Obama’s messianic promise of “Hope and Change” insinuated he could do everything from walk on water to resurrecting a dying economy. Obama was the Democrat’s Jesus, their Book of Revelation come to life: Obama was going to ride into America on his left-winged horse and slay the Constitution that continues holding black Americans in bondage without civil rights, destroy big corporations and the wealthy, which have always been supported by the poor, and provide poor Americans with Utopian entitlements.

“Hope and Change” was a designed to foster racial divisions and class warfare and the plan has worked. Obama has brought the Democrats much-need “two Americas” to fruition.

Even Thomas Moore is shaking his head over this fiasco!

Obama conned many into believing the Constitution is defunct and should be replaced with already existing Civil Rights for minorities. “Hope and Change” implied pre-Civil Rights racism continues to run rampant, enslaving minorities in two Americas.  Obama implied the Constitution’s standards lacked liberty for minorities, because too many black Americans are out of work and living in public housing.

Never mind the fact Democrats created the modern-day plantation for votes, the suggestion that the Constitution is somehow to blame insinuates entitlement provisions to all must be endowed in order to purge America of extreme racial inequality. And Obama promised to “change” this inequality!

Going further, Obama publicly admitted “Hope and Change” was intended “to spread the wealth” of rich Americans to the poor. You know, those people who have been struggling to support the wealthy. The Marxist proclamation worked well. Soon Obama’s so-called underprivileged followers believed they were entitled to everything they wanted without working for it.

Now, many Americans believe it’s a crime to be wealthy, unless of course that wealth goes to union bosses fighting to destroy wealthy corporations and CEOs.

“Hope and Change” was well-received by jealous “have-not” followers. These voters want big corporations, millionaires and billionaires extinct; the Haves should lose everything, placing all Americans on equal financial footing. The Have-nots should gain everything belonging to the evil rich supported by the Feudaled poor!

Worse, Obama’s downtrodden were convinced he would actually provide them with money, housing, cars, via his “secret money stash.” This explains why millions more are jobless and Obama’s beloved poor are worse off since he entered office.

“Hope and Change” was never meant to uphold American Exceptionalism, it was intended to unseal the American Experiment and push forth laws repugnant to the Constitution—the worst law being Obamacare: socialize healthcare, jobs, education, and raise taxes and increase regulations and cripple the nation.

The cheap lie defrauded millions who hoped a vote for Barack Obama would eliminate non-existent rich versus poor class separation and so-called racial inequality. Instead of continuing the real hope our Founders gave America, Obama has made America resemble the pre-Civil Rights America of the South meets the European Union.

Even the ancient Greeks would call Obama a tragedy!

Thanks to Obama and his anti-money millionaire administration and the Democrat Party, aristocratic class warfare has overtaken America. Obama’s actions radically “changed the face of the nation” from everything the Founders fought against. America has gone from being a Constitutional Republic to a Utopian collectivist society of Haves versus Have-nots that fosters disgusting racial divisions.

Obama’s intended change is to destroy constitutional liberties and divide the nation.  But Americans still have the chance to unite and reverse the change course before the nation collapses.

Obama must be removed from office in November. If reelected, Obamacare will take effect and destroy America.

Americans must stand together to restore and preserve liberty. We must fight to change America back to America or the hope of liberty as we know it will fundamentally change forever.

In an interview with New Science, the 70 year-old was asked: “If you were a young physicist just starting out today, what would you study?”

Hawking replied: “I would have a new idea that would open up a new field.”

New Science asked: “What do you think most about during the day?”

Hawking replied: “Women. They are a complete mystery.”

Women have always been a “complete mystery” to men, for Hawking, the lack of understanding is furthered by his disbelief in God and creation. If Hawking believed in both, he would know the reason females are mysterious and often have the upper hand with men.

So Hawking, my darling, allow me to help you understand women.  God actually provides the answer to the secret, which women have known since creation, in the Bible —Adam’s Rib.

God did not create man from a woman’s body (although left-wing men were definitely created from a woman’s boob) but the other way around: God made woman from a man’s body part—Adam’s rib. By receiving  the missing piece of man, women received the inside on how men think. God never gave this to man. Sorry boys, but women bare the children, God compensated for those birth pangs by letting us gals have one of your ribs, and it gave us women knowledge!

I realize Hawking would deny my theory, but it might help some men understand women, Eve, and the forbidden fruit temptation.

As I stated, because women are made from one of man’s body parts, women  understand men. Thus, Eve instinctively knew men love to eat; Eve realized Adam would willingly go along with her request to gain knowledge because Adam wouldn’t be able to pass up fast food from a tree.

Eve pulled a fast one on Adam who was left carrying the blame for mankind’s fall from perfection. Adam, like Hawking, was left completely mystified by women.

When God evicted Adam and Eve from the garden, Eve walked away with the missing link that is woman–that rib, and it has given women the upper hand for thousands of years. It is the reason women understand how men think and why women know how to wrap men around the female finger while refusing to give into man’s bidding.

Sorry Stephen Hawking, but women will always remain “a complete mystery” to men because of the way God created both genders: Men are made of dirt, but women are made from one of man’s ribs.

That Hawking s the science behind the mystery of women.

If one reads the Constitution and Declaration very closely, one will see seamless unity between the two documents: they align perfectly together in beliefs, laws, and ideals. Both documents declare Natures Laws, not the Divine Right of Kings, to be those which man belongs to.

When reading the Declaration and the Constitution, it is clear both call for the Separation of Powers and demand Checks and Balances on the government—the nation’s leaders must not control the courts or the House and Senate, nor should the courts control the House and Senate who must not exceed their limited powers. And the president is not a king who can overreach power and take from the other two branches. And like the Declaration, the Constitution calls for Representation of the people by a government of the people. Thus you see how the Declaration aligns flawlessly with the Constitution in all ways as both call for a government that does not extend its power as the king did with straining reach that went beyond Nature’s Laws. The Declaration calls for the “Natures Laws” to be upheld and the Constitution itself upholds “Natures Laws.” Therefore, those who assume to tell us the Constitution is obsolete and must evolve into a new law in which the government takes control and regulates the people’s lives, refuse to recognize that our Founders did not sign to completely separate and distinct documents that do not connect to each other. In fact, our Founders signed two documents that back each other up in perfect unity and stand for the ages. The Constitution is meant to live through time and uphold the rights of man, not evolve to the power of those elected.

