Our Fun Trip to the Great Smoky Mountains

We boarded the flight to Knoxville to visit Gatlinburg, TN. It was my idea to go so I had no one to blame for the unfolding events. We both had separate reasons why we thought this trip was a good idea, in addition to two plane tickets expiring at the end of August. I wanted to see the Great Smoky Mountains and my husband wanted to see at least one bear in its wild habitat. I for one am fine if I never see a bear in his/her wild habitat. Hubby told me enough times that, if a bear should appear, all he must do is run faster than I can.

The flight was terrible, the pilot went around the airport a couple of times, overshooting it by 50 miles each time. I kept hearing the landing gear actuating motor coming on underneath our feet and it felt that it had dropped for landing. As soon as I got excited, the airplane gained altitude again. My ears were hurting from all this dropping and climbing steeply, and I started to pray very hard. The pilots made no announcements at all and we finally landed with a hard thud.

I felt like clapping when we landed but I restrained myself on account of not wanting to embarrass my husband.  Everybody else was either sleeping or petrified like me. I might have felt better had I not overheard the previous pilot upon deplaning telling the new pilot that he had problems with some light. But I could not overhear which light, nor would I have understood the technical names for it. So, my fear was prepared to explode at the slightest provocation. The danger drama queen was on full alert.

Instead of my husband’s intended Corolla, which would have huffed and puffed every inch of the way up the steep mountains, the agent did us a huge favor and we rented a RAV4 to help us climb the mountain roads and off we went as the sun light was turning golden.

Unbeknownst to us, my GPS downloaded onto the car’s computer the shortest and quickest way to Gatlinburg from Knoxville. The problem was that it was through the most serpentine road through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and it was getting dark fast.

We are not the best drivers at night anymore and the road had no shoulders and no line markings part of the way. The roadsides just dropped into the deep and rocky ravines and the furious Little Pigeon River below. To make matters worse, the woods were dense, adding a level of difficult darkness even in daytime as we learned the next day. Just to add more challenges to my already terrified eyes and mind, we crossed a one-car only wooden bridge over the river, and it seemed bouncy. Perhaps it was my rich imagination.

After numerous ‘oh my God,’ ‘slow down,’ and ‘watch for the ravines and boulders,’ along the serpentine road, we made it to the three-star Bearskin Lodge and were elated that our second-floor balcony was overlooking the Little Pigeon River. There was dust everywhere on the rugged, cabin-like furniture and wood floors, but the view was priceless. I am not sure there are any four-star hotels in the area. I pulled out my Clorox wipes and started cleaning all surfaces. The room came with a very large jacuzzi tub, free breakfast, and Grandma’s cookies every day from 2-6 p.m. What a deal!

Unbeknownst to us, the town of Pigeon Forge was overtaken by the annual Great Smoky Mountains Jeep invasion and the roads were packed in every direction with Jeep owners so proud of their artistically bedazzled with lights and whimsically decorated Jeeps that they paraded on the 6-mile stretch and blocked all three lanes in both directions. The Jeeps and their owners were very patriotic, flying American flags, darkened American Flags, a few Confederate flags, and many Gadsden flags.

I asked a cop what would happen if someone needed an ambulance and he said, call 911. How would the ambulance reach anybody in distress? He shrugged his shoulders. He was stuck in a three-hour traffic jam just like the rest of us.

The first adventure was on Harrison Mountain where we rode the ski gondola called the tram and then the ski lift chair to the peak at 3590 feet. The view from the top was breathtaking – the city of Gatlinburg below was at 1289 ft elevation, Chimney Tops at 4800 feet, Newfound Gap at 5046 feet, Mount LeConte at 6593 feet, and Clingmans Dome at 6643 feet. A blue grass band, Mountain Grass, entertained those who reached the top and took a well-deserved rest and a photograph in the lift chair for posterity.

The lower stop of the gondola (the tram) took us to the wildlife habitat of several grown and fat bears, two foxes, three otters, a golden eagle, some hawks, a flying squirrel, two skunks, two fat racoons, two mountain cats, and a few box turtles.

The visit to the Tuckaleechee Caverns in Townsend, TN was entirely my idea and it convinced me to never want to go spelunking again. As I got cold waiting for the group to return from the largest cavern where the guide decided to turn the lights off and I would have none of that, I decided to return above ground on my own. Sadly, I missed their number one attraction, the waterfall. Hubby clued me to its beauty with his video. I love mountains but deep down I am a beach lover, watching the ocean waves crash onto the shore.

The Titanic Museum visit in Pidgeon Forge was also my idea. The well-conceptualized museum left me with a deep feeling of sorrow for those who lost their lives and for those who survived and had to return to normal living.

