We now realize the Liberal media controls or tries to control the election process in the United States; obviously, control is a matter of degree, it can be minimal or it can be complete. Regardless of the degree of control the press has over any political process, the press will use every tool at its’ disposal to acquire all the control it can steal from the public, for that is what this control by the press has become, a theft of our election process and our very freedom to determine our own political future. Democrats or high ranking Republicans will never complain about this usurpation of the political process or the freedom of the public to determine their own future because they want the control of the country to be concentrated in the hands of a select few. The press has exposed its’ duplicitous nature well enough, only the most intellectually compromised among us cannot see the glaring inconsistencies and corruption. The attempted evisceration of Cain by circumspect women with motives that may include career advancement or monetary gain, is in sharp contrast to the protection given to the serial rapist and womanizer Bill Clinton.

That contrast only pertains to the men; there is also a sharp contrast in the treatment of the women. Clinton’s accusers were defamed and relegated to the status of cheap whores and today the dubious reputations of these women of questionable merit are considered to be above the scrutiny of the press. Have the social values of the press and the public changed in the last decade?

No, not really, it is a rhetorical question, Clinton is a Democrat; he is to be provided with the full protection of the MSM: Cain is a Conservative, he is to be excoriated with the full wrath of a duplicitous press. America is now using their best skills at detecting lies and half truths learned while watching the latest crime and justice shows and the press has accomplished its’ goal of instilling doubt where there was none. In the case of the Clinton rape scandals, it was the mission of the press to cast doubt on the integrity of the accusers; the press has been extremely successful in their efforts.

Without a doubt, the MSM will be able to find another “victim” of sexual harassment by Herman Cain every week until the election is held or until the press forces him out of the race and virtually insures an Obama reelection. These questions deserve to be asked: are we willing to let a corrupt press have this much control over our election process? Are we willing to let our country be manipulated by a cheap soap opera script and the witless writers and fans of such lame vapidity.

We are at a critical crossroads in our nation’s future. We have an economic illiterate in the White House who is determined to impose a Socialist system of Wealth Redistribution and to bring down the most powerful economic entity in the history of the world, so that other nations can direct this once free and noble country through corrupt organizations like the United Nations.

It is a disgrace to think that we are willing to forget about the desecration of our country and throw away our future because of the pleading of a few bimbos who appear to be little more than political operatives for the Democrat Party. There may never bring another chance to fight back this Socialist conversion that the Obama Socialists and Obama Republicans are so desperate to impose, but the nation is worried over a few neurotic bimbos with stories they are hoping will lead to fame and fortune.

We must remember, a Democrat excuses rape by a Democrat with claims that she wanted or deserved the attention, but innuendo or a smile can be interpreted as sexual harassment if you are a Conservative. These are the standards that Conservatives are expected to maintain. Now, that we know the rules that the Liberal press plays by and how easy it is for them to destroy lives and reputations without a thought for integrity or honor, it should be understood that any business executive or politician who allows himself to be alone with a woman, particularly a Liberal woman without is asking for their lives and reputations to be ruined. I am suggesting open door meetings with witnesses and recording all meetings with women and making a big deal of the necessity to protect yourself from the duplicity so common to Liberal women and the Liberal press.

In the final analysis, it is imperative that we prevent the Liberal press from playing us like bimbos posing in front of the porta-potties.

Michele Admits Propaganda Bureaus Are a Great Help

First Lady Michelle Obama (watch the video at the link) once again creates a dubious aura around the question of her intelligence during an interview with CNN; once again, she was thrown the typical softball question meant to tug at the heart strings of America and ends up looking like a fool.

The CNN reporter asked this inane question with the disjointed grammar that has become typical of the State Directed Media:

CNN reporter: “How’s the family ready for this [the election]? It’s going to be quite vicious, isn’t it? How do you prepare for that?”

With forethought and grammar that belies her Ivy League education, the First Lady responds:

“You know, it’s … we’re ready, you know. Our children, you know, could care less about what we’re doing. We work hard to do that. Fortunately, we have help from the media. I have to say this: I’m very grateful for the support and kindness that we’ve gotten. People have respected their privacy and in that way, I think, you know, no matter what people may feel about my husband’s policies or what have you, they care about children and that’s been good to see.”

Sometimes, people are just not equipped to speak in public and it seems cruel to eviscerate them, because they are so clueless, but this woman’s husband is systematically destroying this country and he has his own propaganda bureaus that willingly participate in this destruction. Should we feel sorry for the simple minded, Hell no.

A huge 19.2 hand horse allows the dentist to feel the back molars with no sedation or intimidation. The horse could close its mouth with thousands of pounds of pressure and crush that right forearm as if it were a child's arm.

I learned to ride jumping horses as a teenager from an old cavalry trooper. Sadly, my English riding and jumping style reflects that early instruction where function was valued over form. It wouldn’t be an issue, except here in America, only the affluent and those who want to appear affluent compose the majority of those who ride jumpers and they have spent years and tens of thousands of dollars to fine tune the image of how they appear or the image they want to project while riding: European riders have disdain for the American rider who seldom ventures beyond the arena; in Europe, they spend their time and money on being able to negotiate difficult courses on horses that aren’t trained to the Nth degree, while being able to train recalcitrant horses to perform at the highest international levels. Americans would rather spend hundreds of thousands or even millions on the easy to ride or push button horse that will win a rosette and a ribbon.

Needless to say, I never competed in this craziness and silliness; although, two of my kids payed the game for a while, but they made their own horses and competed at the lower levels for a few years on horses that rarely cost over a thousand dollars: I took the more Conservative approach and bought horses that scared the Liberal rider and thus had almost no value in North America. Yes, the high dollar horse world, with all its pretensions is 99% Liberal. Now that my kids are grown, they admit that their biggest problems were with the attitudes of the people, the horses were fairly easy. They much preferred riding the European circuits against the European riders.

While learning my humble English skills, I rode horses for a former cavalry trooper that bought reject horses to sell as jumpers. They were almost all former race horses, back in the days before we imported the European Warm Bloods by the tens of thousands; unfortunately, the race horses often suffered from varying degrees of neurotic problems; although, there were a few that I would have loved to owned for twenty years, but that wasn’t the purpose of my work. My boss/instructor had been a sergeant in the cavalry before WWII; after the war started, he and the rest of the cavalry became artillery troopers.

I was apprehensive about crawling on all these horses and testing them for jumping before they had a chance to become regular horses. I remember my boss’s thoughts on the subject, “They all jump, some of them just jump better than others.” I tested that theory on a daily basis.

Occasionally, he would buy or be given the most the most outrageous outlaw or renegade horse for a hundred miles: most of these are the result of poor horsemanship or from dealing with the horse from a point of stark terror on the part of the previous owners. Fear is one of the worst things to inject into the relationship with a horse. The horse is a herd animal and for any horse to show fear is to relegate it to the position of an inferior being. It is in the horse’s personality to abuse those horses that show fear; a pecking order is established from supreme leader to the lowest most cowardly horse. The lower horses are the last to eat or drink and the last in the herd while walking or during migration, thus the most likely to be pulled down by a predator. That is their nature and there are some things we can’t change, with humans on the most basic levels, the same attitudes come forth.

When we would acquire one of these meat eaters, I became the helper rather than the jockey. My mentor would put a bridle on the horse, lead it into the arena and begin walking the horse in an extremely small circle, until the horse began to show signs of being dizzy. If Matt were on the left side of the horse he would pull on the right rein and pull the horse’s head up toward the withers and ask the horse to step forward until he stumbled. When the horse hit the ground, he would jump on the neck with the head cradled in his arms between his legs, he would then pull the horse’s head up and hold it with both hands up on his belly.

