El Pao – Page 7 – The Pull Of The Land

Mining Camp Memories: Chapter 2 (continued)

April 26, 2021April 26, 2021 Richard Barnes

…Mom would always say that the best time of her life was in El Pao with all her children about her….

Moving In:

I can’t be sure but I think we moved to Venezuela in 1953 (I was 6 and my sister was 2). Dad was an IMCOV employee hired as a Mine Foreman and left there in 1961. Our first on Delta DC7 going from New Orleans stopping in Havana, Kingston, Montego Bay and onto Maiquetia (I can’t be sure but I think flight time was 7 hours). From Maiquetia to Ciudad Bolivar on a bumpy DC3 (Plenty of barf bags on board) and by company vehicle to El Pao. Our first night in camp was really something. Red Howler monkeys would growl like lions and all of us were too afraid to sleep. My sister Mary Ellen and I ended up in bed with the folks for a couple of weeks! The camp weather was nice all year round including the rainy season-no HVAC.

Most of my memories were from a kid’s perspective and Venezuela was a great adventure for me but I knew it was very different for an adult. It takes a special person to spend a lifetime in a place where there is considerable isolation in language and culture not to mention the absence of family connections (my Grandmother the daughter of a New York City policeman lived in a mining camps in Chile and Mexico for almost 40 years). Outside, communication was not possible when we lived there, we had a short-wave radio and when atmospherics were right about 7-8PM we would get the news from the US, but not too often. The mail service was always touch and go. The commissary was in the labor camp. I remembered my mother would bake bread twice a week and would have to sift the flour to get the hundreds of black bugs out. We still managed to get some protein from the bread even after the sifting. Sanitary conditions were not optimum there. I remember that the women would travel to the Oil Fields to get frozen vegetables and Ice Cream about 3 times a year. Meat processing was done at labor camp the which took sanitation to a whole new level.

Bo Johnson was an exciting character, a geologist and a Pilot with a lot of flight hours in Venezuela and other parts of South and Central America. He would take off and land on the top bench of the mine until the day he crashed landed. He and Ted Heron salvaged most of the plane and stored the parts in the machine shop with the idea of rebuilding it. I left for school in the states around that time, so I don’t know if that ever happened. If anyone could fix something it would be Ted. Ted and Dad worked together in Inspiration Az-(Anaconda Copper) Ted’s expertise was in mining equipment maintenance.

In 1953-54 El Pao had a serious maintenance problem. Dad convinced management to hire Ted to solve the issue, which he did. When Dad went to Mexico in 1968 there were a similar maintenance issues with the Autlan’s Molango Mines and Ted was back in business. As I recall, Bethlehem Mines had a longwall shipped there from “I think” Mine 131 Boone Division that was giving them fits I don’t know if that problem was ever fixed.

Camp School:

The camp school was a one room structure. There were two teachers, Mrs. Dorsey and Mr. Shipe. Mrs. Dorsey’s husband had died in El Pao, but she continued teaching there. When my mother went to the States to have my brother Tim, I stayed with her, a great lady. I had one year of Mr. and Mrs. Eller. Both were very nice, however I thought Mr. Eller was a little strange wearing sandals in the jungle which was always a topic of conversation with the kids. Mrs. Ivanoksy was my piano teacher. She was a very eccentric but a wonderful French lady whose latest husband Boris Ivanosky was a huge Russian, who drove a very small sports car and always wore his French beret while driving. Both of them were getting up in age and she would sometimes speak to me in French, sometimes in Spanish and rarely in English. She would always have a snack for me after practice to soothe my invariable headaches? Needless to say, I really didn’t progress very far as a musician but loved my teacher.

