16 July 2024
During mid-afternoon on Saturday, 13 July, I joined my husband in tracking down our one-year-old beagle hound, Jolene. She’s been visibly rattled by the appearance of a scrawny, skinny coyote on our property - during the day!
My calling to her usually brings her closer to me, and thus, to home, while Dear Husband does the calmly difficult job of putting our little fighter-queen on a leash. The trick worked this time, and I fast-tracked up the lengthy dirt path to my house. Dear Husband soon joined me, at the kitchen table, where I was working on edits to some writing. I told him that there is something very wrong with that coyote, set loose from the pack, roaming around in broad daylight.
Minutes later, Dear Husband informed me, “There have been some shots fired . . .”
I thus learned about the assassination attempt on former President Trump, a valiant man of destiny who has effectively, perhaps too effectively, drawn out the human coyotes, jackals, and weasels who have been ripping off this country for decades.
My immediate prayers joined those of millions of patriotic Americans who, for at least 7 years now, have been asking God to protect this protector of our once-great nation. I also ask for the divine protection of Melania, Barron, Don Jr., Eric Ivanka, Lara — the entire Trump family — and all of the patriots trying to save America from evil.
It has been written that 13 July 2024 is a day that the patriots of America will remember and cite where they were when this assassination attempt occurred. There are many Americans who have had practice with this kind of memory-logging. I am one of them.
I still recall, vividly, the moral cretins in the cesspool of an office where I was working on 30 March 1981 — clapping and cheering the attempted assassination of President Ronald Reagan.
Growing up watching the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy; his brother Robert F., whose son is now attempting to stay alive whilst speaking his piece, peacefully; Martin Luther King; and the attempted killing of George Wallace in 1972 — those heinous acts — truly Hate Crimes of their times — were part and parcel of my childhood.
That time frame for me had already borne witness to the untimely deaths of a beloved father; a year later, his next older brother, my Uncle Dick; and, during that same year, the sorrowful and accidental demise of my blessed, venerable Grandmother, a woman who was savagely neglected by her only child, the woman who gave birth to me.
I quipped, “They’re dropping like flies.”
For a 12-year-old girl to be capable of stating, with such mordant irony, a truism about the grim life around her: that’s not normal.
I don’t know if, at that time, I knew that my responses and reactions to all that was going on around me were not normal; but I grew highly attuned to perceiving the foulness of deeds around me that were perpetrated by lowlife scum, and covered up by adults, greedy, power-hungry persons in positions to gain from the cover-up. When your awareness of family affairs dovetails into national, and world, affairs, you’ve attained a perch of observation from which you shan’t climb down.
Not that I haven’t tried.
Every time that I ask God, and not necessarily in a humble way, not to send me another cup of bitterness with which to deal, He sends me two.
There are now “rumors” afloat about the Inside Job of the Attempted Assassination of President Donald J. Trump. It’s a sickening reality that I’m more than inclined to embrace. Or, as I e-mail-wrote to Dear Daughter on the eve of the Presidential Election of 2020:
“Well, growing up through the Nixon Years wasn’t a picnic.”
The abuse, contortion, and contamination of our constitutional republic — those fetid foul deeds have been a ghoulish, yea, an evil work-in-progress during my entire lifetime. That life began during the Presidency of Dwight D. Eisenhower, he of the Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force in Europe — fame and accomplishments. Back then, a man of virtuously impressive achievement ascended that harrowing path to the Oval Office as a result of forces within and beyond his control. Doing the work of the devil was not one of them.
I listened to a patriot last night, from Michigan, explaining to the ecstatic but still-near-tragedy-shocked crowd — the particulars of his life, with his wife, and children, in their house, a wee humble cottage, no doubt. He was bravely, and patiently, trying to accomplish some repairs and a much-needed remodel to a house that he can still claim to own.
I opined to Dear Husband;
“He’s going through what we went through in the 2000s, trying to fix up the Peach House. And not being able to — until 2017. So that we could at last sell that house and move on with our lives.”