I was standing by with a tarp and tent pegs. It was my job to cover the horse with the tarp and secure the perimeter with the tent pegs. Once the horse was secured, it was impossible for him to move and we left him to think on his life and mortality here on earth. The next step was to scatter crushed grain over the tarp and let the chickens scratch and peck at the grain while the horse visualized giant eagles within a millimeter of starting to devour him. After the chickens had enjoyed their treat, we fixed a hose so that it sprayed a stream of water on the tarp and let the horse contemplate the thunder of water on a tarp for thirty minutes or so; it may have been and an early form of water boarding.

You must remember that this horse would have been shot if anyone else would have acquired him and we were pulling out all the stops to reclaim a horse that had been spoiled and ruined, with all the best intentions; meaning that someone tried to overcome their fear of the horse by treating it as if it were an ancient Greek god that needed treats and loving rather than training and discipline.

After being under the tarp for six hours, we pulled the tarp off the disoriented horse. When the horse stood up Matt was on his back, not sitting on the horse’s back, but standing up. He was a big man of 65 years of age and I was always amazed at his ability to ride these wild ones while standing on their back. In his own words, “I want the horse to think he has just emerged from Hell and I am no other than Jesus Christ, his Lord and Savior.” I don’t think that was blasphemy, because it was for the benefit of the horse and not for a human.

He would start riding the horse around the arena and if things went well, I’d hand him a snare drum with one drum stick. He’d then hang the drum over his neck, hold onto the reins with one hand, and play the drum with the other hand. He must have been a drummer at some point, because he could sure make that drum carry some fancy tunes. If the horse passed this phase, I took the drum and handed him a 22 pistol with bird shot. He’d fire the pistol up in the air and usually the horse stood there without moving. If the horse acted up, he went back under the tarp and the process was repeated. None of them ever required a third treatment. Once the horse had passed his exams, it was time to begin training and I was allowed to ride them.

In the final analysis, the horses that are the most difficult to train, often make the best horses. Some of them are born with a contrary attitude and tend to be a natural bully. That type of personality is not uncommon among horses, but it is probably the worst type of horse personality to spoil and treat as if he is an awesome animal and that humans are only here to serve as lesser beings or handmaidens in a similar manner to that of slave and ancient Roman aristocrat.

In essence this becomes capitulation, the human is seen as willing to serve as long as the horse won’t take out his aggression on the human servant. Horses like children can recognize the fear and spineless behavior of the adult who approaches the horse with treats and the tentative touch of supplication in an effort to win the horse’s goodwill. Horses are quick to exploit this behavior; to them it is only a sign of weakness common to inferior animals.

The human has in fact told them a lie or propaganda, for not all humans live in a world based in fear and quiet desperation, a situation that transforms into the false feeling by the horse that normal behavior or acceptable behavior doesn’t apply to them. Thus a horse believes the propaganda that it has been fed for months or years and metastasizes into a renegade outlaw; unfortunately, the horse will terrorize the owners until they have no other option but to get rid of the horse and begin all over with a new horse to ruin. The horse that they ruined will be acquired by someone who will juge whether the horse has the talent to justify the work needed to retrain the horse or if the horse is in fact not worth the effort. If that is the case they will just put a bullet through the horse’s brain to bring a close to his existence here on earth. It is a sad testament to modern life that there just aren’t many horsemen like my old mentor who will give a horse another chance at redemption to become a useful citizen rather than to die believing the propaganda he has been fed throughout his life n the road to perdition.

In today’s world, our younger generations have been been receiving generous doses of propaganda through pubic education and the pop culture. The majority of young people are firmly convinced that Socialism is the way of the future; of course, if they place faith and trust with the state run media their preconceived convictions are reinforced on a daily basis.

You can understand the children being drawn into the matrix of Marxism after being subjected to the theory and having the foundation of education based on Marxism, but the most puzzling aspect of propaganda is when the purveyors of propaganda believe their own lies and hype.

In Egypt a CBS News crew for 60 Minutes was working the mob on February 11 in Tahrir Square, looking for footage and interviews that would support the Democrat Party Line of Demonstrators seeking “Democratic” reforms and fair elections; President Hosni Mubarak had just stepped down and handed control over to the military. Rather than viewing the crowd as a dangerous criminal mob, CBS chief foreign correspondent Lara Logan walked into the crowd as if she were walking among American college students from suburbia. She made the mistake of believing the Leftist hype and propaganda; she and her crew were overwhelmed by the vicious mob and Lara was gang raped and sexually assaulted for a period of time until she was rescued by a group of women and soldiers.

She flew out of Egypt the next morning and is home recovering from her attack. President Obama called her at home to express his concern. Whether he is concerned over her welfare or the difficulty in promoting his message and the party line is a question we are left to ponder.

Police, military men, and people with a measure of common sense develop a sensitivity for situations that can get out of control and they avoid the confrontation until they can be reasonably sure of a favorable outcome. The propagandists who become deluded by their own propaganda are in such a state of naivete that they can inadvertently put themselves in danger.

For Logan and her crew, the crowd was the equivalent of a spoiled horse that had become an outlaw or renegade; she assumed that because she went up to the horse with love and understanding that the horse would respond with respect and love. Unfortunately the horse without respect or manners is completely uncivilized and can be extremely dangerous. Logan is lucky to have escaped with her life. Sadly enough, she and her compatriots share in the guilt of spoiling the mob or the figurative horse, by identifying the crowd as lovers of Democracy and freedom who were merely seeking to overthrow the repressive regime of Mubarak; inadvertently, they gave propaganda fuel to the fire of the mob and nurtured the collective psychosis of the mob. They reinforced the mob’s feeling of invincibility and purpose; unfortunately, the crowd seems to have been propelled by far more sinister forces, thus she visualized walking into a wading pool of guppies and ended up in a sea of sharks. A direct result of believing her own lies and propaganda; still today, the propaganda mill is working the lies continue to be dispensed.

“I think the Muslim Brotherhood is not anything to be afraid of in the upcoming (Egyptian) political situation and the evolution I see as most likely,” Carter said. “They will be subsumed in the overwhelming demonstration of desire for freedom and true democracy.”

Who will be the next fool to believe their own propaganda and lies and let their gullibility over rule common sense so they become the victim of their own delusions.

In April of 2004, Elizabeth ( a fictitious name) a 19 year old female approached Julian Assange in a Melbourne bar. Assange was a 33 year old student studying mathematics and physics at the university.

“I started talking to him and he just seemed kind of quiet and nerdy. I didn’t think he was sexy or anything. Just strangely alluring for a 19-year-old girl.”

Assange flirted with her by flexing his mathematics skills and kidding her about being ignorant of mathematics and science. This is typical procedure for lecherous types who want to impress and establish superiority over their prey or victims.

They talked until closing time and Assange walked Elizabeth home to a small village in the country. Along the way he kissed her, she was not impressed with his behavior, but neither was she turned off.

“It was like, fine, whatever,” Elizabeth said. “He wasn’t creepy about it, and he didn’t try anything weird.”

Before saying goodnight, they exchanged emails and Assange gave her his card with the image of a lighthouse and he rode the train back to town. No doubt he envisages himself as a guiding light for the rest of the world.

She soon received this email requesting a date:

She doesn’t remember how she replied but she didn’t encourage him:

“I wasn’t into him,” she said.

However, she was shocked when she received a phone call from him at her parents’ house; since, she had not given him her phone number.

The call was understandably strained when he refused to explain how he had obtained her phone number.

“I was really cold because he somehow found out information about me and I didn’t know how and it scared me,” she said.

Undaunted in his quest for conquest, Assange promptly sent an email to chastise her for her phone etiquette; however, the real purpose is to discipline her as a parent would an adolescent and to establish a position of dominance and control.

She says she replied with a coldness to his entreaties; yet his technique is a continual assault of stages and progression, he has already instilled an element of self-doubt and the question of worthiness within his victim, a process that she will never admit to herself.

Assange tried another approach by recalling the romantic aspects of the night they met.

Assange called again and Elizabeth, who was becoming wary of Assange’s persistence, countered by pretending to be someone else, a gambit that Assange assumed to be flirtation and an opportunity.

Assange formulated a puzzle to get his phone number to Elizabeth, so she could call him with the satisfaction of having figured out a simple math problem and redeem herself of the ignoble distinction of being a lesser creature who is deficient in math skills. To accomplish this he gave her an equation with her license plate number as part of the known factors. Thankfully, she didn’t fall for his cheap and obvious gambit that was designed to establish Assange’s dominance and omnipotence as well as his willingness to excuse her poor math skills. Elizabeth said she couldn’t call him, so he sent an email asking the best time to call her.

She was left with the cold and bewildering question of how and why did he obtain her license plate number.

At this point, Elizabeth told Assange to quit calling her. And with the dogged persistence that is characteristic of the predator, he told her she might get lucky and be able to contact him through his web site.

Assange finally gave up, but tried to humiliate her with a series of emails meant to hurt her self-image.

Assange’s relationships with women haven’t improved much in the six years since his creepy attempt at wooing Elizabeth. His online dating profile and blogging reveal an insufferable self-styled Don Juan, and he currently stands accused of raping and sexual molesting two Swedish women.

For the record, Elizabeth says she never felt threatened by Assange’s behavior; she viewed it as misguided attempts at courtship by a socially awkward nerd.

“I don’t think he’s a bad person,” she said. “He’s just a funny bugger.”

Although Elizabeth resisted the predatory seduction of Assange, her comment, “I don’t think he’s a bad person, he’s just a funny bugger”, indicates she was susceptible to his miserable game and is still under his spell to a degree; because she still doesn’t recognize the deception and evil inherent in this deviant behavior. Although Assange’s pathetic attempts at romantic writing only mean his poetic license should be revoked, his hacking into another person’s private life is despicable. He definitely has a problem with women and will probably be in more trouble with women if he doesn’t end up in prison. Assange maintains that his hacking is for purely altruistic motives, he also employs his hacking skills to be a sexual predator.

Epilogue: The author has no training in psychology or deviant sexual behavior, but in the horse business, 90% of your customers are women and after listening to tens of thousands of women talk about life and their experiences while I worked on their horses, I have a vast anecdotal background on the nature of these incidents. Thus I have a fairly good idea how these incidents transpire and of the psyche of the predator.

I met Oleo along one of my trap line trails. A fellow trapper, Oleo was way off course by about 30 miles from his own trap line. He was among the Laplanders brought over by the government for an experiment in reindeer or caribou ranching. One of the best bushmen I have ever known, it was for certain he was here for a reason and not because he was lost.

The experiment consisted of sawing off the antlers while they were in the velvet, drying them, grinding them into powder, then selling them to men in the Orient so they would have more lead in their pencils. I personally thought the idea was a little far fetched, since having a place to draw or write seemed to be more problematic than having lead when you needed it. The problem of men and their misplaced manhoods seems to be a self-inflicted malady by men with too much idle time on their hands in tandem with a poor concept of manhood itself. The experiment was a dismal failure and Oleo became a trapper.

Oleo didn’t suffer from the typical problems of cosmopolitan men in search of a masculine identity. He was about 5 foot 8 and very robust. He walked with heavy packs piled several feet above his head and traveled through deep snow on snowshoes faster than most people can walk on a sidewalk. His shirt and jacket were often open on the coldest days and he chewed or ate coffee grounds the whole time he traveled. He was content to sleep out most of the time, regardless of the extreme cold and wind. I often wondered whether he was a throw back to an earlier form of man, because I have never met another one like him.

He told me in his broken English that I had a woman visitor in my North Fork cabin; I was struggling to understand what he was saying in disbelief. Suddenly, he said, “Skook, see you in the later” and with that he turned to leave using his long strided, bow legged, ground covering, walk.

Within a few seconds he had already covered a fair distance, I yelled out, “who is it?”; he turned to wave and disappeared a few seconds later. That was Oleo, he was not one to waste time with idle chit chat.

My trap line was roughly 60 miles by 60 miles, the borders were defined by creeks and rivers so it was difficult to determine exactly how much area it encompassed, but it was roughly 3600 square miles. The trap line or at least the right to trap fur is owned by the trapper, he pays a commission or ‘royalty’ on each fur trapped, that goes to the crown. I don’t know whether the Queen kept an account book for my trap line, but I suppose I sent her enough over the years to buy a new hat and a pair of fancy shoes now and then. As the trapper of a government trap line, I could build a number of cabins and live on the trap line year round if I wanted to improve the trap line. I could apply for grazing permits and with a contract from the outfitter, I could guide hunters and use the cabins for base camps, allowing the hunters to be warm and dry at night. All things considered, I felt like I had a kingdom without people.

I had to change plans now, I had a woman in the cabin on the North Fork. Fur is a curious business. It is best to check your snares and traps every 48 hours or so, because some other cute little fur bearer is likely to eat the animal in the trap or snare. Life in the mountains is a continuous struggle on a thin margin between life and death by starvation or by fang and claw. The idea of predators like the wolf, Grizzly, or mountain lion only hunting the weak, lame, and old is pure baloney; they are all creatures of opportunity, they kill and eat whatever animals that come within range, despite what you have been told by environmentalists and Walt.

This was a strange incident indeed, a visitor might drop in once a year or less, usually it was another trapper or an oil field worker who is lost, once I had a hunter struggle in to a cabin, he was lost and had wandered way off course in near exhaustion, but never a woman.

My curiosity got the best of me, I headed for the North Fork and started setting snares along the way, no need to waste time during the trapping season. For some strange reason, wolves and coyotes were always following my trail and they often paid for it with their lives. If the spiritual world is closer to the native ideas than the Christian view, I might be in big trouble when I cash in my chips. For the wolf and/or coyote is without a doubt my native totem, I have always had an unexplainable ability for catching them and I have known many old trappers who weren’t able to catch one in their entire career. They took special care to boil their snares in natural berry solutions and kept their clothes outside to keep down on the man scent, I did nothing and often caught as many as five in a night. It is possible that the problem relates to my real family name, Casa del Lobos (House of Wolves): I have been worried about the spiritual connection since I was a boy; just because family members changed the name 70 years ago, to live in secrecy, doesn’t mean it’s not your real name.

There lies the dilemma for someone raised in the Christian religion and yet has close ties to the native religion. Growing up on the trap line and relating more to nature than to the church only increases the doubt and wonder.

The Cabin On North Fork

I often used horses on the lines around North Fork, it had excellent meadows for feed with light snowfall, as a rule, but if the heavy snow fell, I could usually leave the horses there all winter to paw through the snow for their feed and snowshoe out. I didn’t believe in gambling, but my whole life and business was a constant gamble. Make a mistake out there and the bears will find you in the spring, it was the same for the horses. They depended on their wits to keep them out of trouble, but when they made a mistake, they knew it was best to wait until I came along to bail them out of trouble. When a horse reaches that point in his career, he is what I consider a “made horse”. They are required to have intelligence, honesty, trust, courage, balance, and common sense; unfortunately, these are attributes that too many humans are lacking. I often hear humans speak in a condescending tone about horses and remark that they are stupid: I look at them with that intense green eyed stare that I am known for and tell them, “we want them to perform in the human world and take the human IQ test; however, if I were to take you in the mountains and ask you to take the horse IQ test, I’ll guarantee you, your scores will make you look stupid.”

While crossing the last valley before the cabin, I noticed a dozen horses feeding in the meadow, several of them were old, low in the back, and sprung in the ribs. I don’t mind if someone pastures on my grass, it is customary to ask first, but what’s a little grass? Since the horses were in the meadow, my visitor must be a horsewoman. I could only think of one that could make it out here; except, she was way too old to be riding out here in the winter. That would be Naomi Seville, she was a wild one that had started from a hovel on the Reservation, dined with millionaires in Europe, and came back to live as a vagabond in the Peace Country.

Beauty In The Trap Cabin

With just a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney, I could surmise that the fire was almost out; however, there was a faint glimmer of light in the window, that meant that someone had a candle burning. Even though it was my cabin, I hailed the person inside, “hello, the cabin”. There was no response. This was a dicey situation. The people who can survive in this country would never intentionally harm me, but if I woke someone up by charging into my cabin unannounced, I might receive a 30-06 round between the running lights for my effort. Trust me, these people are usually in tune with nature and staying alive means being ready for the possibility of a starving Grizzly intrusion.

I stood to the side of the door, opened the latch, and swung the door open; I peeked inside the door opening and saw a beautiful woman in my bed. I was in my mid-twenties and she was in her late sixties, but it was easy to see why Naomi had been considered the singular beauty of the Peace River country. With a frail gesture of her hand she motioned for me to come inside.

I said, “the fire’s almost out, let’s get some heat in here”, I built the fire in the stove I had made from a four foot section of oil field pipe and banked it so that we would have at least 70 degrees for five or six hours. Not a word was said until I was done.

I started the coal oil lantern and a white gas lantern and the trap cabin became a nice little home. I brought one of the two chairs from the table and put it next to Naiomi, sat down in the chair and said, “what’s going on Naiomi?”

She smiled a beautiful and radiant smile and told me that she had come here to die.

Right away, I told her, I could gather up a few of the horses in the meadow and make a travois, pack her out of here and get her to a hospital: she just smiled and said that her time was up and that she was ready to pass over.

I held her hand and she seemed so grateful, but the truth was, I was holding her hand to collect my own courage to face her impending death. This was not some neurotic woman from suburbia, she was a deeply spiritual native woman and if she said she was ready to die, you better believe she was ready to die. I felt the deep throbbing in my chest and fought the urge to cry, for this woman was showing a bravery that I have only seen a few times. I held her hand in silence for twenty minutes or so and asked if she would like for me to rustle up some found.

She smiled once again and asked me to make a moose roast with turnips and corn. I old her that all I had was beans and flour because I wasn’t planning on using the cabin until spring beaver started. With the tiniest voice she said there was good grub in her packs on the porch and to bring in the two sets of paniers. All the fixins were in the paniers and soon I was cooking and talking away, I always enjoy cooking for other people. It was a grand meal, poor Naiomi only ate a few bites, but said her last meal was just as she had dreamed it would be. I wished I had a bottle of Cabernet, for I had a pretty good idea of what was in store for me.

She pointed to a blanket roll in one of the panniers and asked me to get it for her. There was a moose hide blanket and a few pictures of her and a man with horses. There was another smaller moose hide roll that she asked me to open. It was a beautiful native dress trimmed with beaver on the cuffs and lynx over the shoulders, there was also a pair of moose hide moccasins the were trimmed in beaver with a new pair of white cotton socks.

I helped her slip into the dress and put the cotton socks and moccasins on her feet. She seemed to feel much happier when I was finished and she stroked the Lynx fur softly.

“Skook, I need your help and you are the only one I can trust with this request.”

I said nothing as she continued with her weak, frail voice. “I used to pick blueberries and huckleberries with my grandparents in the pasture just beyond the cabin when I was a little girl.” I just nodded my head yes, it was one of the best berry patches in the Peace River country. “There is an old Indian burial ground above the meadow on blueberry mountain.”

I told her I knew the location, but out of respect I had always stayed clear of the area. She then told me that she wanted to spend eternity on blueberry mountain.

I had a sinking feeling at the thought, I would be breaking the law that’s for sure: I had already buried one friend and now someone who was barely an acquaintance was asking me to bury them.

“I want the traditional burial above ground, not the White Man’s burial. You know how the old people made a log bed up in the air and laid their people in a moose hide blanket?” I nodded my head yes, while reviewing this plan in my head. “This is my burial shroud,” she touched the new moose hide blanket with the odor of smoke tanning still clinging to the leather. “I brought an awl and thread, it wont take you long to sew it up. Just put in a few offerings of food and the pictures I have with me and put my saddle and bridle up on the stand. Are you okay with this? I know you can do it I the old way Skook.”

“Yes Naiomi, it wont take me long to sew up the moose hide and I can do it just the way you want it done: this has all hit me kind of sudden, I’m a little bit stunned.”

“When I cross over, I want you to put down my old horses. I have told them that this is the end of the trail and they know you will be there to help them along. They don’t want to live without me, so it is okay with them.” I shook my head yes as the enormity of the situation became even bigger. The rest of the horses are yours, the are all trained like Swiss clocks and there should be two or three foals by Spring. You wont need to buy horses for at least ten years.”

I smiled and said, “Your horses are famous in the Peace River Country, all that goes without saying.”

She looked proud to hear me compliment her horses.

“Skook, I know what you did for Barbwire Johnnie, he was a cousin of mine.” I couldn’t help but wonder how many people knew about Johnny and where he was laid to rest. Your mother was also a cousin of mine, she was a beauty beyond compare, but she had the Indian weakness for the White Man’s evils, tobacco and alcohol.” I didn’t bother to tell her that the tobacco was originally a native vice, but what was the purpose at this stage?

This looked like it was going to be a long night and my curiosity got the best of me, I asked her if it was true that she had eaten with millionaires in Europe. Her eyes twinkled and she said, “yes, indeed, she had not only eaten with millionaires in Europe, but with rich people in Australia, South Africa, Argentina, and Mexico”. “It was all because of the love of my life Skook, Charles Seville. He was a rich polo playing Englishman playboy when he met me in Vancouver: I was just sixteen, attending a special home-ec school for native girls. He swept me off my feet and we had a whirlwind romance for twenty four years, we traveled the world and I lived a life that other girls can only dream about. You might wonder why we never married, it was his family. They threatened to cut him out of the estate if he married beneath his station and that would be the end of our fairy tale life. He was a horseman, Skook, nothing else. If he had to make a living, there was nothing he could do to come close to the money he received as a remittance each month. His family hated me even though they were big time Liberals, always talking Liberal ‘Mucka Mucka’, providing and promoting programs for the ‘White Man’s Burden’, but only up to a point and that point was me.”

“We were playing polo at the Brandywine Polo Club in Delaware and there was a terrible collision on the field, my Chuck died of a broken neck. There is always the chance of injury or death with horses and Charles’ time was up that day. We had never planned for an early death, so I was left with twenty thousand dollars, a string of polo ponies, and a truck and trailer. His family wanted everything including his body, I couldn’t do anything about the body, but I loaded up the horses and headed to the Peace River Country and I have been here ever since. My horses are all from that string, the original stallion was Chuck’s favorite polo pony, Old Hickory.”

He came by his name honestly, we were playing at Oakbrook Polo Club in Chicago and a Pakistani man had a horse that was running off with him from one end of the field to the other, it was completely out of control. Well Chuck was a High Goal player in the same league as your old customer Dell Carrol the eight goal player that had the macho men scared of him and acting like little boys when he rode up behind them, well Chuck was that same kind of horseman. Sad that Dell was killed at Oaklawn galloping one of his stakes horses in the winter of 81-82. That ‘Golden Era’ of Polo has died with those men. Oh but I was telling you about Old Hickory. The man asked Charles if could ride the horse for him. Charles said sure.

He rode the horses and it ran off with him as well, but Charles always said, “a horse isn’t running off with you if you are asking it to go faster.” So he went to the whip and the horse became so frustrated he headed for the bleachers and hit them running flat out. Charles bailed in time to keep from hitting the bleachers, and it was a good thing because there was broken boards everywhere. The horse’s forehead was smashed in about an inch and he was bleeding pretty good. Chuck walked up to the man and told him if the horse lived, he’d like to buy him. All those horses have Old Hickory in them. They aren’t for everyone, they’ll eat your lunch if you aren’t a bona fide horseman, but you’ll get along with them.

I laughed and said I looked forward to breaking the young ones and that I would keep Old Hickory’s seed around for a long time.

I spent the night in the chair, dozing off now and then. I held Naomi’s cold hand, she’d awake now and then and ask if she was still with the living, I’d reassure her and she’d tell me that she was very tired and anxious to pass over. I had hours to think about the Seville family and their sanctimonious expressions of caring. I suppose it made them feel better, but when their son showed up with a woman that rode horses more like an Indian woman than a cultured lady fox hunter, they had to draw the line. Naomi should have been wealthy these last 25 years of her life, but for the false piety of her man’s family: yet she had 24 years of happiness and love, not many people are that lucky and during her self-imposed solitude, she still was not bitter, she enjoyed living the old ways in the land of the ancient people. She had truly led a charmed life.

I remember working on her horses in town when she would give kids lessons down at the pubic stable. I did her horses so cheap that I probably didn’t make a profit, but I enjoyed working for her and she thanked me so profusely, it was embarrassing. Like her, I had already traveled the world, many of the same places; like her, I returned to the Peace Country after seeing what the civilized world had to offer. I would leave the Peace once again in a few years and this time I would become involved in the civilized world and be left dreaming of the rivers and mountains of the Peace Country.

I awoke in the chair in the wee morning hours and Naiomi had crossed over, I used several different methods to ascertain that she was indeed gone. I went outside and fashioned a plywood toboggan with 1×4′s for runners and a rope that I could loop over my shoulders to take Naiomi, her belongings, an ax, some spikes and wire up to the top of Blueberry Mountain.
I sewed Naiomi in her moose hide shroud and made pancakes and coffee before setting off for the mountain. It would be a bit of a job pulling the sled up the mountain, Naiomi didn’t weigh much and the grade wasn’t real steep, but the snow was up to my knees and the trip would take three or four hours.

The Burial Ground

I was in a sweat during the trip up the mountain. The burial ground had probably not been used in at least 30 years. There was the odd rail still in the air and a sense of spirituality and of hallowed ground when I arrived. I would do this right; I don’t do things half way. I looked for three poplars with branches about eight foot in the air,I then found some suitable pine rails about six inches thick and cut them down to make a pie shaped bier. Naomi was already tied to the toboggan so I just stood on the bier and pulled the toboggan up on the platform and left her there tied to the toboggan with food, her saddle and bridle, her rifle, and her beloved Charles’ pictures. I prayed to the Creator to take care of Naiomi’s soul and to watch over her, I told him that she was a good person of the mountains that loved her animals and took excellent care of them. That was the best I could do.

Back at the cabin, I had one more chore to take care of, there were three old horses that expected to travel over with Naiomi. I led the three old horses away and the others just stared without following as they would normally do, I took them deep into a jack pine forest and put three separate piles of oats on the ground. They ate slowly and none of them looked up as I walked from horse to horse and sent them on to be with Naiomi.

Nikki Haley, Governor elect from South Carolina, in a meeting with President Obama, Cabinet members, and newly elected governors, asked Obama to repeal his Health Care Bill; unsurprisingly, he refused. She then asked if he would allow states to opt out of the Nationalized Health Care Bill; surprisingly, he said yes or at least he would consider a state’s plan, if the alternative plan meets three criteria-

1. If the states ran exchange programs

2. If the plans banned insurance firms from denying coverage of preexisting conditions

3. If the plans enabled people to pool together for better rates

Of course this was an unscripted exchange without benefit of the omnipotent teleprompter and teleprompter may have other ideas or opinions on the subject, but for the first time, Obama has admitted that not everyone is pleased with the nationalization of our medical system.

This bill is considered to be the signature bill of Obama’s presidency and it is significant that he admits that not everyone is pleased with the bill; however, if these are the only criteria that a state must meet to bypass the monstrosity that was passed, there can be real savings for individual states. Let’s say that several states write a plan that is competitive and they opt out, why would they need to pay the draconian taxes and put up with the onslaught of IRS agents that will soon be unleashed on the public. These two factors alone could make states much more powerful and important to their citizens.

There are many unanswered questions; for instance, what happens if forty seven states opt out, excluding the Socialist states of New York, Illinois, and California, our bankrupt states, will we still need the nightmare of government hiring that Obama’s Socialist Bill is proposing? How will our bankrupt states pay for all the fraud and government waste that Obama’s Nationalized Health Care will generate?

Haley also asked him to reconsider the freeze on development of the Yucca Mountain repository, in Reid’s Nevada, a site designed to receive nuclear waste from the Savannah River Site and sites in other states: a request he rejected without consideration, saying that he had safety concerns.

“The taxpayers of South Carolina have paid $1.2 billion to [develop a plan] to send our nuclear waste to Yucca Mountain,” she said.

“I asked him if he would consider honoring the federal commitment and allow waste to go to Yucca Mountain. His answer was no.

“He went on to the fact that they feel like they had safety concerns. He was pretty adamant that was not an option that was on the table.”

Haley then made a direct demand.

“Then give us our money back,” she told Obama.

“He said that he would have [Energy] Secretary Chu call me.”

Of course Obama gave her the brush-off, but if the new Republicans can find the huevos that Haley has shown, he wont be able to brush them off so easily.

Without the teleprompter and without the press, he did manage to tell the Governors that he was a proud Democrat and he was disappointed that there weren’t more Democrats among them. Perhaps this is a sign that even a Narcissist can read the prevailing sentiment of the country.

Yes, the teleprompter may be slapping poor Obama around like a red haired step child at this point, but cracks have appeared in the foundation and we are that much closer to breaking free of this choke hold Obama has applied to our necks.

Haley has now set the tone for newly elected Republicans to stop treating Obama as if he were some type of royalty or had a privileged position for fear of invoking discrimination charges. Being politically correct, within the new Socialist rule book, makes Republicans accomplices in the destruction of America’s economy: thank goodness for patriots like Haley who don’t stand mesmerized and in awe of the Obama myth while worrying over the possibility of offending the anointed one.

Among Leftists, this has become a problem, for decades they have promoted Hedonism, a rejection of traditional family values, and a recreation of the feminine psyche.

Women and men watch the former governor of Alaska, as she helps her handsome hunk of a husband work their fishing boat, hunt the bull moose of Alaska, raise a brood of kids, fly around in her husband’s float plane, dress smartly, look beautiful, and appear on countless news shows; suddenly, the pop culture icons going in and out of rehab or promoting vindictive diatribes of witless hatred on news shows no longer appear attractive.

No not at all, people are thinking I’d rather lead a life like Sarah: she is beautiful, her opinions count, she helps her husband, people respect her and compared to the crones who promote the Leftist Ideology, she is a breath of fresh air.

The Left has promoted the amorality of pop icons as the model of femininity to be emulated, but Sarah has added a new dimension to the concept that is causing women and men to reconsider the role of women in today’s society.

At the most basic level a woman’s first biologic priority is to conceive, bear children, and run a household. This premise has been challenged by feminism; however, legislating against biological patterns that have become encrypted within our DNA appears to be self-defeating. Women and their role has been considered an important part of culture since the Neolithic: presumably these ancient carvings represent homage paid to the fertile woman who was an important part of the early home.

For the last 25,000 years, there has been an effort to define beauty. The concept of beauty has evolved with culture, especially with the feminine form.

This is the Leftist Socialists’ of Spain enticement for getting the young to vote Socialist. Consider the message of hedonism and debasement of self to be a part of the Socialist movement, then compare the wholesome message of self-worth and morality offered by Sarah. Is it no wonder that many women and men are having the second thoughts about compromising the image of women and morality to advance the cause of Socialism?

The international Socialists have long campaigned against traditional family values and promoted the self-fulfilling advantages of hedonism: the philosophy of, “if it fells good, do it” first introduced in the 60′s, was readily accepted among the teenagers of pop culture. Now there is an alternative role model that is very tempting.

The Left’s idea of Feminine role models are between Pelosi and Lohan, is it no wonder that people are beginning to look at other alternatives. On one hand we have the erudite speaker of the House who uses the Air Force as her own airline, complete with meal service and a well stocked bar for her staff and family and makes announcements that we must pass a bill to find out what is in it: on the other hand we have a pathetic drunken pop culture icon that is in and out of jail and rehab, is it far fetched to think the public is beginning to question the amorality promoted by the Left?

Not that the Left promotes Lohan as a role model, she is merely a result of indulging the hedonism and amorality that the Left offers American womanhood.

These are some of the beauties of antiquity. They are preserved for the rest of time because they exemplified the ultimate form of feminine beauty, an image that is always evolving.

Yes our Socialists hate the challenge that Sarah offers to their destruction of feminine and family values; Socialism is much easier to implement upon a society without values or morals.

I was on my way to town to meet a girl at a dance, I was excited. It was a New Year’s Eve Dance, I had on a suit and my cowboy boots. The dance was in Dawson Creek and I had to drive over a hundred miles one way, but I was so excited I didn’t care. There was a Chinook blowing warm air currents from the Pacific and temperatures were rising pretty fast. That meant the road was going to be good during the day, but after dark, with all the snow melt turning to glare ice, the roads were going to be treacherous. I wasn’t worried, I’d probably sleep on someone’s couch rather than drive back if the roads were iced up.

I drove through Fort St John and along the highway I looked at some coyote snares I had set in some barb wire fencing for a sheep farmer who wanted to me to thin out his coyotes before lambing started. Sure enough, I had a big male hung up on the fence. These Northern Coyotes die hard and he had put up an extra good fight before giving up the ghost. I pulled off the Alaska Highway and walked through the knee deep snow in my cowboy boots and suit, picked up the coyote and threw him in the back of the truck.

It was turning into a good day, with any luck the coyote would bring $60.00 and this was in the day when a man worked all week for $120.00 or less a week at a saw mill.

The day kept warming up and by the time I drove through Taylor just North of the Peace River Bridge, I realized that it was so warm the hair might ‘slip’ or fall out if I didn’t skin the coyote right away. I stopped at one of the taverns and it sounded like the patrons were busy getting snot slinging drunk before dark. I laughed and skinned the coyote in the parking lot and went inside to wash my hands. Some regular rowdies were in the place and I got several greetings and offers for a beer. I refused, I was just 15, I really wasn’t supposed to drink in bars, and told everyone that I was headed into town for a dance. That was a mistake, because then they had to tease me about the suit and the girl.

There is always one guy who has to take good natured kidding to the point of being profane and vulgar: Jerome Pettis was the worst. He did his best to embarrass me and to insult the girl he didn’t know. He was big and twice as old as me at the time, but I was being pushed to the point of wanting to hit him really hard. I’d heard him speaking about native women and calling them ‘squaws’ several times before, then boasting of his sexual prowess and conquests with native women. His obnoxious, boorish behavior made me mad then and he was making me mad now.

He was a welder that always drove around with a truck and welder but never seemed to be working, nor did I ever ever see him with the women he liked to boast about. I think the main thing he did was mooch off his mother and drink beer. I decided to ignore his rude sexist and racial comments and worry about Jerome another day. I said my goodbyes and left the bar. As soon as I walked outside into the last of our three hours of daylight, I figured out what to do with the coyote carcase.

I pulled an eight foot length of expensive nylon rope out from behind the seat and tied a bowline around the coyotes neck like someone would do to make a collar and leash out of a length of rope. I then tied the other end around Jerome’s trailer hitch and threw the carcase under his welding truck. I chuckled a few times and left the scene of the crime.

I forgot all about Jerome and the coyote and went on to have a wonderful time dancing with the pretty girl who had asked me to go to the dance with her. We won a swing dance contest and I had her home before twelve. Her parents said I could sleep in the living room on the couch and after a hearty breakfast, I drove home a very happy young man.

A few days later, I stopped at the post office for the mail and the postmaster said, “Did you hear about the dog being dragged to death?”

Now I love dogs, but I hate gossip. I couldn’t resist, “What do you mean?”

“Jerome dragged his dog from Fort St John to Dawson Creek, the RCMP pulled him over in Dawson Creek and when Jerome saw the dog without a hair on its body, he realized his mother must have tied his dog to his truck so that he would take it with him and he dragged his own dog to death! He broke down crying and the RCMP boys drove him outside of town to bury the dog, because he was so emotional. They helped him dig a grave and afterwards he went for one of their pistols because he wanted to kill himself! They ended up taking him to the loony bin and he is still in there.”

With almost real compassion, I asked, “When did this all happen?”

“New Years’ Eve, it is just a terrible tragedy.”

I realized the enormity of the situation when he mentioned New Year’s Eve. “Yes, what an awful story!”

“You don’t know the half of it!”

“What do you mean?”

“They called his mother and told her he was in the loony bin, which is just a special room at the hospital and that he had killed their dog and she said the dog was home with her.”

“What? How did that happen?”

“Seems someone else tied their dog to his truck at the tavern to go inside and drink and Jerome didn’t notice the dog tied to his truck when he left the tavern. Now, they are trying to figure out whose dog it was!”

“You mean, he buried someone else’s dog!”

“Looks like it. There’s a big investigation going on and Jerome is still sitting in the loony bin, because he feels so bad about killing someone’s dog.”

I put my elbow on the mail counter and rested my head in my hand and shook my head back and forth thinking of Oedipus Rex and his problems with mistaken identities and trying not to laugh. “This is one of the worst tragedies I have ever heard of, will he be all right?”

“Well Jerome had problems before he dragged the dog to death: he drank too much, his mother spoiled him as a child, and he couldn’t work without telling his boss that he knew more than anyone else and the job wasn’t going right; consequently, no one in the oil patch will hire him unless everyone else is off working.”

“Sounds like you know a lot about Jerome.”

“Well he gets arrested drunk on a regular basis. He likes to fight smaller guys, who don’t stand a chance against him, kinda cowardly if you ask me.”

I told the postman that I hoped Jerome got better and used the incident to straighten out his life.

His reply was, “Jerome will never straighten out. He can’t change, it’s too late for him.”

I said my goodbye and walked outside to get away before I busted out laughing.