Objects in a museum, a history for future generations, are a good idea. Deep down I felt that it was wrong to profit from the sale of objects that floated to the top or were dredged from the bottom by salvage operations. It should have been left at the ocean grave site. One of the band player’s violin was sold at auction for $1.3 million to a private collector. A deck chair was estimated to be worth $100,000 and Madeleine Astor’s life vest also on display was worth $250,000. I do not understand private collectors want to own a piece of this sad history instead of letting it stay in a museum like this. Life and death should be treated with the highest respect possible.

On the other hand, the ocean bacteria have already claimed all the metal remains of the ship and all that is left now is just huge orange spots in the sand where Titanic’s pieces fell – broken lives’ final resting place. The owner of the museum described the two-and-a-half-hour descent into the abyss in 1987, as “a drop like a brick to the bottom of the deep ocean.”

Cades Cove, an 11-mile one way and single lane paved road through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, was hubby’s idea – he wanted to see bears in the thick and dark forest, in their natural habitat. He got his wish as we saw a momma bear with her two cubs from the comfort of our car. We followed a slow line of Jeeps (from the Annual Great Smoky Mountains Jeep Invasion from all fifty states) through beautiful hills, pastures, and meadows with grazing turkeys totally oblivious to the human traffic.

In one spot, well-trafficked by bears and deer, signs posted everywhere warned humans to stay 50 feet away from the woods but then there is always the one daring elderly couple who decides to gamble with their lives and pull off into the pasture, get out their folding chairs and have a picnic, surrounded by pastoral beauty, right in the vicinity of a momma bear with her cubs. It is the American way.

The 11-mile stretch of natural beauty had a few cabins and a rest stop for the weary. The most remarkable was the John Oliver Place, a well-preserved log cabin dating back to 1818.  The mile hike there and back was doable either through a well-traveled trail in the woods or by a paved and winding lane through the beautiful meadow with native flowers in full bloom and tall grasses.

John Oliver was the first European to settle in Cades Cove in 1818 with his wife Lucretia. It is estimated that they completed the 1 ½-story cabin, the oldest structure in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, by the 1820s. According to the rangers, the Oliver family members lived in this cabin for more than a century. John made by hand the 3,000-wood shingles. The doors and rolled glass windows were small to preserve heat and coolness inside. The logs were constantly chinked to add more protection from escaping heat. Corners with half-dovetailed notches had outward sloping angles to drain water away from the notch, helping to prevent rot.

One early morning, as I’m sitting on the balcony of our hotel, enjoying the birds and the gurgling river, I spot a young fellow in waders, unsteady on his feet, who tripped and almost fell into the shallows. I could not see any sign of life in the river, but he caught a big rainbow trout in about 30 minutes. An older gentleman joined him. He looked more professional with his fishing technique.

The trip was not complete until we drove 23 miles to Savierville, TN, to visit the largest Buc-ees in the U.S. where we ate the famous and delicious brisket sandwich and tasted at least four different types of fudge. The country roads were delightful, and we saw so many Baptist and Methodist churches, reminding us that we were in God’s country.

NOTE: Photos taken by Ileana Johnson

Mandatory is the New Word of Compliance

‘Mandatory’ is an interesting word which has evolved from its intended use of “required by law or rules, compulsory.” It is misused and abused today to force people into compliance.

Under communist rule compliance was ‘mandatory.’  Most things in our lives were mandatory whether inscribed in law, mentioned as unwritten rules, and rules made up on the fly. Regardless of where the word ‘mandatory’ came from, you had to obey and follow the orders or else.

‘Mandatory’ was so abused and draconian that, just on the sight of an authority figure, teacher, administrator, boss, policeman, security police, military police, economic police, and border guards, people froze in their tracks and wondered what would happen to them if those people decided to address them or check their I.D.s.

You searched quickly in your mind for reasons that you may have violated the ‘mandatory’ whatever and where you will end up if they decided to arrest you. You did not have to commit a crime, they made one up. Mental prayers did not help because everybody cooperated with the police state for extra food and money, including most priests.

People were guilty until proven innocent in a communist court of law. It was ‘mandatory’ that the accused provided proof of innocence.

It was ‘mandatory’ to attend all communist rallies and marches. It was ‘mandatory’ to show up at the precinct and to vote for the one-party candidate.

After I fled to the U.S., the word ‘mandatory’ started to creep into our daily school environment. ‘Mandatory’ seemed innocuous at first, just another word, until I asked too many questions.

Then I learned that everything ‘mandatory’ was not remunerated. It magically became part of the job if I wanted to keep it.  

It was ‘mandatory’ to tutor students every week after school for no extra pay. It was ‘mandatory’ to work weekends for several hours to meet and greet parents, no extra pay.

It was ‘mandatory’ to ignore our own families on weekends and one week at night for two hours to tutor students who did not pay attention in class or who were too lazy to come during daily office hours. It was all ‘mandatory’ if you wanted to keep your job.

