By Anna Von Reitz
Tomorrow is our own version of D-Day, a moment when the traitorous Bar Association is brought to bay and faced with its treachery toward this country and its people.
While I intend that those who devote their lives to law will recognize the difference between law and lawlessness, once clearly stated and placed before them, the ignorance with which we universally contend allows for no certainty of outcomes.
What is certain is that we are owed abundant and guaranteed protection from the U.S. Army when we are individually or collectively attacked by any enemy foreign or domestic.
The members of the Bar are oddly both foreign and domestic, foreign by dint of their chosen status as Esquires, and domestic in that most of them have grown up in this country and should, if they had any sense, feel some degree of gratitude toward it.
In my long history with the members of the American Bar Association, I have had occasion to meet some of the finest and some of the worst examples of humanity, all gathered together and huddled under one leaky roof.
But whether they have labored under a sense of uneasy miasma and truly not known the flawed basis of their own profession, or they have willingly contributed to the cause of injustice in search of unjust enrichment, the liability must fall upon them along with the knowledge of "what has gone on here".
It has been twenty-four years since that dark night when Bernice Straw, the remarried widow of Orville Clintwood Belcher, died. Her only Son, James Belcher, was at her side. There hadn't been much time or warning.
Bernice's voice was always unusual, what some people called, "dusky", for it held a soft, dark tone, a little raspy and autumnal, as if it came from the earth itself.
I can imagine the struggle she faced, having spent her whole life trying to protect her only Son from his own history and heritage -- and at the end, having to choose to tell him or not? To inflict such an unwelcome burden or not?
Her love for this country and her love for her Son must have battled it out in her final hours, as her fevered mind cut through the pain of advanced cancer, and her eyes drifted toward a large, battered suitcase ready by her bedroom door.
It was just waiting there, poised, as if she was waiting to take a trip somewhere and the Taxi hadn't arrived yet. She gestured toward it and said, "There's things in that suitcase for you. Things I never told you about."
She carried that suitcase with her everywhere she went for over sixty years, through innumerable abrupt relocations, to lumber camps and fish canneries and seaside rooms for rent, to old farms in secluded valleys and cabins in the rainforests of California, to a houseboat on Key West, to Galveston, to Baja, to the San Joachin, to the Red Rock country of Arizona, to Standing Rock, to San Francisco, to Ketchikan, Alaska..... always on the move, never at rest.
All because this one little old lady with her white hair and her twinkly eyes and scruffy tennis shoes held a secret more dear than her life itself, and it was all packed up, ready to go, ready to give her Son that night.
She would be quick to tell you, it wasn't her secret, rather, it belonged to others long dead and to her first husband's family, and now, there was only one person left she could give it to.
Her Son. My Husband. Jim.
------------------
To support this work look for the Donate button on this website.
How do we use your donations? Find out here.
