Irish Lives Matter too (1625)

Irish Lives Matter too (1625)*

Note: Sources such as the New York Times, Snopes, and other revisionist Left-wing propaganda outlets will call this a myth, but this is true. Calling slavery ‘indentured service’ does not change what happened.
The Irish slave trade began when 30,000 Irish prisoners were sold as slaves to the New World. The King James I Proclamation of 1625 required Irish political prisoners be sent overseas and sold to English settlers in the West Indies. By the mid 1600s, the Irish were the main slaves sold to Antigua and Montserrat. At that time, 70% of the total population of Montserrat were Irish slaves.

Ireland quickly became the biggest source of human livestock for English merchants. The majority of the early slaves to the New World were actually white.

From 1641 to 1652, over 500,000 Irish were killed by the English and another 300,000 were sold as slaves. Ireland’s population fell from about 1,500,000 to 600,000 in one single decade. Families were ripped apart as the British did not allow Irish dads to take their wives and children with them across the Atlantic. This led to a helpless population of homeless women and children. Britain’s solution was to auction them off as well.
During the 1650s, over 100,000 Irish children between the ages of 10 and 14 were taken from their parents and sold as slaves in the West Indies, Virginia and New England. In this decade, 52,000 Irish (mostly women and children) were sold to Barbados and Virginia. Another 30,000 Irish men and women were also transported and sold to the highest bidder. In 1656, Cromwell ordered that 2000 Irish children be taken to Jamaica and sold as slaves to English settlers.
Many people today will avoid calling the Irish slaves what they truly were: Slaves. They’ll come up with terms like “Indentured Servants” to describe what occurred to the Irish. However, in most cases from the 17th and 18th centuries, Irish slaves were nothing more than human cattle.
As an example, the African slave trade was just beginning during this same period. It is well recorded that African slaves, not tainted with the stain of the hated Catholic theology and more expensive to purchase, were often treated far better than their Irish counterparts.
African slaves were very expensive during the late 1600s (50 Sterling). Irish slaves came cheap (no more than 5 Sterling). If a planter whipped or branded or beat an Irish slave to death, it was never a crime. A death was a monetary setback, but far cheaper than killing a more expensive African. The English masters quickly began breeding the Irish women for both their own personal pleasure and for greater profit. Children of slaves were themselves slaves, which increased the size of the master’s free workforce. Even if an Irish woman somehow obtained her freedom, her kids would remain slaves of her master. Thus, Irish moms, even with this new found emancipation, would seldom abandon their kids and would remain in servitude.
In time, the English thought of a better way to use these women (in many cases, girls as young as 12) to increase their market share: The settlers began to breed Irish women and girls with African men to produce slaves with a distinct complexion. These new “mulatto” slaves brought a higher price than Irish livestock and, likewise, enabled the settlers to save money rather than purchase new African slaves. This practice of interbreeding Irish females with African men went on for several decades and was so widespread that, in 1681, legislation was passed “forbidding the practice of mating Irish slave women to African slave men for the purpose of producing slaves for sale.” In short, it was stopped only because it interfered with the profits of a large slave transport company.
England continued to ship tens of thousands of Irish slaves for more than a century. Records state that, after the 1798 Irish Rebellion, thousands of Irish slaves were sold to both America and Australia. There were horrible abuses of both African and Irish captives. One British ship even dumped 1,302 slaves into the Atlantic Ocean so that the crew would have plenty of food to eat.
There is little question that the Irish experienced the horrors of slavery as much (if not more in the 17th Century) as the Africans did. There is, also, very little question that those brown, tanned faces you witness in your travels to the West Indies are very likely a combination of African and Irish ancestry. In 1839, Britain finally decided on its own to end its participation in Satan’s highway to hell and stopped transporting slaves. While their decision did not stop pirates from doing what they desired, the new law slowly concluded THIS chapter of nightmarish Irish misery.
If anyone, black or white, believes that slavery was only an African experience, then they’ve got it completely wrong. Irish slavery is a subject worth remembering, not erasing from our memories.
*I cribbed this from a FaceBook post by a fella named Daniel Wissert.
 