It was ‘mandatory’ to attend assemblies and speeches that violated our religious rights and the rights of the students. It was ‘mandatory’ not to wear crosses because it offended the Muslims. It was ‘mandatory’ not to display a small American flag on one’s desk because it offended others who were not Americans.

It was ‘mandatory’ not long ago to wear masks everywhere, even outdoors to protect the health of others around you, never mind that your health was not really protected.

It was ‘mandatory’ to get a dangerous vaccine if you wanted to keep your job, go to school, travel, have a medical procedure in a hospital, attend church, shop for food, fly, and go on vacation.

It is ‘mandatory’ not to criticize those in power while perusing social platforms and the Internet. There are many consequences if these ‘mandatory’ unwritten and arbitrary rules and “community standards” are violated.

Someone sitting in a basement making $16 an hour deems your actions, thoughts, opinions, and words hateful and offensive to the community’s health, a community suffering of many mental issues, drug use, immorality, and perversions. But you are the threat because you violated the nebulous ‘mandatory’ rules of community behavior.

It was ‘mandatory’ under communism to wear uniforms with numbers sewn onto the lapel in case you broke some ‘mandatory’ behavioral rules that the police state informers felt were violated.

Pretty much everything we do in a modern society has become ‘mandatory.’ You cannot attend college if you are not vaccinated – it is ‘mandatory.’ If you don’t comply, your life will never be the same, you become an outcast of society. The Democrat police state, their lapdog media, and on-line fact checkers control your every action, word, and thought.

The Democrat Party used to follow democratic principles, but it is now a communist police state obsessed with daily mandates, ‘mandatory’ this, ‘mandatory’ that.

The media is their platform of mandating. Fact checkers did not exist until the ruling Democrat police state started distorting and manufacturing the truth and pushing the one world government Marxist agenda.

Fact checkers are employed by the globalists who are running our world today. They are not elected to office but don’t need to be, politicians do their bidding because billionaires have a lot of money and influence. Drunk on narcissism because they have so much money and wealth, they truly believe that they know what is best for the rest of the world in every aspect of our lives. Everything they social engineer with their NGOs becomes ‘mandatory’ with help from beholden politicians.

 

 

Tuckaleechee Caverns Cured Me of Visiting Caves

I have visited Luray Caverns in Virginia many times with various family members and the visits were spellbinding, safe, and fun. After visiting the Tuckaleechee Caverns in Townsend, TN I have decided that I am no spelunker and therefore there will be no more excursions to caves, guided or not. Tuckaleechee Caverns cured me forever of adventuring underground.

After many low ceilings, dangerously steep drops, and impossible climbs, with a running creek on both sides which eroded through millennia the many opened knife-like slices that weighed tons, rock crevices, steep drops, and stairs into a hole of 600 feet partly underneath the parking lot, I decided that the parking lot above the deep hole in the ground carved by constant running water, was much safer.

A lot of electrical wiring in the cavern was running along and underneath large rocks and boulders. The excellent female guide explained that the seismologists in the U.S. are monitoring from this cave any seismic activity caused by earthquakes or possibly North Koreans testing a nuclear bomb.

I must admit that her explanation gave me the creeps, almost as much fear as the guide in the Domitila’s Catacombs near Mount Vesuvius in Naples, Italy, when the guide said that the volcano is slated to erupt that year. Even the vicious mosquitos in the catacombs did not take my mind off the potential of being buried alive in that very instant. Yet my husband talked me into visiting the Catacombs a second time on a separate visit.

The dim light in the Tuckaleechee Caverns gave me vertigo and a feeling of slight nausea unlike any other I have had in a cave. I watched in horror every side, imagining how I might slip on the wet rocks, and slide on either side, should I pass out from the vertigo. The tiny handrails, just barely tall enough for children to hold on to, did not help much.

I was constantly unsure which part of my body I should watch for first, my feet, because the floor was trippy and slippery, or my head, that was constantly barely missing low hanging, slicy sharp rocks that could have knocked me out or decapitated me.

I am not scared of tight spaces, and I was not hyperventilating. The air was cool, 58-degree Fahrenheit, a welcome respite from the 97 F above ground with very high humidity.

I turned around from the group when they went to see the underground creek’s waterfall because the young guide said she was going to turn the lights off in the tight space after the group got situated, so we can see how pitch black it is in a cave. I have imagination, I did not need demonstration in such a perilous environment, so I turned halfway down the steep steps, I was not going any further.

I sat on a wet rock for 15 minutes and they did not come back. Nobody returned and I could not hear any human voices nor any echoes, just the water around me drip-dripping from stalactites onto the floor or stalagmites. It was quite lonely, and I felt abandoned, so I made the executive decision to return to the top by myself. How hard can it be to follow the same path that we took? There were lights everywhere but also pathways that we did not take where I could have gotten lost, I suppose.