God Bless,

 Lisa Richards

When my father was a church elder, he delivered gifts and supplies every November and December to a Kentucky Appalachian Holler parish run by Father Biding. It was on the first trip that Dad met a stranger whose friendship became a precious gift in the form of a whisky jug.

Before dad arrived at the Kentucky parish, news had already spread through the Hollers about a stranger from the North who was delivering gifts and supplies to the people of the poor mountain region where visitors were few and friendship was only known amongst the Holler people. The people were excited; they wanted to meet this stranger from the North.

When Dad arrived at the Kentucky parish, the supplies and Christmas gifts were placed in a warehouse. There dad met a volunteer who told him how news of his arrival spread through the isolated and heavily impoverished Hollers. But most of the people were unable to hike down the mountains to the parish and meet dad. Many families were single mothers with small children and some too elderly to leave their homes. This meant dad and the volunteer would go to the people.

Thus, the hike up the Holler trails, into a place that would become forever remembered for friendship, began.

As dad and the Volunteer began their hike into the Hollers, the volunteer explained that hospitality would be abundant; the people were loving, warm, and friendly. However, there was generational illiteracy and generational poverty (Father Biding and his volunteers were working to reverse) caused by mountainous isolation and loss of jobs due to closed-down mills and mines.  The volunteer told dad: “I know you’ll feel bad about accepting meals, but don’t turn these people down or feel you’re taking their food. These people have pride and they want to give. If they offer to cook you a meal, let them. It will mean the world. The people will speak of your visit for the rest of their lives. Your visit will be a gift of friendship to isolated people.”

When Dad and the volunteer arrived at the various homes, dad saw the saw bleak living conditions: Dirt floor shacks with plank-board walls. Newspaper was the only insulation the people had to cover walls and block out the cold. Running water was mostly non-existent in places: people hauled water from streams and cooked on wood burning stoves or in fireplaces. Material possessions were miniscule. Because rats were able to get into the homes, and the rats smelled milk on babies, mothers had no choice but to keep their babies inside cages to prevent rats from attacking the babies. Yet despite the poverty, the people welcomed dad, a stranger, into their homes with friendship and hospitality.

The last visit on that day would demonstrate further just how precious the gift friendship is to all human beings.

As Dad and the Volunteer continued through the wooded and mountainous Hollers, the men came upon a lonely shack on the side of the road. It was old, leaning to the side, and looked as if it was about to collapse. “This is the Holler church,” the Volunteer told Dad. The shack was very old and looked abandoned. And certainly it was not what dad, or anyone from outside the Hollers, would have assumed to be a church. As the men approached, the door of the shack opened and a young man walked out toward Dad and the Volunteer. The young man was excited; he raised his hands and shouted: “Praise God! Our visitor from the North has arrived! Welcome my friend, welcome to our beautiful church!”

The man was 30 years-old. He was tall, very thin, and his cloths were old and worn, but his joyful welcome was priceless: “Please, come and see our beautiful church!” The young pastor was elated that “a stranger from the North has come so far to visit my people and our beautiful Church. Please, come inside and see how the Lord has blessed us with great wealth!”

The dilapidated mountain shack was great wealth?  Yes, to this pastor and the people of this Holler, this shack, and what was inside, was priceless.

Inside, the church floors were uneven and there wasn’t much except 20, old, folding chairs. It looked like a hovel, yet this friendly pastor excitedly told Dad: “I’m a rich man! God has blessed me greatly with wealth, just look!” The pastor reached up and pulled a string hanging from a light bulb. Electricity! The people of this Holler lacked electricity.  “My people don’t have to sit in the dark during service anymore!”

Next, the pastor showed the greatest gift he had received for his people: “Look, someone gave our church a Bible! Now I can preach from the Bible! And we can pass the word around, and all can read it together. I’m a very rich man! And now God has blessed me again by bringing a new friend to our mountains to visit us! We are a blessed people!” 

A single light bulb and a lone Bible shared by the people who could not afford to purchase Bibles, were all considered wealth to a man who lived a life of true material and financial poverty. But material possessions and money were not as priceless to this pastor as the few things he felt blessed his life and his people. And now friendship from a stranger was added to this young pastor’s “wealth.”

The pastor heard Dad was a church elder. Another reason the pastor couldn’t wait to meet Dad: he had a fellow man of God to spend the day with, to talk to about God, to read and study the Bible with. This young pastor was elated. The pastor and dad spent time together reading God’s Word and talking. This young pastor lacked financial means, therefore, all he could offer his people was his friendship through his preaching. This was something worth more than gold to isolated people—sharing Christ’s gift of friendship. Now it was being given to my father, who in turn, was giving a pricelss gift simply by visiting a stranger who cherished this friendship.

Before Dad left the Holler, the pastor wanted to give Dad a special gift: an old whiskey jug that had “been in my family since before the war.” By the war, the pastor meant the Civil War. The whiskey jug was an antique, it was priceless. The jug was part of the pastor’s family history. This man could have sold that priceless whiskey jug, but he wanted to give Dad a gift for “blessing me with your friendship.”  

The antique whiskey jug was not as valuable to that young pastor as the gift of friendship from the stranger who spent the day visiting with him. Friendship, it meant more than money and material possessions. For my father, the whiskey jug’s meaning was more priceless than its actual worth: dad was a stranger who was welcomed in the Hollers like an old friend.

That first trip to the Hollers happened over 20 years-ago and has never been forgotten by my father and our family.

In my family’s home, on a table next to old family photos, sits the whiskey jug, a priceless gift, not because of the antique jug’s monetary value, but the gift of friendship it represents: Friendship from a pastor in the Kentucky Hollers to a stranger welcomed by the Holler people as a friend.

Friendship is a priceless gift we can all afford to give.

The year was 1953: Eisenhower was elected president and my mother’s family was celebrating Christmas with elation! 1953 was also the year that the Christmas family Diner became the Christmas that shall live in infamy.

