Miami – The Pull Of The Land

Peter (Pete) Colon

February 18, 2026February 18, 2026 Richard Barnes

The last time I visited with Pete was in early February, 2023, when a good number of us gathered in Miami, Florida, for Cousin Louis’s memorial service.

As usual, his sense of humor was intact and his ability to laugh and to make me laugh along was no less sharp than was the case ever through the decades.

Pete was also known to many as Peter, his given name; however, in the mid 70s he was introduced to me as “Pete” and it stuck with me. Many of my long-time acquaintances still call me “Ricky” and I don’t mind it at all, as I’m sure he didn’t mind my (and others) calling him “Pete”.

I had the opportunity to say a few words to him over the phone the day he died. As I told him, “I know you can hear me” and spoke assuming just that. In fact, his loving family, including his wife, my cousin Janis, and his parents, now in their 90s, also spoke to him till the end.

I told him that when I thought of him, two characteristics immediately came to mind.

First, his faithfulness. Pete was a consistent and faithful Christian dedicated to serving the Lord, along with his wife, Janis. In this he never wavered. And for this, I, for one, am truly grateful and humbled when I consider it. This is not flattery on my part; only a recognition that there are many today who truly desire to do right, by God’s grace. And Pete was one of them.

Second, his sense of humor. I reminded him of the time he and Janis visited us decades ago and Pete told of his visiting several churches in the Midwest and reading up on the customs and ways of life so as to know what to talk about with his hosts. In one town, after church, he and Janis had Sunday dinner with a large family under the shade of a massive tree. The family raised hogs and Pete asked them when they would “slap the hogs” as he wanted to witness that. The family was nonplussed and Pete kept insisting that he had read this. Finally one elderly gentleman leaned over and said, “Well, we do SLOP the hogs….”

As I laughed, Pete told about folks falling off the picnic benches convulsing with mirth before this city slicker.

Pete’s life began on an air force base in Illinois; however, he lived his childhood in New York City and played in various rock bands and even a folk group in Greenwich Village. He came to know the Lord Jesus in the 70s when his family had moved to Miami, Florida. Shortly thereafter, he was called into full time ministry and never looked back.

In addition to earning his Doctor of Ministry Degree he developed an interest in antiquities and participated in archaeological digs in Israel. Our family enjoyed a movie he filmed, “Rossvally: From the Synagog to the Savior”. But that was not enough to exhaust his energies as he also was very active in Civil War reenactments in several states.

Pete cheerfully battled cancer for many years and, after a series of mishaps he succumbed on January 17, 2026, at the age of 72.

I don’t remember a time, if ever, in which I did not see him as a member of the family. We cousins grew up very close to one another. Our aunts and uncles were just a degree removed from our parents: they could discipline or instruct us without any pushback whatever. When Pete joined the gang, he quickly became one of us, and I’m sure we became one of his.

On that phone call the day of his passing, I read to him Psalm 23, knowing that as one approaches death, there is nothing better than to hear the Word of God as one is about to meet him face to face. I know Pete appreciated that.

Pete departed this life over a month ago, but it is still fresh to me. And I know it is very much more so with Janis.

Rest in peace, Cousin Pete.

Cousin Vivian is second from left, her son Jeremy is to her right and her daughter Rebecca is to her left. Cousin Pete is to my right and Cousin Rick (Vivian’s widower) is to my left. Photo taken at Cousin Louis’s memorial service, February 11, 2023

From left, cousins Janis, Pete, and Vivian, February 10, 2023

Vivian

March 13, 2025March 13, 2025 Richard Barnes

During the early part of the 20th Century, our grandparents succeeded in keeping our family “close”, despite the greater part of the family being in Massachussets and another part being 1,600 miles away in Cuba. Many years later, I remember having our parents’ cousins visiting us in Miami or we visiting them in Stockbridge, and, later in life, visits in Georgia. At the time I did not think anything of it — taking it for granted.

Our generation — our parents’ children — also stayed close to one another. Annual visits to Miami were taken for granted — at least by me. And as the years went by we stayed close for the most part. I cannot speak for others but as for me my cousins were my brothers and sisters. Year after year we visited, lived in one another’s houses, fought, or simply rejoiced in happy company.

