Christmas Memories and The Pull of the Land

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!

Cousins in Miami, Christmastime, 1954
Christmastime in El Pao, 1956
Christmas in El Pao, circa 1960
Cousins in Miami circa 1960
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.

Rome’s Bad Boy

December 13 was this year’s third Sunday of Advent, which traditionally focuses on the joy of Christmas. Joy and its variants are seen throughout the Bible but one of the best known passages is in St. Paul’s epistle to the Philippians wherein he writes, “Rejoice in the Lord alway: and again I say, rejoice!” He wrote that as a prisoner in Rome awaiting an appearance before Nero, a man not known for his tender mercies. St. Paul made it clear that true joy is not dependent on circumstances or material goods but on the Person of Jesus Christ.

Thinking about this brought to mind a 2014 cover story in National Geographic: “Rome’s Bad Boy: Nero Rises From the Ashes.” The cover is a photo of the majestic statue erected in his home town, Anzio in 2010.

As a child in Venezuela, I’d hear adults say something along the lines of, “Más malo que Nerón,” [“More wicked than Nero”]. I never imagined I’d grow up to hear learned individuals defend Nero. But even that is nothing new under the sun. After all, the ancient prophet warns, “Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter.” 

What follows is a letter I wrote my family shortly after reading the article while away on a business trip in 2014.

Dear Family:

T.S. Eliot famously said that those who deny God will pay their respects to Hitler or Stalin. And as we put God farther from our thoughts, we will surely fall for attempts to rehabilitate monsters. Especially explicitly anti-Christian monsters.

The then-Mayor of Anzio, Luciano Bruschini, commissioned the statue [on the National Geographic cover]. He says, “As children, we were taught that he was evil – among the worst emperors of all. Doing a little research, I came to conclude that it’s not true. I consider Nero to be a good, even great emperor, and maybe the most beloved of the entire empire. He was a great reformer. The senators were rich, and they owned slaves. He took from them and gave to the poor. He was the first socialist!” 

Of course, you will be shocked! shocked! to know that Mayor Bruschini is also a socialist.

As you might recall, Nero was considered by many in the apostolic and post apostolic era to be the Beast described in the book of Revelation. Such interpretation largely fell into disuse in succeeding centuries and some now even consider it to be heresy, because such a reading would deny the futuristic view of Revelation so prevalent today.

Without entering into an eschatological argument … we ought to at least consider why so many through the ages have thought Nero to have been that beast (recognizing that the epithet applies to an individual as well as to a kingdom, depending on the context).

What follows is not an analysis of the article; were it that, I’d begin with the wording of the title itself: Nero as “bad boy.” That sort of removes the sting of “beast” or “monster,” and conjures up some sort of Roman Dennis the Menace. My intent is not so much to analyze as it is to caution.

Since some of Nero’s most egregious acts are a matter of record, the article does note them: kicked his pregnant wife to death; murdered his mother after committing incest with her; murdered his brother; ordered his mentor, Seneca, to commit suicide; burned Christians alive, using their bodies to light his gardens, and blamed them for the great fire in Rome, which enabled him to embark on an enormous building program for himself. (Since Mayor Bruschini noted that the senators owned slaves, we will also helpfully note that one of Nero’s pastimes was dressing up as a lion, molesting slaves who were tied up, and then slaughtering them. That was not in the article.)

As horrible as that litany is, by placing it at the beginning of the cover story and then going on about the great things Nero did and his good intentions and his rich enemies in the Senate, and framing his reign within the tiresome class warfare Marxist doctrine (Nero was for the poor, you see) and quoting professors and mayors and sundry apologists, by the time you get to the end of the article, unless you are imbued with a Christian worldview, you’ll be sort of nodding in some agreement: he wasn’t so bad after all. Or as the author of a Nero biography put it, “…even today he would be avant-garde, ahead of his time.”

Not only that, although the article notes that other emperors were also bad, the only one contrasted with Nero is the Christian emperor, Constantine, sarcastically identified as “a saint”. And you’ll read that he had “his son, second wife, and father-in-law all murdered.” So typical of modernists; always seeking to cry, “Aha! Tu quoque!:” an effective red herring to the unaware. However, Constantine, unlike Nero, did not stomp his pregnant wife to death and the deaths noted above were executions, although there is considerable debate as to the reasons. Regardless, the whole tenor of the life of Constantine was poles opposite to Nero’s. But you’d have to look that up on your own.

