El Pao – Page 5 – The Pull Of The Land

Papaito

December 31, 2021December 31, 2021 Richard Barnes

I asked Pedro, “How is Eileen?”

“Eileen is doing well,” her husband replied, “Just sad.”

A friend in Venezuela had not heard the news and when informed, replied, “¡Qué año tan fuerte ha sido este!”

In the summer I wrote about two childhood friends who had passed away earlier in the year (Lizbeth and Cyril). Their passing had saddened me.

And now the passing of my cousin, Max (“Papaito”) Albert Barnes has added bleakness to the melancholy occasioned by my friends’ preceding departures. Maybe the old adage, “Blood is thicker than water”, helps explain why this hit me a bit harder.

But I think it is more than blood.

Perhaps it is that all three marked my childhood.

Ultimately, none of us chose where we were to be born or who our parents were going to be. Darwinists credit the doctrine of selection; Christians credit the doctrine of election.

But neither Darwinist nor Christian can seriously claim that he had anything to do with where or with whom he came into this world.

Papaito had a wonderful sense of humor but you would have been unwise to have sold him short when it came to serious matters. For instance, in early 1969, a few months after our uncle’s murder, he and I were talking about our uncle as we arranged moving boxes in the garage. He stopped to take a break, taking a seat on a bike, “Is our family all that special?” he asked.

“Huh?” I replied, rather dumbly.

“I mean, we talk about our family as if it were something special. But is it really? Don’t all families believe they are special?”

I responded, unthinkingly and immaturely, “Of course we are special! How many families have a grandfather who descended from the Pilgrims and was the first to leave Massachussets and go to Cuba to the war? And then marry a Spaniard and then his children go to Venezuela, etc. etc. etc.?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he concluded, but not with too much conviction.

In retrospect, I now can see that he was onto something true and that my reply had completely missed his point. What he was inchoately reaching for (and what I was too immature to catch) was not so much that we are more special than others, but, rather, that we are to be grateful for what went before. What came before us helped make us what we are and we are to improve on that and forward that heritage plus our improvements to the following generations, just like our parents and grandparents had done for us.

We do not worship our fathers and mothers or the long line of folks that preceded us; we do honor them, however. We tell our children stories about that past and their duty to honor likewise and build and live up to a good name so as to progress in the true sense of the word.

To worship the past is to stagnate; to honor the past is to progress.

In that sense every family is special.

Papaito was way ahead of me there, whether he realized it or not.

In the case of my cousin, my two friends and other children, we all “met” in El Pao thanks not to any overarching plan of ours, but to the will of a sovereign God. Some arrived a bit sooner while some left later. But that’s where we met and that’s where we and our families formed bonds that, for some, prevail to this day.

And those bonds extend to our families and friends outside of El Pao. For example, in my case, although they visited once or twice, my cousins in Miami did not live in El Pao. And yet, the cords that were knit in that camp extended to them and from them to me. The same goes for my cousins and friends who lived in Venezuela but outside El Pao.

At the end of the day, what will survive — even into eternity — is not the car you drove or the house you built or the lands you visited, but rather the bonds you forged. The family, loved ones, brethren, people whose paths you crossed in life.

Including during childhood.

What did you want to be when you were a child?

We tend to smile — I know I do — when hearing that, or a variation thereof.

I always found it difficult to answer that question when posed to me in childhood. (In later childhood the difficulty was in admitting what I really wanted to be.)

I’ve heard it said — by professionals and laymen alike — that what you were inclined towards in childhood in regards to making a living or making a life, most likely, generally speaking, is what you were meant to pursue.

That, in capsule form, illustrates the lasting power or impact of a boyhood and girlhood which included a blessed home, a caring family, a faithful church, decent brethren, friends, and more.

This is not to dismiss those who came after who also had a major influence on your life (see Unvisited Tombs, for example). Nevertheless, oftentimes, when folks are asked to name important mentors or sources, one seldom hears about people or events in their nonage.