Every year my Grandmother “Nanny’” cooked Christmas dinner. Nanny’s holiday dinners were feasts of stuffed turkey with all the trimmings. My grandfather “Pop,” an avid hunter, hunted every holiday dinner: turkey, pheasant, and quail. But the stuffed turkey with all those succulent trimmings, hunted by Pop and cooked by “Nanny,” was the juicy Christmas prize everyone waited to devour. But the Christmas of 1953 was different. On Christmas Eve, after Pop hunted the turkey, my Aunt Alice insisted she cook the turkey so Nanny could “focus on those wonderful trimmings you cook like no one else.”  

Suddenly the family tradition was broken and Aunt Alice roasted the Christmas Turkey.

Family’s never break tradition unless they have some secret desire to commit suicide. You see, women who have holiday traditions taken from them, especially dinners, turn into rabid beasts who will fight the other woman, stealing the dinner tradition, to the death to be Queen Bee of  holiday dinners. So naturally Nanny insisted she cook her prize turkey! After all, Christmas feasts were her specialty! Actually, Nanny considered every dinner her  “speciality.”  But Aunt Alice wouldn’t hear of it. Aunt Alice told Nanny that the turkey had already been brought to her home to cook, because “you work so hard every Christmas Mary, you go all out for us all, let me help you out this year.” After a lot of insistence, and stubborn pride being broken like a pulled wishbone off a cleanly picked bird, Nanny reluctantly gave into allowing Aunt Alice cook the Christmas turkey.

On Christmas Day, the dinner was laid out like a smorgasbord of diabetic/cholesterol delight: mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, roasted vegetables glistening with melted butter, cranberry sauce, relishes, and gravies, mouth-watering baked breads and pies. Oh it was a feast to behold! And there, in the center of the dining table, on a giant platter, lay the big, fat, roasted, stuffed turkey. That particular year the turkey looked and smelled better than all years past. Pop outdid himself hunting, and Aunt Alice outdid Nanny with her roasted turkey. And Nanny outdid herself with unmentionable words mumbled under her breath.

All the relatives were present at the dining table enthusiastically eating Christmas dinner. But one family member, who had been missing since the day before did not show up at the table: Nanny’s big, fat, five-year-old white pet goose named Mr. Peepers.

Now my grandmother adored that goose to obsession. Mr. Peepers, a female, lived in the house, the goose had her own bed and living room chair, as well as a high chair for eating at the dinner table. Nanny also bathed Mr. Peepers daily in the bathtub as if the goose were a child, and dressed the goose in bonnets, ruffled dresses, and diapers, and on holidays Nanny dressed Mr. Peepers according to the occasion. This particular year Nanny made Mr. Peepers a red velvet dress with matching bonnet trimmed with white ermine fur.

Nanny had searched all day for her beloved pet, but Mr. Peepers never appeared. The big fat white goose was nowhere to be found. Dinner was ready, and Mr. Peeper’s highchair, in place at the dining table, was empty. Nanny called for the goose to come to the table, but Mr. Peepers did not appear.

“Elliot,” Nanny asked Pop, “Have you seen Mr. Peepers? I’ve looked for her since yesterday and I can’t find her.”

Pop, focused on eating and nonchalantly replied: “She probably flew south for the winter. That’s what geese do.”

“Elliot,” Nanny said impatiently and quite annoyed by Pop’s flippant reply, “Don’t be ridiculous. Mr. Peepers has been with us five years and she has never flown away. Why would she suddenly fly south now?”

Pop just shrugged his shoulders and ignored Nanny’s question.

Something else was wrong: My grandfather, a man who lived to eat everything he hunted, was not eating the Christmas turkey. “I ate too many hors d’oeuvres,” was Pop’s answer.

My Grandfather could never get enough meat. Pop lived for meat, it was his favorite food. Pop ate meat three times a day! Furthermore, Aunt Alice, who insisted upon cooking Nanny’s traditional Christmas dinner turkey, wasn’t eating any turkey: “I picked all day while cooking the bird. I don’t want to over eat, I’m trying to diet.

My Aunt Alice looked like a human toothpick; she was always trying to gain weight. It was that bizarre answer tipped off my 13 year-old mother, who suddenly realized Aunt Alice and Pop were both lying about something. And that’s when the Christmas of 1953  became the Christmas that shall live in infamy.

My 13 year-old mother had devoured her first portion and began eating a second helping when she looked down at the gravy-coated turkey on her plate, then looked up toward the empty high chair where Mr. Peepers should be sitting, and my mother knew! My mother looked at Aunt Alice, who realized her niece was on to something and gave my mother a wide-eyed warning that said “shut up and eat your turkey.” My mother’s eyes began to well-up with tears, and her lips quivered as she realized exactly who was on her plate: “Mr. Peepers!” my mother whispered aloud, pushing her plate away, and hung her head and began to cry.

Nanny, clueless to why her child was crying, asked Pop: “Elliot, what’s going on here; why is Lainie crying? Something’s wrong! Elliot, what’s going on here?”

Pop began shoveling food into his mouth faster than a 600 pound pie-eating contestant. The game was up. Pop was caught! He looked across the table to Aunt Alice, but the “dieter” was hauling mashed potatoes in her mouth like a woman who hadn’t eaten in weeks.

That’s when Nanny began to realize why Mr. Peepers wasn’t present at the dinner table.

“Elliot, where is Mr. Peepers? What have you done?”

Pop knew he would never be able to talk his way around the situation.  It was better to just come clean and accept the calamity that awaited him. Pop reached out and took Nanny’s hand in his and calmly said: “Mary, I have a confession to make. Now you’re not going to like it, but I didn’t have a choice. There weren’t any turkeys in the woods this week, so…I caught a goose instead.”

“What goose Elliot?” was Nanny’s jaw-grinding question. And like a fool who had completely lost his mind, Pop laid his head right on the executioner’s guillotine: “Mary, dear…you ate Mr. Peepers.”

Nanny looked at her empty plate, the plate of “turkey” she had eaten! Then looked over at the empty highchair. Very calmly, with all the dignity she could retain, Nanny stood up and faced Pop: “You… hunted my BABY? You killed Mr. Peepers?”  

That scream was the second shot heard around the world, and it still reverberates throughout the New England Appalachians to this day. But Nanny’s fury was far deadlier than the first shot that began a revolution of independence. For my grandfather there was no independence, not even parole, only a life sentence known as my grandmother Mary.