Again, unless you are steeled with Scripture and a strong Christian weltanschauung, you’ll fall like the foolish moonstruck maiden for the smooth talking rake that alienates her affections from God and home. Likewise, these godless twits seek to alienate your affection from Christ and the historic faith.

A subversive technique cleverly employed in the article is to draw equivalence between its readers’ pleasures in life and the pleasures enjoyed by people-like-us in Nero’s Rome. So you’ll see photos of “Roman revelry” today: a couple about to start slobbering over each other; an 81-year old has-been actress showing off her leg; a crowd of partying, smug-faced (not one bright smile in the lot) high-society 70-year-olds doing their downright best to look like Burberry models. Life under Nero wasn’t all that different from today! And we all behave like that too, anyway. So what’s the big deal? 

And you’ll read about Nero’s love of art and music and great building programs and how they began to be re-discovered in the Renaissance (so-called) and how such discoveries continue on today. Including documented evidence of a statue, almost as high as the Statue of Liberty, Nero erected to himself standing midst his palace grounds but which could be seen from all directions at great distances. Since he considered himself to be a god, the sculpture denoted the rays of the sun on his head, as do some extant coins from that era.

And you’ll read about how he just luuuved the people; and the people just luuuved him back.

Yes, boys and girls, it is lamentable that a “ruler of such baffling complexity was now simply a beast.” A “public relations man ahead of his time with a shrewd understanding of what the people wanted, often before they knew it themselves [emphasis mine]” is reduced to just being a monster. His reign was “warless.”  He gave us “Neronia – Olympic-style poetry, music, and athletic contests.” He “created something no one had seen before: a light-flooded public place not just for hygiene [don’t you love that? ‘not just for hygiene’!] but also where there were statues and paintings and books, where you could hang out and listen to someone read poetry aloud. It meant an entirely new social situation.”

“In addition to the Gymnasium Neronis, the young emperor’s public building works included an amphitheater, a meat market, and a proposed canal that would connect Naples to Rome’s seaport at Ostia … to ensure safe passage of the city’s food supply….”

We are now privileged to discover “the full architectural greatness of Nero’s reign.” The inscription at the statue at Anzio says, “During his reign the empire enjoyed a period of peace, of great splendor, and of important reforms.”

I guess we plebes should have focused on all that, and not on the guy’s fruits which are seen in his deplorable actions and resultant lakes of innocent blood. Poor Nero; no one really understands him. My heart breaks.

The Bible warns us to beware of men whom every one praises, for example, the pharisees. Did not Herod die horribly for receiving praise that belongs only to God? The history of the world is littered with men and women, “loved by the people” but who played God. They had one thing in common: they hated Christianity. And they’re dead. And those today — high and low, known and unknown, famous and obscure — who hate likewise, will eventually be so too. And that, forever.

A funny thing about character is that it will out on what you do. Nero initiated a horrible persecution of Christians in November, AD 64. Vast numbers were murdered, most by horrible means. The numbers were so great, that even Roman chroniclers, who also despised Christians, nevertheless felt compelled to record the vastness of the slaughter. Of course, both Peter and Paul were put to death by Nero. At least one Roman historian specifically called Nero ‘a beast’.

But people kept bringing flowers to his tomb for months and years. He was greatly mourned and lamented. Many believed, and hoped, he would return from the dead. As the article puts it, “…the persistent belief that the boy king would one day return to the people who so loved him.”

The article documents his great power; his great glory; his “godlike” characteristics; his vast riches; his power to give or take life; the belief by many that he’d rise from the dead. And it also cannot help but mention or allude to his beastly cruelty; his hatred of Christ and Christians; and more. Clearly a host of his contemporaries thought very highly of the guy, and many, including him, thought him to be a god. And now we see that many today seem to think likewise!

Some things never change.

Your loving father,

Dad

The September, 2014 National Geographic 
Nero’s fruits

Rosa

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.

Rosa was not glamorous. But to get an idea of what she looked like, you could see Gale Sondergaard and imagine her without the makeup and dressed plainly.
For an “idea” of José, shave off about 40 pounds from Al Lettieri, dress him in rough khakis, and soften his features a tad.

