Tag: Venezuela

Creede: Part III

Richard Barnes

Before the men of El Pao brought their wives and children, the pioneers had to build the camps. 

So the Bethlehem Steel set out to build a camp on the banks of the Orinoco River to receive supplies and materials needed to clear and grade a roughly 40-kilometer road through the thick jungle and also build the administrative and labor camps housing the workforce that was to come later, not to mention the mine itself. 

These efforts required intelligence, strength, determination, and capital to pay for mine development and required facilities such as hoisting and power plants, mine machinery, and so on.

Visiting the Creede mining camp area, I was immediately reminded of the iron mines in Venezuela. The geography and topography, not to mention the latitudes, are nowhere near the same; however, the spirit and type of men and women drawn to such endeavors were certainly so.

The last time I visited El Pao in 2005, it was awfully quiet compared to my childhood and youth there. Nevertheless, it was nowhere near being a ghost town. A number of families still lived in the labor camp while a much smaller number occupied some of the houses in the administrative camp where I used to live.

The temperate climate and green jungle were still ubiquitous as always and the folks remained friendly.

But the dynamiting and the ore crushing and the shouts of miners and the freight movements — truck or train — were gone.

Visiting the Creede mining area provoked similar observations. The spectacular ruggedness which greeted the prospectors and, later, the miners, is still there beckoning hardy souls who dare to trespass; the sites of the numerous mines can be seen and, in some cases, visited; the areas where camps once thrived are there. But all is quiet, even though Creede itself has never become a ghost town to this day.

Many were the men and women who left their mark in this area. Many whose names are known to us and who-knows-how-many whose names remain unknown but to God.

This post seeks to note only a few, which, hopefully, give a glimpse of the many more whom space does not permit to mention.

It is believed that the first settler in the area around Creede and Bachelor was Tom Boggs, brother-in-law to Kit Carson; however, his interest was in fur trading, not mining. Of interest is the fact that Boggs, who was not only Carson’s brother-in-law but a good friend, was present at Carson’s death, when he uttered his last words, “Adiós, compadres [Goodbye, friends].”

Carson’s wife, Josefa, died a month before Carson in 1868, and Boggs became guardian to his children and also executor of his will. 

In learning about the Creede mining area, my attention was immediately drawn to John MacKenzie, a Canadian known as the “father of Bachelor”. He learned the prospecting and mining trade in the gold fields of Nova Scotia in the 1860s. He also successfully prospected for gold on the Essequibo in then British Guiana and also on the Caroní in Venezuela, areas now dominated by Tren de Aragua and other bands of robbers. 

MacKenzie’s health suffered in the damp, hot jungles of Venezuela and British Guiana and he returned to North America after several years. He successfully identified a number of mines in Creede including several in Bachelor, which he believed was perfectly situated for a picturesque town. His health finally gave out and he passed away in 1894. The Creede Candle reported his death:

“[He was] well known to nearly all the people of Creede camp and the mining men of the west…. He left no will …. Was unmarried and the only known relative is a brother in Halifax…. The death of Mr. MacKenzie removes one from the ranks of the old pioneers who was respected by all and held in the highest esteem as a man, a citizen, and a friend.”

Fred Ryden’s early childhood and youth were lived in Bachelor and, after Bachelor’s demise, in Creede where he still lived in 1952 when a Rocky Mountain News reporter found him and spent a day conversing and hearing his accounts of a life long since gone:

“It was the riches of the hills — the Last Chance, Bachelor, Amethyst, Commodore [mines] — that had brought the thousands there to build the stores, drink in the saloons, pray in the churches, learn in the school…. Fred Ryden went to grammar school in Bachelor, from 1893 to 1904 when his family moved down to Creede. And it was a sentimental picture to watch Fred try to find the exact spot where the old school had been. For there was nothing there now at all.”

Until relatively recently, Creede was home to families who first arrived a century before. One of these was John R. Jackson, whose grandfather, William T. Jackson, Sr., came to Creede in the 1890s during the silver boom. He and his house first made a home in a small cabin in Bachelor where he worked in the Last Chance and Amethyst Mines. Later, the family moved to Creede from where he worked the Commodore Mine. He died in his early 50s from silicosis, a common disease among miners of that era.