My husband said that the group was not there for 15 minutes. The attendant above said the stay in that chamber with the waterfall lasts 20 minutes. Both could be right. I do know that I have the patience of a mosquito but to me it seemed like an eternity and my right hand was getting too cold for comfort in the 58-degree temperature underground. After the balmy 97 degree above ground, 58 F seemed like freezing now.

So, I decided to go back through the steep cave, a 600 ft. deep hole in the ground crisscrossed by the Silver Creek which formed a waterfall where the group was. I made it outside although I could have visited another part of the cave, but I did not feel like getting lost and having the cave rescue team look for a crochety lady missing in the damp and slippery cave. The guy at the top looked at me like I had emerged from the Twilight Zone since I was alone. Hubby was mad at me for an hour or so but got over it.

 

Politically Correct the Marxist Way

The Marxist left is so triggered by everything that they look for an insult in every gesture, word, or action. And academics are eager to provide euphemistic words and expressions that they deem non-threatening in order to pacify the insecure and the mentally ill.

Words no longer mean what the dictionary and overt reality described. They are changed to express the abject insecurity of the communist left. You are not supposed to "judge." 

Decades of Marxist political correctness driven by schools and academia was the beginning of the down spiral of our society.

If you are starving or unable to buy enough food in the highly inflationary economy that President Biden has been working very hard to achieve, you are “food insecure.”

Criminals who break the law and should be punished swiftly, are coddled by psychologists who work overtime, trying to find a reason why the said criminals did what they did – they were “misguided victims” of society.

This “sanitized babble” extends to those who are experiencing poverty, they have “bank account malnutrition.” Politicians spend more time redefining poverty than actually solving it.

The political correctness insanity started decades ago. As a teacher, I was told not to use red pens because it was an “aggressive” color, and it frightened the failing students.

And don’t tell students that they are wrong, just coddle them and say, yes, you are right, but don’t you think that this answer [the correct one] might be better?

Teachers were not allowed to teach the Holocaust or the Crusades because it offended the Muslim students. Crosses were not allowed to be worn by Christian teachers because it offended Muslim students and colleagues.

In 2005 the NCAA decided to ban any team whose name they deemed “hostile or abusive.” And the professional sports organizations followed suit. Names were changed and mascots were gone. Then the anti-American knee bending came during the playing of the National Anthem.

Our ever more sissified students receive an education which “sanitizes life” to such an extent so as not to offend them or trigger them in any way. Universities have become the “safe spaces” for the most cowardly generations that America has raised. Never mind that real life and the world of work are harsh.

Schools in Fairfax County, Virginia, are getting rid of their scoring system because failing grades are making students feel bad about themselves. Children must be constantly praised and are given participation trophies for walking across the stage without tripping.

It is no surprise that we raised several generations of Americans who are “addicted” to undeserved praise. They are now the “reality-challenged” Americans. They whine and work as paid protesters in the organized mobs of the BLM and Antifa.

In the crazy political correctness environment, illegal aliens are “undocumented citizens” and “temporary citizens,” terrorists are “malcontents” and “warriors.” If you have some handicap, you are “differently abled.” If you have a form of “slow learning,” you are a “selective learner.”

Who was the inspiration for this political correctness madness that infiltrated our schools slowly but surely for a long time? Marxists of course, like Georg Lukacs, Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, and Felix Weil were the fathers of the PC that is suffocating our society. Lukacs waged war on our Western culture which he called “cultural terrorism.” Sexual promiscuity was at the top of the list to help Marxists win the war against Christianity and freedom.

The culture war started with the help of Germany’s Institute for Social Research which escaped Hitler’s Germany and moved to New York City at Columbia University in 1933. Theodor Adorno and Herbert Marcuse promoted the now infamous “inclusion” and “multiculturalism” which includes everyone except white people and conservatives.

The current slate of Marxists whines non-stop via their corporate and police state media that we are not diverse enough in America, so “diversity” and “inclusion” comprise their non-stop agenda, after  man-made “climate change” and manufactured “racism.” Accusing every one of the very racisms they are engaging in, the left is nauseating half of the country and the world with their absurd claims.

The war on Christmas, Christianity, traditional family, reality, and sexual biology completes their offensive against western culture. The communist left is now removing and destroying statues, monuments, tombs, street names, military base names, and everything else in history they disagree with and find offensive. Confused children are “transgendered” without their parents’ consent, with the blessing of the medical field and schools.

Books are banned, characters in books and plays are rewritten to fit the leftist agenda, deceased authors’ words are changed to be acceptable to the Marxist left; commercials and movies are almost exclusively representing the black and brown population, and Hollywood is remaking classics to reflect the obsessive Marxist “diversity.” Never mind that Snow White, as the name implies, is a fairy tale written for a Nordic character who is white, not black or brown, and the seven dwarfs were just that, dwarfs, not “little people,” and they were not black, brown, gay, Asian, or transgender as recently depicted.