When death visited us, we took it hard. But not one of us was surprised by that reaction. We grew up in a time when saying “I love you” to siblings or cousins wasn’t “a thing”. But we knew we loved one another; later in life, we actually did begin saying so.

My last conversation with cousin Vivian was one such time. On the phone, 1,500 miles away, I told her that I loved her and she, with what very little strength she had left, said the same.

Vivian’s speech was low key and soothing. She came across as perennially unperturbed, because she always knew and trusted in the Lord that all would turn out well, no matter what the crisis.

In supreme pain, during my mother’s final illness, Vivian visited her if not daily, certainly multiple times a week. Her focus was on Mami, not her own debilitating and painful cancer.

She finally succumbed to that cancer on February 22, 2025, age 69; just one day shy of her and her husband, Rick’s, 50th wedding anniversary. Although we knew the day was close, death is still a slap in the face.

And will continue to be so until that Day of the “manifestation of the sons of God”, as St. Paul puts it, referring to the Day of Resurrection; a Day Vivian believed in with all her heart, having known her Lord and trusting in Him, to the very end.

Vivian had two siblings: Cousin Louis (Papito) who passed away in December, 2022, and Cousin Janis. Janis and her loving husband Pete are both battling cancer and I earnestly pray and hope their treatments are fully successful.

In December, 1972, the family met in Miami, Florida, to participate in and celebrate the wedding of Cousin Sarita, Uncle Max and Tía Carmencita’s eldest daughter. We took a photo on that occasion and 34 years later, at a family reunion, we saw that most of us were still here. That is no longer the case, unfortunately.

At Vivian’s burial, and the meal afterwards, two members of the “next” generation spoke about arranging periodic family reunions. I told them I was all for it, but they would have to take the lead on that. My generation — this is my personal opinion — did not do as good a job as our grandparents and parents in keeping the family close. I know I did not and I regret it. Maybe these two young ladies will pick up the slack that we’ve left them.

I hope they do.

Rest in peace, dear Cousin Vivian.

Photo taken the day before Papito’s memorial service, February, 2023. From left to right: Janis, Pete, Vivian, and myself.

September, 2023, shortly before my mother’s passing. Vivan is to the right: standing, solid peach blouse

December, 1972. Thirteen (13) are now gone. But we trust to see them again.

Miami Visit

February 12, 2023February 12, 2023 Richard Barnes

I came to Miami for Cousin Louis’s memorial service to be held Saturday, February 11, at Shake-a-Leg in Coconut Grove. Louis volunteered at Shake-a-Leg, a charitable organization which uses the marine and waters sports environment to encourage and help folks with disabilities.

It had been a while since my last visit to the area so it is good to have a bit of time in which to touch base with friends I’d not seen in close to two decades and also with family.

My grandfather, Max A. Barnes, left Cuba in the late 40s after retiring from Bethlehem Steel. Once, way too late in life, I asked Aunt Sarah what made Grandfather Max leave Cuba when Castro was still over a decade away and come to Miami. She replied, “He saw what was coming. And Miami was tropical, like Cuba.”

Readers of this blog can fully understand my aunt’s reply addressing my grandfather’s concerns, but I did not, until much later when I began looking into Latin America’s revolutionary history, including Fidel Castro’s activities in the very 40s and thereafter. Obviously, Grandfather Max was paying attention.

And that began a connection with Miami and South Florida that has endured through several generations.

Wednesday, the 8th, my old classmate, Dr. Niberto Moreno, treated me to lunch at the Riviera Country Club in Coral Gables. He called a classmate, Ken Barr, I’d not spoken with in over 50 years. It is very special to renew old acquaintances. Unfortunately, I forgot to take a photo. Niberto and I still remember the first time we met as young boys in Miami Christian School, “¿Eres de Venezuela?” he asked me, stopping on the walkway and turning to me as I walked behind him to another class. I caught up with him and we talked and became friends ever since. Talking over lunch was as if we’d never parted.

Ken Barr had a great sense of humor. When I told him that over the phone, he inadvertently proved the point when he remarked, “That’s probably all I was good at: not studying but making people laugh!” No. He was a good student with great wit, which not too many possess. I have been blessed with good friends.

