To those Who gave All, We who remain Salute You. Thank you for so Willingly giving to us the Fruit of Your Love and Labor. God bless your Souls with Grace so richly Deserved. May We who remain be deserving of your action and respect. Shy III
Received in Email today. A bit late, perhaps, but a not-so-gentle reminder there were no Patriots left alive after 1799.
Born 1776, Died 2008
Professor Joseph Olson of Hamline University School of Law, St. Paul, Minnesota, points out some interesting facts concerning last November's Presidential election:
Number of States won by: Democrats: 19 Republicans: 29
Square miles of land won by: Democrats: 580,000 Republicans: 2,427,000
Population of counties won by: Democrats: 127 million
Republicans: 143 million
Murder rate per 100,000 residents in counties won by:
Democrats: 13.2 Republicans: 2.1
Professor Olson adds: "In aggregate, the map of the territory Republicans won was mostly the land owned by the taxpaying citizens of the country.
Democrat territory mostly encompassed those citizens living in low income tenements and living off various forms of government welfare..."
Olson believes the United States is now somewhere between the "complacency and apathy" phase of Professor Tyler's definition of democracy, with some forty percent of the nation's population already having reached the "governmental dependency" phase.
If Congress grants amnesty and citizenship to twenty million criminal invaders called illegals and they vote, then we can say goodbye to the USA in fewer than five years.
The USA is dead...Long live the USSA
Sadly, there has also not been a revival of the Spirit that created this Magnificent country. Once the "healthcare" passes the Senate, the Mexican flag will prominently be displayed on the dome at the Capitol Building, Washington D.C. and United Nations blue helmeted troops will begin combing our cities for hold-outs to God and the Constitution. Woe unto any who resist. With her dying breath, she was heard to mutter, "Give me Liberty or give me Death!" She will be mourned by as many who defended her.
Sweeping the floor, mopping it, wipe down the cabinets and counter tops. Windows open to air the place out, feel the cold breeze on wet hands.
Thinking of seasons past and a glimmering of what's happening begins to glow in my mind. Perhaps not understanding, but acceptance of the inevitable.
Two uncles are on either side of me age-wise. Along with my younger brother, we pretty much grew up together as brothers after Dad was killed. Living four miles apart, we boys were always at one or the other's home-- at least until we discovered women, but that's another story. (And probably not fit for mixed company.)
The older uncle had his driver's license first, was the first of our group to be allowed on the hunt. Younger uncle and I arrived together in that grown up world and began to understand the responsibility entailed during those cold days afield.
Hunting wasn't a game those days, but a necessity...
Uncle-in-law Jack kicked the snow off his boots and entered the kitchen-- we'd watched him coming up the trail from the dining table where we'd been playing "500". Like all my uncles, Jack was a big man, 220 or more, strong as a bull, gentle as a kitten. He ducked as he came into the house, leaned his Garand on the gun cabinet and poured a cup of coffee. (He'd brought that Garand back from Korea. Just 16, he'd lied his age to get in the Army and did his share to defend Freedom and came home a hero to us kids.)
"You're back early. What happened?" Gramma asked.
Jack laffed, sucked down the coffee. "I came to get the tractor and drag in deer," he announced.
"You got a deer already?" one of us asked, amazed.
Jack shook his head, put the coffee cup on the washboard and told us, "No, Al did."
"Grampa got one?" and Jack laughed.
"Three." he said.
Echoed by kids, "THREE?" Incredulous.
They'd been gone less than an hour and Grampa'd shot three deer. Jack explained.
"We were on the way to our stands. Dan and Lloyd were going to drive through Kahtam's woods toward us. We'd just got to the hayfield and Al brings his rifle up and shoots three times faster than I can. We asked what he was shooting at and he told us "Deer". No one believed him- they'd not seen a thing, and began razzing him.
"Then (expletives redacted for young or feminine ears) go look!" Grampa wasn't one to mince words.
Jack was laughing hard as he told us how they'd followed Grampa across the field, razzing him all the way as they trudged through thigh deep snow.
Grampa was born in 1897 and grew up in the country, been in World War One and raised seven girls and six boys through the Great Depression. His only gun was a 30-30 Winchester, 32 inch octagonal barreled, the bluing almost white from its age. He'd been a farmer, a logger, a miner, a laborer, a husband and father through some hard times. Sometimes we'd hear stories of his exploits from people who knew him, or Gramma. I don't think I ever heard him talk about himself. He'd grown up and lived through some hard times, to say the least.
When the group of four arrived to where Grampa told them to look, they discovered three deer laying in the snow, warm bodies melting a hollow around them.
What Jack said probably isn't what he'd want printed but the gist was, "Damn, Al, you sure ended the season for us fast!" The decision was made as to who'd gut the deer and who'd go get the tractor to haul them out with. Jack drew the tractor straw, for which he was happy- he had no desire to get his hands all bloody and wet in the cold air.
As my hands work at cleaning the camper, my mind wanders to these thoughts, these memories of many years past. Some were happy, others not so but they were all adventures, chapters of my life and the things that shaped me to the world of men.
Grampa and Jack are gone now as are others, but the memories are here in my mind and love for them in my heart, though it's a long-undiscovered love I am just beginning to realize the extent of. These memories are filling the void in my mind these days, reliving and sharing them and bringing back to life those people who were so dear to me when I didn't know it. A cleansing of sorts for my soul as I think of them. I know I miss them all, good times and bad, and would love to have them back.
But it's all part of the circle we live and die in. They can't be brought back, just remembered and loved, cherished in our hearts and minds as no one else can cherish them, even those with whom we shared the experience. Gone but not forgotten, we each bring them back to life with our love, our tales and stories of how they were in the world around us. Perhaps they'd not recognize the world now, or maybe they're watching and gauging our reaction to it, encouraging us.
Now I go back to cleaning the camper, stocking the shelves and checking the gas tank, lite the furnace and fridge, try the generator and lights, insure workability of everything.