Yellow Fever and Juragua Iron Mines vs The United States: Trust the Experts

The prior post (The 1964 World Series) alluded to how baseball was “watched” in the mining camp in Cuba in the early 20th century. 

Few might know that the American camp had been completely burned by order of General Nelson A. Miles in 1898. 

This destruction became a court case between the Bethlehem Steel Company, represented by her subsidiary, Juragua Iron Mines, and the United States Government. The case went all the way to the United States Supreme Court and was decided in 1909.

The Spanish American War was one of the more momentous events in United States history. At the end of this conflict, the United States found itself with a far flung empire, albeit nothing approaching the extent or the depth of the British. Nonetheless, we now not only had protectorates in the Caribbean, we also had temporary sovereignty over the Philippines, comprised of some 7,000 islands in the Pacific. Granted: these were all temporary arrangements. However, whether pro or con, we would be less than honest if we did not admit that we as a country have not looked back since.

So, despite the war’s short duration, April to August, 1898, it was epoch-making.

In late June, American forces landed in Daiquirí and Siboney, towns situated about 2 miles apart on Cuba’s southern shores. The intent was to launch an attack on the major city of Santiago, about 14 miles east. The landing was not well executed as is suggested by a soldier’s journal:

“The horses and mules were jumped overboard from a half to a quarter mile off shore — depending upon the skipper’s digestion or his judgment — and then swam. Horses by the hundred were drowned.”

Some of the battles and campaigns were heroic, with gallantry shown on both sides.

For example, on July 1, the Americans attacked El Caney, on the outskirts of Santiago. Up to that battle, their opinion of Spanish gallantry and courage was not high, to put it charitably. They expected the Spaniards to hightail it off the hill and scamper into Santiago.

But they did not count on Spanish Brigadier General Joaquín Vara de Rey. His duty was to hold El Caney. He had no artillery, and was outnumbered 12:1. But with his 550 men, including 2 of his sons, he defended El Caney for 10 hours against the U. S. Army of 12,000 men who were far better armed. The battle raged on even after Vara de Rey was mortally wounded. His sons were already dead. The fighting was not over until 5:00 P.M. The Spanish force retreated only when it had been reduced to 84 men.

This battle proved that if properly led, the Spanish were no pushovers. Vara de Rey achieved his objective: he kept the Americans from taking Santiago, at least in his lifetime. The U. S. troops were so impressed that they buried Vara de Rey with full military honors. Spain awarded him posthumously her highest honor, the Laureate Cross of Saint Ferdinand. 

But our focus today is not on the history of the war itself, but rather on one of its events which directly related to the Bethlehem Steel Company.

To better understand the event and its sequel, we need to review, briefly, one of earth’s more frightening plagues.

Yellow fever was one of the world’s great tropical endemics. For centuries it was not known why it was prevalent in the tropical but not in the north or south temperate zones, although it sometimes flared in some of those areas as well. 

As was learned in the 20th century, yellow fever is caused by a flavivirus, which infects humans, monkeys, and some other small mammals. The virus is transmitted from animals to humans and among humans by several species of mosquitoes. The course of the disease is frightening: sudden fever, headache, backache, nausea, vomiting, and death — in up to 20% of the cases. The liver is attacked resulting in jaundice which causes the skin and eyes to appear yellow.

Although there have not been any vast outbreaks as had been seen in the 19th and earlier centuries, several areas in the late 20th century did experience yellow fever bouts, mostly due to carelessness in mosquito control, especially in areas with large monkey populations, which act as “vast natural reservoirs” holding the virus.

But none of this was known at the outbreak of the Spanish American War, although Americans were well aware of the devastation caused by the fever. In the 1790’s the fever shut down the federal government in Philadelphia, the country’s capital at the time. Nearly 10% of the city’s population died.

That would be the equivalent of 150,000 people in today’s Philadelphia.

The deadliest outbreak hit the country in 1878, killing up to 20,000 Americans in the lower Mississippi Valley, including major cities like St. Louis, Memphis, and New Orleans. Memphis lost about 5,000 people out of a population of 48,000, or over 10% of its inhabitants.

That would be the equivalent of about 65,000 deaths in Memphis today. 

For perspective, that’s twice the number of COVID deaths in the state of New York, the state with the highest number of such deaths, most of which were elderly with comorbidities or in nursing homes. Yellow fever attacks and kills all ages, with or without comorbidities.