Thursday another friend, César López, from the Upjohn Puerto Rico days picked me up to have breakfast at CocoWalk, an open mall with good eateries. César has had tough battles with The Big C (cancer) but his optimism and sense of humor and faith have held him in good stead. It is a marvel to see him so well, although we both know one is never out of the woods in this situation; so he does his best to care for himself.

I don’t think he’ll mind my sharing one story I had forgotten about. He had brought his then six-month-old daughter, Penelope, to visit his mother in San Sebastian, Puerto Rico. It was a joyous reunion. The following morning he sat at the kitchen table talking with his mother as she cooked breakfast. Suddenly, she fell back into César’s arms and died of a brain hemorrhage. There are some things that remain indelibly stamped onto one’s psyche. It was good to have reconnected with César. And I remembered to take a photo.

Later, I met my cousins Janis, Pete, and Vivian, at Shake-a-Leg in Coconut Grove. We drove around in circles looking for a diner that likely no longer exists. We must have seemed highly suspicious characters to a news crew that saw us drive by at least four times. Finally opted for a Cuban restaurant nearby where Vivian kindly treated us all. What a quiet, wonderful time of fellowship and gratitude! We all recognized that what we had growing up was unique.

Being relatively close to Woodlawn Memorial Cemetery (now Caballero Rivero Woodlawn North Park Cemetery and Mausoleum), I visited my paternal grandparents’s gravesite. Woodlawn is one of the oldest cemeteries in Miami. Much history lies there. For example, the park holds the tomb of Desiderio Arnaz II, Desi Arnaz’s father, who was the youngest mayor of Santiago, Cuba, was exiled in 1933, and died in Miami in 1973. Also, Alfonso, Prince of Asturias, a hemophiliac, died in Miami in 1938 as a result of internal bleeding after a car accident and was buried in Woodlawn but was re-entombed in Spain in 1985. And many more such.

Peafowl (peacocks and peahen) appeared in Coconut Grove in the early 20th Century. They are native to India. Residents have a love-hate relationship with them: beautiful, loud, leave lots of scratches and guano on cars. Ironically, the Peacock family were among the earliest settlers in the area in the 1870s. They opened a hotel in what is now the site of Peacock Park. This was many years before peafowl began to appear.

Finally, Coconut Grove has many old trees, including the Kapok Tree (Ceiba Pentandra) in a quiet corner dwarfing everything around it.

This area is very much a part of my childhood and I am grateful.

César López and I have breakfast

Cousins Janis and Pete Colón, Vivian Edwards, and I enjoy good conversation over lunch

Desi Arnaz’s parents: Desiderio Arnaz II (1894-1973) and Dolores Acha Socias (1896-1988)

Alfonso, Prince of Asturias (1907-1938)

From left: Max A. Barnes (1874-1950), Eustaquia R. Barnes (1893-1951), Alfred L. Barnes (1927-1968), and Sarah L. Rodriguez (1924-2015)

With a peacock friend

Kapok tree in a Coconut Grove neighborhood

Papito

December 21, 2022December 21, 2022 Richard Barnes

With deep sadness we saw the rapidly deteriorating physical condition of Cousin Louis (Papito) Max Rodriguez. He had been stricken with a type of bone cancer which was unforgiving, but which was also all in the the hand of our Sovereign Lord Who called Louis home early this morning, Tuesday, December 20, 2022, exactly 7 years to the day after the passing of his mother, Aunt Sarah, and one year plus one day after the passing of Cousin Max (Papaito).

Louis, the eldest of the Barnes/Rodriguez cousins, was born in Miami, Florida, July 13, 1949.

His mother, Aunt Sarah, was and continues to be an ever-present influence on us all: dearly loved and honored. I’ve written about her before, such as her insistence on having us faithfully attend church, including Easter sunrise services, as well as participate in outings. These events had lasting emotional as well as educational — not to mention spiritual –impacts on me and I’ll be forever grateful.

Louis was her first child and she loved him as a devoted mother can love her firstborn. He would be the first to tell you he went through some rough patches in life; however, his mother never ceased to pray and to care for him and, over time, Louis remembered the old paths she had pointed to him in times past.

In times like these, memories flood the mind.

