“The right to be left alone is indeed the
beginning of all freedoms.”

—Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas
____________________________________

There’s been much fussing lately in the news and on the Net about the remote relig-ious compound raided by authorities in Eldorado, Texas. According to breathless news reporters, police received an anonymous call from a 16-year old girl inside the com-pound who claimed she was abused and raped. They descended in full force and re-moved more than four hundred children. Shipped them out by the busload.

Now the dust is settling on the raid. Seems like that call from the abused 16-year old may have been a fake, and the man the authorities claimed abused her was not in the compound or even in the state, and may not have been for decades.

It’s also come to light that the authorities had a contingency plan in place for some time. A plan to do exactly what they did, swoop in and raid the compound and forcibly remove its inhabitants. All they needed was a call precisely like the one they claim they got. Interesting.

If a splinter Mormon group wants to move to a remote desert area and establish a compound, that’s none of my business. It’s not how I’d live. I figure such people are probably a little kooky, but that’s about it. It’s a free country, in theory, at least. They are bothering no one. It’s their property. They should be secure on it.

So it’s none of my business if people want to establish their own little “heaven” on earth. Even a polygamous one. It shouldn’t be the authorities’ business, either.

Raids like this on religious separatists (and tax protestors) always make me uneasy. These people are obviously different. Very different. And very unsympathetic figures. It’s not hard to shrug and think they probably got what they deserved. That they should be compelled to re-enter the “real” world with or without their consent.

And who knows, perhaps bad things were happening in this particular case. I’m sure we’ll see pictures of all kinds of horrors. Hear solemn recitals of terrible accusations. Released strategically over time, in a trickle to keep our horror levels high.

But who takes the pictures? And who makes the accusations?

All details about the case are released from one source, the government. And I don’t much trust many governmental claims of any kind, let alone claims of this nature. The government surely isn’t going to admit it if a mistake was made. Or admit it if the children inside were not being abused, other than being forced to live in a remote communal compound with their parents.

The stark fact remains that four hundred children have been torn from those most naturally inclined to provide them security, nurture and love, their parents. Especially their mothers, who are heartbroken. Absent hard, serious evidence of real abuse, the children should be returned, and the trauma of separation ended. But I won’t hold my breath, because it likely won’t happen.

The children will be coached to say they were “abused.” Mark it down somewhere. The lurid stories will emerge. Duly recounted by breathless perfectly-coifed newscasters.

They will be medicated and “reprogrammed” into lifeless little model citizens. In the cold strangeness of unfamiliar foster homes. And that’s a shame.

Take four hundred kids at random from a mixed segment of our society and chances are high that a few of them are being abused at any given time. At least by today’s expanded definition of abuse. Whatever abuse happened in that compound, the same or worse is happening every day in the state-run high schools all across the country. Where contraceptives are dispensed to 13-year olds. Think about that.

So why were these particular four hundred children taken from their parents? Because of a single phone call that may have been faked?

It’s because their parents are visibly different. Because they separate themselves and practice a form of religion abhorrent to those who dictate what “normal” society should be.

It’s nobody’s business if people want to remove themselves from society and take their children with them. Certainly not the government’s. The freedom to live one’s life according to one’s conscience must be granted to all, regardless of religious affiliation.

Including separatist splinter-group Mormons. And people like the Branch Davidians, who were incinerated in Waco, Texas by Janet Reno in 1993.

Kooks, nuts, wackos all, in my opinion. But they had the right to be left alone. Instead, the Branch Davidians were burned alive.

If you’re thinking that fringe groups like those in Texas deserve to be targeted and are the only ones that will be targeted, think again. There are other groups out there that might be considered strange by mainstream societal norms. Groups that separate from mainstream culture and keep to themselves. Groups that dress different and teach their children who knows what in their own schools with uncertified teachers.

Like the Amish.

And no, I am not comparing the Amish to separatist Mormons, so don’t even go down that little bunny trail. Except to point out that both groups are different and both wish to be separated from the “world” in their own way. To be left alone.

If an intrusive government can move in, invade remote compounds and carry off the young children of Mormon splinter groups, how long do you think it will be before its agents remove children from, say, home-schoolers or the Amish? Amish lifestyle, romanticized as it is in the major media, could actually be considered pretty kooky by any modern standard.

It just depends on who’s judging. And who’s got the power.

It ain’t us. It’s usually some nameless faceless unaccountable bureaucrat.

The government, or state, wants malleable, compliant citizens. People who dare not resist as the state erodes our rights and freedoms, and confiscates more than half of what we produce through taxation. Taxation to support the very tyranny that oppres-ses us.

That’s why it must go out periodically and produce a show of brutal force as it did in Texas. Ship off kids in buses. Separate screaming, terrified little children from their helpless parents. Demonize groups and institutions considered outside accepted societal norms. To show the rest of us what happens if we dare get too far out of line.

