Folks often wish aloud that they could know what the future holds. I, of anyone, can appreciate the characteristic uncertainty of such a truly unknown quantity, but as I look back upon the days of my childhood, I can see in hindsight that I at least could have been certain of one thing about my own future: that my life would be an unconventional one. Why is that, you ask? Well, while most kids grew up watching Disney movies, I grew up watching documentaries about Waco, Ruby Ridge, America’s first padlocked church, and things of the like.
This is not a lament, mind you. Being the 3rd oldest son of a pastor and political dissident, I have some rather cherished childhood memories of my parents’ activism in the early to mid 90’s. My dad had a reasonably well-known shortwave radio show on WWCR (Worldwide Christian Radio) called The Voice of Liberty for a time, and heavily utilized the most state-of-the-art means of disseminating information available to most triple A’s of that period: Stacking 8 or 10 VCR’s on top of each other connected to a few CRT TV’s and recording copies on VHS just as fast as you could play through the tape. Print some homemade labels out on your Windows 3.1 powered computer, and you were REALLY fighting the power in earnest!
The software needed to perform such wonders of modern technology came on floppy disks. Sure, life would have been easier if jump drives had been invented at that time, but who needed them? While a really high-end computer might have had as much as a whopping 64 megabytes of RAM, everyone knew that most people would NEVER need more space than that!
Direct mail was the go-to means of content delivery back then, and so no day was complete in my early years without hanging out in my parents’ bedroom/recording studio and watching the documentaries play on the TVs while my mom labeled cassette tapes and VHS tapes and licked scores of envelopes to prep them for mailing runs to the post office ten miles or so down the road in the little hamlet of Epworth, Georgia. This was the nearest community to the remote 40+ acres of property which housed the headquarters of the Church of the Remnant, the church my dad pastored in his spare time between his radio program and acting as chairman of a sizable patriot organization that met weekly in Atlanta called Citizens for A Constitutional Georgia.
My brothers and I played outside, hiked in the woods and built dirt forts (who needs toy guns and swords when a little imagination and an ambiguously shaped, but reasonably sturdy, stick will work just fine?), had a pretty amazing Wild West Lego collection, played massive rubber band wars with my sizable army of plastic cowboys and Indians, played classic board games like RISK and Monopoly (whose rules always seemed to change inexplicably despite my oldest brother’s insistence that the rule book absolutely backed up his rather convenient assertions), watched John Wayne and Roy Rogers movies and went to sleep at night listening to Carl Klang, Legacy, Steve Vaus, and audio dramatizations of Louis L’Amour stories.
We had little use for sports heroes and celebrities. I did stage acting for a spell, and have done a few solos at public events, as well as, performed in church choir in my time, so I’ll be among the first to tip my hat to talented performers when I see them, but a good performance—whether it be a brilliantly acted movie role, a beautifully sung/played piece of music or slam dunking a ball loses its luster when you know of the exploits of men like Martin Luther, William Tyndale, Davy Crockett and the defenders of the Alamo, the defenders of Thermopylae led by Leonidas and his bold 300, Andrew Jackson, Francis Marion, Ethan Allen, the Founding Fathers, Stonewall Jackson, J.E.B. Stuart, Nathan Bedford Forrest, Robert E. Lee, the mighty men and patriarchs of the Bible, and a host of others who went before them.
We read a lot too. The Hardy Boys, the literary classics of old, G.A. Henty stories and the Hornblower series by C.S. Forester fuel the imagination as much as any movie when you give them the time of day. We didn’t get in trouble too often, but when we did, discipline was swift and severe. My mom had an inch-thick board which maintained order pretty effectively. She wasn’t shy about using it, but never failed to hug us tightly after a good paddling and telling us in a soft and sweet tone how much she loved us. This was enough to instill discipline in and of itself for the most part, but nothing struck more terror in the heart of a wayward youngster than the booming voice of my dad which always served as a warning that the belt was (literally) about to come off. On one occasion, my brothers and I had to wait in line looking on as we all received our respective whippings.
Maybe I was just really good at cost-analysis from a very young age, but I found the prospect of such consequences sufficiently compelling to learn the rules and respect them, and judging by the fact that I didn’t see my older brothers getting in trouble too often either, I’m guessing they’d say the same.
Despite the hardship and persecution our family has always known, which has always accompanied my family’s activism, you might say that like so many children, I had a very well-adjusted and amazing childhood. And yet, for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt a deep emotional connection to the many victims of “our” government and our ancestors who came before us that is difficult to put into words.
Maybe it’s because some of my fondest memories growing up involve burning U.N. flags in front of globalist owned newspaper offices in Atlanta and handing out copies of The Spotlight during street activism. Maybe it’s because of all those documentaries I watched over and over again, ranging from recorded seminars and sermons to scholarly documentaries like Elliott Germaine’s “The War Between the States and the Undefeated Southern Truth.” It’s undoubtedly a relevant consideration here that I was raised by a father who pounded the pulpit and preached as passionately to his little flock of 30 or so family members and close friends on our remote property in North Georgia as he did to a packed out meeting room in front of a press conference with dozens of media officials present announcing his first Congressional candidacy and a mother who loved him unconditionally. But when I speak of this feeling, I do not do so idly. I empathize with them. Feel their pain to some extent. The chorus of Carl Klang’s “Ode to Gordon Kahl” still chokes me up despite my having lost count of how many times I’ve listened to it:
All is fair in love and war,
Christian blood has been shed before;
And though the strength of flesh may fail,
the Gates of Hell shall never prevail;
Because He gave His life for me,
I shall not fear adversity;
And we shall all meet at Heaven’s door,
Cause’ all is fair in love and war.
I don’t know what exactly it was that first drew me to the stories of Randy Weaver and his family, Gordon Kahl, Pastors Greg Dixon and Everett Ramsey, or the Branch Davidians to name a few, and seared them into my memory. But that they must be honored and must be remembered has always been a point of conviction for me. Regardless of what else, I learn as my life goes on, nothing can change that.
Any Southerner worth his salt is well versed in the crimes upon which there is no statute of limitations committed by the treasonous Lincoln regime and how the valiant defense of Dixie represented the 2nd American Revolution. His heart aches with the knowledge that unlike the first American Revolution, that war for Southern independence was a war that the good guys lost, and that not just our beloved Dixie, but all of these Disunited States are much the worse for wear as a result.
But what many in our circles do not understand is that the crimes of that accursed administration continue unabated. Reconstruction never really ended. It merely lessened in severity. But even that is true only for some. For such is certainly not the case where the victims of unfettered government power run amok I allude to are concerned. Whose stories I learned from the time I was young. And whose tales of woe I now know are but a continuation of the crimes and blood-soaked legacy of 1861-1865.
I, like the rest of us, didn’t know as a child, and certainly do not know now what my future would bring, and what living in it would/will entail. But I have always known for as long as I can remember that I can never live quietly within a system that not just routinely perpetrates such heinous and unconscionable crimes as those in the events I mention, but that remains to this very day, unrepentant of them, refusing to acknowledge the blood dripping from its collective hands. That not only could I not participate in it on any meaningful level, but that I must do everything in my power to either help reform it or recreate it.
In the second part of this piece, I will tell the stories of these victims in detail, and show how to know and understand what befell them is quintessential to knowing the true face of our enemies. That any and all who love the South, but do not take these case histories to heart, are bereft in their labors in the trenches for the cause of truth and the restoration of our beloved homeland.