Nanny was furious, she was screaming at Pop, who continued trying to explain the lack of turkeys in the woods that year. Pop forgot excuses were always useless in the face of Nanny’s fury. 

Everyone at the table pushed their plates away—with the exception of both my great-grandfathers, two avid meat-eaters who continued eating Mr. Peepers with gusto, telling Nanny: “Mary, you should consider goose every year for Christmas Dinner. This is the best bird by far!”

“Oh my God!” was shockingly echoed by all relatives around the table.

My mother and her brothers began sobbing loudly: “Daddy killed Mr. Peepers!” “We ate Mr. Peepers!”

Oh, the evening was going from bad to worse.

“Now Mary,” Pop said trying to calm Nanny, ”it’s not my fault. I can’t help it if there weren’t any turkeys in the woods, and besides, Mr. Peepers was a goose, birds are meant for dinner.”

Explaining the “massacre of Mr. Peepers” as Nanny referred to the incident, was pointless. Nanny was not in a state of mind to hear Pop’s “pathetic reasoning for hunting my baby for dinner when your father owns a grocery store Elliot! Your father sells fresh turkeys every holiday! Why didn’t you go hunting for turkey in your father’s store?”

“Daddy was sold out of turkeys!” Was Pop’s reply

“That’s true Mary, I was sold out of turkeys, Elliot had no choice.” My Great-grand father foolishly answered before realizing what he had said.

So Great-grandpa knew about Mr. Peepers? And he didn’t tell his daughter in-law (or my Great-grandmother) what her husband did to her pet? Well he wold suffer his own plight for an entire week by sleeping in his store since he would be forbidden from sleeping in his house.  As to Pop, well, his misery had only just begun. 

“So that’s your excuse for killing Mr. Peepers?” Nanny yelled, ”Your father was sold out of turkeys, the woods were empty? There aren’t any turkeys anywhere?  What else are you hiding Elliot? I suppose next you’ll tell us all you shot Santa Clause when he came down the chimney last night, accusing Santa of breaking into the house! Where’s Santa Clause Elliot; buried in the backyard?”

The very thought of Santa stuffed like Mr. Peepers caused my mother and her brothers to wail in hysteria: “Daddy killed Santa?”

“No, I did not kill Santa Clause!” Pop yelled,  “I Shot Mr. Peepers!”

That reply went over like the Hindenburg on New Jersey. Children cried, adults clenched their lips and grabbed their chests horrified. My family had eaten the family pet! Christmas became a funeral!

Eisenhower himself couldn’t fight this battle.

Nanny, who could take down an eight point buck with her clenched right hook, picked up the platter of mashed potatoes and threw the potatoes on Pop’s lap, and then, without warning, Nanny hit Pop across the head with the platter, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor, calling Pop a “son-of-bitch goose-murderer!” As to Aunt Alice, well, she was “an accessory to murdering Mr. Peepers and lousy cook!” Great-grandpa simply received a scathing look that said “You betrayed me!”

Then Nanny reached across the table and picked up the platter with Mr. Peepers remains and carried the goose to the kitchen. Next, Nanny went to the living room and took Pop’s priceless nineteenth-century humidor off the shelf where Pop displayed his treasure and threw his expensive Cuban cigars into the blazing fireplace. Then Nanny took the humidor to the kitchen and gently wrapped Mr. Peepers in her pink satin blankets and placed the goose inside the humidor which was now a coffin. That Christmas Nanny held a funeral for Mr. Peepers on the hill behind the family house and demanded Pop, a country singer, play his guitar and sing “Wayfaring Stranger” to Mr. Peepers.

And it was from that day on that Nanny forbid turkey at Christmas dinners; Pop was only allowed to hunt pheasant and quail for Christmas. My mother’s family wouldn’t experience a Christmas turkey until my mother and father married and my relatives spent Christmas with Dad’s parents. As for Mr. Peepers, her portrait was placed over Pop and Nanny’s fireplace in solemn remembrance of the Christmas that shall live in infamy.

Every year my Grandmother “Nanny’” cooked Christmas dinner. Nanny’s holiday dinners were feasts of stuffed turkey with all the trimmings. My grandfather “Pop,” an avid hunter, hunted every holiday dinner: turkey, pheasant, and quail. But the stuffed turkey with all those succulent trimmings, hunted by Pop and cooked by “Nanny,” was the juicy Christmas prize everyone waited to devour. But the Christmas of 1953 was different. On Christmas Eve, after Pop hunted the turkey, my Aunt Alice insisted she cook the turkey so Nanny could “focus on those wonderful trimmings you cook like no one else.”  

Suddenly the family tradition was broken and Aunt Alice roasted the Christmas Turkey.

Family’s never break tradition unless they have some secret desire to commit suicide. You see, women who have holiday traditions taken from them, especially dinners, turn into rabid beasts who will fight the other woman, stealing the dinner tradition, to the death to be Queen Bee of  holiday dinners. So naturally Nanny insisted she cook her prize turkey! After all, Christmas feasts were her specialty! Actually, Nanny considered every dinner her  “speciality.”  But Aunt Alice wouldn’t hear of it. Aunt Alice told Nanny that the turkey had already been brought to her home to cook, because “you work so hard every Christmas Mary, you go all out for us all, let me help you out this year.” After a lot of insistence, and stubborn pride being broken like a pulled wishbone off a cleanly picked bird, Nanny reluctantly gave into allowing Aunt Alice cook the Christmas turkey.

On Christmas Day, the dinner was laid out like a smorgasbord of diabetic/cholesterol delight: mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, roasted vegetables glistening with melted butter, cranberry sauce, relishes, and gravies, mouth-watering baked breads and pies. Oh it was a feast to behold! And there, in the center of the dining table, on a giant platter, lay the big, fat, roasted, stuffed turkey. That particular year the turkey looked and smelled better than all years past. Pop outdid himself hunting, and Aunt Alice outdid Nanny with her roasted turkey. And Nanny outdid herself with unmentionable words mumbled under her breath.

All the relatives were present at the dining table enthusiastically eating Christmas dinner. But one family member, who had been missing since the day before did not show up at the table: Nanny’s big, fat, five-year-old white pet goose named Mr. Peepers.

