In response to my prior post (Leaving Venezuela — 1966) my friend, Mike Ashe, emailed me his own take about the same subject, as he also left at an early age.
I appreciated his recollections and thoughts and asked his permission to post, which he generously granted.
Hi Richard
I guess if we kids stayed in El Pao long enough, we ended up going solo to schooling elsewhere.
My dad left by train at age 14 traveling from Chuqicamata, Chile, to a high school in Buenos Aires. The Chilean Rail Line ran from Arica to La Paz. I don’t think that the train stopped in Chuqui; they had to flag the train down to board.
He would travel by train to Santiago and by taxi to Cordoba and take a train to Buenos Aires.
My grandpa worked for Anaconda Copper and spent 40 years in mining camps in Chile and Mexico.
In my case I shipped out at age 12 and spent two years at Admiral Farragut Academy. I did go back home to El Pao one summer. Holidays were spent in the school dorm or visiting friends
In those days there was no communication except by mail which most of the time was late or lost in transit.
A lot of my classmates were from South America so I had plenty of company that could relate. Also, I must say that my El Pao education served me well in transitioning into a different educational system. Admiral Farragut was a top-notch military school with high academics and an over-the-top discipline standard.
Seventy five percent of the graduates received appointments to the US Naval Academy, Annapolis Md. The most notable Farragut graduates are Astronauts Charles Duke and the first US Astronaut in space, Alan Shepard.
Actually, getting out of El Pao was a good thing since boarding school provided me with an opportunity to socialize with many boys from different backgrounds around my age. Cubans (great athletes), Colombians, a few Brazilians, and mostly US students.
The transition from being the oldest two or three boys in a mining camp to a school with hundreds of students mostly older and a lot more worldly, was bracing.
I was fortunate to have Chuck Gould as my roommate for two years (Chuck later played football at Michigan State). Chuck actually became my best friend, and nobody messed with Chuck. Or his friend! At age 13 he weighed over 200lbs and could outrun anyone in the Junior or Senior school including some exceptionally fast Cubans.
I did miss my family and El Pao but can honestly say that life was a great adventure for me in Florida. I was able to play sports for the first time. It was a great awakening for me. So grateful to have been provided that opportunity.
Also, both of my brothers spent their high school years in boarding schools Linsly Military School in Wheeling, WV. They also felt that going solo provided them with some great opportunities that they would not have had if they had remained in Mexico.
Really enjoy Pull of the Land
Take care
Mike
Panoramic View of Chuquicamata at 9,850 ft above sea level in the Atacama Desert (driest desert on earth). Mining of gold and copper started in 1882. My grandfather (Mike Ashe), an electrician on the New York subway system, accepted a job there in 1923 as an electrician working in the power plant. My dad was born in Harlem, New York his sister and brother were both born in Chuqui. In 1943 my grandfather accepted a transfer to another mining camp in Cananea, Mexico, also located in the Sonora Desert. The Cananea mine is the second deepest open pit mine in the world at 2,790 ft. The Bingham Mine in Salt Lake City is the deepest; both are copper mines. When I was working, I would fly into Salt Lake and never got tired of seeing Bingham from the air.
Researching and writing about the Bogotazo — whose repercussions are with us still — elicited a few childhood memories which, for what it’s worth, I’ll document here.
I left Venezuela in 1966, fully intending to return to live there one day. See Playa Hicacos, 1966 for my personal recollections of that year in my childhood, which was yet another tumultuous year in Latin America.
My intentions never materialized because, as the Spanish aphorism puts it, “El hombre propone y Dios dispone” (“Man proposes and God disposes”), loosely based on Proverbs 16:9, but quoted in classic Spanish literature such as Don Quijote. So, although I was able to visit a number of times, especially summers during student years, I never returned to live there again.
Nevertheless, as Whittaker Chambers put it in his magisterial Witness, “No land has a pull on a man as the land of his childhood.” And that pull is still with me.
In that era, “globalism” was an unheard-of term. Large companies, such as Bethlehem Steel and United States Steel, were known as “American” companies, whereas today such seek to be known as “global” companies, with minimum, if any, loyalties to the United States, regardless of their founding or corporate headquarters.
