Lazear who died in becoming “Guinea Pig #!” for testing the theory of mosquito transmission.

Staff housing. These and other office and mining buildings were rebuilt, at company cost, after the burning of Siboney

Juragua Iron Mines buildings near mines, Daiquirí, Cuba

Juragua Iron Mines, recreation club (left). This is where my father and his friends would come to “watch” baseball games on the manual scoreboard as told in the prior post (World Series 1964)

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz!

January 20, 2020January 20, 2020 Richard Barnes

The following is a post by Rafael Marrón González which is making the rounds in Venezuela. For a refresher on Puerto Ordaz (sometimes incorrectly referred to as Ciudad Guayana) refer to posts, Life in an American Camp and Mining II and Guayana: The Reverse Miracle.

I came to Puerto Ordaz in December, 1963, and here I stayed.

I have witnessed the rise and the fall of one of the greatest cities of Venezuela. In the era when I arrived, Puerto Ordaz was beginning to “see the world” and, in its intimacy, due to it’s noble call to lead the development of great swathes of the country, it generated the 20th century’s last harmonious, multi-racial community on the planet.

I saw, day after day, the wonder of its architectural growth, both commercial and industrial. In her bosom, arose the most significant and complex metallurgical industry of Latin America. In those days, to go to America from Europe was to board a ship or plane to Puerto Ordaz to seek one’s fortune. She was sort of a modern Babel, that wonderful Puerto Ordaz, composed of an adolescent population that persists in the memories of those of us who populated its streets with the dizzying dynamic of youth. How it hurts to see her today, prematurely aged, poorly bathed, and worstly dressed, with her depressed facades and her sidewalks burst through by unpruned trees with abandoned coronas infested with guatepajarito [parasitic bush: untranslatable].

Walking about the lonely streets, empty joints, closed malls, centers, and streets abandoned for fear as soon as the sun begins to set, I do not recognize that city that never used to sleep but rather led a loud and long night until sunrise. Her best views have been invaded by the misery severely imposed by demagogic powers. A city now disrespected in her privileged spaces. There is no limit to the degradation of her expected end. Chaos is her daily bread.

Begging for food is now ubiquitous and neighbors on street corners despair for any transportation. Ignorance imposes preferences of poor taste; long held cultural practices now abandoned; ancient crafts are gone; and foolishness is now dressed up, crowned with titles on the anemic social pages. The cretinism of the newly (and suspiciously) rich, is heard by their loud applause at trashy performances, as they demand another grilled meat with cassava in the flea market of gastronomic decadence.

Her once florid freeway gardens have withered and a swarm of bars shout out the uncertainty that life has now become. A city that in her day, not so long ago, gathered the best in thought and technical expertise, both national and international, now displays its toothless ruins in Matanzas [the site of the city’s teeming, massive industrial works], its enthusiasm now overwhelmed, shut down, and known by the flapping of bats’ wings in its giant industrial sheds.

The ancient stacks that once announced prosperity, today herald diseases of the skin and lungs. Their toxic excretions poison the waters of the Orinoco. Children are born with aluminum inside their skulls; neurological effects camp nearby.

Her basic enterprises, Venezuela’s pride, undulate — like a canoe in rough waters — between the impact of intermittently paid salaries, technological obsolescence, and dashed productivity. Her laboring class now become engrossed in parasitic sadness in the service of an empowered ignominy which has emptied it of any conscience. Her history hides that tab that once she ostentatiously paid for suits and parties but now cowers with the embarrassment of being a have been. A swarm of damnable, protected thieves imposes sentences against dignity and permeates what’s left of the night life with their nauseating presence, while those who labor and have labored for lifetimes, stand aside.

I am not sure if I have succeeded in manifesting my indignation.

What intolerable infamy! What ugliness! What filth! Dirt, grime, and grease are now the identity cards of “equality.” Mold is now the strident patina of false brotherhood.

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz! Now a mere gibberish of yellow pages and abandonment. A site of processions of thugs and murderers; of rude and gross speculators and carpetbaggers all looking for quick and easy money, of misery rooted in deplorable suburbs. A city of late awakening and shortened evenings. Of crime imposed for any posible error of interpretation. Of dead traffic lights, announcing at top volume the irresponsibility of brutish governors who accuse those who challenge them for their strident ineptitude. Like the underworld, they cannot be called out. There is no real authority. Only a payroll that demands paid vacations.

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz!

I have lived 53 years in her and refuse to exile myself. But when I drive its desolate streets, as I pass each corner or enter a long forgotten passageway, I oft recall the intensity of it’s snatched life. She did not deserve this assault of inmoral and inept rulers. This violent aggression of barbarians and savages in taxis, motorcycles, and trucks, all dubiously acquired.

How much they hated a city that was on its way to being another Germany! Now reduced to a solitary shack, run over by caretakers focused on the furious selling and transportation of gems on gondolas carrying riches from the proud north of Brazil. Not only isolated, but dependent!

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz!