Tag: Family

Christmas 2024

Richard Barnes

July 21 marked our fortieth anniversary. These have been years of joy and laughter along with periods of great sorrow and tears. We have been blessed by people — whether friends or short-lived acquaintances — each of whom played a role in molding us. I credit them for the positive impacts and blame myself for the negative. 

For example, earlier this year, as I searched for a misplaced item, I found an old curio and immediately recognized it as a gift from an elderly couple whom we had met on our honeymoon. At one of the ports of call, they had gone to a curiosity shop and bought it, and gifted it to us at dinner. I had not thought of them for decades. But the item instantly brought them back to my recollection. Given their age in 1984, I can only assume they have long since passed away by now, but their sunny disposition and sincere care for us has been an encouragement and inspiration since the moment I again saw their gift. And it was a mild rebuke for my having forgotten them.

As Lillie and I thought about options to celebrate our anniversary, the choice became an easy one: why not return to Kalamazoo, Michigan, where we began life as a married couple and where we still have friends who continue to influence us to this day? As I wrote in Lullaby

“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 did not 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.”

Thomas Wolfe titled one of his works, You Can’t Go Home Again. In the novel he expands on this, “You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting, but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.” 

Agree. However, one can return — must return! — to some extent: the extent of gratitude and recognition of the strong foundations. One can return to say “thank you” and to build upon that groundwork or to say “I’m sorry” and make things right as necessary. Living in the past is neither healthy nor helpful. Christianity does not worship the past; however, we should recognize it and appreciate it and build upon it.

It was good to be back — back to good people we have long missed but whom, seeing again, seemed like yesterday. Back to sights which never faded in our mind’s eye. 

We returned from Kalamazoo to be met by 12 of our 13 children and five of our eight grandchildren, along with other loved ones, including nephews and grandnephews. It was quite a party. 

And we are grateful.

__________________

I remember the first time someone reacted negatively when I wished him a Merry Christmas. It was 1975 and several of us were signing off for the year. As I headed to the door I saw two colleagues and offered them the traditional Christmas greeting. One replied in kind; the other, with a mocking “Ho! Ho! Ho!”. That only elicited laughter from me as I replied likewise, but in light hearted form.

It was only upon returning to the office in early January when the other colleague informed me that my greeting had offended the “Ho! Ho! Ho!” fellow, which came as a shock to me as I’d never heard of someone being offended by a Christmas greeting. The mining camp of my birth was peopled with folks from all walks of life, yet all enjoyed this special season as reflected in several past posts, for example, here.

There followed an era of hesitant well-wishing, but, thankfully, that ended not too many years later when I saw that some people were outspoken in their celebrations of what can only be described charitably as filth. And this hesitancy was buried even further during and after my years in the Middle East where my Muslim and Hindu friends had no hesitancy in wishing me a Merry Christmas and a Happy Easter even though they themselves did not believe in the Incarnate and Risen Lord.

Some people, sadly, are permanently offended and if we kowtow to them we allow the universe to be ruled by the dog in the manger. This does not give us license to be rude; however, it surely must not muzzle our joy in the Lord, which is our strength.

Our celebration has a Focus; it is not a celebration for the sake of a celebration; it is not a rejoicing merely for rejoicing. Such merrymaking is surely short lived and hollow. The Lord makes our rejoicing very real, indeed. We know Him and so we rejoice. And we sincerely desire and invite others to also rejoice with us.

In that spirit, we wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas and a prosperous 2025.

Elizabeth, Tyler, Jonathan, Joseph, Samuel, Nathan, Esther, John, Rachel, Rebekah, Andrew, Richard, and Christopher. Brothers-in-law Les and wife, Nancy, and David and nieces Emma and Olivia. Lillie’s mother: Myrna. Grandchildren, Grace, Emily, Beverly, Sarah, James. Not pictured, nephew Jordan and his family. Unable to be present: Charles, Essie and grandchildren, Ebenezer, Ada, Rosemary.

Voices From the Past

Richard Barnes

A dear cousin’s re-discovery of some old letters (from the 50s) stirred recollections of the years I lived in Miami under the tutelage of Aunt Sarah and Uncle Luis, whom we called Uncle Wichy. 

Five decades ago, our paternal grandfather’s side of the family met in Miami for the wedding of one of his granddaughters. Twenty of us met for that event, and, although several had met separately on different occasions over the years, all twenty of us did not meet again for over three decades afterwards, when we had a family reunion in December, 2006.

By then, five had died, eight marriages had been celebrated, and numerous children had been born. And so, we decided to celebrate a family reunion where the remaining fifteen could meet once again. Adding spouses and children who were able to come, the group that day numbered forty-six, mas o menos.

Since December, 2006, five more have passed away, including Aunt Sarah, the last surviving child of our paternal grandfather. The last member to have passed away was my cousin Max (Papaito), who died December 19, 2021. 