No, I am not a Freudian. My allusions to the springtime of life have nothing to do with that.

They have everything to do with gratitude to the Lord for the parents and grandparents He gave me; for the home and extended family He lent me; for Miami — not the city so much as the family and loved ones that awaited me there year after year; for El Pao; for my church and brethren in the labor camp; for cousins, such as Max (Papaito); for childhood friends such as Cyril and Lizbeth and more, some who have passed away, a few with whom I stay in touch, and others of whom I’ve long lost track.

They all had an immeasurable and lifelong impact on me. And I am a debtor to them.

Yes, like my cousin Eileen (Max’s sister), I too am sad. Not in the sense of those who have no hope, but rather in the sense of saying farewell. Not as an “adios”, but as an “hasta luego”.

As this year 2021 ends, I extend my sincere and heartfelt condolences to Papaito’s surviving wife, Isabel, and sister and brother (my cousins Eileen and Michael) as well as children and grandchildren and loved ones and more.

I wish for them and for you a wonderful and prosperous 2022.

My simple yet genuine thank-you to Papaito for fond childhood memories and learning experiences.

“… or ever the silver cord be loosed …. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God Who gave it (Ecc. 12:6a-7).”

May you rest in peace, Max (1952 – 2021).

Cousins, left to right: Janis, Sarita (d. 2014), Vivian, Max (Papaito), Louis (Papito) circa 1961.

Edwin (d. 1982), Max (Papaito), José — circa 1965

From left to right: Pete and Janis (Colón), Eileen (Barnes) Morillas, Michael Barnes, Isabel and Max (Papaito) Barnes, Ronny Barnes, circa 2013

Photo courtesy Jim Shingler. El Pao end-of-bowling-season banquet, 1964. Many are gone; practically all had a major impact on many of us.

Lullaby

December 14, 2021December 14, 2021 Richard Barnes

As a child in El Pao I was sometimes teased (accused?) for being more American than Venezuelan. Looking back, I can grant the criticism in that I might have been too carelessly effusive in my praise of United States history while too reticent in my acknowledgment of Venezuela’s.

However, I must plead, not as an excuse but as a mitigating factor, that my Spanish instructors did not help me much in this, given their disdain for Spain’s actions and inactions in the Americas in general and in Venezuela in particular.

I now understand that the standard approach to Latin American history – at least in my day – did not exactly promote a love and appreciation for our heritage. If Spain was so evil and if it represented “500 years of atrocities”, then how am I, as a child, to value, let alone love the society or culture that they bequeathed to us?

As readers of this blog have seen, Spain’s contribution to the Americas was truly a wonder: 500 years of high culture, including the oldest cathedrals, universities, opera houses, and more in the western hemisphere, let alone the teaching and training of a language and system of law that were truly a marvel of accomplishment in their time.

We’ve written about that elsewhere (for example, see here and here) and will continue doing so.

I begin this post with the above because I do not want you to think I do not appreciate my years in Georgia, Puerto Rico, Texas, and other parts of the world where I have been blessed to have lived or otherwise spent time and met good and fine friends. I do appreciate them; very much so.

For now, however, as Christmas approaches, my thoughts inevitably wander back to our few short years in Kalamazoo, Michigan. 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 didn’t 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.

When it came time to leave, in late 1988, we kept coming back to visit, as one would come see parents or siblings whenever possible. Friendships made then, continue to be friendships now. Our most recent visit was in 2015; and I do hope it won’t be our last.

We used to say, “You can take the man out of Arthur Andersen but you cannot take Arthur Andersen out of the man.”

I can also say, “You can take the man out of Kalamazoo but you cannot take Kalamazoo out of the man.”

We’d play Christmas music – classical, hymns, popular – beginning late November and well into January. One little hymn has persistently remained in my memory: Lullaby (Music: J. Frederick Keel, English composer of Elizabethan songs; Lyrics: Alfred Noyes, English poet).