Jackson, Sr.’s son, “Billy” Jackson was born and spent his early childhood in Bachelor before the family moved to Creede, two and a half miles away. He too worked the mines, with a hiatus for service in WWI. He also contracted silicosis and had to resign his mining activities in the late 50s but remained in Creede, working as undersheriff and eventually as the city clerk. 

His son, John, followed his grandfather’s and father’s footsteps, working the mines, serving in WWII, and returning to the mines afterwards, eventually becoming a successful investor in the business. In the 70s he worked for the Freeport Exploration Company in Nevada as a prospector for precious metals. He retired and returned to Colorado where he wrote of the people he knew in the Creede mining camps and also wrote poetry. 

This multi-generational aspect is quite common in the mining industry. 

In my first post of this series I told about the violence in Creede and Bachelor, while mentioning that the camps were also home to decent, hard working families. One of the incidents could have been violent but was handled creatively and successfully. The account is taken from Boom Town Boy, by Edwin Lewis Bennett, as cited in Bachelor, Colorado by Charles A. Harbett:

“I saw two fights in Bachelor that spring and each was odd in its own way. 

“The first was not between men but between two women, one of them Irish and the other Cornish. They had been quarreling at each other for some time and, coming downtown that day, had run into each other and started jawing.

“Their husbands, fed up with the long feud, agreed that was the time to get it settled so they made the wives fight it out, Marquis de Queensbury, without any scratching or hair-pulling, but man style. Foster’s saloon was at the upper end of town, and the fight took place right out in front, so we had a ring-side seat. Occasionally one of the women would revert back to type and bare a claw or get a handful of hair but her husband would make her back up and start clean again, so it was a nice, respectable battle. 

“There were no rounds. The women were both fairly well padded and short-winded, and the time came when they were panting and taking wild, aimless swings at each other. As one had the makings of a good black eye and the other had a bloody nose, their husbands thought they ought to have it all out of their systems and stopped the fight. The battlers sat down on the bench in front of the saloon to rest and get their breath, and, one of them happening to mention that she had some beer on ice up at the house that might do them both good, they went there, leaving their husbands to get the groceries they originally started after. 

“After that fight each of them had one more friend than she had before and the husbands didn’t have to listen to any more name-calling.”

Children in such camps did not have difficulty finding excitement and adventure. In one example, Fred Foster recalls, he at 15 years old, and a buddy at 16 years old decided to go over the Continental Divide in the dead of winter to Spring Creek where his family had a ranch. They went by skis and it took them two days, and a mountain lion followed them part of the way. Imagine a 15-year-old and a 16-year-old setting out today to cross the Continental Divide in the dead of winter!

Similar to El Pao, both Bachelor and Creede had a Roman Catholic church and also a Protestant church, with a well attended Sunday school. 

Charles Nelson, one of the founders of Creede camp, a friend of Nicholas C. Creede and also of John C. MacKenzie, was known as an honorable and pious man. In the winter of 1890-1891, he built a cabin in Creede. “The first church services in the new camp were held in his cabin by the Reverend Sanderson of Denver in the summer of 1891. Nelson, upon hearing that there was a preacher in camp who could not find a place to preach, insisted that he use his cabin whenever he wished [cited from A Silver Camp Called Creede by Richard C. Huston].” 

After making his fortune in Creede camp mines, Nelson returned to his native Denmark where he died in 1919 after undergoing a major surgery:

“He made few enemies and many friends, to whom he was always loyal, standing by them to the finish. His death marks the passing of another one of those boom-day characters who did so much to make the state of Colorado famous. There are many old timers here yet, in the camp he helped to discover, who remember the things he did, and who will regret to learn of his death [The Creede Candle, February 21, 1920].”

The Protestant church in Bachelor at an altitude of 10,531 feet was known as the “highest church in the country”. 

To be continued.

John MacKenzie, 1838-1904

Ore house and chutes for the Commodore Mine, one of the most productive in the Creede – Bachelor mining camps. The Last Chance and Amethyst were even more productive.

Next to the Commodore Mines ore house.

Five sons further up the Bachelor Loop

Son, Jonathan. Note the ruggedly beautiful yet isolated landscape

Moose, near the Bachelor camp site

View from near Bachelor camp site

Creede: Part 1

Richard Barnes

Never underestimate the childhood experiences you offer your young ones.