A Question for my Government

Have You Lost Your Minds?

I know that there are limits to how much credit I can afford, what level of debt I can “service” without losing my home and cars. I am well aware that I cannot keep borrowing money forever. I realize that it is insane to borrow money to pay monthly expenses as a normal way of life.

Yet for some unfathomable reason, the President of the United States, his advisors, the US Congress, and apparently about half the people of the US don’t understand that simple fact. I’m bewildered because the President, his advisors, and the Congress are all supposed to be smarter than the rest of us. If you doubt that, just ask them.

I heard on TV news that the interest on the National debt would soon be more than $1,000,000,000,000.00 per year if the US does not stop borrowing and spending money like a drunken fleet of sailors. That is not a typo. It is, though, incorrect. Drunken sailors stop spending when they run out of money.

One Trillion dollars.
In interest.
Per year.

That is money we cannot stop paying without bringing the whole system crashing down around our ears. That is money that has to be paid before the first dime goes to national defense, foreign aid, school lunch programs, bank bailouts, and Social Security checks. About the only thing we can be sure will be paid ahead of the interest payments are Congressional salaries.

There seems no end to it. No one in government is even talking about reducing spending, much less paying off the debt. Are they all insane? Is there any other possible explanation?

The Old Prospector and the Gunslinger

Note: The author of this story is unknown.

An old prospector shuffled into the town of El Indio, Texas leading a tired old mule. The old man headed straight for the only saloon in town, to clear his parched throat.

He walked up to the saloon and tied his old mule to the hitch rail.

As he stood there, brushing some of the dust from his face and clothes, a young gunslinger stepped out of the saloon with a gun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

The young gunslinger looked at the old man and laughed, saying, “Hey old man, can you dance?”

The old man looked up at the gunslinger and said, “No son, I don’t dance… never really wanted to.”

A crowd had gathered as the gunslinger grinned and said, “Well, you old fool, you’re gonna dance now!” and started shooting at the old man’s feet.

The old prospector, not wanting to get a toe blown off, started hopping around like a flea on a hot skillet.

Everybody standing around was laughing.

When his last bullet had been fired, the young gunslinger, still laughing, holstered his gun and turned around to go back into the saloon.

The old man turned to his pack mule, pulled out a double-barreled 12 gauge shotgun and cocked both hammers.

The loud clicks carried clearly through the desert air. The crowd stopped laughing immediately.

The young gunslinger heard the sounds too, and he turned around very slowly.

The silence was deafening. The crowd watched as the young gunman stared at the old timer and the large gaping holes of those twin 12 gauge barrels.

The barrels of the shotgun never wavered in the old man’s hands, as he quietly said;

“Son, have you ever kissed a mule’s ass?”

The gunslinger swallowed hard and said, “No sir… but…but I’ve always wanted to.”

There are a few lessons for all of us here:

*Don’t be arrogant.
*Don’t waste ammunition.
*Whiskey makes you think you’re smarter than you are.
*Always make sure you know who is in control.
*And finally, don’t screw around with old folks; they didn’t
get old by being stupid.

I just love a story with a happy ending, don’t you?

Three Boxes

The Founding Fathers gave us three boxes to use to preserve our freedom.

Box number one is called the “Soap Box” and is embodied in the the First Amendment to the Constitution. It prohibits the government from infringing the right to free speech and freedom of the Press. Unfortunately for all of us, Hollywood, the Media, and our schools have been taken over by people who oppose the freedom we have enjoyed for so many years, and now actively deny access to the Soap Box to any who oppose their radical ideas. Hollywood bombards us with messages about homosexuality, political correctness, and violence. They mock traditional values. Universities have become fortresses for the narrow minded, intolerant, non-thinking proponents of socialism, political correctness, and free stuff. The Media seem incapable of reporting the news without filtering it through their intolerant beliefs about conservatism. In short, the Soap Box has been taken from us by people who hate the freedoms we have.