Top picture is circa 1955; bottom picture is circa 1958

The Mine:

I spent a lot of time at the mine with my Dad most likely to give my mother a break (I was a handful). The crusher was a constant issue and the greatest bottleneck in the operation, so we spent a lot of time there. There were a couple of nasty crusher accidents one incident involved a third shift worker who had climbed onto the conveyor belt for a nap and didn’t wake up when the crusher started up in the morning. He was dismembered when he reached the head frame, just an awful accident. There was another accident (luckily no one hurt) when a dump truck unloading clay overburden tipped over while unloading and ended up about half way down a very steep and high dump site (a buildup of clay inside the bucket might have caused the accident or maybe operator error). Shortly thereafter one of the trucks was outfitted with a device to scrap clay buildup off the buckets, improving productivity and safety.

I got a chance to operate dozers and went to countless blasts with Sam Wright and my Dad which was really fun. The shovels would be positioned outside the blast zone and we would go inside the shovel bucket for protection. Dad or Sam would keep the pickup running, light the fuse, jump in the pickup, and race down the bench out of the blast zone (which was relatively large). The blasts were really something and everyone was different, a cloud of red dust and large sized debris (mostly 2-4” rock projectiles) flying in all directions. I was almost killed by a dump truck driver, so I was confined to the pickup after that when the mine was operating. IMCOV safety is a little less stringent than Bethlehem Steel’s!

Labor Unions were strong there. I remember one time Dad had a rather nasty disagreement with the union and he was arrested by the Guardia and put in jail. In Venezuela the police were actually not local but a Federal Military force called the Guardia Nacional. I do believe that Dad was taken into custody for his own safety but really not sure of that. I always thought the Guardia was a good organization but who knows nowadays.

Fishing Tales

_{^{Full Fine Print Disclosure}}I hate eating fish- so catch and release was the operative action.

Actually, there was considerable risk in living in a remote mining camp. Dick Guth was my Fishing Buddy and we went fishing at least a couple times a month. He would pick me up at 4:30 and drive down a dirt, sometimes gravel road to Palua (with Conucos on both sides of the road). It was right before daybreak that we would be on the Orinoco. It was beautiful calm water like glass with flocks of parakeets, parrots, and occasional guacamaya overhead. We would go downstream to our favorite fishing bend in the river and during the dry season come ashore. During the rainy season the Orinoco would overflow its banks flooding the surrounding low lands then would recede during the dry season, leaving behind lagoons full of fish (great opportunities for the Caiman and us) We’d head back (Orinoco would begin to get rough at midday) and troll upstream.

We would always get a Payara strike-AKA saber tooth barracuda great game fish average size 30-40lbs with two 2-3” long fangs in its lower jaw and go up to where the Orinoco and Caroni merged (amazing line of clean “Caroni River water and Brown Orinoco Water”) just upstream on the Caroni past Puerto Ordaz and back to Palua and head home.

I didn’t think about it at the time but it would have been a real problem if the outboard 30HP motor would have quit on us when we were downstream from Palua – since the banks of the Orinoco were impenetrable at that time. Amazing rivers full of fish, river dolphins, tarpon, sharks Crocodiles. I’m sure you know that the camp water was pumped up from the Caroni. Pumping station was slightly downstream from the amazing Falls (which was somewhat ruined by the dam). See below:

Somehow I misplaced my pictures of catches. This is a stock picture of a Payara. When landing one, you needed to watch out for their teeth!

Dick Guth, Ted Heron, Ted Jr. and I would go spear fishing off the coast. We would travel to Puerto la Cruz take two Zodiac type boats and motor out to an uninhabited island about 1- ½ mile off shore and stay there for 3-4 days. Great adventure for all of us. The water was very clear and relatively calm. We’d catch Longostinos (Spanish for little lobster) and boil them over an open fire. We were all strong swimmers and would sometimes venture out into blue water. On one occasion, I had gone out pretty far and Dick and Ted were yelling and screaming for me to get out of the water. I thought they were yelling because I was out too far. As it turned out they were yelling because there was a large shark close to me which I failed to see.