Having been born in a mining (iron ore) camp, and having a father who’d take me “to the mine” and a mother who’d participate on “giras” [tours] of historical or natural wonders relatively nearby, I was not only born in what surrounded me, I was purposefully immersed in it. 

I don’t think my parents did this “intentionally” — I’ll have to ask them on Resurrection Day — but I do know they believed in the importance of gratitude. Therefore, they wanted their children to appreciate their birthplace and their heritage — in my case that would be both Venezuela and Spain as well as Massachussets and England. So as we grew up, we learned to respect, if not love, “where we came from”. 

We also learned, albeit intuitively at first, the tremendous capital — human and material — necessary to carve out a mine and camp and to provide sustainable living in the Venezuelan jungle.

So, although we never had much of an interest in engineering or prospecting or related fields, we certainly respected the immense effort and costs and sacrifices entailed in any mining operation.

Early in my career, I was in an economics conference in California where a gentleman spoke of miles of pipeline being laid from Alaska down to the 48 states. 

I do not recall exactly what his involvement in that multi-billion-dollar project was, but I do recall that he told of how he insisted his daughter accompany him on one of his trips to the project. She was in college and into all the trendy activism of the time. 

He wanted her to see the colossal efforts and investments required to enable her to turn on her blow dryer and to successfully turn on her car ignition. And the men working the required 10 to 12-hour days to make her creature comforts happen.

As I listened to him, I felt gratitude in my heart for my parents, who did similarly to that man, only my folks did not wait till I was in college to do so.

Another aspect of mining towns was the colorful nature of some of the men who worked there. This was an aspect that a child did not automatically pick up. Rather, it was something that grew inchoately over the years, in many cases long after the child had moved away from the camp and reflected on certain characters and, if lucky, was able to ask others, still living, about them. 

How many novels yet remain to be written and movies to be filmed!

So mines, any kind of mines, have always drawn my attention. I even once seriously considered accepting a position in mining operations in Senegal! Colleagues and friends advised me to wait on something like that. So decades later I was much better prepared to accept a position in Saudi Arabia.

In 1991 or thereabouts, during a family trip to Southwest Colorado, we were intrigued by a dot on the map, on the Continental Divide, that was labeled as having been a booming silver mining town in the late 19th Century. 

We decided to visit and we’ve been heading back there whenever we have an opportunity to do so, most recently after my son’s wedding last month.

To summarize, Creede is named after a man who was born around Fort Wayne, Indiana circa 1843. In infancy his family moved to Iowa territory and began farming. In his late teens he volunteered with the army and worked as a scout in cavalry campaigns against the Sioux. It was during this time that he traveled through Nebraska, Wyoming, Colorado, and other western areas. He also witnessed the discovery of gold in the Black Hills and that piqued what became his lifelong interest in prospecting.

The man’s birth name was William Harvey. After his service in the army his intention was to return to Iowa to woo a gal he knew “back home”. But he had been gone nearly a decade and upon returning he found that the girl had married his brother and was mother to a young child.

This discovery greatly rattled William Harvey, provoked him to change his name to Nicholas C. Creede, and spurred him in his resolve to become a successful prospector, which is (most of) the rest of the story.

His first strike was near Monarch Pass, on the Continental Divide in Central Colorado. He sold his strike and promptly struck another, which he also sold for a larger sum which he used to tour the areas he considered most promising and, as he went, to study and learn about prospecting and minerals. He clearly had the desire, energy, and intelligence to become a successful entrepreneur.

After several other strikes, Creede discovered what became known as the Holy Moses strike and this drew the attention of David H. Moffat, a well known financier and industrialist, one of the pioneers of Denver, Colorado. He and his partners not only leased the Holy Moses from Creede, but also partnered with him in his further prospecting. This arrangement became very lucrative for all parties and we can only imagine how encouraging this was for Nicholas C. Creede.

And this led to his greatest find: the Amethyst vein, from which several mines were developed, including the Bachelor, which we will see in later posts. The years of study, hard work, and wise dealings and associations finally rewarded Creede, as he was now a millionaire and even lived to see a town named in his honor: Creede, Colorado, sitting on the Amethyst vein. He was described as reserved, modest, and courageous.