Box number two is the Ballot Box, or our system of electing public servants. We used it to tremendous effect in November 2016, only to have the Insane Left, the Media, and about half the Republican Party immediately begin efforts to overturn our vote. The Ballot Box can only work when elected officials follow the will of the people, and it is obvious that Republicans are following the will of their big money donors. Republicans deliberately sabotaged repeal of the disastrous Affordable Care Act, despite having campaigned and been elected, on the promise of immediate repeal when they had a majority in the House and Senate, and the White House. Many Republicans are working hand in glove with Democrats in efforts to remove President Trump. There is still a remote possibility that the Ballot Box can stop the assault on freedom, if we come together and remove as many Democrats and Republicans traitors from office in 2018, as possible. In particular, Republican “leaders” like McConnell and Paul Ryan need to be removed. All the Democrats need to go.

Box number three has only been successfully used once to my knowledge. It is the Bullet Box, also known as the Second Amendment to the Constitution. The Second Amendment prohibits the government from making law that infringes on the right of the People to arm themselves, and bear those arms. We have seen one instance in the 20th Century where people exercised the right to remove a repressive government by force of arms. You can read about the Battle of Athens here. http://www.constitution.org/mil/tn/batathen.htm

I pray that we will never have to open the Bullet Box again, but I am also well aware of the violent assault being waged by Black Lives Matter and AntiFa on our freedom. This assault is being financed by people who wish to replace our system with one where citizens have no voice. It is encouraged and supported by the Democratic Party, the Media, and many socialist college professors. They are largely unopposed by many city police forces which allow them to riot without opposition. They appear to want open warfare.

In my opinion, we have one last chance at the Ballot Box in 2018. Remove every Democrat incumbent. Remove every Republican who has opposed the President’s effort to clean up the Washington political cesspool. Join me in praying that the Bullet Box will not become necessary.

The $400.00 Fuse

The $400.00 Fuse

The A/C fan in Nora’s car stopped working. It was intermittent and making noise so we knew it was the fan motor. We took it to the shop which has been doing excellent work for years on different cars. The first warning flag went up when the “technician” told Nora that they could replace the fan without taking down the dash, but there was a danger that the brakes might accidentally lock up afterwards, if it wasn’t done properly. That sounded very bogus to me, but she was assured by a manager that the shop knew how to do it properly without taking down the dash. As it turned out, the fan is accessed by removing the glove compartment, but unfortunately, I didn’t learn that until after. This repair cost almost $400.00.

The replacement only took a couple of hours and everything was fine, until a couple of days later, when she turned the A/C on “High” and the fan stopped working. Nora took it back to the shop, and they found a blown fuse. The “technician” also informed her that one of the two engine cooling fans was not working, and since we had spent more than $5,000.00 replacing an overheated engine last year, we decided to have the motor replaced. That cost another $400.00, but hey!, better than a $5,000.00 engine, right?

So, the next day, we went for a test ride and turned the A/C to “high”. Bam, the fuse blew. So, we bought some replacement fuses, and finally remembered that when we first bought the car in 2008, we bought a repair manual on CD, and I proceeded to trouble shoot the system, myself. Though I suspect that the two-speed cooling fans operate at separate temperatures, the manual is not specific on that point, and since we did not get the old motor and I can’t test it, I have no way proving my suspicion that the “technician” replace a perfectly good fan motor. What I did discover is that the A/C blower circuit uses two 15 amp fuses in parallel, and when the car left their shop, it had only one in place. I added the second fuse, and now, a week later, we have had zero problem with the A/C.

This was an expensive lesson (I believe), but now we fully realize that not even people with whom you have successfully done business for years can be trusted.