American families were stationed in myriad and distant spots across the continents and the early schooling of their children was addressed by establishing schools modeled after those of the origin state of the company. So, for instance, the Bethlehem Steel school in El Pao was generally modeled after the norms of state schools in Pennsylvania. So, as an example, when those schools required standard tests for the elementary schools across the state, those very tests were also administered to us.
As far as I know those who attended the school in El Pao did well once they transferred to the United States.
And they usually transferred at an early age. I was 12 years old when it was my turn to transfer, and I was not an exception.
We travelled to Miami for annual leave, but my stomach churned a bit that year because I knew that at the end of that vacation, I would not be returning with my family to Venezuela. We nevertheless enjoyed our visit with family in Florida and the Northeast. I was happy to see the Langlois Motel in Miami again. Our family had been staying there for years and it was a favorite of the cousins and us.
What I most remember, though, was the farewell at the Miami International Airport. Back then we had no obstacles to staying with travelers in the Pan American Airways waiting lounge and then at the gate.
My father and mother said their farewells to my aunt and cousins, as did my sisters. Then they each embraced me and expressed their hope to see me again at Christmastime. I bravely succeeded in holding my tears and keeping my voice from cracking as I hugged back.
Then we waved good-bye as they left the terminal and disappeared into the plane.
My aunt and cousins and I walked back to the parking lot, exchanging few words, but I could tell they were a bit anxious about me. I just wanted to get back home and find a spot where I could be alone.
But my aunt had other plans. She drove us to Miami Beach. I asked why are we going there, especially at this hour? “Oh, just for a ride.” Then I understood she was doing her best to distract me. I was not a happy camper for that, but I kept it to myself. The radio played that week’s top song, “Cherish”, performed by The Association. It seemed a bit too treacly, even for a 12-year-old, but what did I know. It became one of the very top songs of that year.
Then “Eleanor Rigby” by The Beatles came across the airwaves. That song, about loneliness, was more in tune with my sense at the moment. As the only surviving relative of Eleanor Rigby put it in an interview in 2008, “A lot of time has gone by, and Eleanor’s side of the family has run out. They were ordinary, hardworking folk, the Rigbys — joiners, bricklayers, farmers, and the like — not the kind of people you expect to go down in history. And now there’s nobody left.”
That about encapsulates my anomie back then.
Days later one of my cousins told me they were very surprised I had not broken down. I assured her that I had indeed broken down — inside.
Months later I learned that on the plane, a gentleman who sat across the aisle from my father had leaned over and told him about having been left in the United States years before in circumstances very similar to ours. Only in his case, the parents were headed back to Germany. He had noticed our farewells and wanted to assure my parents that all would be well. But he did not sugar coat it: he said that, even after so many years, he still gently grieved whenever he thought of that day.
The reader should keep in mind that in 1966 communication with El Pao was via short-wave radio. Or mails. It was like going to the other side of the earth.
Psychedelic drugs and English fashion — Carnaby Street, Twiggy, Alfie — were “in” and for young folks it was difficult to tell the difference between genuineness and just plain marketing and promotion. Regardless, it seemed the world was going upside down and that the self-centeredness of Alfie generally reflected western mores at the time.
As the American and British scenes seemed to careen off course, South America was wracked by coups and a violent Cordobazo in Argentina, further Communist infiltration into the highest echelons of the military in Venezuela, and, by 1966, La Violencia had caused the abandonment of over 40% of the arable land in Colombia.
So, as we asked, “What’s it all about?” the seeds of upheaval continued to be sown in abundance in Latin America. And the harvest in Venezuela became most apparent in the 90s and to the present day.
Langlois Motel, circa 1960 Pan American ticket counter, Miami International Airport, circa 1960 Number 2 song of 1966 Twiggy, 1966 Revolver, The Beatles, 1966 Carnaby Street, London, 1966 Michael Caine in Alfie, 1966. The song was composed separately as a promotion song and became a surprise hit.“Eleanor Rigby died in the same house where she had been born, was interred in the graveyard of St Peter’s Church, and had her name added prominently on an increasingly crowded headstone.” — The Daily Mail. She had married 9 years earlier and then discovered she could not bear children. She died of a massive brain hemorrhage a month after the outbreak of World War II. She was much loved by her family.
This being Easter Week, I thought it good to re-publish the post below, “Something Lost”, especially considering the comments by the old schoolteacher towards the end of the post.