His visit with us in El Pao in the early 1960s. One evening, in the early 1970s, he talked garrulously about that visit and the friendships he made with Herman Gerbracht and John Thuoy, both of them among the “big boys” that I looked up to whenever they returned to the mining camp for summer or Christmas.

He also got many years worth of mileage having seen me run to catch a fly ball, going over a steep incline at the end of the field, and promptly slapping a nest teeming with angry picaojos (“stingeyes”). In Louis’ version, I first disappeared over the edge, and then bounced right back and ran like the wind towards the house, slapping my face, yelling at full volume. I know he was concerned, like the rest, but after I went to the hospital and was put on some medication and therapy, knowing all would be well, he began his years’ long, hilarious narrative of the event.

His recollections helped me remember some incidents and relationships centered around El Pao — here again, that mining camp is present with us a lifetime later. I most certainly would have forgotten some of these forever had he not mentioned them on that early 70s evening.

His invitation to visit Fisher Island with him in the late 1980s. Having breakfast in the cafe, we ran into Bryant Gumbel, whom we only knew from sports news broadcasts, but who was right at home doing whatever he was doing on the island. Neither we nor Louis were anywhere near the per capita income levels of the inhabitants, yet Louis was right at home, unpretentious, loquacious, and helpful as always.

His invitation to go sailing with him when we had a one-day layover in Miami in 2001. There were 12 of us then plus a Great Pyrenees puppy. “Bring him on board! Plenty of room!” And so we did, along with Aunt Sarah who had prepared a paella that I can still taste, some 21 years later. We had a ball and the event was stamped on my children’s minds. And mine.

His telling us about Shake-A-Leg charity for children with disabilities, a work he thoroughly enjoyed and for which he was well suited as it combined sailing with working with children.

The last time we saw him was in late 2015, shortly before Aunt Sarah’s death. A small group of us had lunch together at a Cracker Barrel north of Miami. He had been as jovial as always but then suddenly turned to me, and to my astonishment, “Hey, Rick, I wasn’t too hard on you as we grew up, was I? I mean, do I owe you an apology?”

Stunned, I first looked at his face to see if this was a joke, but he was serious. Then I searched my mind and heart to try to remember if I had ever held anything against him. And nothing coming to mind I replied, “No, Louis. You’ve been a good friend and I am enjoying spending time with you today.”

He was content. And that incident said more to me about Cousin Louis than a well written and researched encomium could ever do, not least his childlike inquiry seeking to ensure all is well.

My second to last conversation with him took place about four weeks ago, shortly before Thanksgiving: “I look forward to coming to see you soon when I get out of here…how is Lillie? How are the children?” Over the phone, his voice was strong and energetic. But we both knew the condition was serious.

Then, about a week later, I called him to see if he was OK to have some of my children drop by to say hello as they were in the state. His voice was not as strong and he politely demurred, saying to visit in the clinic was a hassle and it was quite a bit out of their way. Of course, I fully understood and so did my sons and daughters. I wished him well and we agreed to speak again.

The last time I spoke with him, last night, he was unresponsive, but I agree with his sister, Cousin Vivian, who believes that one should assume a patient in such a condition can somehow hear. I spoke to him, assuring him of our prayers and love. And then I prayed with him. Later, Lillie and the children gathered around the phone to sing Silent Night as Vivian had the phone on speaker for him to listen.

My sadness cannot be compared with that of his surviving sisters, Janis and Vivian, and their husbands, Pete and Rick, and their children — Louis’ nieces and nephews — to all of whom I extend my deepest sympathies and love.

This is not an adiós but an hasta luego, for we sorrow not as others which have no hope (I Thess. 4:13).

All is well with you now, dear cousin. Rest in peace.

From left: Sarita Barnes, Janis Rodriguez, Eileen Barnes, Louis (Papito) Rodriguez, Max (Papaito) Barnes, Vivian Rodriguez

Louis (Papito) at left and Aunt Sarah, seated in front of him, along with Janis and Pete, Vivian and Rick and their children

Louis with Charles Barnes (2) and Lillian Barnes, Fisher Island, Florida, circa 1987

Cousin Louis (Papito): 1949 – 2022

Leaving Venezuela — 1966

May 18, 2022May 18, 2022 Richard Barnes

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.