It is urgent that we take back our freedom of speech, the First Amendment slowly being disappeared by the Marxist political correctness. It is important to take our language back. The Marxists succeeded in controlling our language and are thus controlling the argument and us.

Political correctness was never about “diversity,” it was about Marxist control, about replacing our culture with “cultural Marxism.” You are not “intolerant” or “racist” if you reclaim your First Amendment right to free speech. The Marxist version of “diversity” actually stifles diverse opinions.

Political correctness is a very bad communist idea and is twisting reality and destroying our formerly free capitalist society. People must reclaim their right to free speech as outlined in the First Amendment of the Constitution. People have been silenced enough and have given the communist left so much power that they are now cancelling the professional existence and the people’s ability to make a living in their respective fields.

 

 

 

 

Grief by Mimi Eileen Johnson

Grief. A small, one-syllable word that packs a formidable

 punch. No one escapes its grips; some are tortured their entire

 lives. How do I cope? Why the ebb and flow? How do I

 recognize it? Why did it resurface now? Will it ever stop

 aching? How do I recapture joy with this massive hole in my

 soul?

 On June 9, 2022, for the first time in my life, I lost one of the

 most important people, my grandmother.

She was no ordinary grandmother, she raised me, and we all

 lived together our entire lives. She and my mother grew up in

 Romania, under the insufferable communist regime. They both escaped and were able to build an

 amazing life in the U.S.  I was blessed to grow up bilingual and proud of my Romanian heritage.

   

It was an unbreakable bond that I have never shared with another person, not even my mother. Yes, my

mother and I have a special relationship, but my grandmother was my rock and my world. I watched her

take her last breath over FaceTime, not the way I had envisioned, but was thankful for technology

allowing me to see her one last time.

 

I was sheltered from death, never having anyone close to me pass away. Here I am,

staring at our matriarch, watching her transition into another form. In some ways, it was the most

peaceful experience, especially in lieu of her suffering, but I felt as if I had died right beside

her. I remember hanging up the phone and feeling as if I was having an out-of-body experience. I had

never felt anything like that in my life and I had no idea how to process the information. I sobbed and

sobbed, not fully understanding or processing what I had just watched. That's it? She is gone. Why?

What do I do now? I was attempting to process my thoughts, but I could not, I was frozen, I could

not move, and although I knew I was grieving, I still did not understand the reactions and what I was 

feeling.

So now I am just supposed to go on living without her? How did this happen so fast? More questions

entered my mind as more time elapsed. I felt as if I did not have a right to breathe air anymore because

my beloved grandmother could not either. I battled with my faith in God and was cursing him for taking

her away from me. How could you? Why her and why now? I then realized that my thoughts and

actions sounded a bit selfish. I needed to stop and ask myself what was best for my grandmother and

not my selfish need to keep her here on Earth. I couldn’t help myself, grief makes you inadvertently

selfish.

 

She endured eight years of torture in a nursing home in Northern Virginia. In the beginning I was going

 to see her every single day, ensuring she was never alone, always having a familiar face, and bringing

 all the drinks and foods that reminded her of home. My mother and I were a team that ensured no harm

or neglect would come to her. Unfortunately, in those few times we were not able to go every single

day, the maladies began.

 

Patients with dementia can never fully recall what has happened to them, their reality is fragmented.

There was also the issue of the language barrier. She is Romanian and speaks no English. All

communications happened through me or my mother. If I had to pinpoint the beginning of my grief, at

the time, unbeknownst to me, it would be in 2014, feeling helpless and relying on the hands of strangers

to love and protect my grandmother. At the time, I didn’t realize I was grieving, that little chips of my

existence and my soul were being taken at the sight of so much suffering and pain, not only of my

grandmother, but those around her as well.

 

I am what they call an Empath, I feel energies everywhere and absorb it, whether good or bad. Over

time, I have learned how to shield myself from negative energies, but when surrounded by so much

sorrow and pain, it can take over your mind and body quickly, yet I could not forsake my grandmother

 and leave her without me and my close care. I knew which people were good and which were bad,

 therefore, keeping a keen eye and establishing the right relationships to ensure great treatment. As time

progressed, I channeled my grief into attempting to help those in her nursing home who had no families.

I grieved for them and the wonderful lives they had lived. They were now emaciated, shrouded in

horrible rheumatoid arthritis, withering away as if their lives were never important. When my

grandmother would nap, have a bath, or eating, I would mosey down the hall to visit some of her

wonderful neighbors. I was able to provide comfort to their inevitable deterioration, sometimes not

knowing how impactful it was to their lives or how important it was to my reconciliation with grief and

death.