The town of Creede was the last silver boom town in Colorado, growing from 600 inhabitants to over 10,000 by end of 1891. The boom was over by 1893; however, Creede was never a ghost town and continued to operate well into the 1960s, relying on other minerals in addition to silver.

While mining in the area was very successful, the town attracted men and women whose primary interest was to relieve the miners of their money while in turn making “easy money”. This unfortunate state of affairs — common throughout history — was, ironically, exacerbated by “reform” activities in Denver which pushed underworld characters and their businesses out of the capital onto Creede where their trades were welcome. 

So Creede (and Bachelor) were known as “having no night” and yet also had churches and, in Bachelor, even an opera house. 

If you visit the Creede Mining Museum, you will learn about Jefferson “Soapy” Smith, known as the king of the Creede underworld, whose brother-in-law happened to be the deputy sheriff. You’ll also be reminded of the notorious Robert “Bob” Ford, the murderer of outlaw Jesse James. Ford moved to Creede where he himself was murdered by Ed O’Kelley whose motive for doing so was never ascertained with certainty. O’Kelley served less than a decade in prison and, after release, moved to Oklahoma where he was killed in a shootout with a policeman.

Another resident of Creede was the famous buffalo hunter, scout, and lawman, Bartholemew William Barclay Masterson, better known as Bat Masterson. In Creede, however, Masterson ran a gambling operation while also betting on prizefighting. He eventually succeeded in journalism in New York City where he died in 1921, a few months after attending his last prize fight, where Jack Dempsey defended his heavyweight title. 

By the way, Jack Dempsey lived in Bachelor as a child. He likely learned how to fight there.

Creede’s population today is just under 300.

As for Nicholas C. Creede, he, sadly, did not marry well. He eventually moved to Los Angeles and died of an accidental morphine overdose in 1897. He suffered from chronic and severe stomach pain and took morphine frequently. The coroner ruled his death accidental, which most at the time considered a reasonable conclusion.

Creede and Bachelor are types of mining towns all over this earth as well as microcosms of society everywhere. Good, pious folks, living among genuinely bad or shady people. 

The names above are well known to us because of so many works of fiction and non-fiction, not to mention movies and television shows. Nevertheless, we must also remember that such were not the majority of these towns. They also had folks, like Mr. Creede, who were modest, reserved, courageous, and decent. 

To be continued.

Downtown Creede, Colorado

Creede, Colorado in 1892

Bachelor, Colorado, late 19th Century

Bachelor, Colorado, today

Nicholas C. Creede, c. 1843-1897

Bat Masterson, 1879-1921

Jack Dempsey, 1895-1983

Caracas To Washington On Foot: 1935-1937

Richard Barnes

“Sleeping high in a tree, they awoke to scratching sounds, as if a large animal were climbing the tree. Frightened and unable to move, they fired their weapons, and almost immediately the sound stopped. They remember spending that night awake, thinking some jungle animal was stalking them, and at dawn they saw the body of a jaguar at the base of the tree.” — Rafael Petit and Juan Carmona

A childhood friend alerted me to a FB post by Luis Waldemar Salazar recognizing the epic feat of two young men in the early part of the 20th Century. I was overwhelmed by what that short post narrated and told my friend that I would seek to confirm and, if true, I’d post about it in my blog, with proper attribution.

Well, it was not difficult to confirm as the internet has several links about this odyssey, easily translated to English. In addition, in the first decade of this century, the late Alberto Álvarez published a book about this event: “La extraordinaria hazaña de Petit y Carmona [The Extraordinary Feat of Petit and Carmona]”; however, the book is not available in Amazon or eBay and although I did find it in a bookstore in Uruguay, I finally desisted in acquiring it after several rebuffs.

Reading the several accounts and watching a brief documentary has left me in awe in the face of the determination and goodwill of these men and the utter selflessness they reflect. For example, the quote above is actually only by Petit, as Carmona had already crossed that jungle alone and, unknown to Petit, was close to losing his leg to gangrene in a Panamanian hospital. The jaguar encounter was Petit’s alone. At least on that occasion. However, during his time alone (over a month) every time he wrote a letter or made entries in his journal, he always used the plural pronoun to recognize his friend. In honor of that trait, I attributed the quote to both of them. Petit would have wanted it that way.

