and the same with you;
but I know of something that never dies
and that’s a dead person’s deeds
By: Ryan Ramsey
Being early is a virtuous trait. Over the years I have also learned that sticking around brings its own benefits.
At club events I often get some real quality time with a brother who was busy all weekend hosting us. You might end up in a smaller after party of some sort. There are many things that go on once the big crowd leaves an event, and it’s usually with the hosts and participants.
Today I met with some club brothers as well as new and old friends at the re-enactment of one of the most important battles of The War of Northern Aggression.
The Battle of Ocean Pond, also called the Battle of Olustee remains relatively unknown in the shadow of epic clashes like Gettysburg.
There is a story about a southern lady who approached the Union troops as they stopped in Sanderson for lunch, and laughed, saying: “I bet you come back a lot quicker than you go”.
Not long after they were utterly routed by Confederates from Florida and Georgia. They stopped an invasion from the south into GA and protected the critical food supplies from being cut off. Jacksonville used to be called Cowford. It was the hub to distribute all the beef from the huge Florida cattle industry.
The kids were acting up so Fish and a SC brother went to take them home in preparation for our meeting this evening. It was time to meet the wife for another friend. I noticed a crowd of Confederate re-enactors gathering at the monument, so I walked over to see what was happening.
They were from a group called the “16th Georgia Company G Reenactors”.
They were preparing to have a memorial service for the heroic men who gave their lives on the hallowed ground under our feet. I told the boys I will catch up with them. If you ever want me to stay somewhere, tell me you are about to honor some heroes and their deeds, and I’ll be there until you finish.
File that fact about me in the same folder of guarantees you keep death and taxes in.
As we waited for the arrival of the preacher they told me about a member that had painstakingly researched documents and how he had identified every single Confederate hero that sacrificed his life for our sacred cause of liberty in the battle, all but one single unknown soldier
Their memorial service consisted of a prayer, and the reading of every heroes name aloud at the base of the monument.
Just a day prior my Sergrant At Arms had called me to request the updated list of what we call the “Hereafter Chapter”, the names of our brothers who moved on to the next life. I thought of our own veterans among them, a sizeable number. I thought about more of them still with us but facing federal imprisonment with honor and silence after being entrapped by the FBI.
I thought of the cowardly rats who could not simply remain silent and chose to play the Judas role and how they should be the ones underground and their names blotted out forever, as they rot in eternal piss and scorn.
I was snapped back to the present scene by a trumpet and a drum. A request to remove covers and bow our heads in prayer.
These men whom I have never met, likely have no idea that they are acting out an ancient ritual springing forth from DNA memory that goes back with men of the west millenia before Jesus walked the earth.
It was beautiful and I listened to each and every name.
As each was read I remembered they had mothers and fathers. I thought of the wives and lovers who spent the rest of their lives with a hole in their hearts and a longing for even one more minute with the one they so dearly loved.
I thought about the children growing up, and being told daddy was a hero but never getting to hug him.
I thought about how decades later they never got the joy of seeing their grandchildren bounced on Grandpas knee.
Later that night about 30 miles away we held our own monthly ritual. We were at a small park with its own etched stones, remembering other heroes who died in later wars, thus forming their own link in an unbroken chain stretching back before the written word.
This chain of blood, sweat, puke, bile, and tears that keeps the wolves away. The chain that holds the gate closed so the tyrant and the invader cannot enter our lives.
We recited our own list, names like Tank who we laid to rest the weekend before. We then inducted his son into the 1st degree, to keep him close, and be our brothers keeper even after his death.
John Rackham, a veteran of far later wars than the war of Northern Aggression.
I remember placing dirt from my hand in his grave while a federal informant cowered behind a cop 15 feet away. The same wicked feds, just a different generation, than the ones these men put lead and steel through at Ocean Pond so many years ago.
Levi Romero who hijacked three billboards a few years back in Hollywood during the Oscars to call out the rampant pedophelia and degeneracy of our politicians and celebrities.
They are not much different than those that sent the yankee scum to my beloved Florida. Closet queers like Lincoln who did not even have the courage to admit who he was, as he committed the worst war crimes of the 19th century against his own people
I smile as I think of them running terrified back to Jacksonville and never daring to return.
There is nothing new under the sun. We are indeed born to live, love, fight, and die for both the ones who came before us and the progeny of our loins, the ones we pass the torch to and the duties that come with it.
You may think you owe the fallen nothing. You may think that you can shirk your duty as you enjoy the wealth and prosperity purchased by the willing and noble sacrifices of heroes.
Know that you will die and face them one day. Know that if your children live in chains they will curse your names before they are forever unspoken. Do you really want to face your God and millenia worth of ancestors as the one who failed, and even worse gave it away without a single rebel yell or taking any of them with you?
“The coward believes he will live forever
If he holds back in the battle,
But in old age he shall have no peace
Though spears have spared his limbs”
Before you discount the ancient wisdom in the Havamal, remember the Christianization of the west changed nothing. The cowards will not enter the kingdom of heaven, their portion is the burning lake of sulfer.
Enjoy this beautiful ceremony. Then get off your couch and become someone worthy of having their name read out loud at the foot of stone monuments 160 years later.
You will die one day. Every single one of us will.
Do something so great the wicked want to destroy monuments to your deeds centuries later.
The videos can also be found on YouTube HERE and HERE.
“As fair-‐minded and mostly Christian folks, [we] concede that there is truth in the indictment of America’s past. Our fathers did participate in slavery. We did practice segregation.
Our treatment of the Indians was not what one should have expected of people to whom the Sermon on the Mount was divine command. But, having internalized a guilt that gnaws at their souls, these Republicans, in their lifelong quest for absolution, are easy prey for confidence men like Jackson and Sharpton who run the Big Sting.
The truth? In the story of slavery and the slave trade, Western Man was among the many villains, but Western Man was also the only hero.
For the West did not invent slavery, but it alone abolished slavery. Had it not been for the West, African rulers would still be trafficking in the flesh of their kinsmen. Slaves, after all, were the leading cash crop of the friends of Mansa Musa.
In Mauritania and Sudan today, slavery has returned, to the deafening silence of intellectuals who have built careers on the moral shakedown of America and the West. America was a segregated society, but in no other nation do people enjoy greater freedom, opportunity, and prosperity than here in the United States.
The time for apologies is past. But if Middle America believes that capitulations and reparations will buy peace in our time, it deludes itself. If there were no more demands, the race racketeers would have to find a new line of work. But as long as the silent majority keeps acceding to their demands, they will keep on making them.
Time to just say no.”– Pat Buchanan, “Death of the West”