The first time I heard it, the sun had disappeared over the horizon, light snowflakes mysteriously reflected moonlight as they drifted silently onto the ground and forest preserve just beyond our apartment. The hymn is eerily perfect for a quiet Christmastime night.

And especially if you have a baby or young child in your home.

Although the hymn says nothing about snow, I cannot help but think of it as I listen to Lullaby whether in Georgia, Texas, or even in Puerto Rico. But what it evokes most in me are thoughts of a Babe in a manger, Christmas, Kalamazoo winter, and our young home.

One day, in the El Pao playgrounds, my childhood friends were again teasing me about America. In reactionary mode, I taunted my friend, Lizbeth, “Well, look at you! You are more German than Venezuelan!”

All became quiet, as she calmly replied, “I love Germany.”

I learned from her. That should have been my reply too, and henceforth, it was: “I love America.”

And I loved Kalamazoo, and am grateful for my years there and for our friends there.

Lullaby (circa 1925)

Sleep little Baby I love Thee, I love Thee
Sleep Little King, I am bending above Thee
How shall I know what to sing?
How shall I know what to sing
Here are my arms as I swing Thee to sleep?
Hushaby Low,
Rockaby so,
Hushaby Low.

Kings may have wonderful jewels to bring
Mother has only a kiss for her King
Only a kiss for her King.
Why should my singing so make me to weep?
Only I know that I love Thee
Only I know that I love Thee
Love Thee my little one,
Love Thee my little one,
Sleep! Hushaby low,
Rockaby so, Hushaby low.

Mrs. Miller, Bat Guano, and Beforehand Rebukes

December 4, 2021December 4, 2021 Richard Barnes

I do not remember her first name, if I ever knew it, that is. Back then, for us youngsters, it was strictly “Mr.” and “Mrs.” and “Miss”.

But I do remember her.

She was from New Mexico. And boy did she resent Florida’s having “stolen” their state motto, “The Sunshine State”, from New Mexico! She said she could prove the theft too! Although I never asked her for evidence.

Once, after I handed in a picture project on hygiene, she called me to her desk and, remaining seated, gently began explaining why she thought I had missed the point. I had drawn a picture of a refrigerator. Through the open door, one could see the shelves labeled with the names of the items that belonged on each: eggs, milk, soft drinks, butter, and so forth.

“The fact that some of these items may be misplaced, does not affect cleanliness,” she said.

“Oh, I know. What I was showing was that if you leave the refrigerator door open, food can spoil,” I replied, silently wondering what items I had drawn so poorly that she thought they were misplaced!

She looked up at me as I stood with a genuine look of surprise that she would not have understood the intention of having drawn an open refrigerator door. Then she leaned back on her chair and laughed.

“Ah! I see. OK. Yours is a valid observation. Leaving the refrigerator door open is not good. You can go back to your desk.”

That same year, we took a field trip to the Orinoco to explore the Bethlehem Steel port facilities. That was one of my most memorable school trips, though, if you ask me why, I wouldn’t be able to tell you even if my life depended on it. I remember boarding the van, riding there, searching around the port, and riding back. Maybe I so enjoyed the camaraderie with my fellow classmates that the trip just floods my memory banks with good thoughts.

And then there was that night that some hooligans (my friends) did some mischief at the club. I don’t recall the mischief, but boy do I recall the tongue-lashing Mrs. Miller gave the class the following morning! I recall that because I had no idea what she was talking about.

It must have shown on my face because she snapped at me, “Ricky, don’t act like you don’t know! You were part of the gang!”

I was crestfallen. One of my friends noticed it and demurely raised her hand to say, “Mrs. Miller, it is true that Ricky was not a part of the ruckus. He was there at the beginning but left soon after the trouble started.”

My dejection was replaced by white hot anger! My “friend” was lying, and she knew it. I was not there at all. But she obviously was! She even smirked at me — when Mrs. Miller wasn’t looking, that is.