The original team was composed of three young men: the aforementioned two plus Jaime Roll. They embodied the cosmopolitan character of the Venezuela I remember from my childhood as Petit was Venezuelan but Carmona was a Spaniard and Roll, a Lebanese.

It appears the one who promoted this idea was Roll, almost immediately joined by Carmona. The two of them met Petit after the latter had won an 800 meter race in Caracas in 1934. Petit was known for having walked a route of about 900 miles from Maracaibo to Caracas along with two or three others (the accounts differ).

The three were members of the Boy Scouts International and desired to promote scouting in Venezuela but also to promote the recognition of Venezuela scouting abroad. They therefore decided to walk to the first Boy Scouts Jamboree to be held in Washington, D.C., in June, 1937.

With this objective having been determined, the three set off from Caracas on a cold morning on January 11, 1935.

By the time they arrived at the Simón Bolívar International Bridge which crosses the Táchira River between Colombia and Venezuela, there was trouble in the camp. They had walked 79 days and had developed some animosities and, perhaps, rivalries.

Juan Carmona separated and headed towards Bogotá alone, being the first to arrive there, the 12th of May, 1935. By the time the other two reached the capital, Carmona had already headed towards Panama. Alone. Meaning, he was determined to traverse the impassable jungles of El Chocó, now better known as Darién, alone.

In Bogotá, Jaime Roll, who had been named Expedition Chief, abandoned the quest and returned alone to Venezuela. I could not find anything else about him or his life; he seems to have fallen off the map shortly after that departure.

That left Rafael Petit alone in Bogotá. He wrote his commander in Venezuela seeking instructions. The reply was to return to Venezuela. Petit was not about to do that (which makes me wonder why he wrote in the first place!).

However, his reply is instructive as it gives us a portrait of this young man’s determination:

Until now, your advice and orders have been followed to the letter. But on this occasion, the situation is different. At stake is not only my honor, but also that of my family, my country for which I wish to achieve sporting glory, and the Boy Scouts of Venezuela, which, along with the Association of Sports Journalists of Caracas, has placed its trust in me. Therefore, if I die in this audacious undertaking, I will die willingly. Better to die with honor than to live in dishonor.

Both Carmona and Petit, with no money, and little supplies, headed alone into a jungle whose canopy’s shade creates a never-ending penumbra, like a dark cathedral, which receives about 9,000 inches of rain annually, creating miles of swamp and mud and quicksands. Not to mention the dangerous wildlife, including poisonous reptiles and stalking jaguars. That swath of jungle was one of the most hostile territories of the continent. It was forbidding even for experienced explorers. I pause in admiration as I write this.

Petit headed there about 15 days after Carmona, knowing he had to sleep high up in trees for safety and had to be alert to predators during the day as he trudged on and on and on. After numerous mishaps, including being utterly lost, he made it to Colón, Panama, at the end of August, 1935. While there he heard disquieting news: a young man had emerged from the Darién Jungle gravely ill with an infection provoked by a worm bite and the indications were that he would lose his leg. 

Petit rushed to the St. Thomas Hospital, knowing that young man had to be Carmona. It was.

They renewed their pact to walk to Washington or die trying. Carmona recovered and they continued their trek.

They walked into San José, the Costa Rican capital at 8 P.M. one night shortly before Christmas and were treated with great care and empathy. Petit came down with a severe case of malaria which delayed their onward march until March 15, 1936, when they proceeded north.

They were received by the president of Nicaragua in Managua three days later. The president provided some economic assistance which was an encouragement to the young men.

Honduras was undergoing a coup and both Carmona and Petit were arrested, their explanations being ignored and their identifications and travel documents being unread as the soldiers were illiterate. After a few days the man in charge arrived, read the documents, and released them.

Their memories of Mexico were positive overall, although they also suffered some mishaps there as well. However, what they very much appreciated was the official hospitality in Mexico City where both Boy Scout executives and government officials were solicitous towards them and admired their determination. They were official guests in Mexico City for a month of much needed rest and recovery.