Now my grandmother adored that goose to obsession. Mr. Peepers, a female, lived in the house, the goose had her own bed and living room chair, as well as a high chair for eating at the dinner table. Nanny also bathed Mr. Peepers daily in the bathtub as if the goose were a child, and dressed the goose in bonnets, ruffled dresses, and diapers, and on holidays Nanny dressed Mr. Peepers according to the occasion. This particular year Nanny made Mr. Peepers a red velvet dress with matching bonnet trimmed with white ermine fur.

Nanny had searched all day for her beloved pet, but Mr. Peepers never appeared. The big fat white goose was nowhere to be found. Dinner was ready, and Mr. Peeper’s highchair, in place at the dining table, was empty. Nanny called for the goose to come to the table, but Mr. Peepers did not appear.

“Elliot,” Nanny asked Pop, “Have you seen Mr. Peepers? I’ve looked for her since yesterday and I can’t find her.”

Pop, focused on eating and nonchalantly replied: “She probably flew south for the winter. That’s what geese do.”

“Elliot,” Nanny said impatiently and quite annoyed by Pop’s flippant reply, “Don’t be ridiculous. Mr. Peepers has been with us five years and she has never flown away. Why would she suddenly fly south now?”

Pop just shrugged his shoulders and ignored Nanny’s question.

Something else was wrong: My grandfather, a man who lived to eat everything he hunted, was not eating the Christmas turkey. “I ate too many hors d’oeuvres,” was Pop’s answer.

My Grandfather could never get enough meat. Pop lived for meat, it was his favorite food. Pop ate meat three times a day! Furthermore, Aunt Alice, who insisted upon cooking Nanny’s traditional Christmas dinner turkey, wasn’t eating any turkey: “I picked all day while cooking the bird. I don’t want to over eat, I’m trying to diet.

My Aunt Alice looked like a human toothpick; she was always trying to gain weight. It was that bizarre answer tipped off my 13 year-old mother, who suddenly realized Aunt Alice and Pop were both lying about something. And that’s when the Christmas of 1953  became the Christmas that shall live in infamy.

My 13 year-old mother had devoured her first portion and began eating a second helping when she looked down at the gravy-coated turkey on her plate, then looked up toward the empty high chair where Mr. Peepers should be sitting, and my mother knew! My mother looked at Aunt Alice, who realized her niece was on to something and gave my mother a wide-eyed warning that said “shut up and eat your turkey.” My mother’s eyes began to well-up with tears, and her lips quivered as she realized exactly who was on her plate: “Mr. Peepers!” my mother whispered aloud, pushing her plate away, and hung her head and began to cry.

Nanny, clueless to why her child was crying, asked Pop: “Elliot, what’s going on here; why is Lainie crying? Something’s wrong! Elliot, what’s going on here?”

Pop began shoveling food into his mouth faster than a 600 pound pie-eating contestant. The game was up. Pop was caught! He looked across the table to Aunt Alice, but the “dieter” was hauling mashed potatoes in her mouth like a woman who hadn’t eaten in weeks.

That’s when Nanny began to realize why Mr. Peepers wasn’t present at the dinner table.

“Elliot, where is Mr. Peepers? What have you done?”

Pop knew he would never be able to talk his way around the situation.  It was better to just come clean and accept the calamity that awaited him. Pop reached out and took Nanny’s hand in his and calmly said: “Mary, I have a confession to make. Now you’re not going to like it, but I didn’t have a choice. There weren’t any turkeys in the woods this week, so…I caught a goose instead.”

“What goose Elliot?” was Nanny’s jaw-grinding question. And like a fool who had completely lost his mind, Pop laid his head right on the executioner’s guillotine: “Mary, dear…you ate Mr. Peepers.”

Nanny looked at her empty plate, the plate of “turkey” she had eaten! Then looked over at the empty highchair. Very calmly, with all the dignity she could retain, Nanny stood up and faced Pop: “You… hunted my BABY? You killed Mr. Peepers?”  

That scream was the second shot heard around the world, and it still reverberates throughout the New England Appalachians to this day. But Nanny’s fury was far deadlier than the first shot that began a revolution of independence. For my grandfather there was no independence, not even parole, only a life sentence known as my grandmother Mary.

Nanny was furious, she was screaming at Pop, who continued trying to explain the lack of turkeys in the woods that year. Pop forgot excuses were always useless in the face of Nanny’s fury. 

Everyone at the table pushed their plates away—with the exception of both my great-grandfathers, two avid meat-eaters who continued eating Mr. Peepers with gusto, telling Nanny: “Mary, you should consider goose every year for Christmas Dinner. This is the best bird by far!”

“Oh my God!” was shockingly echoed by all relatives around the table.

My mother and her brothers began sobbing loudly: “Daddy killed Mr. Peepers!” “We ate Mr. Peepers!”

Oh, the evening was going from bad to worse.

“Now Mary,” Pop said trying to calm Nanny, ”it’s not my fault. I can’t help it if there weren’t any turkeys in the woods, and besides, Mr. Peepers was a goose, birds are meant for dinner.”

Explaining the “massacre of Mr. Peepers” as Nanny referred to the incident, was pointless. Nanny was not in a state of mind to hear Pop’s “pathetic reasoning for hunting my baby for dinner when your father owns a grocery store Elliot! Your father sells fresh turkeys every holiday! Why didn’t you go hunting for turkey in your father’s store?”

“Daddy was sold out of turkeys!” Was Pop’s reply

“That’s true Mary, I was sold out of turkeys, Elliot had no choice.” My Great-grand father foolishly answered before realizing what he had said.

So Great-grandpa knew about Mr. Peepers? And he didn’t tell his daughter in-law (or my Great-grandmother) what her husband did to her pet? Well he wold suffer his own plight for an entire week by sleeping in his store since he would be forbidden from sleeping in his house.  As to Pop, well, his misery had only just begun. 

“So that’s your excuse for killing Mr. Peepers?” Nanny yelled, ”Your father was sold out of turkeys, the woods were empty? There aren’t any turkeys anywhere?  What else are you hiding Elliot? I suppose next you’ll tell us all you shot Santa Clause when he came down the chimney last night, accusing Santa of breaking into the house! Where’s Santa Clause Elliot; buried in the backyard?”

The very thought of Santa stuffed like Mr. Peepers caused my mother and her brothers to wail in hysteria: “Daddy killed Santa?”