A 20-year recession, now an Inflationary Recession, is what the citizens of this nation have had to endure, all while the Pigs at the Trough, that political trough, can swill endlessly from greed that must be insatiable at this point — and do it for The Children — Their Children.
There comes a time when the citizens of any nation reach a point where the word, ENOUGH, emerges, not from the screeching mouth of a power-mad hag in front of the propaganda-media; not from a desperate vow at the dinner table; but deep within.
I typically reach that point of no-turning-back years, if not decades, before others do — but I don’t criticize the more patient and tolerant among my fellow patriots. In fact, I admire them for their tenacity in believing that America is a place where a rising tide lifts all boats. They have persisted in the face of smiling scoundrels who hate them and manipulate them, through fear-mongering, and threats, and emotional blackmail. They are the American attentistes, waiting for their moment, or moments of truth.
Those moments arrived on 13 July 2024.
In my own way, I too persisted, away from the crowds of the Forgotten Americans. I wrote THE DAWN.
Because My Creator had guided me, and helped me, to confront, and to prevail over, the wicked phoniness of the treacly-sweet smile, plastered over a pathetically weak and wanton woman, as well as her minions, the traitors among my siblings. Facing such an horrific reality, at so young an age, could have jaded me, or broken my heart; but it didn’t because the power of love always conquers the force of evil.
The benevolent patriots of America refuse to cower in the face of horrific immorality, paraded pompously each day, every hour, on a digital feed to Hades. These stalwart citizens have been strengthened, annealed, if you will, by the atrocious afflictions wrought upon them by their own Government. When you’ve been through hell, and survived it — the leering grin of a mean old man destroying himself looks like the justice he’s always deserved.
The Forgotten Americans refuse to give in to the wishes of the devil who’s been working overtime in the USA, wrapped in the Stars and Stripes, and proclaiming he shall save Democracy for all of us hicks and hillbillies, the Rural People whom the traitors despise and denigrate — and fear.
That truism about those rising boats of optimism and hope, it’s still true. But the boats of the patient, tolerant, salt-of-the-earth patriots have been sabotaged without those patriots even having known about the crimes committed against them, in the Name of the People — until the election of 2017 shone light upon the darkness of their depraved corruption.
I’m one of The People too. There are tens of millions of us who are The People, The American People.
We all need bigger boats now, with sturdy bottoms, made of steel, steel Made in the USA. The steely side of an individual does not always reveal itself until that fight-or-flight instinct gets triggered. For my birthday this past spring, Dear Husband gave to me a message patch that says:
FIGHT OR FIGHT.
I keep it on my frig. It’s there to remind me of the warrior within my calm, generous, loyal, passionate, romantic, cheerfully optimistic, warm-hearted self.
A person can be knocked down, and nearly wiped out by the cowardly bullies who surround him, or her. But that inborn nature prevails. It comes through in ways big and small. For the coward, he slinks away, harboring the newest grudge, that is, in essence, the same as the old grudge. The sneering, sniveling coyote piles up grudges that, inevitably, weigh him down, and bow him into a hunched, decrepit hater. Driven by putrid revenge, he gets up each morning, whatever and whenever morning is, to get back at whoever dared to utter a word against him.
The champion silently rises at the break of dawn, and he raises that fist, to fight another day. To take one more step because he is a proud fighter, not against anyone, but for the sake of others: the downtrodden, the oppressed, the persecuted, the people who have had the willies scared out of them by the creepy skinny coyote running wild.
The champion rises to his destiny. The coward remains in his lair. That lair is a pit. It’s a bunker where the dirty dog hunkers down, viciously planning his next ignoble assault upon the innocent, the loving, the caring, and the kind. The coyote may not know it, but he’s too entrenched in his own filth and excrement to ever be able to get up again, without the help of his paid-off peons. They’re all awaiting those prime locations in that lower sphere that’s become their destiny.
The Day of the Coyote will long be remembered. The night of the coyote is a nightmare that We, the People, must strive to forget. Too many millions of law-abiding, decent, hard-working, God-fearing, heartfelt Americans have dreams too.
With the help of our Maker, we shall overcome this latest national nightmare.