Finally, a Good Venezuelan Shower

“How bad does it have to get,” my wife asked?  “Buy a new shower head.”

I had broken the city water line coming into the house and sand had washed into the system before I could get the water turned off at the street.  I was able to clean the sand clogged filters on all the faucets with the exception of the shower head in the master bath.

I couldn’t figure out how to get the damned thing apart to clean it properly and back flushing through the front of the shower head didn’t work. The longer I worked on it the more invested I became and more determined not to let the thing beat me. It was becoming personal. I was emotionally invested.

I had several different types of pliers, screwdrivers, a disfigured paperclip, and other implements of potential destruction spread before me on the coffee table on the back porch when my wife came out and sat down beside me.

“Look at this,” she handed me her cell phone prying the shower head from my grip. Another disturbing video on the crisis in Venezuela was playing.

The official crossing points into Brazil had been closed by the Venezuelan Government. I watched grimacing as a rather heavy set woman, who didn’t look as if she had missed many meals, carried a large box across planks perched precariously on piled up rocks traversing a border river. Expecting to see her fall and bust her rather large behind at any moment, she was only half way across when the scene shifted. Had she fallen? No need to add insult to injury, I imagine the person editing the clip thought, to a people who had already endured way too much.

My wife emigrated from Venezuela to the US in 2001, getting out when the getting was good. She did it legally and now she and her 4 children are US citizens. She is the quintessential Venezuelan beauty and I’m a red neck originally from West Virginia. When people see a man with such an attractive woman most automatically think he must have a lot of money. Not so much in my case. But she’s a good Christian woman with a huge heart and I know she loves me very, very much. I’m not one bit jealous. After all, a family who hunts and fish together, stays together (check out some of my other stories on this blog). I love it when she says she’s my Venezuelan, redneck woman. We are tremendously blessed.

“I’m so pissed,” she declared.  “Why doesn’t Maduro just leave, give up!  How much longer do the people have to suffer before somebody does something?”

She, like all the many Venezuelans I have met since we’ve been together, is pro Trump and wants the US to intervene militarily. My brother’s-in-law give me a hard time when I criticize Trump for his obtuse tweets and lack of decorum. For me, Trump is like some of the supervisors who worked under my direction when I managed a boat plant. Certain supervisors were such talented boat builders I did whatever I could to protect them, to a point, when their personal quirks got them in trouble.

“At least Jelen’s mom is in the US.”  Jelen, pronounced Helen, is our daughter-in-law, and her mom had recently come to the US to visit and help with the grand babies.  “But her sister is still in Venezuela.  She needs to get out!” Mary cried.

The wealthy can still make it okay in Venezuela if their health is good and they don’t need medication. I have wealthy Venezuelan in-laws, in the US at the moment, who can get whatever they need in Venezuela food wise, because the vast majority of people there can no longer afford food, alleviating the shortages. And Venezuelans can still get medication and other items no longer ordinarily available if they have friends and family in other countries with the resources to buy and mail it to them. But I was not that familiar with Jelen’s sister’s situation. I assured Mary we would help Jelen’s sister however we could.

Personally, I’d hate to see the US invade Venezuela…alone. I’d love to see a coalition led by a country in the EU initiate a military intervention. I don’t want the US to be held responsible for the unintended consequences.  But then my granddaughters are all in the US. If my granddaughters were in Venezuela I’d already be down there myself. Funny how human nature works.  You can justify just about anything as long as it’s somebody else suffering or you’re benefiting from the injustice.

Maduro and many of his leaders, somewhat like me with my shower head, are emotionally invested and just won’t give up. Maduro, people he has put in power and installed in state run companies, the upper echelons of the military, all benefit from the current situation. In their minds they are justified, and furthermore, rightfully fear what will happen to them when power is relinquished. Like my redneck self with my guns, they’ll give it up when someone pries their cold, dead fingers away.

It seemed things had come to a head when Juan Guaidó was proclaimed interim president by the duly elected 2015 National Assembly this January.  But the political, social, economic, health….the list goes on and on, continues to worsen.  You ask yourself how much worse can it get…and then it does. 

How long must the Venezuelan people suffer? It seems a fix would be easy enough. Some Venezuelans think one big bomb unexpectedly dropped on the Palacio de Miraflores, La Casona (the big house), the presidential palace, would do the trick.

I fixed the shower head by the way. Once I removed the water restrictor I was able to back flush the sand. With the power out, people in the cities of Venezuela are removing the covers and bathing underground in storm drains. Now imagine it was your family living like that and tell me if you wouldn’t want someone to intervene. Venezuelans need a break. Let them get a good, refreshing shower with clean water.

Back flush Maduro!        

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