As you might have already guessed, fishing was really an important part of my life since organized sports of any kind was not an option for me. It didn’t stop when I was not in Venezuela. My Uncle Bob Broadley (a great angler) taught me a great deal about fishing during summer trips to Pensacola Florida. We would go out early mornings stop off at B&B Donut shop around 5:30 and off to the Pensacola Beach Pier on Santa Rosa Island and fish for Kings and Lings (Cobia). If the fish weren’t biting there, we would go to the pier at Fort Pickens and fish for Spanish (Spanish Maceral).

No one would believe the number of 8–12-foot hammer head sharks that used to circle the Pensacola Beach Pier. In those days the beach was packed with swimmers! Uncle Johnny McCluskey was another angler that I loved dearly. He was a great man of character, that I was fortunate to be a part of my life. He took an interest in my life and was always my buddy. He was a boxing fan and we would watch the Gillette Saturday fights together along with his son Mathew McCluskey. Just great memories. Johnny would fish for Mullet with a net since that was the only way to fish for Mullet.

Also, it’s important to understand that, although it was fun to fish, the relationships with my fellow anglers’ memories of them were and still remain the most important for me.

Many of us mining camp brats can appreciate how much our mothers sacrifice for their families. They are the true heroes of the mining camp life. Without them we would have not survived it.

My mother a Pensacola, Florida gal, met my Dad on a blind date in 1943. Dad was in flight training in the Naval Air Station there and after a six-month courtship they were married in Jacksonville, Florida.

Pensacola was always home base for us. Even today we always manage to return often to visit my brother and parents’ gravesite there.

Mom would always say that the best time of her life was in El Pao with all her children about her.

To be continued….

El Pao Society and Class Struggle

March 11, 2021March 11, 2021 Richard Barnes

“It began to dawn upon me uneasily that perhaps the right way to judge a movement was by the persons who made it up rather than by its rationalistic perfection and by the promises it held out. Perhaps, after all, the proof of social schemes was meant to be a posteriori rather than a priori. it would be a poor trade to give up a non-rational world in which you liked everybody, for a rational one in which you liked nobody.” — Richard Weaver, “Up From Liberalism” (1958)

“We must address broader issues, social boredom, wants, the mind, the heart — nothing to do with politics, or very little so.” — Russell Kirk

“The State exists simply to promote and to protect the ordinary happiness of human beings in this life. A husband and wife chatting over a fire, a couple of friends having a game of darts in a pub, a man reading a book in his own room or digging in his own garden — that is what the State is there for. And unless they are helping to increase and prolong and protect such moments, all the laws, parliaments, armies, courts, police, economics, etc., are simply a waste of time.” — C. S. Lewis

“And Judah and Israel dwelt safely, every man under his vine and under his fig tree, from Dan even to Beersheba, all the days of Solomon.” — I Kings 4:25

Earlier this year, I was asked whether social gears ground with difficulty living in El Pao, considering the differences between the Anglo and Spanish Americans not only in culture but, in some cases, also in class. The question forced me to pause and think back on my childhood in El Pao.

Upon reflection, and not meaning to be a Pollyanna about this, I must say that, in El Pao, I lived among the type of people I would ally myself with in the quest for the good life, that life of finding and pursuing your calling with all your might knowing that you will have the support, the criticism, and the encouragement you need to realize that life.

For those readers who grew up in small town America, I believe your experiences were most likely very similar to mine and to those of my childhood friends, especially early childhood.

Long before the television show, Cheers, gave us the refrain, “Where Everybody Knows Your Name”, I knew this to be the case, not in a bar, but in El Pao. We could name every person, not only in our school, but in every house. We could not get away with dialing the telephone and hanging up unless we did this only once or at most twice. Beyond that, you were very likely to be caught. Doors were left unlocked, your teachers knew not only your parents but every sibling and cousin, and upon your return from a long vacation or from an even longer absence for school, everyone knew all about where you were and how you had been doing.

No one expressed concerns when you and your buddies, rifle in hand, explored the surrounding jungles, unless you stumbled upon the secret dynamite depository, which we did on one occasion. However, once the national guard ascertained who we were, they let us go with a mild admonition, but not before they requested us to demonstrate our shooting skills (which duly impressed them, I might add).

