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.
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
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.
She had come home for the summer. Her mother had told my mother that she was all aflutter about a band that only sang, “Yeah, Yeah, and Yeah”. I remember hearing my mother’s laughter.
I had promptly forgotten about it until, a few days later, at the club.
I was in the club’s main hall doing I-don’t-know-what, when Anne came running from the pool tables area where the short wave radio sat and called out, “Ricky! Come! You’ve got to hear The Beatles!”
Now, to give some context, no one in El Pao had a television set in that era; we saw our TV when we either visited Caracas or the USA. To give an idea of our sliver of acquaintance with American pop music back then, consider the club jukebox. It was built into the south wall, poolside, and enclosed by a sheer, transparent glass door through which its many records could be plainly seen as the gentle mechanism pulled one disc to replace it with another. As I learned to appreciate later in life, our jukebox fare was most unusual in my early childhood. You could hear Debussy’s Clair de Lune and other such classical or easy listening pieces, not to mention Christmas hymns and songs during the joyous season. By the mid-1960’s or shortly thereafter, the jukebox contents had been replaced by more of a Venezuelan, interspersed with American, pop fare.
My point is that I heard American pop music only when I visited Miami or New York or when my cousins would come down to Venezuela to visit us and happened to bring “The Bristol Stomp” or “The Twist”. For example, when I was about 6 or 7, I was in a New York City restaurant with my parents. The violinist who was playing from table to table, came to ours and asked me what I would like to hear. I said, “Three Coins in A Fountain.” He was floored. Nevertheless, after he made the other patrons laugh by saying he expected me to have asked for “Pop Goes the Weasel” or some contemporary pop, he played my request beautifully. He was a very jovial character.
It wasn’t that I had any hankering for that Sammy Cahn song. It’s that I was not expecting to be asked for a song and so just thought of one of the records we would hear in El Pao.
So, at that time, to me, The Beatles was nothing more than a bunch of bugs. Misspelled.
I must not have been very much engrossed in whatever I was doing because, like a sheep led to the slaughter, I nodded and let Anne swoosh me to the radio.
The sound of whatever the song was (“I Want To Hold Your Hand”? “Can’t Buy Me Love”? “She Loves You”? I just don’t remember or don’t know) rooted me in front of that radio. Not wanting to let on that some silly rock group could grab me in any way, I said, nonchalantly, “What’s the big deal?” But she saw right through me, “You like them! Everybody does!”
If you are interested in the 20th century and have not read The Gospel According to the Beatles, by Steve Turner, look it up. In my opinion, Mr. Turner brilliantly captures the “why” of that band. Their incarnation, or personification, of the reigning existentialism of the mid-20th century West — putting Jean Paul Sartre into music and antics, if you would — goes a long way to explaining the explosive impact they had on pre-teens, teens, and young adults of that era and up to today.
The book gives context to John Lennon’s “The Beatles are more popular than Jesus” (in the same series of interviews, Paul McCartney’s comments were even more explosive but he was shielded by the press). The church, especially in the Philippines, was outraged and gave the statement more publicity than it would otherwise have garnered. However, the real question that should have been asked was this: Why? Why, in the West, is a rock group more popular than Jesus?
Because they were, at the time. And that said very much, not only about the then state of the church, but also about the grip existentialism had on our generation. And still has on many.
In the late 70s, a few years before his murder, John Lennon wrote Oral Roberts, asking him about life. He told Roberts that he had fame, girls, drugs — but was trying to make sense of it all. Towards the end of the book, the author tells of his own personal encounter with Mr. Lennon. Mr. Turner felt he was not a good witness to him about Christ. I disagree; he, a young man at the time, was willing to engage Mr. Lennon about eternal truths and about the One Who said, “I am the Truth.” He did well.
Years later, long after The Beatles had broken up, I was seated on the window seat on a flight to Chicago, reading, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Anne. She became my seat mate for the flight and we immediately caught up and went on to talk about culture, economics, and Beethoven. It was Anne who piqued my interest into buying and then listening to the 9 Beethoven symphonies back to back. She was right: it’s quite an experience.