Memorial Day 2017

Today is Memorial Day, 2017. It has been a day of mixed emotions for me. Sadness, at all the lives lost in wars. Anger at a nation complacent enough to allow its government to wage perpetual war. Sadness at a populace with far too many citizens ignorant of the meaning of the day. Disgust at the poorly educated college students and graduates who are far too eager to discard the freedom and safety for which more than 1 million Americans gave their lives in favor of socialism. Contempt for a Congress that ignores the clear wishes of the people. All that combined with the desire to choke the living (expletive deleted) out of the company who sent me “Happy Memorial Day” greetings in a sales flier. With that in mind, please understand if I write about something other than Unicorns and puppies today.

I remember my first cousin, Don Minton, drafted into the Marine Corps, and sent to Vietnam as a rifleman. Despite being forced to serve, like most good old Texas boys of the day, he accepted his lot and served well enough to make Corporal in a highly respected fighting force. He was wounded in a fire fight on a hill top, and killed by a napalm strike which saved most of his buddies. This account differs a bit from the official version, but I heard it before the historians sanitized it. This in no way is meant to diminish Don’s courage and love of country, or his sacrifice. I tell it to foster understanding of how I, with 28 years of military service, have come to detest the so-called leaders of our country who are only too willing to send teenagers, fresh out of high school, to their deaths in foreign lands which pose no threat to the safety and security of the United States. Years later, I learned that Lyndon Johnson was deeply involved with Brown and Root, and Halliburton, and made millions from the war.

My most vivid memory of that time, though, were the heart-broken sobs and wails of anguish of his mother, my Aunt Lessie, at his funeral. Her grief marked a turning point in my life, and I withdrew my application for a second tour in Vietnam shortly after the funeral. I couldn’t bear the though of causing such grief to my mother.

Today, however, was not all doom and gloom. My cousin, Kenneth, posted a picture of his father, Judge Murphy Smith, who island hopped the South Pacific with the Marines in WW2. For some reason that triggered a story of my two grand fathers, Henry “Acie” Smith and Benjamin Bridges, men in their 40s when the war broke out. They spent an enjoyable afternoon in a Beaumont bar, and in a fit of alcohol induced patriotism, went together to the recruiting office and volunteered to join up and go kill the enemy. Fortunately, the recruiters were apparently sober and sent them home. Too young for WW1 and too old for WW2, they missed the chance to go to war

Lastly, I pray that someday, there will be no place on Earth where Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, or Marines are dying to enrich the evil bastards who keep the US in perpetual war.

English

I cribbed this from somewhere a few years ago. I no longer remember where it came from.

We’ll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes, but the plural of ox becomes oxen, not oxes.
One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese, yet the plural of moose should never be meese.
You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice, yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.
If the plural of man is always called men, why shouldn’t the plural of pan be called pen?
If I speak of my foot and show you my feet, and I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth, why shouldn’t the plural of booth be called beeth?
Then one may be that, and there would be those, yet hat in the plural would never be hose,
And the plural of cat is cats, not cose.

We speak of a brother and also of brethren, but though we say mother, we never say methren.
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him, but imagine the feminine: she, shis and shim!
Let’s face it – English is a crazy language.

There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.
English muffins weren’t invented in England.

We take English for granted, but if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square, and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

And why is it that writers write, but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham?
Doesn’t it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend?
If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?
If teachers taught, why didn’t preachers praught?
If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?

Sometimes I think all the folks who grew up speaking English should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what other language do people recite at a play and play at a recital?

We ship by truck but send cargo by ship…
We have noses that run and feet that smell.
We park in a driveway and drive on a parkway.
And how can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?
You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out, and in which an alarm goes off by going on.

And in closing……….
If Father is Pop, how come Mother’s not Mop.???

Sportsman’s Heritage

My Father taught me and my siblings how to hunt and fish at an early age. We knew how to handle a gun by age 10, and I started at 7. Except for maybe one sister, we all learned early on how to put a worm on a hook. We learned to clean fish and skin squirrels. We never wasted our edible kills and catches, and the family diet was often subsidized with fish, squirrels, venison, and waterfowl. After we kids got old enough, my Mother joined in, and earned a formidable reputation as a crack shot. Any legal deer that got within range of her .243 Remington was destined to become table fare. Some years she shot more deer than my Father.

