May 2023
Cowgirl Up
I yielded to reality today. The chilly, cloudy damp weather, after a day of very warm sunshine, dictated that I wear flannel and don my woolen socks purchased from Adele in Russia.
Adele in Russia is no longer a vendor with whom I can do business since her business was put out of business — online — in February 2022, just a little over a year ago.
I’m quite sure she’s moved on to other lucrative ventures in the mountainous region of Cherkessk, Russia. The will to survive creates many a creation, sometimes awe-inspiring, sometimes awful. With this Russian knitter of gorgeous sweaters and socks, the will to survive is a genetic trait that her forefathers granted her.
The will to survive is not a fickle thing. It prevails even when a person is unaware of it. In some individuals, it elevates the soul; in others, where a soul is sorely lacking, that will to survive surrenders easily to the basest of conditions.
We, in the USA, are now in the midst of a battle for the survival of all that the Founding Fathers laid out before us: God-given liberty, a Constitutional Republic (if we can keep it), and that unexpected gift from God that blesses this nation with the types of men and women who can honor the heroes who died for our sacred liberties.
On a daily basis, that onus to honor our fallen heroes is not easy to bear, but bear it we must. And the stalwart individuals who believe in their hearts and minds and souls that this nation shall not perish beneath the squalor of an entrenched Political Class — we press forward, in spite of the nervous nellies who seem to want a pre-emptive surrender from the enemy.
The enemy consists of corrupt, lying, demented, filthy rich skunks who have been lying and laughing at We the People for years, decades, in fact.
It’s almost impossible for me to find online any voice — other than my own on this website, and that of Mark Steyn on his embattled club-site — that speaks freely. In my case, it’s a matter of cow-girling up. In his case, it’s a lawsuit, or two, perhaps three, standing between him and mounting his steed. Where that horse might go ought to be in the hands of his rider, not the corporate enemies of the spoken and written word.
He’s fought many battles for free speech, some of them wisely, some foolishly. Mr. Steyn, however, has very rarely permitted someone to put words in his mouth, or prevent words from leaving that mouth, ergo the lawsuits. He’s not a paid-mouthpiece, and for that ruthlessness of will, globalist media assaults not only his free speech, but that of everyone.
I opted out of Journalism by the age of twenty-two, replete with lessons I’ll never forget!
I later learned quite a few more lessons in keeping my mouth shut when I lived in Surburbia. I’ve not forgotten those lessons, either, which is why, when I moved into my Dream House, Larkhaven, during the summer of 2020, I informed my General Contractor the reason why I refused to have dealings with a nasty, nervy trouble-maker down the road:
“There’s gonna be some jail time involved, and not for her.”
I’m thankful to have a husband and children to remind me of my duties to something other than demanding the truth NOW, TODAY. Demanding the truth, now, today, is not always a wise path to follow. It’s a judgement call, one that each person has to weigh. The people who don’t even bother to take the time to weigh that scale of ethics, those people also comprise the pestilence that presently befouls the purity of life in America.
When I lived in Suburbia, an eternity that lasted ten years, from 1988 until 1998, I was treated wretchedly, and undeservedly so. The Suburb at that time was a fairly autonomous blob of citizenry that either worked in that town or commuted to Sacramento (the City).
Nowadays, Suburbia has morphed into the bedroom community that is a mere extension of the City. The personal materialism that appalled me during the 1990s has festered into corporately-sponsored materialism. A godless cesspool of immoral relativism, the Modern Suburb floats on bottles of chardonnay and spoiled brats, aged 33 and still living in the houses of the parents that coddled them since the foetal state.
Back then, I witnessed too much of that mangling of the little tykes. I unavoidably associated with the mothers who felt morally superior to me because of their enlightened attitudes toward rearing children. I was a complete weirdo to them. The experiences weren’t scarring, but they were wounding. On this gray day, I asked my Maker for help with putting all of the insults and ridicule and bitchy behaviors toward me — behind me.
I can’t go to my future with their caustic contempt holding me back. I can’t ride out on my own Ponderosa with the taunts and untruths — of envious women and wimpy weak men — still ringing in my ears.
Maybe those people were nervous nellies, afraid of facing their own fears. Maybe they were too craven to count their own faults and they had to publicly rack up the imperfections of someone else. Maybe it doesn’t matter why those unkind snobs felt justified in being unkind snobs.
“It all evens out in the end” is an expression I’ve used time, and time again, where the injustices of life are concerned. The justified grievances can matter, for a while, but after that while, they aren’t grievances anymore, and they certainly aren’t justified. They’re stumbling blocks on the road to tomorrow.
The road to tomorrow matters more to me, today, that it ever has. There are times during that journey when keeping your mouth shut is a supreme survival skill, and when speaking the truth is supremely vital for survival.
Recently, I watched a couple of classic Western films, and I gleaned these pieces of dialogue with which to cowgirl up:
“Haven’t you ever lost anything, Mr. Davis?”
“Yes, ma’am. But I learned to not look back.”
and
“Mr. K, don’t you think you oughta take your language a bit easy?”
“You can’t back down to them — they can smell fear in a man’s sweat.”