Having set foot to large areas of Venezuela and having traversed Colombia, Panamá, Costa Rica, Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala, and Mexico, they finally crossed the Rio Grande from Mexico to Laredo, Texas, on the 27th of January, 1937. However, incredibly, their documents were not in order and they had to return, first to Monterrey and eventually to the Venezuelan embassy in Mexico City where the issues were resolved and they returned to Laredo.

They told of the wonderful roads in the United States which enabled them to cover plenty of ground each day. Among other events, they were greeted and feted by the governor of Texas. 

In Texas they bought a small wagon which they refurbished to facilitate the carrying of their supplies. They pulled that wagon all the way to their destination.

They set foot in Washington, D.C. the 16th of June, 1937, two years and five months after having left Caracas that cold winter day. Their feat was heralded by the Washington Post, “Venezuelan Boy Scouts Arrive in Washington After a 9,000 Mile Walk….”

They were received by the Venezuelan ambassador to the United States to whom the young men gave the Venezuelan flag, having carried it all those hard miles.

On the 30th, at the First National Boy Scouts Jamboree at the National Mall, over 27,000 scouts participated. Petit and Carmona were celebrated as living symbols of the Boy Scouts spirit. They were the only scouts who had walked to that major event. So impressive was their adventure that the president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, greeted them personally.

Pan American Airways ensured they did not have to walk back, but flew them via Mexico, Cuba, and Puerto Rico, back to Venezuela.

Someone somewhere wrote that he could not understand how this has not been made into a movie. I agree. 

Later on, Carmona explored large areas of Guayana, Venezuela, before moving to Chile, where folks lost track of him.

Petit stayed in Venezuela working to promote sports and scouting. He had almost completed a book-length manuscript of their adventures for publishing; however, sadly, it was either stolen or somehow lost, which saddened him deeply. He died prematurely at the age of 51 in Caracas.

Several extracts of the book are available including the following from his introduction:

A daring and risky journey on foot from Caracas, the capital of Venezuela, to Washington, D.C., the capital of the United States. Twenty months and five days to unite the three Americas by walking.

At the Jamboree, they greeted the amazed crowds, concluding their remarks thusly:

We, Rafael Ángel Petit and Juan Carmona, Boy Scouts from Venezuela, have walked ten thousand miles to greet you in brotherhood, to give you a round of applause in the spirit of Scout brotherhood. No jungle is impassable, no river wide or mountain high enough, no illness, thirst, or hunger can stop us from achieving the goals of citizenship and international brotherhood of the Scout Movement. All the Scouts we have met along the way join us in greeting you. We have worn out twelve pairs of boots to be with you at the first National Jamboree.

From Left: Jaime Roll, Rafael Petit, Juan Carmona, 1934, after Petit won his track event. 

Costa Rica, 1935

Pulling their wagon somewhere in the USA, 1937

In Washington D.C.

Rafael Petit and Juan Carmona

Venezuela

Richard Barnes

Good friends have asked for my reaction to the recent events of which, unless we have been living under a rock in a desert, we are all aware.

In a post a few weeks back (here) I explained why I leaned against a military intervention.

One can respectfully disagree with actions or policies taken while still honoring those who planned and executed such, which in this case were indeed a wonder to behold!

As you can see in the above link, the situation in Venezuela, for practically the entirety of the 20th Century is not as clear cut as most pundits present it. The ideological convictions of the land of my birth have been steeped in the revolutionary principles of the French Revolution, as has been the case with much of South and Central America (see here and here and here and elsewhere in this blog).

Even today, after the events of three days ago, we have conservatives friends in Venezuela who insist that the expropriations of the iron ore and petroleum industries by the Venezuelan state were fair and agreed-upon by all. That is simply not true. I was in Venezuela when the iron ore and petroleum enterprises were “nationalized”. It was robbery — they in effect paid book value, not market, and this after decades of royalties paid as agreed. But that’s what one would expect with a people imbued with French revolutionary ideology. The negative results of such actions were seen almost immediately.

But President Carter did nothing and, sadly, neither did President Ford before him when it was obvious this was going to happen. I don’t mean they should have invaded! But they could easily have negotiated on behalf of American companies with a stronger hand.