I do not doubt that he was right: “I feel there was something lost, truly I do.”
Since I also remember the days he refers to — when the Bible was read and prayer made in class — that marks me as a Troglodyte. Maybe so, but my sense is similar: there was something lost.
I wish you all a good Easter Week.
Something Lost
A few years ago, I visited Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, on a personal matter, after an absence of close to four decades.
To drive and walk around was to invite affecting memories, not only of Bethlehem, but of family, of childhood friends, of the steel company, of Venezuela, of what could have been. I was offered the opportunity to visit my uncle’s old former apartment site on Market Street, from which the Bethlehem Steel stacks are clearly, and augustly, visible decades after her bankruptcy in 2001 and dissolution in 2003.
While in town, I came across the transcript of an interview of the late Earl J. Bauman, a teacher in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania high schools for 30 years, who also worked for several years at Bethlehem Steel during World War II, and who otherwise led an eventful life.
Our teachers in El Pao were recruited in Bethlehem, although not all were from there. For instance, one of my teachers, Mrs. Miller, was from New Mexico and boy did she resent Florida being named “The Sunshine State”! She firmly believed, and could “prove”, that New Mexico was the true Sunshine State.
Mr. Bauman’s comments seem to be coming from my own Bethlehem Steel teachers in El Pao, Venezuela.
I believe the reader will appreciate the commentary by Mr. Bauman (1910-January 12, 2000), born in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. He was the son of George and Matilda Bauman née Shearer. He was married to Grace E. Bauman, née Shoenberger.
Mr. Bauman taught history, government, and economics. A full transcript is linked below for those readers who would appreciate reading more of what he had to say.
Excerpts:
Well, I was born here in Fountain Hill [now a suburb of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania] in 1910. We’ve been residing here ever since that time.
I attended the Fountain Hill School, and then went to Liberty High and then I quit. I was making more money than my dad was playing with a dance orchestra. We used to make as much one night as he made in a week just playing with the big bands. And then one thing led to another, and the Depression hit. And finally, there was no music market. I went to South America in one summer playing with a band, and come back, and then it was difficult to find any kind of work, because the Depression hit. It hit pretty hard. And then I had an opportunity to go back to school, then I went to Moravian Prep. And I finished up my high school work there.
Then I went to Moravian College and earned my Bachelor’s. And then, of course, it was still difficult to get work. I worked at the steel company as a clerk in the beam yard offices, and on their police force during the early period of the World War II. And then finally a teaching job.
….
And then I taught until I guess it was about the late Forties [1948] when I decided to go back to Lehigh for my Master’s degree in history, and I finished that, I believe it was 1954, somewhere around in there. Men like Dr. Harmon was the head of the history department, Dr. Gipson, Dr. Brown, and I don’t think any of them are there anymore. Some may have died, passed on, retired. And then I kept on teaching.
….
Teaching wasn’t quite the pleasure it used to be. Yeah, that changed quite considerably.
….
That’s the flu epidemic you’re talking about, yes. I remember because, and I can even take you where the hospitals were and they died like flies [emphasis mine, RMB]. It would have been right across the street from where I did my undergraduate practice teaching where this junior high school is now, right across the street in that area there, they had built these temporary wards. The hospital up here couldn’t handle it. It was too small. I remember that, yes. I remember a lot of— You’ll see in the pictures, see at that time I would have been nine years old, and I did get around and my parents talked, but that wasn’t the only thing, we had a lot of things like there was scarlet fever, and diphtheria, and polio. So many of my classmates were afflicted….
…. You had to put on your porch, your house would be quarantined, that’s the word, diphtheria here and scarlet fever there, and measles here, measles there, and today it’s wonderful how all these youngsters have been protected against these physical ailments, which make them more competitive in their life today.
[Note: the sick were quarantined. The rest went on with their work and lives. For discussions on quarantine and the current approach in most states and countries, see here, here, here, here, and here. Mr. Bauman’s allusion to the “flu epidemic” where “they died like flies” is a reference to the Spanish Flu, or The Great Influenza. See here for more.]