The state wants dispirited, spineless slaves. And it wants your children. And it can take them at any given moment. Simply by launching vague undefined unproven accusa-tions of “abuse.”

It happens every day. It’s happening now in Texas. If you are a parent of a minor child or minor children, it could happen to you.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

***********

Hobbling painfully, she slowly pushed her cart into the checkout aisle as I was walking up with my two small items. I hoped she’d see how little I had and wave me ahead. She didn’t even look up and began unloading her cart onto the conveyor belt. Squelch-ing a mild twinge of irritation, I relaxed and observed.

It was a Friday evening and Amelia’s Discount Groceries was crowded with shoppers. Pay day, and most were loading up on Amelia’s specialty, items that have expired or are about to expire at a steep discount from regular grocery store prices.

She was an Old Order Mennonite of some sort, wearing a dark blue checkered dress and small, angled bonnet. She was old, in her eighties, at least, I figured. Her hands were bent and cracked from decades of unceasing toil. Hunchbacked, tired and worn, she peered through thick heavy glasses as she labored in slow motion to unload her cart.

The cashier greeted her cheerfully. She said nothing. Perhaps a bit hard of hearing, I thought to myself. She struggled to lift a jug of milk. I almost stepped forward to assist her, but thought better. Stay out of it. She might be startled or intimidated by an “English” man abruptly intruding. I observed her items.

Besides the milk, a few boxes of crackers. Bread. Some other packages of this and that. Then she lifted a plastic bag of meat. Cut-off ends from packaged slabs, various brands and flavors. A couple of bucks for what appeared to be three or four pounds. Scraps.

I knew people fed such scraps to their dogs. Somehow, I didn’t think she was buying them for her dog.

She finally placed the last item on the counter. I wondered if she was a widow. Maybe. Probably. No way of knowing, really.

The cashier rang up the total. Nineteen bucks and change. She fumbled with her purse with stiff thickened fingers and extracted a worn little money pouch and withdrew a crumpled $20. The cashier returned her change and helped place the loaded plastic bags into the cart, and pleasantly thanked her.

She replied dully, “thank you.” The only words she spoke during the entire transaction. As I placed my items on the counter, she hunched over her grocery cart and hobbled slowly toward the exit.

**********

Emboldened by my bean soup success a few weeks ago, I have been expanding wildly into the vast exciting world of crock-pot cooking. After the first success, I decided that Ellen’s old crock pot wasn’t up to par. It was tall and narrow and the on/off switch was broken and had to be manipulated with pliers. So I went to the mall and bought a new one for twenty bucks. Oblong and more shallow, at four quarts plenty big enough for my needs.

I shared the second batch of soup with my friends Paul and Anne Marie Zook. They made all the appropriate noises of appreciation and claimed they liked it. Cody, their son, told me flat out, quite honestly, that he didn’t care for it at all.

When I was at their house last Sunday evening, Adrianna, their five year old daughter, leaned over to whisper something in my ear. I bent down to catch her words.

“Cody and me fed your beans to the dogs,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“You did WHAT?” I exclaimed.

“We fed your beans to the dogs,” she repeated, giggling.

“All right, time to ‘fess up,” I said sternly, turning to her mom. Anne Marie looked em-barrassed. Paul was suddenly very interested in how things were going for me at work. But I stuck to my interrogation. What had happened to my bean soup?

Turned out that after serving the beans for two meals, she had discarded the remnants that remained. Sent the children out to feed them to the dogs.

Of course, I made a huge fuss, roaring loudly about the futility of giving good food to ungrateful people who won’t eat it. And feed it to their dogs, yet. Wild threats were made about not sharing any future dishes.

The children claimed the dogs wolfed the beans right down. I don’t doubt it. It WAS good soup. I expressed snide appreciation that something had enjoyed my culinary skills.

It was too funny. We laughed until we almost cried. Out of the mouths of babes….

Summer weather is here. Summer itself approaches. The hiking trails call. Last Saturday I mowed the yard for the first time this year. Unhappy with the new “mulcher mower” purchased last year, I returned it to the young Amish dealer. He cheerfully applied my purchase price to a slightly used but very serviceable Honda. Not self-propelled, with no bells or whistles. And definitely NOT a mulcher. It hummed along beautifully. The yard looks great. Even stripped of the tree out front.

The PA airwaves are clogged these days with Hillary and Obama ads, urging primary voters to the polls next Tuesday. I’m so sick of their pandering tripe that I mute the radio when their ads come on. Both promise to take from the “rich” and expand social programs, a sure-fire recipe for disaster. And a sure-fire expansion of government powers.

I finally lost the five pounds gained over the holiday season. Down to 202 pounds again, which seems to be my natural plateau.

This site has now passed 50,000 hits. Thank you. Thank you very much.

Reminder to those who promised to write out and send me their memories of Elmo Stoll. Please get them to me. I will need them soon.