Our friends included Venezuelans, Americans, Chileans, Cubans, English, German, Spanish, and Russian. From all “classes.” This was in addition to relatives, friends, and acquaintances outside the camp, who lived in San Félix, Puerto Ordaz, and Ciudad Bolivar, along the Orinoco, Puerto de la Cruz on the northern coast, Caracas, and more.

I do not recall hearing the social gears grind, let alone bumping into them, until well into my adolescence.

Those gears ground so smoothly for all those years because we, in a very real sense, lived in a classless society.

I do not mean there were no distinctions, for that will simply never be. We had distinctions, whether fathers, mothers, and children, or priests, pastors, and laity, or teachers and students, or bosses and subordinates, or general managers and miners, or heads of households and gardeners. Distinctions abounded all around us. We respected them; we gave honor to whom honor was due. But, paradoxically, we didn’t notice, let alone dwell upon them. And skin color did not even come into our thinking.

Recently, many years later, I’ve come into contact with childhood friends who, invariably, tell me that El Pao was a paradise to them. I can relate.

Why was all that collaborative, dare I say, loving, spirit buried under class and race warfare? Like Steve McQueen asks at the end of The Sand Pebbles, “What happened? What the [expletive] happened?”

Well, the man whose most famous publication, The Communist Manifesto, that strident, profane booklet, which, in my opinion, everyone should read, alongside the Bible (that way you know what both sides are thinking) is part of what happened. The Manifesto states, “The Communists … openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions.” Marx made it very clear that progress can only come by means of violence. For that to happen, the home and church must be destroyed. So, it calls the home a brothel, wives and mothers, whores, religion, an opiate, and more. UNESCO registered that insufferable screed to its “Memory of the World Programme”. Why am I not surprised?

The idea of class struggle was not new or original with Marx; what was unique was his re-writing of all of human history with class warfare at the center. The concepts in the Manifesto, published in February 1848, were reinforced with the publication, in 1859, of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life.

One would think that, with all the contemporary concern with racism, we would hear much more about Darwin’s contribution on “Favoured Races”. One would think so in vain.

As Engels said in his eulogy to Marx in 1883: “Just as Darwin discovered the law of evolution in organic nature, so Marx discovered the law of evolution in human history.” And each made organic nature and human history something ugly.

If you would like to see a contrast between pre and post-Darwinian/Marxist thinking, set aside some evenings to watch the BBC’s The Blue Planet. It is a strikingly beautiful production marred by its constant, almost unbearable allusions to death and sex time and time again. I watched every episode, but as each episode screened, something about it increasingly darkened the beauty that it supposedly intended to convey.

In contrast we have Gilbert White’s publication, The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne, published in 1789 and never out of print. This parish parson, Gilbert White, spent his entire life in Selborne parish serving his flock and observing and drawing the different plants and animals and natural history of his region. It is an achingly and evocatively beautiful record reflecting the harmony of creation and how everything in nature “fits” perfectly, a reflection of nature’s God.

Both the BBC and White observed the same creation, the same nature. But one saw only blood and sex in the struggle for food and species preservation; the other saw harmony and beauty, reflecting the glory of the Creator.

I would say that my early childhood in El Pao was more akin to White’s Selborne, whereas my later adolescence, for a shorter period of time, saw more of Marx’s Manifesto, although not exclusively. I believe that anyone with a sense of beauty and love and harmony would prefer the former. And, notice, there was no politics in the former. Or very little so.

“Everything was politics. Too much politics. That’s no way to live.” — Mr. Tuohy, my parents’ friend, who later became my friend also, speaking to me about Chile after Allende’s ascent.

“The trouble with Socialism is that it takes too many evenings” — Sounds like Yogi Berra, but is attributed to Oscar Wilde

The popular show, *Cheers*, where everybody knows your name. Everybody in El Pao knew your name, with or without the bar.

