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) New Mexico sunset Bat guano in the attic. Not pretty. It’s even worse on the furniture.
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.
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.
Iconic image immediately evoking the New York World’s Fair of 1965 – 1966.The Beatles in Shea Stadium (1965) Neil A. Armstrong on the moon (1969) Car driven by Senator Edward Kennedy the day after the incident where Mary Jo Kopechne died (1969) Woodstock (1969)
I am pausing the series on the Cuba – Venezuela nexus in order to pay my sincere and loving respects to two childhood friends who (after my family) are among the first memories to come to mind every time I think of El Pao or Venezuela. And I think of El Pao or Venezuela on a daily basis.
Elizabeth (Lizbeth) Beran was born on a Saturday in 1953, November 7, to be precise. I was born exactly 10 days after she. We often joked about that. Children in my generation sought to be adults as quickly as possible. So, for instance, I did not like to wear short pants, because those were children’s clothing; I fought long and hard to graduate to long pants and after I did I never looked back. So, to me, Lizbeth was 10 days ahead and I could never catch up, no matter how hard I tried!
She was kind to me and always courteous to my parents. Once, in class (5th grade?), the teacher asked us what would be the proper thing to do if we were at a dinner and found that we could not properly chew down a piece of meat. I proposed that the proper thing to do would be to surreptitiously wipe your mouth with a napkin, deposit the offending morsel therein, and later dispose of the napkin. After several equally imaginative solutions offered by my classmates, Lizbeth finally spoke up, “You should use your fork and take the piece out of your mouth and place it on your plate,” she offered. And, of course, she was right.
I was fond of penguins in those days; therefore, when the class worked on a paper mache project, I made a penguin and offered it for sale, “It is yours for Bs (Bolivars) 20! And, if you buy 2, you can have both for Bs 40!.” That was my pitch. She smiled. Later that evening, at the club, before that night’s movie, her father approached me, “Ricky, if you have a product for Bs 20, and you want people to buy 2, you should offer the two for something less than Bs 40.” She was too embarrassed for me to tell me to my face. So she told her father.
Cyril (Cirilito) Serrao was born in British Guyana 5 months after Lizbeth and I were born. His family then came to El Pao and we became close childhood friends. A very vivid El Pao memory, one of the first that comes to mind whenever I think of Venezuela, is my racing, along with several buddies, down “the hill” of the mining camp. The hill was steep enough to propel us to high speeds. It was one of our daily adventures for a while in our early childhood. On one occasion, I had come down the hill, exhilarated and happy, had set my bike aside, and then waited for my fellow cyclists to come on down. As I strained to see who might come next, I saw Cyril expertly taking the next to last turn, a left from “up-the-hill” down towards the mess hall where he would then have to take a right towards the club’s parking area. But as he flew towards the mess hall, his countenance took on a look of horror (his brakes had failed) and he realized he would not be able to turn right. He let out a loud, guttural yell as he opened his eyes as wide has I’d ever seen them. Sure enough, he missed the turn and catapulted into the 4 foot deep ravine. We ran to him, fully expecting him to be dead. But no, he was OK and was bravely extricating himself from the wreck, saying, “I’m OK. I’m OK.”
His family moved to Bethlehem, PA, in 1962 and he and at least one of his brothers deeply missed El Pao for many years afterwards. His brother was the little boy I told about in my June 29, 2019 post, Gone Fishing. He had “run away from home”, telling a baffled policeman that he wanted to be taken to El Pao. We stayed in touch for many years, including my visits to Bethlehem and Los Angeles, where he lived for a while. He always sought to help me with my Uncle’s case and was one of the first to call me upon the death of my father in 1982. Once, when we had sought to look into some leads on my Uncle’s death, he said we should be called The Hardy Boys.
Lizbeth and Cyril have been the source of good memories and are reminders of the importance of decent childhood friends. I thank the Good Lord for having known them.
Lizbeth passed away yesterday. Cyril passed away in May this year, but I only learned about it a few days ago.
I miss them dearly.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God Who gave it.
Lizbeth at one our birthday parties in El Pao, circa 1958.Lizbeth to my left, as I spoke with Mr. Beran in Puerto Ordaz, Venezuela, 1978. Cyril at an El Pao birthday party, circa 1959. Cyril (left) with his brother Gregory (center) and me years later, when we were more mature. Saturday Evening Post, November 7, 1953 Saturday Evening Post, April 17, 1954
With this post we conclude Mike Ashe’s Mining Camp Memories. This final part of his memories speaks of his having to leave the camp for schooling as well as a bit about his parents’ background.