As a side note: until very recently, the traditional definitions of endemic, pandemic, and epidemic, included enormous numbers of, or widespread, “deaths”. That has been removed from the more recent definitions. Now, a disease can be called a pandemic merely if many people are “affected”, however that may be defined. I am sure the reader has noticed that, with the current virus, where the world shut down based on frightening estimates of millions and millions of deaths, including 2.2 million deaths in the United States alone, we are now all focused on “cases“. We now seem to be in a “casedemic” as opposed to a pandemic.

But back to our story.

No one could explain the cause of yellow fever or how it spread.

By the time Walter Reed came on the medical scene, most medical researchers believed yellow fever was caused by bacteria in fomites, or objects that are likely to carry infection, in particular things which may have been soiled with human blood and/or excrement. But despite decades of research, no evidence supported this theory. Some thought the fever resulted from drinking river water. However, Reed disproved this hypothesis by demonstrating that enlisted men and civilians near the Potomac River did not contract the fever when they drank the water.

However, he did note that men who had a habit of walking through swampy trails at night did get infected, while those who did not take those walks escaped the disease.

About the time of the war, Reed had been reading the papers of the distinguished Cuban physician, Carlos Finlay, written some 20 years earlier. Dr. Finlay had theorized the transmission of yellow fever by insect bite, but had been unable to prove his hypothesis. He was roundly ridiculed by all the right people. But Reed was intrigued. He  travelled to Cuba at the end of the war, in 1898, commissioned to study diseases in the U. S. Army encampments during the war, typhoid fever in particular. He and his colleagues proved that contact with fecal matter and food or drink contaminated by flies caused that epidemic. The disease was quickly controlled by the implementation of sanitary measures.

In 1900, he returned to Cuba to examine tropical diseases, including yellow fever. It was during this assignment that he and his colleagues proved and confirmed the transmission by mosquitoes. This was done using volunteers who were fully informed of the risks. One of the primary researchers, Dr. Jesse William Lazear, infected himself purposefully and did not survive. The isolation camp set up to continue the research was named Camp Lazear. 

The confirmation of Dr. Finlay’s theory was a great advancement in medicine and towards the prevention of yellow  fever around the world, saving thousands of lives every year. A few years later, from 1903 onwards, this knowledge served to greatly reduce the incidence of yellow fever in Panama during the American construction of the canal. Prior to this, about 10% of the workforce had died each year from malaria and yellow fever. And a quarter century earlier, the French had resigned from building it, having lost thousands of lives due to mosquito-borne illnesses.

True to form, the Washington Post ridiculed Reed’s presentation of his findings thusly in 1900:

“Of all the silly and nonsensical rigmarole about yellow fever that has yet found its way into print — and there has been enough of it to load a fleet — the silliest beyond compare is to be found in the arguments and theories engendered by the mosquito hypothesis.”

The Post mocked that which differed from the reigning Zeitgeist. At least they reported it.

Reed was nevertheless allowed to keep pressing his case and eventually prevailed. Although he received much of the credit, he was always up front and vocal in crediting Carlos Finlay with the discovery of the vector. Reed often cited Finlay’s papers in his own articles and speeches and his personal correspondence.

In November, 1902, Reed’s appendix ruptured. He died on November 22 of that year at age 51.

Now, with that background, we return to Siboney and Daiquirí in July, 1898, a mere two years before Reed’s work. American soldiers were succumbing to yellow fever. The army’s public health expert determined that the source of the fever was in “the buildings occupied as hospitals, dwellings, and offices in Siboney.” 

The Cuban physicians who were assisting the Americans were adamant that the source was not in the buildings. But the Americans would not accept that assurance even though it came from people on the ground who had dealt with this disease far longer than they.

It was at this point that General Miles made his fateful decree: the destruction of the town of Siboney. “In thus destroying this dirty little town, we were, at least, sure of limiting the number of new cases about us ….” The buildings were burned or otherwise destroyed on the 12th of July, including property belonging to the American company, Juragua Iron Mines.

Of course, deaths did not decrease but rather increased as the fever continued to develop rapidly and overwhelm the medical resources.

Juragua sued the United States government for damages in the form of the cost of rebuilding their destroyed property.