*The Natural History of Selborne*, Folio Society edition

Unvisited Tombs

December 31, 2020December 31, 2020 Richard Barnes

“The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” — George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)

George Eliot lived and worked during the Victorian Era, hence, despite her atheism, her works were imbued with a Christian ethos. Unlike today’s fellow atheists, she did not overexert herself to hide her Christian presuppositions, given that these were considered to be discoverable by mere human reason and tradition, not needing supernatural revelation.

Since the early 20th century, vast evidence of the solitary, nasty, brutish, and short nature of atheistic life has been accumulated, including 100,000,000 extra-judicial deaths in atheistic, Communist lands (if your stomach is strong, see The Black Book of Communism for details). Given that reality and much more, contra Eliot, skeptics have been more careful to deny or obfuscate anything that might point to Christian presuppositions in their efforts to demonstrate moral virtues without Christianity. It’s not an easy task.

But this year’s end post is something of a salute to Eliot’s quote above, which is easily reconcilable to Biblical teaching.

When year’s end approaches, I often find myself thinking about Juan el bartender.

Juan the bartender?

Juan was Portuguese. He came to Venezuela to earn money which he would send to his family in Portugal. He eventually made his way to the interior of the country where he was hired by Bethlehem Steel to serve as the El Pao Club bartender. Near every year’s end, Juan would treat some of the boys by giving each a ride on his motorcycle. He would take his rider to the labor camp (otro campo) for a short spin around the area, saluting friends and other kids, and then he’d return them to the El Pao Club.

It was years later before I came to realize that what seemed a mere kick to me, required Juan to sacrifice part of his lunch hour in order to give a few boys something to remember for many years later, in my case for many decades later. That was very kind of him and tells me much about his character.

He eventually sent enough money to Portugal that he resigned and returned to Portugal, hopefully to rejoin his family and to live a productive life there. I am sure he also gave joy to children in his little corner of the earth.

I also think of Mr. Serrao. Every New Year’s Day, he would drive his and as many other camp children who could squeeze into his station wagon, around El Pao and then to the labor camp, honking his horn, and encouraging the kids to scream, blow their own little party horns, hang their torsos out the windows, and clap their hands as they yelled, “Feliz Año Nuevo!” as loudly as screeching parrots. The folks in the labor camp always expected this and would join in the festivities by clapping, laughing, and yelling back, “Felíz Año Nuevo!”

As with Juan el bartender, it was years later before I came to appreciate Mr. Serrao’s New Year’s practice. This took precious time from him, including having to awaken early on New Year’s Day, when I am sure he would have preferred sleeping in. At least a bit.

And to have a multitude of kids jam pack themselves into his vehicle was no walk in the park. But he was cheery and happy along with us and seemed to genuinely enjoy being a highlight of the year for us.

Mr. Serrao and his family lived next door to us for a number of years; his sons were very good childhood friends. He requested and obtained a transfer back to Bethlehem and that was the end of the Serrao New Year’s festivities. But they live on in my memory.

Juan Villanueva was the pastor of the small protestant church which met in the labor camp. Each year, he would celebrate a New Year’s Eve service designed to last until the chiming of the bells announcing the new year. I would lie if I told you I looked forward to this annual service. I did not. However, I would also lie if I told you I did not enjoy it, once there. I did. And, looking back, I deeply appreciate those services.

Here again, we have a man who took precious time to prepare for and celebrate a service designed to encourage us to remember that our days are in the hands of Him Who created us and all things about and around us, including the very days of our lives. It was both joyful and sobering to be so reminded, year in and year out.

Juan Villanueva left El Pao and pastored a church near the Orinoco River. I last visited with him in San Félix, in the early part of this century. It was a most happy meeting. He passed away this year. The world is a better place because of him.

One New Year’s morning, amid the hustle in our kitchen, my father laughed and told us about a report he had just heard on his short wave radio which was tuned to Voice of America. The broadcaster said something along these lines: “Many people went to sleep last night thinking of great resolutions they would embark upon today; many others went to sleep apprehensive about today; many other people lay in bed last night wondering and worrying about what the new year might bring; and a vast number of people went to bed last night as if it were just another night in their lives with nothing special about it at all.”