Even today, I would rather have deep fat fried catfish or crappie, caught in Toledo Bend Lake than salmon or trout from the supermarket. I’ll take breaded back strap over a sirloin, and squirrel makes a fine pot of dumplings.

Something happened as I grew older. The kill is no longer a necessary part of hunting, and I can fish happily without catching much. I take great pleasure in walking the woods looking for scrapes. I enjoy filling the feeder and looking at the previous night’s collection of pictures from the game cams. Just sitting in the deer stand watching the world go from gray to color is satisfying, and hearing the forest come to life is fine music. If I get a shot at a legal deer or feral hog, I will take it, but not seeing any game is not a failure. I don’t bother the squirrels which show up from time to time near the trailer.

Last season, my brother in law, James, shot a fine, fat, legal doe which ran a short distance down hill before falling. He walked out to find my brother, Ron, and me to help drag her out of the woods. We dragged her about 30 yards uphill, huffing and puffing all the way, but we made it and got her loaded on the 4-wheeler. That may not seem like much of a big deal, but the youngest member of our crew was 71. I’m thankful that we are still able to do that, and look forward to being able to do so for some time to come. Until I get too old and feeble to do it, look for me in the woods during hunting season.

Perpetual Summer

Having just enjoyed, for the most part, Autumn and Winter in Texas, I am now back in Panama, where Summer never ends. We have two seasons, wet and dry. Dry season is winding down and the rains will soon arrive. Rainy season is not as pleasant as dry season. During the dry, we have breezes most of the time and the temperature rarely rises much above 90F. In fact, the average year round high temp in Panama City is 87F. The highest temp recorded in Panama City for the last 13 years was 102F and the lowest was 68F. The real killer here is humidity. The average humidity in the morning is 91% and 72% in the evening. When July rolls around, we frequently see 90F and 90% humidity and no breeze. Even so, our hottest months can’t hold a candle to July in East Texas. Being close to the equator, our day length is pretty consistent. In December the day is 12 hours long and in July it is 13 hours long, and we don’t mess with it by changing the time twice a year.

There are places to escape the heat, however. Cerro Azul (Blue Mountain) about 20 miles outside of Panama City has lower temperatures, and sometimes drops into the 50s at night. Almost anywhere the altitude is over 500 feet ASL offers a cooler experience, and snow is not unheard of on Volcan Baru above 5,000 feet. I’ve been to the summit, at 11,400 feet and the daytime temp was about 40F. On a clear day you can see both oceans from the top of Baru.

For most of us, though, summer is year round. Thankfully, Autumn is only a 6 month wait and a plane ride away.

The Hookworm Bench

Before political correctness reared its ugly head, there was a hangout on the town square for older men with too much time on their hands. Tall tales were spun, world problems resolved, politicians skewered, and lots of tobacco juice was spat. We called it the Hookworm Bench.

In later years, it became known as the Cedar Tree and lost much of its charm. The domino players, who had previously played near the outside entrance to the rest rooms under the stairs leading to the second floor of the Court House, moved to the Hookworm Bench. The dignity of many of the players, among them more than a few County Office holders, lawyers, and prominent local business men, prompted a name change. Bear in mind, this is speculation on my part, as I was somewhere overseas when the change occurred, but this is my blog and I never promised to tell the truth about everything, or anything, for that matter. The simple fact is that a charming name got replaced by an unimaginative one, and my explanation is as good as any.

Anyway, some of us young boys hung out there occasionally, and were tolerated by the old timers, who probably cranked up their tall tales for our benefit. I don’t recall ever hearing any cussing or profanity from any of the regulars, nor were we youngsters allowed to use bad language. The Hookworm Bench could reasonably be considered a positive community asset.

I’m told that the Domino players still gather, but in my several stays in Sabine County in the last 5 years, I never saw anyone there. I hope it was just coincidence, and would be delighted to see a bunch of players spinning lies, with a crowd of kids listening in, even if we do have to call it the Cedar Tree. To me, it will always be the Hookworm Bench.