 

I would have dreams, flashing forward 40 years, when I would need the help and assistance of others.

Could I live in a tiny room like this and be forgotten by everyone? Why does our culture do this to the

elderly? Why is it so expensive to take care of ourselves in the twilight of our lives? Although I knew I

could not predict my own future, I knew I could impact lives in the present.

 

As I was unknowingly grieving for my grandmother’s natural deterioration, I was slowly finding joy in

spending quality time with others who were being forgotten. I wanted them to be remembered, even if I

was the only person on the planet that cared. I listened to countless stories, some about war, others about

 exquisite trips, fashion, happiness, raising families, and the light it brought to their lives was priceless. I

 never knew if the stories were true or not, but in that moment, they were real to them.

In my mind, it was a race against time: I could somehow prevent her from dying if I lived and breathed

that nursing home. How silly of me, right? My selfish grief and attitude convinced me that I

could prolong death. I was on pins and needles every day for 8 years. Every time my mother and I

received a call we would jump and were ready to battle for her life! It was exhausting, but again, I never

realized that was all part of grieving. Your mind cannot reconcile anyone being gone from existence, so

therefore, you try to perform these grandiose feats to prolong their lives.

 

Of course, in the end, nature won the fight, at the hands of irresponsible humans, and we lost her.

Even at 90, she had an amazing will to live. It did not matter what pain or condition was plaguing her,

she always chose life and smiled. She was my hero, and I aspire to be happy like her each day. At the

end, she died due to negligence; from an ordinary UTI that was not treated. The devastation was

insurmountable. I could not wrap my head around this ridiculously simple ailment taking her life. Here I

entered the next stage of grief - anger.

 

I felt a rage that I had never experienced before. I was obsessed with destroying the nursing home and

the staff that neglected her to the point of death. How many more people had their lives end so

tragically and abruptly at the hands of massive incompetency? How could medical professionals let that

happen? Isn’t their oath to “do no harm”?

 

I continually grieved for my grandmother and for others who lost their lives in that nursing

home due to medical neglect, but also lamented the future. Is this what we all have to look forward to?

 Being isolated in a cement room and being treated like someone who does not matter? Someone

 neglecting a urine sample for six months and me dying of a simple UTI, meeting the same fate as my

 grandmother? This simply cannot be! How can I go through this torture again with my mother and

 stepfather?

 

The simplest answer to all my questions is that nature will always win the race no matter how well you

pace your existence. Grief does not happen to people, it is innately engrained in our psyche. It is the

vessel in which we can keep our sanity and continue to live our lives, working through complex

emotions, helping others, and continuing to be good people. I often saw grieving as a weakness, yet.

after experiencing the worst grief of my life, I realize the immense strength it provides in times of

struggle.

 

Now, slightly over a year later, my grief is ever present in each day of my life. I look forward to

experiencing the tears; ironically, it is when I feel most alive! I continually look for signs that my

grandmother is with me, and she never lets me down! She is present in every facet of my life.

Nature and time are the ultimate grim reapers, but only in the physical form. Energy lasts forever. And

 her energy glows in our hearts, in birds, butterflies, and the sunshine bathing her favorite flowers, roses

 and geraniums.

Bristoe Station Battlefield

The railroad as it was in 1863

The blazing sun is scorching us in the wide-open field, and we are already drenched in sweat. We can see trees far away and across the road but not close enough to enjoy the shade. The area is covered in thick weeds and native grasses born by the fertile soil.

Our tour guide is in his eighties, a former Navy submariner, tough, witty, intelligent, with an unusual strong voice that carries well in the open space, and extremely knowledgeable of our country’s Civil War history.  Tom is leading us into and around the footsteps of Confederate and Union soldiers who fought, killed, and wounded each other in these fields on that fateful day of October 14, 1863, in the Battle of Bristoe Station.

One of two cannons in the fields

The fight lasted almost two hours, a little less than our drenching two-and-a-half-hour tour. Visitors like us can never understand the actual battle unless we walk in the combatants’ footsteps and feel the terrain even though it may have changed slightly.

Encampment location

When I say, ‘changed terrain,’ I am referring to home construction sites adjacent to the park property. The builders dug a sewer pipe through the battlefield heritage park grounds, land preserved by the Prince William County historical preservation society, following a protracted battle that is ongoing, in their effort to save a few more acres from being developed into a data center and a storage facility, whose acres contain the earthly remains of at least fifty soldiers. God only knows how many shallow graves they had disturbed in the process of digging the sewer line through. Ghosts of soldiers must run rampant at night in the neighborhood homes built around the historical park.

The land of the battlefield was sold several times, including by the farmer who used to plow it; he wanted his daughter to be allowed to build a home in one corner overlooking the busy highway.