Ludwig Von Beethoven (1770-1827) is one of Western Civilization’s most famous and prolific composers. His symphonies go from the First and Second, which most consider to be hat tips to Mozart, on to the explosive Third (“Eroica”), the somewhat melancholy Fourth, and the most popular Fifth with perhaps the most memorable 8 notes in music history. But what a treat to go beyond the 8 notes, all the way to the end of the fourth movement! Going therefrom to the Sixth (“Pastoral”) is like going from rapids to a wider but still exciting river. Then the dance-like Seventh and the deceptively powerful Eighth await you.
It all culminates with the phenomenally glorious Ninth whose fourth movement, almost in exasperation, declares that musical instruments are not enough for the sentiment. The human voice must now be heard.
So voices are lifted up to sing Friedrich Schiller’s (1759-1805) “Ode to Joy”, whose last stanza reads:
Brothers, above the starry canopy
There must dwell a loving father.
Do you fall in worship, you millions?
Seek Him in the heavens;
Above the stars must He dwell.
In 1907, Henry van Dyke composed “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee,” set to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” melody and this hymn is found in many church hymnals to this day.
Beethoven’s nine symphonies, which he composed with progressive loss of hearing (he was totally deaf by the time he composed the ninth), do reflect much that a life can relate to and are worth careful consideration by all.
However, to consider his first two symphonies to be acknowledgments to Mozart, sounds a bit condescending, at least to me. Mozart composed 41 symphonies and the last three — the 39th, 40th, and 41st — are as much a “transition” to the Romantic era as anything Beethoven composed. At least they are to me.
We talked non stop till we landed at O’Hare and said goodbye. That was the last time we met.
Anne passed away some years ago, but if she were here today, I would tell her that she was right on both counts: that Beatles sound had indeed stunned me, as it had captivated her. And, as we matured and returned to our mutual heritage, I too agree with her in that Beethoven’s nine symphonies are a wonder to experience.
In October, 1964, a few months after my childhood encounter with Anne, I was back in front of that radio, along with a crowd of other boys and men, listening, cheering, groaning, hollering. But it wasn’t over The Beatles. Oh, no! It was something far more important.
It was the World Series between the St. Louis Cardinals and the New York Yankees. As it turns out, this was to be the last hurrah of the famed Yankees.
This team had played in 14 of 16 World Series since 1949. Their appearance in 1964 was to be their last until 1976. By the end of the 1964 season, the Yankees would have won 29 American League championships in the 44-year span since 1921.
They’ve never been the same since.
This series highlighted the grace and power of many baseball stars, including two who have died very recently: Bob Gibson and Whitey Ford.
We’ll conclude this in the next post.
The Beatles arrive in New York, February, 1964 The “existentialist moment”. Jean-Paul Sartre (1905-1980). Very influential 20th Century French existentialist. The Gospel According to The Beatles, by Steve Turner, helps explain the juxtaposition between The Beatles and existentialist philosophy. I give credit to Anne for piquing my interest. Shortly after our conversation, I bought this set and have it still. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791). To me, his last three symphonies sound like as much a transition as Beethoven’s works. In my childhood memory the club’s shortwave radio was this type, but larger. My childhood friend, Anne (far left), circa 1959 Anne in the early 2000s (her brother sent me this photo a few years after her passing) The fearsome Bob Gibson (top) and the calm, but commanding Whitey Ford both pitched in the 1964 World Series. We’ll say more about them and the series in the next post.
Oscar Wilde wrote, “Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.”
There is truth in that, especially when it comes to childhood memories.
I write this from our home in the Puerto Rico mountains on a very rainy day. My mind, or more accurately, my heart, has been transported to El Pao and the many afternoons during the rainy season (May through November, inclusive) when the rains would fall incessantly for hours. There was something peaceful about it all. At least for me.
I remember on occasion sitting on the floor or the ground out back, under the roof whose shelter extended beyond the porch and listening either to the pitter patter on the roof or the gentle sound of the water dropping on the innumerable leaves of the giant mango trees.
Poet I never was, nevertheless, more than once I’d think in my child’s mind that I would look back on such days and remember them fondly.
And, lo, I do remember them. With love.
After a rain in Venezuela Somewhere in a mining camp in Venezuela years ago. Children in Venezuela, like children everywhere, love going out in the rain