The postman was right about Jerome, he had humility for a few weeks, after he was released from the loony bin, but he was back to his old tricks and living in his self-created Hell on earth. Years later Jerome was still dragging a dead coyote behind his truck and was oblivious to how it looked to the rest of the world.

Thus Jerome and the Democrats in their refusal to see the obvious are just as blind as Oedipus after he stabbed his eyes with the gold pins from the garment of the suicide Jocasta, who was both his mother and his wife, and after he had learned that it was he who had killed his own father years earlier during an early case of road rage: realizing the tragedy, he walked off the stage into history muttering, “men are only fortunate in their death”.

This is another maxim or proverb from the Seven Sages of Delphi, it probably refers to men who refuse to lead an honorable life. The 150 plus Maxims of Ancient Greece served as a guide for people and were carried around the known world carved into marble tablets by learned men who served as teachers. This was over a hundred years before the Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle succession. Although the proverbs are ancient, they could serve Jerome and the Democrats well at this time. The Democrats all were dragging a multitude of dead coyotes behind their trucks on the road to perdition leading up to the 2010 midterms and they paid dearly for their dishonor, except in California and New York where dishonor is still rewarded. Of course Republicans will be well served to read the Maxims of Ancient Greece for written there are the keys to leading an honorable life and success in politics. The Democrats have decided that their failure was the fault of the citizenry for failing to recognize the omnipotence of the Democrat wisdom being charted by President Obama and for their failure of being able to explain the benefits of their policies to a dumbed down public; this type of hubris portends tragedy for Democrats; they assume that we the public are both blind and stupid and that we should learn to trust those to whom we refuse to listen.

Now, the Democrats continue on with their dedication to President Obama and his myth, while he prepares them for a blood bath in 2011 as well as for his own political demise. It is they who have have created their won blindness, if they would have learned and altered their course they might enjoy great success in the next election, but like Oedipus, they were blind to the prophesies and signs that portend disaster, for Oedipus the realization of the tragedy was so great he blinded himself for in life, he was unwilling to see with his eyes, so apparently he decided they were of no use to him. Such is the blindness of those who refuse to see the inevitable disaster on the horizon.

Epilogue: The Seven Sages of ancient Greece were Thales, Pittacos, Bias, Solon, Clevoulos, and Periandros. Much of modern wisdom and the wisdom of the ages is from their advice to the men of antiquity, advice that is still pertinent in the present day and age. Ignoring their wisdom is to tempt fate and possibly condemn yourself to dishonor, misery, and failure. Supposedly these three Maxims were carved into the columns of Apollo’s Temple in Delphi:

They are generally attributed to the Seven Sages, but they may have been older accepted words of wisdom, we will never know for sure; although, the wisdom applies as well or better than it did 2600 years ago.

We all know that Muslim women will not be subjected to sexual assault by the perverts of the TSA; Political Correctness will protect Muslim Women and their virtue from TSA agents groping their most intimate feminine organs. The Obama/Napolitano wisdom or lack of wisdom is supposed to keep us safe, even if Muslim women are infinitely more likely to be carrying explosives than American women. When your president has a great sympathy for Muslims and especially the modesty of potential female Muslim terrorists, why should we expect less? After all, he has an image to must maintain in the Muslim world.

Unfortunately, many American women have been raped in the past and will surely feel that the pernicious sexual assault by leering pervert TSA agents is more than enough to make them hysterical. A response that may cause them to be shot or tasered by TSA agents who are anxious to assert their authority and power. A hysterical reaction is considered more than enough to be shot by TSA Agents, their power is not to be questioned and your rights against unlawful search and sexual assault are no longer valid, unless of course, you are a Muslim woman. In simple terms resisting the perverts of TSA and their legalized sexual assault is sufficient to be tasered or shot, they now have the right to grope any woman beneath her clothing, excluding Muslims of course, or resort to violence to insure submissiveness.

In the US, 31% of rape victims develop Post Traumatic Shock Syndrome during their lifetime and more than 10% still have PTSD today. The U.S. Census Bureau estimates that 13% of all American women have been raped. That means that 3.8 million women have PTSD today. They estimate that 683,000 women are raped yearly, approximately 211,000 will develop PTSD annually. Is it not reasonable that some of these women might become hysterical with the TSA perverts sticking their hands down women’s underwear and expecting them to stand perfectly still while following instructions?

Let us not forget how easy it is to get shot by the TSA, if you have a panic attack, excluding Muslims of course. Muslim women have been advised by CAIR, the Council on American-Islamic Relation that because of religious reasons, they have the right to only allow pat downs on the neck and head; presumably, if they were planning on blowing up an airplane, they would either be sporting and hide the explosives on their head or neck: if they are devious and no one would ever accuse a Muslim terrorist of being devious, they would hide the explosives in a no touch area of their body under the bed sheet.

El Al, Israel’s airline has a flawess record ad a real security system with professionals, not political hack and pimps that play Obama’s, Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Three bags full game. Below is a portion of an interview with Isaac Yeffet, retired head of security for El Al; he describes a well disciplined and trained security force that is not from the dregs of society that just happened to be in the right place at the right time to get a job.

CNN: What needs to be done to improve the system?

Yeffet: It’s mandatory that every passenger — I don’t care his religion or whatever he is — every passenger has to be interviewed by security people who are qualified and well-trained, and are being tested all year long. I trained my guys and educated them, that every flight, for them, is the first flight. That every passenger is the first passenger. The fact that you had [safe flights] yesterday and last month means nothing. We are looking for the one who is coming to blow up our aircraft. If you do not look at each passenger, something is wrong with your system.

CNN: What is El Al’s approach to airline security? How does it differ from what’s being done in this country?

Yeffett: We must look at the qualifications of the candidate for security jobs. He must be educated. He must speak two languages. He must be trained for a long time, in classrooms. He must receive on-the-job training with a supervisor for weeks to make sure that the guy understands how to approach a passenger, how to convince him to cooperate with him, because the passenger is taking the flight and we are on the ground. The passengers have to understand that the security is doing it for their benefit.

We are constantly in touch with the Israeli intelligence to find out if there are any suspicious passengers among hundreds of passengers coming to take the flight — by getting the list of passengers for each flight and comparing it with the suspicious list that we have. If one of the passengers is on the list, then we are waiting for him, he will not surprise us.

During the year, we did thousands of tests of our security guys around the world. It cost money, but once you save lives, it’s worth all the money that the government gave us to have the right security system.

Isaac is retired, yet he might be available to replace our bimbo in charge of Homeland Security; at least, if we hired Isaac,
we wouldn’t be counting on the stupidity and incompetence of Muslim terrorists for our security.

I quit three quarters of the way through my first year of college, hopped on my ’65 Triumph Bonneville and left the East Coast. I didn’t really fit in out East as you might imagine; I felt like a goose in the hen house. I was needing mechanical reapirs by the time I reached Kentucky. That’s where I should have gone to college, there were horses everywhere and those people really like to have someone around who can help them with horse problems. The women there have a certain charm that makes a young man feel special, that really impressed me. I had close to a thousand dollars in my pocket when the weather became hot and sultry, I kissed several close friends goodbye, headed Northwest and caught I 70 in Indianapolis. The weather wasn’t much cooler but I knew the mountains would start sooner or later, I headed West and planned on getting some relief fairly soon.

Before long I realized just how big this country is and riding one of those old fashioned motorcycles helps to reinforce the lesson. I headed North out of Denver because the Denver traffic seemed erratic and dangerous. The next day, I was riding West of Sheridan following gravel roads and admiring both Montana and Wyoming.