Thanks to people like Juán el bartender, and Mr. Serrao, and Juán Villanueva, and millions of others unknown but to God, with tombs unremarked and unvisited, “things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been….”

As we stand at the door of a new year, why not determine to be blessings to those with whom we interact, whether family, friends, and even strangers?

With Thomas Gray we can say of those who are unknown, unheralded, and unvisited:

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

….

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

….

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

Although the above stanzas seem sober (because they are), they also serve to bring joy. Our lives serve eternal purposes, regardless of whether or not they are remembered by proud men. God remembers. And that is all that really matters.

I wish you and yours a very happy 2021!

George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans; 1819 – 1880)

School Christmas plays were one of several annual year-end activities the camp looked forward to. Above photo is circa 1959.

Christmas circa 1958. My cousin, Janis visited from Miami. Our neighbors, Elizabeth and her brother, Johnny.

Children in El Pao, circa year’s end 1957.

Decembers in El Pao were marked by dinners and festivities in each other’s homes.

Christmas Memories and The Pull of the Land

December 25, 2020December 25, 2020 Richard Barnes

Each of us creates memories which, properly interpreted, become the figurative or metaphysical tissue of one’s life and home and of the communities in which one lives out his existence on earth. Our very lives run a course that is greatly fashioned by memories sown and cultivated decades and centuries before our birth.

Some children have a stronger “connection” to that generational memory than others. For example, many children almost instinctively ask their parents to tell them about “when you were a boy” or “tell me about grandmother,” etc., while others do not ask such questions. In such cases, many parents “volunteer” such stories. In doing so they play a part in perpetuating those generational memories, although they might not think about it in that context.

Memory creates history and determines relations between nations and civilizations. For example, someone wrote that the “conflicting memories of World War I left a gulf between Europe and the United States, one that has shaped their relations down to the present.” The literature engendered by that war further strengthened the outlines of the memories which persist to this day. For an analysis of that literature, I would recommend Paul Fussell’s The Great War and Modern Memory.

Similar conclusions can be drawn, perhaps even more forcefully, about the memories created over the centuries of the Spanish and English empires and their often deleterious influence on the relations between the United States and Latin America. Philip Wayne Powell’s Tree of Hate is a scholarly yet accessible study of that phenomenon.

A nation’s memory is but a fruit or product of her people’s collective memories, sown, and harvested over many generations. And, for many of us, childhood Christmases are a great part of such collective memories.

Many have noted the sadness and depression experienced by many in America during the Christmas season. Mental health professionals offer many reasons for this, including loneliness, anger at perceived commercialization of the season, subliminal envy at seeing or perceiving a joy in others, and more.

Perhaps a major reason for sadness is the nostalgia brought forth by childhood memories, especially those of Christmas, and a longing for recreating such times now, as older adults. Of course, one cannot re-puff soufflé, and if that is one’s goal, it will be met with failure.

Nevertheless, that does not mean one would do wrong to pause, dim the lights, sit on the sofa or easy chair, contemplate the Christmas tree, and remember those childhood days of Christmas….

Standing next to the diminutive Mrs. Bebita de La Torre singing “Noche de Paz” in the club on Christmas Eve. She was very short, but I was lots shorter than she at the time. I know, because her beautiful voice drew my attention and I could not help but look up to see her singing.

Rehearsing our school Christmas plays. Learning the words of Christmas hymns, especially as we rehearsed in the home of Mrs. Shingler, who worked indefatigably to make us all feel at home and whose visage immediately comes to mind whenever I think of Christmases in El Pao.

Receiving my aunt and uncle and cousins on Christmas Day. We would repay the visit on New Year’s Day by driving to their home in San Félix.

Bing Crosby, Perry Como, and Frank Sinatra singing Christmas Hymns and The Robert Shaw Chorale doing so more magnificently. Listening to Nat King Cole sing “The Christmas Song”, and not wondering how he knew I was hoping to see reindeer.