Just about every one of us in that time of El Pao history, early 50s to mid 60s, left home “early” to go to school. As one of the “small kids” I’d wonder where the big guys went during the year. My father would tell me about military academies and whatnot. But that was like telling me they all went to Siam. And then it was my turn in the mid 60s and, like Mike, I was told to write home every week and I did so “religiously”, as Mike puts it. In the 50s and 60s leaving El Pao to go to school in the US was like going to the moon. Very little communications and you truly were “far, far away.”
As to his parents’ background, I was reminded that no one comes into this world a “blank slate”; we all bring a heritage of the previous generations and much more. Sitting at the club bar as a kid in a time and place where that was not frowned upon, I heard the men there talk about mining accidents and lessons learned before coming to El Pao and how they applied such lessons to their current employment, not to mention their own parents or grandparents, and even politics and religion, at a time and place where such topics could be discussed without ending in blood and warfare.
Many years later, I realized that, listening to those men, I was developing an inchoate understanding that no one comes into this world with nothing. We are born into homes we did not build, eat food we did not grow, learn languages we did not invent, and much, much more.
El Pao welcomed men and women and children with manifold exciting backgrounds and experiences. Those of us whose childhood was nurtured there were very fortunate.
As you read these last few paragraphs in the Memories, I hope you too are reminded of your own heritage and grateful for it, whether good or bad, because, properly understood and viewed, it all works for your and my good.
And I know you will appreciate the photos Mike appended at the end. I am pleased to remember and respect all the men Mike names.
Thank you again, Mike.
Michael John Ashe II
Admiral Farragut Academy
In 1959 I had to leave Venezuela at age 12 (Company School only went to the 6th grade). The company paid for me to attend Admiral Farragut Academy in Saint Petersburg Florida. Getting into Farragut was not easy, you had to have good grades, pass an entrance exam and obtain a letter of reference. Mr. Shingler and Mr. Belfonti provided a letter of reference. Mr. Shingler’s son Jimmy thought I was pretty cool (the one and only that thought that) he and his Dad built a log cabin fort on the water tower road and Called it Fort Farragut. Seventy-five % of Farragut graduates made it to Annapolis (US Naval Academy). Apollo Astronauts Alan Shepard (first US astronaut in space) and Charles Duke are Farragut Astronauts.
The Academy was very demanding with extremely strict discipline and academically challenging. Reveille at 0600 taps at 2100. God, Duty, Honor, Country and welfare of fellow cadets and teachers was a part of life at Farragut. Although not a denominational school, the practice of one’s religion was expected and prayers were said before all meals and at assembly. Honor meant that cheating was not tolerated and anyone caught cheating was expelled. The Flag was raised daily at reveille with all cadet’s present, accounted for, and at attention. Retreat required that those outdoors stop activities and face the flag being lowered. Those in uniform were always required to face the flag being lowered and salute. At Farragut there was a live bugler at the all-daily ceremonies. Love of country was taught by staff and teachers.
Inspections were performed twice a week without warning. Barracks, bunks, uniforms, shoes. foot lockers, and the bathrooms, “AKA-The Head”, were all under close scrutiny. Demerits were issued for non-compliance, missing homework assignments, talking in class or assembly. For every demerit over three a week resulted in one hour of marching in uniform with rifle on the parade grounds. More serious offenses such as fighting would result in a “Captains Mast”. Rule of thumb: if you needed to fight don’t get caught.
My weekly allowance was $2.50 most of which was spent at the canteen (owner was not part of the Academy) for candy and soft drinks. In the front of the canteen there was a coke machine sitting on a wooden deck with boards that were spaced so that any coin dropped would quickly end up under the deck on a wire screen. Latticework blocked any attempt to retrieve ones lost treasure. Chuck snooped around and discovered that there was a hidden entrance that would lead to the coins but would involve crawling about 20 feet in a very dirty space. So, one Saturday evening right before sundown (when everything was quiet) we executed operation treasure hunt. We made quite a haul: enough to keep us in coke, candy and movies in downtown St. Pete for a long time. The canteen owner sealed up the entrance after that so no more treasure hunting, but we couldn’t complain.
My best friends were Keller (from Cuba), Gould (from Michigan) and Freeble (from Florida). Chuck Gould was my roommate the years that I was there he was 6’2” 210 pounds and a very fast runner. All four of us in 8th grade were invited to spring training with the High School Football team. Chuck was faster than all the high school players and he ended up playing football for one of the Big Ten Schools (maybe Michigan State)
Keller was the top cadet and I was second. The award was limited to just two cadets per year and it was the first time that two Latin American cadets received this award. The best athletes at Farragut were the Cubans, hands down.