However, wittingly or not, both presidents followed Woodrow Wilson’s footsteps, abandoning United States interests while siding with revolutionaries. William F. Buckley, Sr. testified before Congress in 1919 concerning early 20th Century Mexico’s upheavals, “… the abnormal element of the present series of revolutions is the active participation in them by the American Government.”

Clearly, President Trump’s actions are the opposite of Wilson’s, Carter’s, and Ford’s. 

Related to the above, it is very important to remember that Venezuela is not a sovereign country. Over the years, throughout this blog I believe I’ve made that case abundantly clear. One book that explains this very well is La invasión consentida [The Invited Invasion]. Others include, El Delfín de Fidel, El imperio de Fidel, La conspiración de los doce golpes, and more. In addition, this blog has numerous posts that elaborate on this reality.

Ever since Chavez, Venezuela invited Cuba to take over. This is not an exaggeration. For some information see here and here. When I last visited Venezuela in 2005, the Cuban takeover was so obvious it was frightening. As Venezuelan opposition leader María Corina Machado put it: “We have already been invaded.” In addition, major inroads and influences by China, Russia, and Iran are also evident.

As for family and friends who I’ve been able to contact, they are happy but apprehensive. The shouting in Caracas since these events tells us that my family and friends are not alone. Nevertheless, they are greatly concerned with what lies ahead.

I watched the press conference Saturday and wish the president would have explained the Monroe Doctrine better. That has not been taught properly in our schools for generations now. We needed a Reagan explanation but it was greatly lacking, unfortunately. 

In summary, that doctrine advised the world that attacks, military or otherwise, against the United States via Central and/or South America would not be tolerated. It was primarily directed against European powers at the time, but ultimately against nations and empires beyond the Americas who would seek to do us harm via our neighbors. In my view, with the Venezuela action, President Trump defended that doctrine, as did President Reagan in the Grenada landing in 1983.

Nevertheless, if you take the time to read the linked posts you will see my concerns about our ability to remove an entrenched Communist political infrastructure in a large country such as Venezuela and to do so quickly. Not impossible, but certainly a highly formidable enterprise.

For example, the acting president, Delcy Rodriguez, although she has emitted conciliatory utterings, is a dyed-in-the-wool radical Communist. She is the daughter of the late Jorge Antonio Rodriguez, a leftist radical who engineered the kidnapping of William Niehous, an American executive in Caracas, in 1976. Mr. Niehous was held for over three years before his rescue. 

Delcy Rodriguez’s first executive action since taking the reins has been to unleash the Chavista “colectivos” — motorcycle-riding armed thugs — against public demonstrations celebrating the US action. Of course, Chavez disarmed the Venezuelan people two decades ago. Only the colectivos and the armed forces can carry weapons. 

Interim President Rodriguez is no stranger to revolutionary guerrilla warfare and terror. Now, multiply her by the tens of thousands and you have an idea of the difficulties ahead.

Bottom line, as difficult as it may seem, I do hope this is a Grenada situation and not another Iraq! But we also must be sure to not let the Venezuelan people high and dry as we’ve sadly done to others too often during the Cold War. In the case of Grenada — a much, much smaller country to be sure! — our troops landed on October 25, 1983, and our last remaining troops were withdrawn in December, 1984, when elections were held and all Cuban Communists were gone.

By the way, October 25 is a public holiday in Grenada. It is called, Thanksgiving Day. 

To be clear, I still wish we had not intervened militarily even though I grant that there are complexities.

One thing we can be united in doing is to pray for the Venezuelan people and to pray for wisdom and grace for President Trump and his administration as he deals with this situation.

Operation Urgent Fury, Grenada, October 25, 1983

US Soldiers Guard Cuban Nationals in Grenada during Operation Urgent Fury, October, 1983

Several of the 1,600 plus medical students kissed the ground upon arrival in the United States after their rescue from Grenada

Over 1,600 American students returned home

We will learn more about the Venezuela operation in the days ahead. We do know that critical military installations were disabled. 

Home For Christmas

Richard Barnes

In past letters or posts I’ve referred to a family reunion that took place shortly before Christmas in 2006. For that occasion we compiled a video, of which we made DVDs along with soundtrack CDs to give to each of us to take home as a memento.