I saw a small ranch arena with a young woman working some 2 year old quarter horses, she looked like a barrel racer. They had an old hand pump well in the ranch yard, I pulled up and asked if I could get a drink and fill my canteen, she was exasperated but said to help myself. I sat under a Cottonwood and decided to watch the horse training in the shade. She rode a two year old and just barely kept from getting bucked off. I didn’t say anything, that’s not my style. The next horse was a sorrel filly, my dad always told me to watch those redheads; if they were anything like sorrel fillies, I could understand why he said that and why all the ranch hands would laugh at the joke.

She got the saddle on with a struggle, but when she tried to bridle the filly with a snaffle, the filly stuck her toes in the dirt and spit the bit, it wasn’t going to happen. I was about to leave when she asked if I could help her put the bridle on. I climbed over the corral fence and said, “I can get the bridle on, but you will have even more problems if I do.”

She looked at me as if I were a moron, “What do you mean?”

“Look at these bumps under the jaw,” I lightly touched he protrusions and look at the swelling along the bridge of the nose. She hasn’t shed her two year old caps and they are infected and sore. This red filly will buck you off and kick you on the way down for being so thoughtless; in her mind, she’ll think you’re hurting her intentionally. I gently took the upper lip and lifted it up. The four middle incisors, all impacted milk teeth, were all impacted and smelled bad enough to drive a bull dog out of a butcher shop.

“The vet just looked at the teeth and said they were OK.”

I looked her in the eye, real close, “Well, you tell me: did he miss a few things?”

“Can you help me out? she wont even let me touch her mouth”, she asked.

“Look, I am at least five times stronger than you. Touch the underside of your forearm and then run your fingers across your cheek.” She did as I asked, I then took her left hand and ran my fingers gently over her forearm and then brushed them lightly across her cheek. She was at least seven years older than me, but now she was intrigued by the lightness of my touch. The speed and strength of a man is only useful if the situation becomes desperate, other wise I will never touch this horse with more force than I used to touch your cheek. “Here let me show you something.” I draped the lead shank over my index finger and began to dance with the horse, that is getting her to follow my lead, in a few minutes, I had her taking each step with me slow or fast, she would would stride forward or back and pivot on the hind quarters or turn on the forehand with only me moving my body. The rope never tightened or slid off my finger; these were classic Barbwire Johnny moves that I had learned well, a long time ago.

“That’s enough, I’ll pull the teeth, put a hackamore on her and ride her without the saddle and have her green broke for you to ride her safely for $60.00 in three hours.”

“You can ride?”

“If we can get a rope on it, I’ll ride anything with hair and four legs!”

“How about you spend a month and get all three of these youngsters started and turning for four hundred? that’s top wages in these parts.”

“I’ll do the teeth, trim and shoe the feet and get them going for $600.00, you can pay by the week, if you don’t like the way they’re going, run me off with no hard feelings.”

“I’ll give you $500 and not a dime more.”

“Done”, I started to spit in my hand to shake and seal the deal, but realized I was dealing with a pretty woman and held off before I made a breach of etiquette. I had the lead shank over my shoulder and the chestnut filly had her muzzle in my back. I told the ranch woman to watch and walked away with the filly following me all over the corral. The lady laughed and introduced herself as Rose and showed me to the bunkhouse that would be my new home for a few weeks.

After the first week, I was running out of things to ask of the horses that was appropriate for their age group. I started taking them up into the mountains and jumping from horse to horse as they became tired or winded. The mountains were beautiful and the high meadows had millions of different colored wild flowers. I could see why people would fall in love with the Big Horn Mountains. I only rode with a saddle once in awhile to get the horses used to the feel, in the mountains I just rode bare back. Of course many people saw me and the moccasin telegraph soon spread the word about the guy riding a group of two year olds in the mountains bareback.

After my first week without being run-off, I was invited into the main house to partake of dinner with Rose and her father, Bob, a World War II fighter pilot from the Pacific. We hit it off really well and since most of my family were either Navy or Marines we seemed to have a kinship, from the beginning. Every once in a while he would invite me to his study for a shot of whiskey. On one of these nights, he told me had severe back problems from the war, he could walk well enough, but he couldn’t do ranch work; he then proceeded to inject himself, I assumed it was heroin, I have no way of knowing. I’ve never seen it before or since. I felt sorry for the man, he was a well respected rancher who was disabled and with only a hard working daughter trying to hold together a cattle ranch and I was there drawing top wages for a job that was already finished. I was not proud of myself.

After three weeks, I told Rose I was going into town for a meal and a beer. She probably thought I was older, for I was not yet 18. A result of applying to college a year early, a result of my time sequence problem courtesy of a bull that kicked me in the head at the Hudson’s Hope Rodeo a few years earlier. I didn’t know if I would be served or not, but I needed a change of scenery. Rose told me to have a good time in town and to be careful on the Triumph.

In Sheridan at the local cowboy bar, everyone started buying me drinks and wanting to know if I was Rose’s boyfriend. I assured them I was a hired hand and that was all. A few guys wanted to say rude innuendos, but my stern glare made them become interested in other things. I danced with a young girl from the reservation, we fell in love and locked belt buckles till morning. After breakfast, I was showing her and her brothers how to train paint Indian ponies. They weren’t real classy horses, but sturdy enough to carry the mail; they were easy, and they would have made good pack horses in the North Country.

Since Sunday was my day off, I rode back to the ranch after dark. Rose met me in the ranch yard and was madder than a hornet in an outhouse. She quietly told me to follow her to the bunkhouse and asked me where I’d been. I told her I met a new friend and stayed at the reservation. She asked if it was Josephina and I said,”Yes” thinking nothing of the information; realizing that the moccasin telegraph was still functioning here in the civilized world, I still wondered what all the fuss was about.

“Do you realize my dad’s sister came over to meet you today and we were all humiliated; because, you didn’t show up for dinner.”

“No one told me anything about it; besides, why is a lady coming to the ranch to meet a hired hand anyway?”

“Don’t you realize the opportunity that is here for you? My dad likes you! Do you know how many cowboys there are around here that would like to own half of this ranch! Do you realize how many cowboys would like to be married to me!”

“I never thought about it.”

“You damn fool.” She pushed me backwards onto my bunk and we had a passionate evening. I wont say it wasn’t exciting and sensual, but I didn’t look upon Rose as a girl friend. She was seven or eight years older than me and I had always treated her with the respect that you show to a boss. She was way stronger than I had imagined a woman could be in the throes of passion, probably as a result of always trying to do a man’s work on the ranch, it was a little overwhelming. In the wee hours of the night she kissed me and quietly walked back to her own bed in the main house.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night and at daybreak, I started my Triumph and headed South East, three days l later I was in Bossier City Louisiana, one of the wildest towns I have had the pleasure of visiting.

It isn’t the fact that I was overwhelmed by an older woman, that part wasn’t all that bad, but I didn’t like the idea of being chosen to take over someone’s ranch by being the sexual object of a woman, made worse by the fact that I had never been let in on the plans. Free choice is important to Freedom Loving Americans and having someone take it for granted that you are going to like this new life they have picked out for you is not my idea of Freedom.

President Obama has his Socialist sycophants, ideologues, and Useful Idiots that are so anxious to take on the yoke of Socialism; however there are many of us that are not all that anxious to assume this new Utopian Identity and accept Obama and other Elites who happen to be his close friends to direct every detail of our life. Make no mistake, they intend to direct and dictate every facet of your life, until you all work for the state and do nothing without permission from the state.

Personally, I’d much rather wake up before dawn and ride out on a horse or a motorcycle, before giving anyone the right to tell me what to do and how to live my life for the rest of my life here on earth.