A lot of the boys there came from Cuba and South America. Even though I was 12 when I left home, I had always been mature for my age and adapted well to being on my own. However, I must confess that when you only get a couple of letters a month (only communication with the family) sometimes was a bit of a letdown. I was required to write the family one letter a week, which I did religiously.
When my parents returned from Venezuela, I had to leave Farragut which was not at all what I wanted.
The Chile Connection
Not Completely Related but interesting is Herb Ashe’s story-for his Brother Don Ashe who is now 93 years old:
Dad’s father Michael was a self-educated man who was orphaned at a very young age. He managed to secure a career with a lot of determination and hard work in all things electrical working for the New York Subway system. Along the way, he thought it would be a career changer if he could move to Anaconda’s mining operation in Northern Chile. The mine was the largest open pit mine in the world at that time and for many years thereafter, Chuquicamata or referred to as simply Chuqui.
During that time, he was dating my Grandmother Martha, whose family seriously objected such a wild idea from a guy driving a motorcycle. Without getting into the weeds, my father Herb was born in 1922 and the three traveled by steamship to the northern coast of Chile. I believe in 1923 after Anaconda Copper bought the mine from the Chile Exploration Co (Guggenheim) but I don’t know how Grandpa was hired by them. Mine development was mostly done by the Guggenheim group, bringing Andes water to the desert and providing electric power for mine operations was critical. Also, I don’t know if the steamship was able to unload in Tocopilla or they might have disembarked using long boats when arriving in Chile.
The mine is located about 800 miles north of Santiago at an elevation of over 9,000 Ft in a high plain desert (Atacama the driest desert on Earth). Grandpa was assigned to the power plant and remained there, until he was offered a job for Anaconda’s Copper mine as the power plant superintendent around 1942-43 timeframe in Cananea Mexico until he retired in the early 60’s.
Martha was a business woman. She represented Ramos Catalan (a very accomplished and famous Chilean Artist) while in Chile. She knew how to pinch pennies. One of the stories involved Grandma’s trip to Naco, AZ for groceries. She arrived at the border with no gas in the tank and stopped in the first gas station she could find only to find out that they did not offer S&H green stamps so she drove on looking for an S&H gas station before running out of gas. I always admired my Grandma.
Dad’s brother (Don) and his sister (Aunt Carroll) were both born in Chile. Herb and Don where really handfuls for their parents. Dad was six years older than Don: maybe a good role model or maybe not? Camp schooling was provided through the 8th grade so dad had to leave Chuqui for a Christian Boarding School (I think it was St Andrews Affiliated with the Presbyterian Church). Anyway, Dad boarded a train in Chuqui for transport to Santiago, he arranged transport across the Andes to Mendoza Argentina and then by rail to Buenos Aires. Below is the famous switchback road from Santiago to Mendoza Argentina. Not an easy trip alone for a fourteen-year-old?
Dad and I traveled to Chile together on business in 1993 it was a great experience; something I will never forget. Chile was simply breathtaking. I would like to take Cristy there when COVID is over to see Venezuela and Chile. Allende was a big mistake that did a lot of damage in Chile. General Augusto Pinochet cleaned this mess up in short order. The US left-wing media portrayed the General as a terrible villain but in reality, the country became an economic model for South America thanks to his reforms.
Rare picture of Dad and Mom together in Venezuela Dad, Ted Heron, and Dick Guth at the El Pao mine site. Notice all wore khaki and most sported their military style belts. Dad showing off mining techniques and really looking like Castro! Dad was about 5’8” but his hands were huge. When you shook hands with him it was like shaking hands with a bear. Couple of mining camp engineers: Dad and Corky. Great photo. Left to Right-Lou Hintshaw, Dad, Walfredo Jimenez, and Bernie Gerbrecht talking mining on the front porch of our company house. Mr. Jimenez was the head of mining operations in El Pao. Olive Ruff on left and Mom on the Road to Cananea Mexico. Art Ruff was a classmate of Dad’s at Colorado School of Mines. He worked in Cananea and was the General Superintendent of Cerro Bolivar, US Steel Property in Venezuela, Circa 1955 Passport Picture of Mom, Me and Mary Ellen taken just prior to leaving the US for Venezuela. Ted Heron-always Dad’s friend and colleague for life. Michael Ashe -Farragut Picture at age 14. Now the family knows where they get their ears! Dad at 90