“No, I did not kill Santa Clause!” Pop yelled,  “I Shot Mr. Peepers!”

That reply went over like the Hindenburg on New Jersey. Children cried, adults clenched their lips and grabbed their chests horrified. My family had eaten the family pet! Christmas became a funeral!

Eisenhower himself couldn’t fight this battle.

Nanny, who could take down an eight point buck with her clenched right hook, picked up the platter of mashed potatoes and threw the potatoes on Pop’s lap, and then, without warning, Nanny hit Pop across the head with the platter, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor, calling Pop a “son-of-bitch goose-murderer!” As to Aunt Alice, well, she was “an accessory to murdering Mr. Peepers and lousy cook!” Great-grandpa simply received a scathing look that said “You betrayed me!”

Then Nanny reached across the table and picked up the platter with Mr. Peepers remains and carried the goose to the kitchen. Next, Nanny went to the living room and took Pop’s priceless nineteenth-century humidor off the shelf where Pop displayed his treasure and threw his expensive Cuban cigars into the blazing fireplace. Then Nanny took the humidor to the kitchen and gently wrapped Mr. Peepers in her pink satin blankets and placed the goose inside the humidor which was now a coffin. That Christmas Nanny held a funeral for Mr. Peepers on the hill behind the family house and demanded Pop, a country singer, play his guitar and sing “Wayfaring Stranger” to Mr. Peepers.

And it was from that day on that Nanny forbid turkey at Christmas dinners; Pop was only allowed to hunt pheasant and quail for Christmas. My mother’s family wouldn’t experience a Christmas turkey until my mother and father married and my relatives spent Christmas with Dad’s parents. As for Mr. Peepers, her portrait was placed over Pop and Nanny’s fireplace in solemn remembrance of the Christmas that shall live in infamy.

40 million girls have disappeared in India. And the numbers of disappearing women are growing each year: One million Indian girls disappear each year. How can women simply disappear under the nose of the entire world?

India has a filthy Nazi-style secret: it exterminates girls, unborn and born, even adult women, because the female gender is considered unfit to the nation of India, which prefers a nation of men.

It is  Gendercide, and it is a secret widely known and practiced, not just by the Indian government, which is run by a female Prime Minister, but the people themselves, who force wives and daughters to undergo illegal sex-determination ultrasounds, literally practiced in back alley areas of cities to determine the sex of all unborn children. If illegal ultrasounds show the unborn baby is a girl, the family and doctor demand the woman immediately have an abortion, which is illegal in India. If the woman happens to have a heart for her child and refuses an abortion, she is most likely disowned by her family, or she is murdered along with her unborn child.

Women have been poisoned by family members in order to kill the unborn child. Women desperate to rid themselves of what is considered unfit by India’s standards have taken to illegal abortions, as well as trying to poison the unborn child to death. If girl children are born and not protected by mothers who want the girls to live, mothers must beware of husbands, and even their own mothers, who will murder the girl child in order to save the family’s honor.

If the girl child is one in a family of boys, that girl is allowed to live because she can be married off to produce male heirs for India. Jeremy Laurance of The Independent notes: “Parents welcome a first daughter but want their second child to be a son.” However, if the girl is the only child, or the family is producing only girls, those girls must face murder—they are thrown into the garbage and rivers at birth if not aborted, they are left to die in the streets.

This horror was explained by Women’s rights activist Ruchira Gupta who told ABC’s Elizabeth Vargas:

It’s an obliteration of a whole class, race, of human beings. It’s half the population of India. We put very little value to girls or to women. So they are always in danger, from birth to death. If they are born, then they might be murdered just because they are girls.

Wealthy families are the worst culprits; they want male heirs to carry on the family name and fortune, somethign forbidden to girls in India . Girls must be murdered before, or, after birth.

According to Gender Watch.org:

Female infanticide reflects the low status accorded to women in most parts of the world; it is arguably the most brutal and destructive manifestation of the anti-female bias that pervades ‘patriarchal’ societies. It is closely linked to the phenomena of sex-selective abortion, which targets female fetuses almost exclusively, and neglect of girl children.

But how can India, a mostly impoverished nation, carry out so many abortions each year?

This horror story hides another secret the left-leaning ABC and Elizabeth Vargas never exposed: The United States provides billions though the Patient Protection and Affordable Health Act (PPACA) as enacted (Public Law 111-148), which President Obama signed into law March 23, 2010.  Abortions are subsidized by left-wing Washington politicians allowing Federal Funds to fund Indian abortions. In a sworn affidavit, Douglas D. Johnsons states in Number 66  that “federal funding” “examples don’t “explain” 

…an exhaustive list of all the provisions of the PPACA that may provide federal subsidies for abortion…there are other provisions that also may be employed in the future to provide federal funds for abortion, including those dealing with Indian health programs and health co-ops.

Obviously the Obama Administration and left-wing politicians don’t want pro-life Americans to realize how U.S. federal funding for India’s abortions is exterminating India’s females. ABC and Vargas should have exposed this gendercidal U.S. funding helping massacre 50,000 female fetuses each month.

India’s sullied Hitler-like gendercide secret against women is creating 300 girls to every 1,000 boys in most cities.  There is one city in India where only men and boys exist—The City of Men. And because  families of girls must pay  doweries each year to husbands, and doweries are increasing yearly, if families cannot pay, girls are “often beaten, tortured, even burned to death. And while dowries have been illegal for decades, the law is often ignored.”

Women, who want to save their daughters, and those forced by family to give up their daughters, take their girls to the Northern region of India to safe house orphanages known as “Cradle Houses.” Cradle House has a drop box like any post office. Women knock on the drop box door and place girl children inside to anonymous hands. Inside the Cradle House is a woman simply known to the girls as “Mama.” Mama has devoted her life to caring for every girl left in her charge for the rest of their lives.  Mama feeds cloths and educates every girl she raises. Mama also teaches the girls to regard human life:

It’s important to empower and embolden these girls to make them stronger. So, one day when they give birth to a baby girl, they will not give in to the pressure to play with nature.

Mama is the only mother these girls will ever know, because Mother does not put the girls up for adoption. Adoption is too dangerous in a country seeking to exterminate women the way Hitler sought to exterminate Jews.