This post borrows from a recollection I wrote about fifteen years ago about that family reunion in 2006, which I hope gives a little sense of our gratitude towards one another and to God.

We gathered in a one-bedroom condominium near the beach, overlooking the inter-coastal waterway. This type of arrangement we were used to as children when sometimes as many as 20 cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandparents plus assorted visitors gathered annually in Miami in a small, one-bathroom house whose address and telephone number we still know by heart.

For many years, that house was home as we’d leave Venezuela to go to school in the States. In this way, family history repeated itself, in that, a generation earlier, our own parents had to leave Cuba to go to school in Massachusetts and while there they all stayed in an uncle’s house and learned to live with one another and to appreciate one another and to love one another. Thus, for two generations, these extended families were quite close, and our challenge is to instill that sense of communion to the third and fourth generations who are already amongst us. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be done as it was when our parents lived in Cuba and we in Venezuela. But it can be done.

Funny how all seems laughter and joy looking back. Well, in a real sense, it was laughter and joy, because, although there may have been fights and misunderstandings and even bitterness for a time, it all turned out to a strengthening of and appreciation for our generational bonds. And that is certainly cause for laughter and joy.

So, at the time, while Tom may not have appreciated Jack’s sticking a straw in his eye; and Jack may not have understood Tom’s declaring his brain to be upside down; and while Julie detested wearing everyone’s hand-me-downs, even the boys’; and while Dan could show his displeasure by throwing a shoe through the wall (names have all been changed to protect the guilty); etc., those of us who remain, appreciate and love one another today. We wouldn’t change events, even if we could.

Our beloved Aunt Sarah would ensure we all went with her to church every Sunday morning. We all remember how, at the conclusion of each service, the choir would sing the beautiful benediction, The Lord Bless You and Keep You (from Numbers 6). Easter Sundays were very special as she would get us up well before dawn and drive us — in more ways than one — to the coast to attend sunrise services. As we grew older and more resistant to such early reveille, she resorted to threats, such as, “Wait till I tell your parents!” That would work for some, but not all. But we were always very glad we went.

She would also insist on outings, usually on Sundays after church. How she put up with our bickering, our foot dragging, our resistance to going anywhere, we’ll never know. Maybe she anticipated how, at the end of every single one of those outings, we would be enjoying ourselves so much, we would not want to leave. Maybe she knew they were for our benefit and that one day we would appreciate them. Maybe she was simply a very determined lady, whom we all loved.

And, for the most part, we can thank her for telling us about Jesus. That’s some heritage to leave to sons, daughters, nieces, and nephews.

As for Uncle Wichy, I can say, with all honesty, he scared the living daylights out of me. Once, upon arrival from the airport, I, about 7 years old, was greeted by him, whom I had not seen for a year, with, “Now remember, if you misbehave, you’ll get Pow-Pow”! I stared in stunned silence as he roared with laughter.

He took us deep sea fishing and “lobstering”. Once, while pulling up a lobster trap, the lines and eventually the trap caught in the ship’s propeller, destroying trap and catch. We continued talking and fishing as if nothing had happened. He rebuked us quietly, “This is a great loss for José (his friend who had agreed to take us along) and I feel very bad about this.” Even though José told him it was nothing and “Don’t worry about this; this is a typical loss” still Uncle Wichy fretted the rest of the day and into the night.

He mellowed with the years, and we grew to understand his love and genuine interest and concern for us. He died in 1995.

Besides Aunt Sarah, our paternal grandparents had three sons: Uncle Max, Uncle Charles (“Charlie”), and Uncle Alfred. Both my father, Charles, and Uncle Alfred were murdered. Uncle Max died in 2007, less than a year after the family reunion. Uncle Alfred never married, but the first two did and their wives, Tía Carmencita and Tía Adita, regaled us with their stories for years afterwards….

As we shared pictures and music in 2006, we recalled these things and much more. And we were grateful our own children were able to attend. 

My mother, Tía Adita (91) is the last surviving family member of that generation who was in that 1972 photo.

December, 1972
Cousins either after church on a Sunday or after Easter Sunrise Service, circa 1963
The years flew by. The affection remained.

Why Such High Crime Rates In Venezuela?

Richard Barnes

We drove past the club to the left and continued by the sports field — simply an open pasture or clearing; the same area which served as a heliport but was used primarily for softball games — and beyond to the only entry and exit point of the mining camp: the alcabala (guardhouse), manned by a member of the camp’s security force.

I sat in the back, our maid, Elena (not her real name) sat in the front, and my mother was at the wheel. 

It was night.

I waved at Sr. Bello and laughed as he gave an exaggerated faux salute, smiling broadly, open-mouthed. Whenever I think of a wide, genuine smile, I think of Sr. Bello, as he would greet or say farewell to us coming or going, all the while working the lever which lifted or lowered the crossbar blocking the road.