Accompanying my mother to set up the record player in the small church in the labor camp and play Handel’s Messiah, an event which attracted many in the camp to the church building to listen to a free concert.

Waking up on Christmas Days over the years of childhood and finding a silver bike, a roller coaster (I still can’t believe my father put that together overnight in the back yard), water rockets, a Lionel Ho electric train, a German-made rifle … opening presents around the tree.

Hearing the preacher caution us to remember that many children get nothing for Christmas and to be compassionate and to share.

Receiving visitors from households in the camp; they’d come and go, offering Christmas greetings and, often, gifts.

Visits by the aguinalderos with their expert musicianship and their hilarious lyrics; rewarded by my father with generous tips.

Childhood friends and their parents, many of whom are now gone.

Reading the Christmas story from Luke as we sat before the Christmas tree, and much, much more.

Those memories are not unique. What I mean is they are memories that are replicated numberless times over generations, with variations due to location and family traditions. Multiplied by the million, they serve to create mystical bonds across time and space that provide a common “pull”, a common experience, a common or shared memory. In this case, an American and Venezuelan memory.

For me, the pull of the land is in large measure the pull of memory. Not just childhood memory, but generational memories even of those whom I have never met but whose lives and works I and my generation inherited. That pull is strong; it is even felt by short-term visitors to Venezuela.

Others may be able to develop this much further than I.

But for now, it is important to point out that memories in and of themselves are not what bring joy. Memories are not the source of joy although their origins do proceed from that Source. Material things or events do not engender joy. Joy does not even spring from a happy childhood, as magical as that can be. Joy issues from the Person for Whom Christmas is named: Jesus Christ, God in the flesh.

He is the foundation for all that is good in our lives, whether or not we recognize it.

While it is true that, as some have so eloquently noted, the Christianity of mid-century America tended to be bland or generic, it was nevertheless recognized and honored. To attack Christmas in that time would have resulted in an invitation to leave town. That has changed, of course, but the memory is still there and is still strong. That explains the frenetic attempts to erase it.

But we can strengthen that generational memory by building, not on the manifestations of the memory, but on its Foundation: Jesus the Christ and His eternal Word. And as we build, the fruits will manifest themselves not only in evidences many of us remember fondly from our childhoods, but in many more that our children and grandchildren will remember and appreciate.

His Word promises this.

And after all, He is the Word made flesh.

Merry Christmas to all!

Memorable Christmastime in Puerto Ordaz in 1978. Speaking with the late Mr. Beran about the Venezuelan situation at the time.

The quintessential Venezuelan Christmas dish is the *hallacas*, a sort of “meat pie” encrusted in cornmeal and wrapped in banana or plantain leaves and boiled for several hours. The taste is sweet and spicy, but not “hot”, savor. The meat includes raisins, olives, pickled vegetables and more. It takes much work and time and is only served at Christmastime.

Young patient in a pediatric ward receives a surprise Christmas gift, circa 1955.

Provocative analysis of literature produced by men of that generation: traces the shift from romanticism and purpose to nihilism and futility.

Powerful analysis of centuries of superficial readings or discussions of the Spanish Empire and the deleterious impact of such superficial understanding (memory) on relations with Spain and Latin America.

Rosa

December 7, 2020December 7, 2020 Richard Barnes

Recently, someone asked me about life in El Pao and in the course of the conversation, she asked a question that made me think about Rosa. I am glad she asked me. It had been too long since I thought about that lady who deserves to be remembered. She is one of billions who lie in their graves, forgotten but to God. And to those who remember.

José was her brother. I remember him too. He showed up once a week or so to work on our garden. He’d amble up on this burro, laden with what looked to me like large canvas bags on either side, towards the rear, swinging heavily, slowly, comically. Seen from behind, José looked like an unstable, ponderous metronome atop a slow yet choppy sea, while the canvas or hemp bags swayed behind him like loose pendulums, slapping the donkey’s upper thighs as she plodded the quiet streets of El Pao where Jose’s gardens graced several homes.