40 million women have vanished in India and none of the feminist activists fight against this, or even speak of the horrific crime against women, because it’s abortion. In America, we don’t all know about gendercide, but then again, America is equally as guilty for its abortion of 50 million children under Planned Parenthood, designed to exterminate the black race from American shores.

40 million women have disappeared because they have been murdered. Indian women are murdered because they are Women. Women are the gender that gives birth to human life, yet in India, the culture, the people, the majority, wants women exterminated to a level where the population has only enough women to give birth to men.

For those who have not seen the TV show All American Muslim, based on Dearborn, Michigan Muslim families, is a veritable praise-athon depicting Islam as a family valued religion of peaceful, harmless people who would never consider blowing human beings to smithereens, murdering women who behave Americanized, or flying jets into buildings to take down America. The opposite is true when it comes to Islam, the radical political movement with all intent on mankind’s destruction. The opposite is also true of All American Muslim’s depiction of American Muslim women: in reality, those who behave American face murder at the hands of their own families.

The idea behind All American Muslim is as bad as the idea of a show titled All American Nazi Jew-Haters, depicting anti-Semites as lovable, peaceful, average Americans just like everyone else. All American Muslim is a tool used to brainwash Americans into tolerating every culture no matter that culture’s threat to the nation and world. In this case, welcome Islam into America with open arms.

All American Muslim wants Americans too believe Islamic families are no different from non-Muslim families, that Muslim “reality” TV families, who pose in Americanized-style photos for TV, are just as American as apple pie. The opposite is true. Muslims are not allowed to be Americanized. If a Muslim family member attempts such a crime, that person must be executed.  Therefore, the TV show is nothing more than Islamic propaganda used to con  Americans into tolerating Islam’s existence, or you’re all bigots!  

Just look at how USA Today’s politically correct interview makes All American Muslim’s girls look like the Kardashians:

Shadia Amen has plenty of piercings, a few on her left eyebrow and 20 on her ears. She says her hair changes color monthly, ‘anywhere from pink to blue-black to black to whatever tickles my fancy.’ And tattoos cover 40 percent of her body, including one that depicts ‘the rock star sign with the hand’ shaped like the devil’s horns. Despite that, the 31-year-old Dearborn woman—who calls herself a hillbilly at heart—is a proud Muslim. Although she has drunk alcohol and once was a single mom, her Islamic faith is still a part of her. ‘I’ve read the Quran three times,’ says Amen, referring to Islam’s holy text. ‘I know a lot about the religion. I was raised with it, going to all the Islamic Sunday schools growing up. Because I don’t follow it to a T, that doesn’t make me any less of a Muslim. Because in the end, it’s God who’s judging us, and I think He and I are cool.’ Amen’s story will be featured in a new reality-TV show debuting at 10 p.m. Sunday on TLC called All-American Muslim. The eight-part series is the first show on American television that depicts the lives of Muslim Americans, a community that has been in the spotlight for the past decade, but often misunderstood.

Muslim women behaving western, dyeing their hair punkish, drinking alcohol and admitting to it publicly, single-motherhood Muslims saying they barely read the Koran and wear tattoos, are all breaking the laws of Islam. And these Muslims know it!  But again, Islam has an agenda with this new so-called “reality” TV show: make Americans “understand” a phony, non-existent Islam. In other words, Islam wants Americans to accept the culture that did in fact bomb America on 9/11, and continues attacking this nation’s military bases, cities, and airliners by-way-of Muslims.  

Also, All American Muslim will not tell you the truth about Islam’s laws: Islam does not tolerate anything but lock-stepping to its Sharia Laws. That means never dressing like, or ever acting like,  All American Muslim. This so-called all American reality show does not expose the fact that if Muslim girls behave Americanized like All American Muslim, they are executed by their fathers, mothers and brothers as Honor killings to save the family’s honor. This  Islamic crime practiced in the United States, and covered up by this “reality” show, is a commonality in the US. Worse, husbands and fathers who commit these horrendous murders against wives and daughters are acquitted due to ignorant jurors, who, either don’t understand the dangers Islam poses to its own who try to flee Islam, or, jurors are afraid of being intolerant and accused of bigotry toward an intolerant religion trying to exterminate all non-Muslims for Islam.

Furthermore, this TV show covers up forced, arranged marriages, common in the United States by Muslim families, who marry their young American teenage daughters off to foreign Islamic men as early as age 13.

Even in the United States where we have freedom of religion, if Muslims try to leave Islam or convert to Christianity, they must be executed according to Shaira’s dictates. You will not discover this truth on All American Muslim, what you will see is the Kardashian-dressed Islamo-grungettes in families who are the Cosby Show with headscarves.

Simply put, All American Muslim is not American “reality,” it covers up of Islam’s reality.

All American Muslim’s propaganda makes the show appear to be your average next door neighbor, sharing the same values and culture as the average non-Muslim American. The only difference is Muslims dress just a tad different from the rest of us. But if All American Muslim has its way, we non-Muslim Americans won’t notice anymore, and Islam will gain ground.

All American Muslim says Islam is no different from everyone else in America.  But that is simply not true if one looks at Islamic history, its founding, it’s Sharia Law that dictates no Muslim can adhere to any other law but Sharia—not even the Constitution, which is null and void to Muslims unless they leave Islam.  All American Muslim is reality TV brainwash that hides Islam’s radical political movement of violence against mankind.

All American Muslim is not the Cosby Show, Islamic girls are not allowed to behave like the Kardashian girls, and this TV show is not the reality of America’s true culture. This TV show does not represent American culture or the values of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. Again, All American Muslim is trying to push a non-existent Islamic life that simply does not exist in Islam.  But pushing this Cosby Show-style propaganda is exactly what Islam needs to further cement itself into American culture and society so it can breed its true intentions —takeover.

The GOP and Republican voters have a had a longing to reelect Ronald Reagan since 1988. Why shouldn’t Republicans, Reagan was a Conservative Republican who rescued this country from the disastrous four years of Jimmy Carter’s taxation and inflation. Reagan’s immigration amnesty policy was wrong, as are some other Republican candidates on this issue, but Reagan is still the twentieth-century’s Conservative Republican’s pride. Not to mention, Reagan had a following of Democrats still known as “Reagan Democrats.”  