Upon exiting the camp, shortly after passing the alcabala, the road split: the right would lead to the labor camp; left would lead to the Orinoco, the Caroní, or Upata and points beyond. That night we turned left, intending to go a short distance, some 4 or 5 kilometers on the road to the Orinoco to drop Elena at her roadside home, a structure I would probably call a hut today, but in my childhood it was someone’s house.

“There is someone there!” my mother exclaimed to Elena as we approached.

“Oh! Well, I wasn’t expecting him to ever come by. I’ll tell him to leave,” Elena replied, as she looked towards her house.

The rest of the exchange was sotto voce. I did not understand why my mother seemed so upset and why her tone sounded so urgent, but could tell this was not the first time the two had discussed whatever matter they were now talking about.

She drove a few kilometers more beyond the hut, all the while going back and forth with Elena, who seemed to be seeking to reassure my mother that she was in control of whatever the matter was. My mother found a place to turn around and drove to the hut.

This I do remember: the light was on. A mean looking, swarthy fellow (at least to my childhood eyes) was standing inside, shirtless, doing I don’t know what, while a radio was blasting some cumbia-salsa type music. He did not seem to be a good guy and my mother’s concern inchoately became mine.

“Spend the night with us, Elena,” my mother said, but to no effect.

“Do not worry. I’ll handle this.”

We drove home, Mr. Bello once again lifting the crossbar, this time to let us back into the camp.

Some weeks or months later, I arrived home from school, either for lunch or after the end of the school day, to find my mother speaking sharply to Elena, who meekly agreed with whatever was being said.

And months later our family gave her gifts for her newborn child and my mother sought other ladies in the camp to also give….

One of the most frequent themes of conversation during my preschool and early school years was how Venezuela was so low in crime under Gómez or Pérez Jiménez and how crime exploded under democratic rule. One of my first memories after the fall of Pérez Jiménez was looking out the inlaid windows during a visit with my aunt. Some youths ran behind two young ladies and, to our utter shock, disrespected them in a most vile manner. That event triggered the topic of conversation the rest of that visit, with the refrain, “That never happened under Pérez Jiménez.”

Later, a Venezuelan friend and her family visited the United States for the very first time. Upon their return she told me about visiting a park in Miami or New York and purposefully dropping litter on the grass. “And, no policeman rebuked me or arrested me.” 

I was too green to know to reply that the United States system of government presupposes a people who can practice self-government. It does not need police on every corner to jump down one’s throat for littering. As self-government decreases or ceases, crime increases dramatically and littering becomes the least of our worries.

One of our founders said something along the lines of, “You will either govern yourself or, by God, you will be governed.” This was clearly a derivation of Proverbs 25:28, “He that hath no rule over his own spirit is like a city that is broken down, and without walls.”

And this brings me back to that story about Elena. Growing up in South America I often heard that crime in Venezuela was very high whereas in Chile it was low. 

Why? 

Answering that question requires an expertise that I certainly do not possess, but, given the track record of supposed “experts” on sundry matters, including viruses, perhaps the rest of us should at least make use of Ockham’s razor and take a stab at what is most obvious.

And what is most obvious is the home. 

Venezuela has historically had high rates of unmarried cohabitation and illegitimacy, in contrast to Chile, where such rates have historically been low. 

For example, in 1970, cohabitation percentages for men 25-29 in Venezuela and Chile were 30.6 and 4.4, respectively. Women’s rates were similar. By 2000, the rate in Venezuela had soared to 56.4, and, ominously, in Chile it had spiked to 29.3.

(Why the earlier statistics between Chile and Venezuela vary so wildly, given that they were both Spanish colonies with presumably similar backgrounds, is a matter for another blog post.)

Even more inauspiciously, well over half of all children in South America today are born to unwed mothers. Per NPR, the rate in Colombia is 84%. 

Throughout this blog, I’ve made the plea for rapprochement and better cooperation and understanding between the United States and South America, noting that our respective backgrounds in many respects have more in common than with modern Europe not to mention other areas of the globe. Both North and South America are now grappling with the consequences of family breakdowns, yet, in South America, the family still manifests a pull which surpasses that of North America. 

For example, in Chile, 81.8% of all single mothers live with their families and receive support and encouragement there. In Venezuela, it is 79.4%. In contrast, the United States has more than three (3) times the share of children around the world who live in single parent households. In other words, they live apart from their extended families.

South America can re-teach North America the value of extended family.

North America can re-teach South America the absolute necessity of self-government. 

And both North and South America need a Reformation and Re-Awakening to God.

For readers with further interest in this subject, the links below will be helpful.

https://phys.org/news/2010-07-crime-linked-out-of-wedlock-births.html

https://ced.uab.cat/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/Chapter_2.pdf

https://www.npr.org/sections/parallels/2015/12/14/459098779/all-across-latin-america-unwed-mothers-are-now-the-norm