I am chuckling and laughing as I write this. What was so important to me at the moment, is now a childish memory. Actually, it became a good memory, for which I thank both Mrs. Miller and my friend.

A year later, I myself became a hooligan one afternoon when several of us, hunting for bats, managed to fall through the club ceiling causing quite a mess on the tables, chairs, and floor below. I’d never before (or since) seen so much guano rain down. And the company executives who just happened to be inspecting the premises that very day were also impressed with the bat droppings and the shocked kids hanging from or watching down from the now very visible attic. Our daze in trying to figure out how to clean up the mess was extremely short-lived, as we were peremptorily instructed to go. Immediately! We quickly obeyed.

So, Mrs. Miller’s rebuke was well deserved, even if it was a year too early! As the film noir puts it: “The postman always rings twice”.

My work took me to New Mexico often in recent years. It is one of those places that pull at you, like Venezuela. The West does that to many of us. I thought of her often during those trips.

I think Mrs. Miller was in El Pao only one school year. At least that’s what I remember.

But for some reason I do remember her. And I appreciate her.

Field trip to the port. My friend, Jimmy Shingler is at left. Mrs. Miller is to his left, second row. I am just in front of her in front row. My liar friend is also in the photo. But I won’t tell! (Photo courtesy of James Shingler)

Another photo from that trip (Photo courtesy of James Shingler)

The Orinoco River (Photo courtesy of James Shingler)

Madeline and Eileen, two young ladies from El Pao, circa 1967. The club is in the background. (Photo courtesy of Caroní Contini)

Bat guano in the attic. Not pretty. It’s even worse on the furniture.

The Power of the Powerless II

November 6, 2021November 6, 2021 Richard Barnes

I invite you to read Part I for background on this series of posts, whose title is taken from Václav Havel’s famous 1978 essay.

Havel valiantly attempts to define his terms, beginning with “dictatorship”. One who carefully reads the following extracts from the early paragraphs of his essay, will see he speaks to us today.

Because good writing speaks across generations.

From “The Power of the Powerless”

(all emphases are mine):

“Our system [speaking of Czechoslovakia, in 1978] is most frequently characterized as a dictatorship or, more precisely, as the dictatorship of a political bureaucracy over a society which has undergone economic and social leveling. I am afraid that the term “dictatorship,” regardless of how intelligible it may otherwise be, tends to obscure rather than clarify the real nature of power in this system. We usually associate the term with the notion of a small group of people who take over the government of a given country by force; their power is wielded openly, using the direct instruments of power at their disposal, and they are easily distinguished socially from the majority over whom they rule. One of the essential aspects of this traditional or classical notion of dictatorship is the assumption that it is temporary, ephemeral, lacking historical roots. Its existence seems to be bound up with the lives of those who established it. It is usually local in extent and significance, and regardless of the ideology it utilizes to grant itself legitimacy, its power derives ultimately from the numbers and the armed might of its soldiers and police. The principal threat to its existence is felt to be the possibility that someone better equipped in this sense might appear and overthrow it.

“Even this very superficial overview should make it clear that the system in which we live has very little in common with a classical dictatorship. In the first place, our system is not limited in a local, geographical sense; rather, it holds sway over a huge power bloc.… And although it quite naturally exhibits a number of local and historical variations, the range of these variations is fundamentally circumscribed by a single, unifying framework throughout…. Not only is the dictatorship everywhere based on the same principles and structured in the same way (that is, in the way evolved by the ruling power), but each country has been completely penetrated by a network of manipulatory instruments controlled by the power center and totally subordinated to its interests….