In 1909, the United States Supreme Court ruled against the company because Cuba was technically the enemy, regardless of the fact that many Cubans fought alongside the Americans, not to mention that Juragua was an American company and their buildings, occupied by Americans. They were deemed to be enemies as well given that they were in enemy territory: “…. all persons residing in Cuba … were to be deemed enemies … including citizens of the United States there … doing business.”

Citing another case from 1887, the court declared, in a statement that would have appalled Patrick Henry, “The safety of the state in such cases overrides all consideration of private loss.” We had come a long way from 1776.

This ruling overruled the fact that the actions by the United States Army, obeying the order by General Miles, did not reduce the yellow fever decimating its forces. In fact, with eerily familiar language, the ruling stated that this was done “…. for the purpose of protecting health and lives ….” and “…. deemed necessary by the officers in command … to protect the health … and to prevent the spread of disease ….”

It did no such thing, of course. In reading the ruling, it becomes clear that the government, at least in this case, will not admit wrong, even in 1909, years after the discovery of the true vector of that epidemic. Even with testimony noting that the local physicians insisted this was not necessary nor would it work. And they were proved right.

So if other doctors disagree with the “correct” doctors, the other doctors must be considered wrong, even though they are right.

Some things never change.

My paternal grandfather, Max Albert Barnes, in Santiago, Cuba, circa 1898.
Americans and their horses arrive in Siboney in June 1898. Hundreds of mules and horses drowned.
Americans land at Daiquirí, where my father was born 19 years later. Daiquirí is about 3 miles from Siboney. The Americans quickly achieved control over the entire Daiquirí and Siboney area.
Burning of Siboney
Walter Reed circa 1900.
Carlos Finlay, Cuban Medical Doctor credited for theorizing the transmission of Yellow Fever by insect bite. This was proved 20 years later by Walter Reed who always gave credit to Finlay.
Named for Dr. Jesse William Lazear who died in becoming “Guinea Pig #!” for testing the theory of mosquito transmission.
Staff housing. These and other office and mining buildings were rebuilt, at company cost, after the burning of Siboney
Juragua Iron Mines buildings near mines, Daiquirí, Cuba
Juragua Iron Mines offices, circa 1914
Juragua Iron Mines, recreation club (left). This is where my father and his friends would come to “watch” baseball games on the manual scoreboard as told in the prior post (World Series 1964)
Juragua Iron Mines hospital, 1914

1964: Anne, The Beatles, and Beethoven; Bob Gibson and Whitey Ford — Part II: The 1964 World Series

In my earlier post “Fernando, Sears, The Yankees, and The Beatles” (here) I told of Fernando’s being a Yankees’ fan as a kid and how he and his childhood friends would run to Sears in Coral Gables to see the prior night’s baseball scores and stats. He was also a Beatles fan and would run to Sears to see where the group’s songs were on the Hit Parade.

Thinking about Fernando, led me to my childhood friend, Anne. In my prior post (here), I told of her enthusiasm for The Beatles in 1964. At the club one day that summer, she had rushed me to the shortwave radio to listen to them. 

In stream of consciousness fashion, thinking about Fernando and Anne, reminded me about the shortwave radio which reminded me of my father, who would tell us about his own childhood in Cuba where he and his friends would spend hours in the mining camp club during the baseball season to see the scoreboard of the Yankees’ games. The bartender would receive information by telegraph at the end of each inning and would walk to the board and chalk in the runs for the inning. The kids would whoop and holler whenever he’d chalk in a Yankees’ run, and groan with loud disappointment and exasperation when he’d chalk in a run for the opposing team.

With no radio, and certainly no TV, that is how they “watched” baseball in his childhood in Cuba.

By the time of my childhood, mining clubs had shortwave radios which broadcast the ball games. And, in 1964, the Big One was that year’s World Series.

The radio and also the television play by play was shared between Joe Garagiola and Phil Rizzuto in New York and Curt Gowdy and Harry Caray in St. Louis. However, in El Pao, we heard the play by play in Spanish and, unfortunately, I do not know who did so nor have I been able find it out. If a reader knows, I would very much appreciate hearing from you.

I do remember it was very colorful. One of the most memorable lines was in Game 7, when Tom Tresh came up to bat and for some reason decided to swing at a very high pitch. The Spanish broadcaster yelled out, “Estaba tumbando piñata!” [He was striking a piñata!]. The image that expression evoked is still fresh in my mind today, over 50 years later.