Farmer's former home on top of the hill

A local church sold part of the land for $50 million to a developer before it was donated to the Prince William County historical preservation society on the condition that some homes could be built on part of the bordering acreage.

The mile and a half loop through fields and woodlands takes a little over two hours to complete or perhaps longer if the guide, like Tom, is very knowledgeable and likes to talk.

The railroad as it is today in Bristow Station, Virginia

The railroad, used then by Union soldiers, who hid behind the rail’s embankment, is still active today, and, to Tom’s delight, two Amtrak trains and a freight train crossed the track while we were in its vicinity – a veritable show and tell tour.

National Archives portraits of the two generals

Gen. Robert E. Lee (1807-1870), commander of the Confederate States Army, was not feeling particularly well during this battle, still recovering from a previous heart attack, “ordered his Army of Northern Virginia across the Rapidan River near Orange, Virginia in a series of flanking maneuvers to earn a victory over the Union Army.” But Gen. George Mead (1815-1872), who commanded the Army of the Potomac (1863-1865), was able to evade Gen. Lee’s ambush. Gen. Meade’s goal was to make it to Centreville heights before Gen. Lee would be able to intercept him.

“After miles of hard marching and fighting battles at James City, Brandy Station, Jeffersonton and Auburn, the lead elements of Gen. Lee’s army caught up to Gen. Meade at Bristoe Station. On October 14, the stage was set for Gen. Lee’s last chance to attack and gain an advantage over the superior Union Army before it escaped northward to Centreville.” According to Archives, this fight would be Gen. Lee’s last major offensive campaign of the war.

The battle was a definite loss for the Confederates, as they lost three times as many soldiers as the Union.  In “A History of the Guilford Greys,” a quote stands out, “The point from which we started the charge was distinctly marked; at least four and in some cases ten men from each company lying dead or wounded in that line.”

Among the five hundred plus Union soldier casualties, Col. James Mallon of New York stands out as the only Union officer mortally wounded at Bristoe Station, Virginia.

Gen. John Rogers Cooke’s (1833-1891) Confederate Brigade charged toward the railroad, but they were in a foot race with the Union reinforcement which arrived by rail. Reaching the safety of the railroad embankment first, the Union soldiers unleashed a barrage of fire power against Gen. Cooke and his Brigade. The fact that they were positioned on higher ground, without any tree protection, made the Confederates an easier target. A Union soldier remarked that the Confederate soldiers were “mowed down like grain before a reaper.”

The Civil War forced brothers to fight against brothers for the economic interests of a few rich and powerful men. Interestingly, Gen. John R. Cooke’s father was Union Gen. Phillip St. George Cooke. However, Gen. John R. Cooke’s brother-in-law was the Confederate cavalry leader Jeb Stuart. Families and neighbors were split in their allegiance to either the Union or the Confederate side.

The Archive of Bristoe Station battle stated that, “With decimated numbers and no hope to push on, the Confederates had the choice of surrender or retreat. Many chose to make the dangerous dash to safety, while hundreds surrendered along the railroad embankment.”

Along the walk in the fields, Tom led us to a place where the Davis Family Farmstead used to be. Before the Civil War Thomas K. Davis was a Prince William County sheriff and, in 1858, had bought 136 acres on which he built a home, a barn, and outbuildings.

Davis also operated a store in the village of Bristoe Station, today spelled Bristow by decision of U.S. Postal Service. Davis was a supporter of the Union while his neighbors supported the Confederates who, in 1861, established Camp Jones in the area. When the Confederates pulled out of the area in the spring of 1862, they destroyed Davis’s store. When the Union soldiers, under the command of Brig. Gen. Rufus King, arrived soon after, they tore down farmer Davis’s fencing and cut down trees on his property for use in their camps.

Battles raged on his farm in August 1862 and the Davis house was used as a hospital and headquarters for the Federals. The Davis family remained here until the threat of imprisonment by the Confederates in 1863 forced them to flee to Washington. They were thus not present during the Battle of Bristoe Station on October 14, 1863.

A cannon is resting on top of the hill, not far from the brick house of the recent farmer who owned the land it sits on. The house is now the park’s archives but not yet opened to the public. The historical preservation park acquired the land relatively recently. A large tree gave us a bit of shade on the bench we sat on for a few minutes. The bugs and the bees surrounded us as we looked down to the railroad tracks, farther than the 100-400 ft. range necessary for the muskets, rifles, and cannons to be effective.

As the tour ended and we shook our shoes filled with dirt, drenched in sweat from the 94-degree Fahrenheit heat and the scorching sun, I could not help but think of the misery, pain, and blood spilled that day in the same time frame but in a wet and miserable October. In addition to the wounded, more than 2,000 soldiers on both sides have died that day, young lives snuffed out for the interests of a few.