“[This system] commands an incomparably … precise, logically structured, generally comprehensible and, in essence, extremely flexible ideology that, in its elaborateness and completeness, is almost a secularized religion. It offers a ready answer to any question whatsoever; it can scarcely be accepted only in part…. In an era when metaphysical and existential certainties are in a state of crisis, when people are being uprooted and alienated and are losing their sense of what this world means, this ideology inevitably has a certain hypnotic charm. To wandering humankind it offers an immediately available home: all one has to do is accept it, and suddenly everything becomes clear once more, life takes on new meaning, and all mysteries, unanswered questions, anxiety, and loneliness vanish. Of course, one pays dearly for this low-rent home: the price is abdication of one’ s own reason, conscience, and responsibility, for an essential aspect of this ideology is the consignment of reason and conscience to a higher authority. The principle involved here is that the center of power is identical with the center of truth….“

As we shall see in future posts, Havel will go on to note that his observations most certainly apply to the United States.

In 1978, even the most obtuse could see that Americans were living in “an era when metaphysical and existential certainties” were in a state of crisis. I began my career in public accounting in that era and during “boot camp” [our tough, initial training] I was aghast at the blasphemy, profanity, and utter cynicism so evident in the speech and actions of many (thankfully, not all) of my professional contemporaries.

These were the crème de la crème of American society and it was ominous. Talking with a colleague there, I told him that I had been born in an American mining camp and my early childhood was amongst WWII veterans. I am certain that their mouths were not ivory soap clean when I was not around, but for sure, even in the club bar, where children were not banned in that era, I never heard even a smidgen of language such as I was hearing at this gathering of young professionals. Nor, as a child, did I ever sense a total disregard or disrespect for the Deity, as I was witnessing now.

Again, thankfully, “boot camp” experience was not a “100%” situation, but it was widespread enough for concern. So, when I heard Solzhenitsyn speak at Harvard and, especially, later when I read the speech, I hearkened back to my early professional career and understood his observations, although a good number of my contemporaries dismissed them.

But he and Havel, having lived and suffered through societies which had lost their liberties and who became subservient to established “power centers” most certainly saw many similarities in western societies, including the United States. They saw that a loss of belief in eternal verities will lead to abject submission and to assignment of transcendence to others, most likely the State; these are dispositions or inclinations which require “abdication of one’s own reason, conscience, and responsibility.”

Havel foresaw our disposition to a ready acquiescence to a ruling elite who would tell us what to do and when. Otherwise known as living within the murderous lie of totalitarianism. And to live under totalitarianism (whose definition Havel will continue to develop) requires living under a lie.

Mr. Shingler, the father of a childhood friend. I post his photo as an example of the men around whom my childhood friends and I grew up. They were not perfect men, in the sense that they had their sins and foibles. However, looking back, I can see they did their best to not harm the consciences of the children who saw them and were otherwise in their ambit.

My father, left, at my little brother’s first birthday. He also reflected the ethos of “do no harm”, to the best of his ability. Havel, and also Solzhenitsyn, saw the loss of that ethos in America. By the time of this photo, many of the Americans with whom I grew up had already left El Pao along with their families.

Preachy Pop Songs

August 23, 2021August 23, 2021 Richard Barnes

Scott Johnson’s column noted that Jackie DeShannon celebrated her 80th birthday last week, August 21. That in turn spurred me to invite you to briefly visit with me the summers of 1965 and 1969.

The background noise was, of course, the war in Vietnam. This post is not about that, other than to mention it as a backdrop, given that DeShannon’s renditions seemed to be reactions (or purported remedies?) to the controversies swirling at the time regarding that Hot Spot in the Cold War.

The Beatles were still very big in 1965 and their concert in New York’s Shea Stadium was their biggest, in fact the largest attended outdoor event up to that time. Press officer, Tony Barrow said it was “the ultimate pinnacle of Beatlemania … the group’s brightly-shining summer solstice.” During their brief stay in New York they also performed at the world’s fair.

As with all home office employees, my father’s employment contract included annual leave with paid travel to point of origin, which in his case was Massachusetts. That year he took us to the world’s fair and gave me memories which are cherished to this day.