There were many great names of the baseball pantheon in that series: Yogi Berra, Curt Floyd, Roger Maris, Lou Brock, Mickey Mantle and more. Lesser names, but nonetheless memorable, included MVP brothers on opposing teams: Ken and Clete Boyer, for the Cardinals and Yankees, respectively. 

In the case of Mickey Mantle, this turned out to be his last World Series. By the end of it, he had played in 12, of which the Yankees had won 7.

In that year, Mantle capped his World Series career with a performance for the record books, including a Game Three, bottom of the ninth, game-winning walk-off home run. The fifth in World Series history at the time and the only one in Mantle’s storied career. It was a Mickey Mantle home run: a low pitch, met by the “Mantle turn”, driven deep, towering and majestic, into right field, well into the third deck of Yankee Stadium. The game was won with one swing of his bat. He ended the series with a .333 average, three home runs, and eight RBIs.

Mantle is still in the record books with the second most at bats — 230 (second only to his teammate, Yogi Berra, with 259), the most base on balls — 43 (Babe Ruth is second, with 33), most extra base hits — 26 (no one comes close), second most hits — 59 (second to his teammate, Yogi Berra with 71), second most World Series games — 65 (second to his teammate, Yogi Berra, with 75), and most home runs in World Series history — 18 (followed by Babe Ruth, with 15). He is highest or second highest in runs scored, RBI’s, and total bases. The only switch hitter to have won the Triple Crown, Mantle’s is a truly great record.

But by the 1964 series, Mickey Mantle was injury-plagued. The St. Louis Cardinals knew it and they strategically decided to run against him, stretching singles into doubles and doubles into triples or home runs.

Another performance for the ages was Lou Brock’s. In what turned out to have been the best trade in Cardinals history, and the worst in Cubs history, Brock was traded by the Cubs to the Cardinals in 1964. That awakened the then fading Cardinals and spurred them on to overtake the Phillies and win the National League pennant. He was one of the best hitters and base stealers in baseball history. And, much to my chagrin, he displayed his hitting prowess with painful effectiveness in the 1964 World Series. Painful to me, that is!

Lou Brock played in three World Series and his adjusted OPS (“On Base Slugging” score) for the World Series was fourth best of all time, just behind Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Reggie Jackson (“Mr. October”). In other words, although Brock was a Hall of Famer for his overall performance, he really turned on the juice in the World Series. For comparison, Mickey Mantle is not in the OPS stats for World Series play, but is in 7th place in all-time adjusted OPS career leaders, whereas Brock is not in the top twenty. 

But what a World Series performer! A World Series batting average of .391, with multi hits in 12 of his 21 World Series games, including two hits in Game 7 of the 1964 Series. He is tied, with Mickey Mantle and Eddie Collins, for 11th most all-time series multi hits games. Incredibly, Brock is tied with Eddie Collins for most stolen bases in World Series history: 14. But he did not attempt to steal a base in the 1964 Series! He stole 7 bases in 1967 and 7 more in 1968. No one else has stolen 7 bases in a World Series. As for 1964, Brock let Tim McCarver and Mike Shannon do the stealing. That was enough to defeat my team.

Nevertheless, to me, the most memorable players (besides Mickey Mantle, Lou Brock, and Tresh’s Piñata swing, that is) were Whitey Ford and Bob Gibson.

In the case of Whitey Ford, I couldn’t figure out or understand why he only played in Game One, and lost. It was many years later that I realized that he had been playing that whole season in great pain. But I did not know that nor did I think of asking my father about it. Whitey Ford was considered the archetypical Yankee: clean cut, decent, fair. Deceptively fair, that is. Meaning that just because he was fair, that did not mean he’d let you hit his pitches. 

His baseball career spanned 16 years, all with the New York Yankees. He is tied for first place for starting pitchers with the most World Series titles (6), is the all-time leader in World Series starts (22), innings pitched (146), strikeouts (94) and wins (10). In 1960 he threw 283 innings without allowing a single stolen base. Still a record.

In 1961, he won both the Cy Young and the MVP awards. The Cy Young award was introduced in 1956; many baseball connoisseurs believe he would have won easily in earlier seasons, making him a multiple Cy Young winner.  But to us kids, he just seemed like an all-around, likable, nice guy. A nice guy who did not finish last. He was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1974 with a career ERA of 2.745, in the top 100 of all time. He is the 4th winningest pitcher of all time, with a winning percentage of .6901. Ford demonstrates that a pitcher can be very successful even without a powerful fastball. The 1964 World Series was to have been his last. 

