By Rajmund Dabrowski
A few years ago, the enchantment of Bermuda with its leisurely lifestyle, houses painted in pastel colors and classy formal attire (Bermuda shorts and blazers for men are still in fashion) took hold of me. I also appreciated the examples of kindness I saw everywhere. Eugene, the taxi driver, was late in picking me up for the airport, and his delay gave me a moment in the hotel lobby to complete my postcard writing intended for my “enemies”—with an “I wish you were here, too” type of message. Finally Michael Levon, a fifty-something old-timer among the taxi drivers in Kingston, ended up driving me. On the way to the airport I got a 20-minute detailed and culturally-rich expose about the island.
“If you fall down, somebody will pick you up,” he stated in plain Bermudian English. “They teach us to say ‘Good morning’ the moment we are in school. When we are this high—” He moved his hand from the steering wheel and showed me how tall children are when they learn to say “Good morning” (it was OK with a 20-mile-per-hour speed limit, I thought). “It stays with us for later,” he added.
“We always greet each other. Even when we just pass somebody, it’s ‘Good morning! Good morning! Good morn- ing!’ We know that it’s the Smith or Jones boy or girl that greeted us. We know where they live. We know their family. When they get in trouble—an accident or something—we know they need help and we help them.”
If you fall down in Bermuda, someone will pick you up.
Johnny Barnes, Bermuda’s “Mr. Happy,” personified Bermuda’s friendliness. When I met him, Barnes was 86 years old and was the “Good morning! I love you,” island rep who exemplified the spirit of Bermuda near the Crow Lane roundabout where he greeted motorists every morning (rain or shine). He had been busy solidifying Bermuda’s reputation for friendliness for 45 years. Before he retired, Barnes was a diesel mechanic and a driver. “My mother told me to never pass a day without recognizing someone, making someone’s life brighter,” Barnes told me. “I’ve been doing this for 45 years.” He said it was a blessing for him and a calling.
“He is our icon. He is special,” Michael confirmed, when I asked about Barnes.
Shortly after we’d met, I saw Barnes in a circle holding hands with three women, heads bowed. They were praying— he, a Seventh-day Adventist Christian, and the three women . . . who knows? Does it really matter? This was his moment of silence with three Bermudian women who had arrived just moments before to promote a cause. “When someone wants to promote something, they go to Johnny Barnes’ roundabout,” Michael confirmed. He added, “I am sure someone will step in after he is gone.”
Johnny Barnes passed away on July 9 at the age of 93. The legacy he left was not ignited by a pastoral call to kind- ness. It was something he shared from his heart, without anyone asking him to . . . be nice and live love.
—Rajmund Dabrowski is RMC communication director and editor of Mountain Views.