Although Beatlemania was at its peak, a Burt Bacharach – Hal David song managed to break through the British Invasion that summer. I was just an 11-year old, and, when it came to pop music, I did not differ much from my generation in being mesmerized by the “Beatles Sound”. However, DeShannon’s rendition of “What The World Needs Now” caught on, making it into the top 10 that year. In Miami and Miami Beach the song could be heard everywhere, including the more “adult” radio stations some folks played while at the beach.

It is a memorable song which she handles seriously. Dionne Warwick, who was THE Bacharach – David interpreter, had turned it down, considering it “too preachy”. DeShannon agreed to record it and I am glad she did. Her earnest, captivating interpretation is linked below, should you like to hear it.

In a year that saw the Watts Riots, the song seems counterintuitive, but does manage to express a felt longing and seeking.

Other events from that year that I remember from childhood were Hurricane Betsy, which I excitedly anticipated and witnessed as it hit us in Miami, and the phenomenal Comet Ikeya-Seki which I wrote about here. This was the brightest comet of the past thousand years, and I’ll be forever grateful to my mother and father for waking us up hours before dawn and driving us to the labor camp to behold a sight of a lifetime.

And I also remember the excitement of the St. Louis Arch having been completed. I would visit it with my father and brother about 15 years later.

In 1969, as the pop world continued to move away from the existential exuberance of the early Fab Four and into a more cynical, psychedelic phase which 1967’s Sgt. Peppers album is usually thought to have unleashed, DeShannon again broke through with another “preachy song” which she wrote herself. Obviously taking her cues from her 1965 hit, DeShannon recorded, “Put a Little Love In Your Heart”. And, again, she spoke to teens as well as young adults, the song charting high in both markets. See link further below if you wish to hear it.

Both the 747 and the Concorde celebrated their maiden flights that year; I remember wanting the opportunity to fly in each. My wish for flying the 747 was fulfilled; not the Concorde. Man landed on the moon and I still hear Neil Armstrong’s “That’s one small step for (a) man, one giant leap for mankind,” as we sat around my father’s short wave radio, listening to Voice of America in El Pao.

But those exciting technological and American can-do achievements were accompanied, if not overshadowed, by many other events reflecting trouble beneath the surface. Massive, angry “anti-war” demonstrations and marches were launched; Senator Edward Kennedy drove into a pond in Chappaquiddick Island and reported the incident over 10 hours later, prompting rescuers to the scene only to retrieve the corpse of a young woman, Mary Jo Kopechne. This event was taking place while most of us were avidly following the course of the Apollo 11 lunar flight.

And then there was Woodstock, which is still reported as a pristine shout for love, freedom, peace, and harmony. It was none of those, although I do not doubt the sincerity of the hundreds of thousands who attended. One after-the-fact look at the farm where the event took place ought to be enough to cast doubt on the promotion of Woodstock as some sort of Elysian Fields, dreamscape sojourn. It was pretty filthy. But, one could argue (and many have argued) that hundreds of thousands more showed up than were expected and hence the defilement and devastation. Even if we stipulate that, we can still ask, if this was such a massive promotion of peace and love and harmony, has that been its progeny? A quick look at crime statistics, suicides, divorce, and utter breakdowns in society since Woodstock should be enough to cast doubt. Maybe it was no more than what many of the participants described: drugs, sex, and rock and roll. Jesus said, by their fruits ye shall know them, and that includes events such as Woodstock.

And in the midst of this psychedelic haze, Jackie DeShannon had her 1969 “preachy song” hit.

Her 1965 song did not improve things and neither did her 1969 version. Both merely gave a voice, albeit weak, to the longing for meaning and love in lives. These are very real needs we all have, but few attain. In this, Thoreau was right: most men live lives of quiet desperation. And they seek for those eternal verities in the wrong places. Such can only be found in the Creator of life and of all there is. Man cannot create or be the source of absolutes. Only God can and is.