[Was crime a big problem?] No. No. You had nothing like—I can remember, we used to— I don’t think any of the neighbors really did much in the way of locking doors, no such thing. (chuckles) As a matter of fact, maybe this is something we should have kept in Fountain Hill here. In those days when I was a youngster, we had a curfew. When that whistle blew, you got off the street, you better not be out on the street unless you were with a parent.
….
So they said to me, ‘Well, would you do it?’ I said, ‘You’re asking me?’ I said, ‘I know that you squeeze a trigger somewhere and the projectile comes out the front, that’s all I know.’ I said, ‘I don’t think I can do much for them.’ Somebody said, ‘Well, why don’t you try it?’ One person suggested that I call the Marine barracks and get help. So I did, and you’d be surprised how much fun I had over the years teaching safety and all this and that and I can’t hit the broadside part of a barn, and I coached for 15 years and one of my teams went to the state finals, so we won (inaudible) of the division title after I got to Liberty where we got a large student body. Two southern divisions and we had a District 11 and a Northeastern regional championship and we went to the state finals. Now my youngster has, he picked it up, but we wouldn’t let him have any rifles here at home until he became, I thought qualified. I hate to put material like that in the hands of kids. Now of course, he’s a specialist. He loads his own ammunition. He has guns and pistols. He’s in a pistol league and he can shoot. He stands 75 feet away and he’ll knock your ears off. He has terrific scores, close to 300, shooting at 75 feet with high-caliber pistol. He (inaudible) shoots better than a lot of the policemen. He says, one of the faults of the policeman, he said the policeman doesn’t know his tool that well. He said they misuse it.
….
Well, I remember, you wouldn’t remember this, but I remember when the Lord’s Prayer was banned from school and that was like—I don’t know, I can’t see it because of that, but I think the morale tone of the school began to decline. The mode of dress became careless. The mode of conduct became care— Not by all the students. Some students still come from a home that’s still a home and that insists on certain moral standards.
And I guess a lot of it came from the aftermath of the wars and there would be a lot of things that influenced it, but I think the dropping of that in school was one thing that wasn’t good, because I remember we always had—I used to have my youngsters, and I never had one refuse, and I had Catholics, Protestants, Jewish students in my class, and I always used to read our schedule. And I think once a week we got a guidance period and I used to plan, I felt the kids should take part in opening exercises. It exposes them a little bit into leadership. I used to have them all read passages, and I didn’t insist that anybody read any specific passage, but they were allowed to read from the Old Testament, the New Testament, whatever they would like to read, and then they would lead the Lord’s Prayer, and then we’d have the salute to the flag. It was sort of starting the day off in a sort of moral tone in a way.
Then from then on, things would go from one thing to the other. But I missed that, and I thought it was something that was lost through it. I can’t prove it. I’m not sure. Maybe it were the other factors that made this moral tone of dress and carelessness go down, because as soon as kids start coming in my classes with jeans on and patched—And it wasn’t that they came from poor parents because they had money, because the kid had more money in his pocket as spending money than his new pair of pants and shirt would cost, and they had weeds galore in them. If they weren’t smoking Chesterfields20, it was something else. They were loaded with money. And that may have had something to do with it, the income of the families.
So, I don’t know, I think there’s a lot of factors and the fact that we dropped the reading of the Bible and the Lord’s Prayer and all that sort of thing sort of took something out of the classroom. I don’t know. I felt something was lost.
After it was gone, well, then what could you do? I mean, the law said you didn’t dare do it, so you didn’t do it. You still had the salute to the flag, and then oh, in the beginning I didn’t stop altogether, but I didn’t break the law. I asked them to have a moment of silence, soft prayer to themselves. I don’t recall ever anybody objecting to that, and then we turn around then and had the salute to the flag, the Pledge of Allegiance and that sort of thing.
But I feel there was something lost, truly I do.
….
For those interested in reading further, the full transcript is linked below.
Bethlehem Steel main plant, Bethlehem Pennsylvania The stacks as seen from Fountain Hill borough. Mrs. Miller never forgave Florida for “stealing” New Mexico’s logo. Above is a 1932 license tag proving her case. The logo was first used by New Mexico in the 1880’s. Florida was known as “The Citrus State”. But they cleverly adopted their current logo by formal resolution, something New Mexico had failed to do. And the rest is history.
“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 Louis (Papito) and Max (Papaito), 1969 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.
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.
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.