And he remained unseen after Game One. As a kid, that bothered and saddened me to no end.  I rooted for him until injuries finally had their way, forcing his retirement three years later, in 1967.

And then there was Bob Gibson. He pitched three games in that series: 8 innings in Game 2, which he lost against Mel Stottlemyer, 10 innings in Game 5 where he remained on the mound till the very end, picking up the win, and all 9 innings of Game 7, when I kept wishing he’d be too tired to pitch that day.

This man was a machine and even over the radio, he provoked fear. Which helps explain his being in thirteenth place with the most shutouts in baseball history. He had a 17-year career, all with the St. Louis Cardinals. A two-time World Series champion and two-time Cy Young Award winner, Bob Gibson was a fierce competitor on that mound, yet a kind, approachable individual when off the field. He was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1981, his first year of eligibility.

I remember watching him pitch against the Boston Red Sox in 1967. I wanted the Sox to win because they were in  the American League, which was the closest I could get to the then perpetually slumping Yankees. But I could not help but admire that powerful pitcher with the opposite side “kick” to his pitch. And there he was again, on the mound, in the last inning of the last game, picking up yet another seventh game win. He was something to behold.

Between them, they won 17 World Series games. Ford won a record-setting 10 games, but lost 8; Gibson won 7, and lost 2. Ford’s World Series ERA was 2.71 to Gibson’s 1.89. Ford’s ERA was 1.98 before his injury-plagued 1964 performance. His 10 games won record still stands. Gibson’s is in second place, tied with two other pitchers.

That year, 1964, marked the end of the Yankee dynasty. They would not play in another series till 1976, and that team was a shadow of their days of glory, in my opinion. They’ve not been the same since.

The Cardinals went on to play in the 1967 and the 1968 World Series, with Gibson pitching and Brock stealing in both. They won in 1967 on the 7th game against the Boston Red Sox and lost in 1968 on the 7th game against the Detroit Tigers. Both were exciting series, which I was able to see on television in Miami, Florida. But, to me, neither came close to the exhilarating thrill of the 1964 event.

Mickey Mantle passed away on August 13, 1995. He had returned to his childhood faith, expressing genuine repentance for his years of hard drinking and hard living. He considered himself to be a “reverse role-model”: “Don’t be like me,” he said. Whitey Ford was one of his pallbearers.

Lou Brock passed away on September 6, 2020. Roughly a month later, both Bob Gibson and Whitey Ford died on October 2 and October 8, respectively. 

At the time of his death, Whitey Ford (91) was the second oldest living member of Baseball’s Hall of Fame. 

I guess I’ll always remember the World Series of 1964.

My father did not have pictures of the scoreboard from his Cuba mining camp club. But the above is a photo from a pool hall scoreboard from my father’s era (early 20th century). The kids would sit around, waiting and anticipating someone to come up and chalk in the results of each inning. With no radio and certainly no TV, that is how they watched baseball in his area of Cuba.
View of staff cottages in mining camp in Cuba, circa 1916, a year before my father’s birth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPWUFDoxAiE
Mickey Mantle’s is at about the 2-minute mark
Intimidating and effective. I used to not want him to show up because I just “knew” he’d win. But then I’d be mesmerized, along with millions of other baseball fans.
Deceptively smooth. But his pitches were so easy to miss.
Ford in his rookie year, being congratulated by Joe DiMaggio (left) and Gene Woodling for a six-hit shut out, vaulting the Yankees into first place.
Lou Brock, known as “Stolen Base Specialist”. He had an infectious smile and his exuberance was contagious.
Known as “The Perfect Baseball Player”, Mickey Mantle was a powerful switch hitter. His hard drinking and other shenanigans shortened his career for which he expressed genuine, heartfelt regret later in life.
Although this post does not quote nor use this book as a source, I mention it because it is well regarded. I do have my quibbles with it, however.  To me, it seemed Halberstam had an axe to grind, wanting to use this series as a sort of paradigm for racial issues in America. I found that unconvincing and distracting and, by the last page, I wished he had told us more about the series itself. Nevertheless, a good, easy read for baseball fans.