Note: Photos taken by Ileana Johnson; portraits from National Archives

Behavioral Vaccines

 Dr. Lawrence R. Huntoon, M.D., Ph.D., from Lake View, NY wrote in the AAPS News, Vol. 79, no. 7, July 2023:

"Behavioral Vaccines. The initiative to develop vaccines to control behavior was started by former NIH director Dr. Francis Collins. These will be offered as 'the solution' to the opioid problem. The vaccines will produce antibodies which bind to opioids, preventing them from passing the blood brain barrier (and likely eliminating their pain-relieving effect).
Another type of vaccine, designed to produce antibodies that bind to receptors in the brain, is even more frightening. Dr. Nora Volkow, director of the National Institute for Drug Addiction (NIDA), believes that all additions can be eliminated if the brain's receptors can be controlled (tinyurl.com/4sfntmed).
What about an mRNA vaccine that binds to pleasure receptors, inducing permanent anhedonia? Or to testosterone to curb the 'violence crisis"? This is obviously a dangerous area of research. Who knew the government was already working on it?"

Weaponized Through Electronic Tracking

Among the many taglines and slogans, the Marxists are busy inventing, none stands out so bold as “healthcare reinvented.” There is a lot of truth in this tagline as the technocrats are busy reinventing healthcare to better control the population with algorithms.

Never mind that healthcare does not need reinventing, we were doing fine before this global revolution that is determined to turn our lives upside down in every way possible and imaginable – education, health, housing, living, food, travel, commerce, medicine, leisure, and anything that makes life worth living.

The leftist contingent knows best what is good for us, including health. And all the NGOs associated with the United Nations and the World Economic Forum are busy making things happen while we idly watch it day by day become our “new reality” and “new normal” decided by fake scientists, unelected career bureaucrats, and corrupt politicians.

We pay heavy taxes and prices for the global warming turned Climate Change Industry they invented as well and hope and pray that the total interdiction of fossil fuels will not destroy us, and that a Climate Change Lockdown will not be declared by executive order.

The euphemisms and catchy phrases are astonishing. Medical facilities, doctors, and hospitals have turned into the “modern pulse of medicine, the new vision, the revolution, the good vibes, the superheroes of health, the path to healing, the key, the trend, the calmness, the compassionate ones, the committed ones, the world health slayers, the magical ingredients, the medical wizards, the health care cozy sweaters, the spa day for health, the GPS for health,” etc. https://www.soocial.com/healthcare-slogans/

The drive behind these silly taglines is the ‘health equity movement,’ a Marxist initiative which claims via the powerful unelected bureaucrats and NGO nobodys, that everything in life influences your health.

The globalists, who invented the Marxist initiative, through their myriad of public-private partnerships at the local, state, and regional levels, are taking over the economy under the excuse of keeping you healthy and you must pay more for everything if you wish to stay healthy and have access to medical care.

Tracking everything in peoples’ lives electronically, enabled by technocrats and politicians, includes various statistics under the ‘social determinants of health agenda,’ such as dividing people by race, education, wokeism, and socio-economic status.

Globalists will derive a lot of statistics from the electronic tracking in each doctor’s office and have big plans to use this data to change the world, including education, agriculture, leisure, transportation, health care, travel, spending, and banking.

The electronic tracking was written into Obama’s 2010 Affordable Care Act which bribed doctors $50,000 if they placed all their records online and followed the government’s guidelines to create a history for each patient from cradle to grave. It is not coincidental that, during visits, doctors and nurse practitioners ask their patients to fill in highly detailed surveys or ask them questions that are none of their business when treating sick people.

Our health records have been weaponized. Everything we do from now on will be directed through electronic health records and digital I.D.s. – voting, shopping, banking, access to care, gasoline consumption, electricity consumption, natural gas, mileage, permission to travel, entertainment, food consumption, visas, flying tickets.

You will be digitized, controlled, identified, no matter where you go, who you are, what you do, how you do it, with whom, and it will all be all found under a comprehensive health record. And the data will not be used to help you, it will be used against you.

You will be exploited by government via your electronic healthcare record in so many ways:

-          Are you exercising?

-          Are you obese?

-          What are you eating?

-          How many calories per day do you eat?

-          Are you riding a bike to work or school?

-          Where do you travel?

-          Have you used too many unapproved miles? Then the kill-switch in your car will be activated by the controllers.

-          Are you having good and healthy thoughts?

-          What are you reading and are they technocrat-approved materials?

-          Are you a church-going Christian?

-          What are you saying on social media?

-          Your social score is not good enough therefore you cannot buy a concert, metro, bus, train, or plane ticket; you must remain within your 15-minute city/neighborhood.

If you are not in line with the government programs, then anything could be easily denied, including health care and food, via algorithms embedded into your digitized health record.

The algorithms will become the “denial nurse,” the case “health manager,” and the social credit score controller.