“Sra., las rosas se ven bellas hoy,” he would invariably utter those or similar words, sotto voce, as he unloaded his baggage and pulled his spade and shovel from their respective canvas casings draped on either side of the burro’s neck. To me, it seemed José was born wearing a permanent, drooping straw hat. It was part of José. I never saw him without it.

“That’s thanks to you, José. This whole garden is thanks to you!” My mother would give directions as to what she wanted to see done and often she worked the garden with her own hands, but always gave credit to José.

His sister, Rosa, would accompany him many a time and while he worked the gardens and landscapes, she’d assist with laundry, general cleaning, and even rearranging the furniture at times. She also became a sort of informal nanny to us for a time. By and by Rosa became as well known to folks in El Pao as José. In my child’s recollection, I had thought they lived in the labor camp in a home provided by the company. But my mother corrected me on that memory. They were well known and loved in the labor camp too, but did not live there.

Cancer struck Rosa. A nasty, encroaching, overwhelming, suffocating cancer. Her beauty and bustling energy rapidly became things of the past as her Spanish skin became sallow and her cheeks sank and her eyes lost their happy luster.

Soon she no longer could play with the boy, and he didn’t want to play with her because she just looked very sick.

And soon, she no longer came to the camp.

“I’ll be back shortly,” my mother had paused by me as I memorized my assigned arithmetic tables one afternoon.

I saw her taking a small pot.

“I am taking her a beef stew. She asked that I bring her a little of that stew that we make here once in a while. She’s always liked it because she says it combines an American dish with Venezuelan seasoning and it’s a favorite of hers. I asked the doctor and he said it’d be OK for me to bring her some.”

“Rosa died this morning,” I heard my mother speaking into the telephone mere days later. “We will attend the wake tonight in the labor camp; as you know, she’ll be buried tomorrow.”

Although she did not live in the labor camp, someone had offered his home as the site for the wake.

Rosa had expressed, as best she could, her gratitude for the beef stew. But she never tasted even a teaspoonful. She just could not. Impossible.

“I want to go.”

“That’ll be fine, son. But just remember, Rosa will not be there; only her body. She will rise again one day, and on that day you will not see her stumbling stiffly because of the pain. You won’t see her cheeks hollowed out or her skin with that deathly color. You won’t see her wasted, unable to eat or drink….”

But that night I would see that I did not really understand what my mother was trying to tell me. As we entered the house I became uneasy seeing all the candles uncertainly piercing the darkness. Why didn’t they turn on some more lights? What seemed to me a multitude crowded the small living room. I saw José standing next to the simple coffin, at the head as folks milled by, expressing their pésame and hearing his expression of simple thanks in reply. I barely recognized José, probably because I had never seen him looking so sad and forlorn; but most likely because this was the first time that I saw him without that drooping straw hat resting easily on his head. On this grievous occasion, it revolved, slowly, loosely, by the rim, by means of José’s sun-darkened, scarred, knobby hands.

I was just tall enough to see Rosa lying there, covered up to her neck in what looked like white lace, under which she seemed clothed in a white, shiny dress. At least that’s what I’d always remember. Then I looked at her face. I hardly recognized her. It was hardened and wasted; it seemed battered. I saw pain, much pain in poor Rosa’s face. I noticed cotton in each nostril and wondered at that and did not like it. I wanted to cry, but did not.

I could not pull my eyes away from her face.

“Son, we need to go home now,” my mother had leaned over me and gently whispered in my ear.

And so, I opened my hands, which had been lightly gripping the edge of the casket, and backed up a bit, and, after a long look, I turned away.

But for days, and months, and years I’d have dreams, frightfully real dreams, of Rosa peering at me. Sometimes I’d fear going into a room alone at night because I could see her face right outside the screened window, looking at me.

I would learn, much later, that these visions and dreams were vivid examples of paradox: I loved and missed Rosa very much. I wished she had not gone. I loved her. But I hated seeing that face of death.

May you rest in peace, Rosa.