One of the selections is the Coplandesque “Short Trip Home”, composed by Edgar Myer and performed by a classical and bluegrass quartet: violin, bass, mandolin, and guitar. I know it doesn’t sound promising, but check the YouTube link below (if you are reading this on the blog) and decide for yourself after giving it a hearing.

My son and I picked this selection to play as the DVD displayed a 1972 family photo, which served as the basis for the reunion. We had the piece reprise towards the end. Our extended family has had a good balance of the country and the city, the folk and the highbrow. In our view the piece embraces that balance and is a fitting background to those of us in that picture throughout our lives.

Unfortunately the topic of home and Christmas has become so gooey as to have lost all meaningful significance. In other words, listening to Glenn Campbell’s rendition of Sammy Cahn’s “There’s No Place Like Home” misses the mark by a mile, in my opinion. “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” is better, but not by much.

Each of these songs and others like them aim for sentiment, which has its place, of course. It’s not that I don’t like the songs; it’s simply that home means so much more to me and these songs don’t touch the outskirts of that meaning.

When I was a kid, I’d often hear my mother tell me to “remember whose you are”.  By that she meant both God and family, or home. Regretfully, I did not always remember. However, that admonition left a mark on me. And it’s obvious that many of our parents said similar things to my cousins and other loved ones because they all seemed to have an idea of their duty to what has gone before.

About 12 years ago, looking for a grocery store in a foreign land, I drove by a large intersection, one corner of which had large plastic bags before which sat a woman with 4 or 5 small children, all begging. I had been warned not to stop when I saw such a sight, for it could be dangerous to do so; that if I wanted to give, there were other means available. I did pray for her and the children and gave elsewhere. 

However that sight immediately hit me: why was I not born in such a place and in such circumstances? Indeed, why was I not born, say, in a tribe in 1420 in what we know as Mexico, easy prey to the cannibalistic Aztecs? When we pause for just a moment to think on such matters, if we are honest, we cannot but marvel at the Lord’s sovereign care for us and our duty to Him and to others. Properly understood, this ought to humble us and to inspire us to eternal gratitude.

My grandfather was born in Massachussets, my father, in Cuba. My mother was born in Venezuela as were her ancestors. But their heritage was Christian. The title of my blog is The Pull of The Land and most of my posts have to do with the land of my birth, Venezuela.

However, when I’ve traveled to Spain or to England, I have sensed the pull there also. Unmistakably. I very much enjoyed my visits to other lands and wish I could visit them again. However, if given the choice (besides Venezuela) I’d vote for Spain or England. The pull is that strong.

And if you pause to consider your own home and your own background, I daresay you also sense that pull. I believe the Lord puts that pull in us all. Once again, I agree with Whittaker Chambers: “No land has a pull on a man as the land of his childhood.”

In my view, the source of such a calling to one’s roots is simple gratitude.

Gratitude to the Lord for having given you your parents and those who went before; your culture and background; your experiences; and most of all your Christianity, which can only come through faith by God’s grace through Jesus Christ, the Second Person of The Trinity incarnated on that first Christmas a couple of millennia ago.

It’s all a gift. And home ought to bring forth that recognition and the accompanying gratitude. Even if your childhood was not a happy one, you can still be grateful. Reading Whittaker Chambers’s powerful autobiography, Witness, you readily see that his childhood was not a rosy one. Yet he was a grateful man.

Going back to that 1972 reunion, the DVD and CD closed with John Rutter’s arrangement of “The Lord Bless You and Keep You”. This hymn was sung at the conclusion of each worship service, every Sunday, year after year, at the Community Church where Aunt Sarah would take us whenever we were in Miami with her. 

We are fully persuaded that the Lord has indeed been good to us. He, the only Constant in life and eternity, adds delight and joy to our lives as we seek to please Him.

We are well; grateful for decent health which enables us to continue to visit with one another throughout the year and hopeful we can continue doing so throughout next year as well. 

And grateful to old friends, including our parents’ friends, who continue to challenge us to do good.

Our family wishes yours a Very Merry Christmas and a prosperous 2026.

Family get-together, December, 1972

Short Trip Home

The four siblings with our Cousin Janis, March, 2025, after Cousin Vivian’s burial

With the grandchildren, summer, 2025