Regardless of conservatives admiration for Reagan, there is one major hitch in the GOP’s longing to find another Reagan: there was only one Ronald Reagan and the GOP cannot resurrect him.  The Reagan era and the man are both gone and neither can return. That being said, Republicans should not compromise and nominate a Democrat-minded Republican, i.e. progressive, just to win the 2012 election and unseat Barack Obama.

Americans love specific presidents. Americans love leaders who fought to create and save this nation during crisis and made this nation great. This displays the deep desire many Americans have to preserve America to posterity. However, no matter the great extent to which Americans love certain presidents extends, America cannot go back in time and we Americans cannot clone those men.

Leave the cloning to Democrats. They have a terrible habit of resurrecting their Progressive Marxist/Communist leftist presidents. So please, let’s leave Mary Shelley and Frankenstein to the Democrats. The Democrats are experts at creating disasters and heaping failure and misfortune full-force on the nation. Thus, in the coming 2012 election, conservatives must stop trying to resurrect Ronald Reagan, stop trying to clone GOP Candidates into Ronald Reagan, and seek to elect an actual constitutional conservative candidate who will uphold the sovereign law of this land and protect this nation according to Article II of the Constitution.

And herein lay another dilemma for Conservative Republicans: The GOP is not allowing conservative candidates to inch their way too close to the nomination door. That does not include Congressman Ron Paul, the other left’s (Radical Libertarians) Jimmy Carter, who is obviously running for the presidency of Iran while gunning one foot shy of no government for America.

The GOP is determined to nominate the candidate desired by the GOP Machine. This has generated the negative view toward the GOP by Conservative Republican voters: The GOP pulled this “nomination” stunt in 2008 when the GOP decided Arizona Republican Senator John McCain was the only choice to go up against Illinois Senator Barack Obama. The problem with John McCain was not his Viet Nam POW record; Americans respect McCain’s service.  It is McCain’s political ideology, plus the fact that during the 2008 primaries there seemed to be no difference between John McCain and Senator Hillary Clinton. Simply put: if you put a blonde wig and a strand of pearls on John McCain, you had Hillary Clinton in better man’s drag.

Conservatives did not come close to Ronald Reagan in 2008, because we cannot resurrect Ronald Reagan, and we need to stop trying to clone him and find another conservative for 2012.

Conservatives need to remember the only reason John McCain received one, single, conservative vote was because the best man in the race happened to be the woman on McCain’s ticket—Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin. Palin not only scared the daylights out of Democrats, she made the GOP Good Ole’ Boys insider club nervous. Palin’s conservative beliefs and values refused to be silent and let Americans fall for anymore of Washington’s political tactics (including the GOP’s compromising) driving America too close to socialism. Palin hit back with straight talk. She woke up an entire movement of conservatives who had been sitting silently by, never getting involved in politics, and simply accepting whatever, and whoever, the GOP told Republicans to vote for.

McCain was definitely a terrible choice for the GOP, which is why McCain knew he needed Palin. Despite Palin’s conservatism, too many voters fixated on McCain’s age rather than the fact McCain would be leaving office after one term and the 2012 presidency could very well go to a conservative Tea Party president so desired by the conservative movement. Still, McCain becoming the presidential nomination is entirely the GOP’s fault: The GOP did not permit Republicans any alternative candidate in the primaries. It was than John McCain and Mitt Romney or nothing at all when the GOP had the last say. The result; the GOP compromised Republicans in 2008—despite running the conservative Palin on the VP ticket—and the GOP helped give America Barack Obama.

And that leads to the present dilemma: the GOP is once again attempting to decide who the GOP nominee should be—Mitt Romney, the Progressive Teddy Roosevelt-style pseudo-Republican.

This time around the GOP favorite is no different than Barack Obama. Obama has his socialist mandated healthcare—Obamacar–and Romney has his Progressive Massachusetts healthcare plan that is no different than Obama’s collective medical conspiracy. After all, Romney’s advisors consulted with Obama when Obama drafted his socialist healthcare plan, so Romneycare is the GOP’s Obamacare.

So once again the GOP is pushing another Democrat in GOP clothing on Republicans. Only this time the Dem-Republican is Barack Obama with Jack Lord’s hair.

Making things worse, some conservative pundits have caved to Romney, despite the knowing, and admitting, Romney is too left-wing for to be a real Republican. The conservative Romney-pushers are justifying Romney’s political stances with the paltry excuse that “anyone is better than Obama.” What happened to not compromising our conservative core values? If any candidate is better than Obama, then we Republicans may as well nominate Casey Anthony as our GOP candidate and call it a day.

The Founding Fathers never compromised to create a nation. Jefferson risked his life to write and sign the Declaration–after long-pleading with the King for our nation’s freedom and the “Rights of Man” to be upheld before war broke out and the fight for independence became a revolution. The King placed a warrant for Jefferson’s arrest and demanded Jefferson be hanged for crimes against the crown. That did not stop Jefferson or the Americans who believed in liberty. The country was split between loyalists and Americans who agreed with Thomas Jefferson. Even after the war was won and America was still severely divided politically, the Founders never tossed the Constitution aside and said “Hey, let’s keep the high-taxation, high-inflation; non-competitive Articles of Confederation in place, after all, anything is better than parliament.” The Founders worked long and hard to find the best solution that would ensure this nation become a Constitutional Republic based on liberty. Compromise would have allowed for destructive amendments to be implemented in the Constitution, and our country might not have lasted through the nineteenth century.

Compromise never wins; it always ushers in destructive forces that eventually sneak in tyranny. Yet, the GOP refuses to acknowledge this fact and hold strong to its core roots and values. The GOP would rather compromise America in order that the GOP can contol the White House. The GOP is forgetting that if that power in the White House is not conservative, and does not hold true to the GOP’s roots, then that power is no different than the destructive power conservatives are trying to unseat.

Conservative voters need to remember:  While America is $15 trillion dollars in debt, the GOP wants to push its choice of nominee on Republican voters. Isn’t $15 trillion enough to make Conservative Republicans refuse to compromise America? Isn’t Obama’s and Democrat’s economic spending debacle enough for Conservative Republicans to say the GOP needs to stop compromising and start looking for the next conservative president?

I have recently moved with my favorite editor to another newspaper featuring everything from News, Politics, Lifestyle, Advice, Reviews and Humor. I’m not letting the name of the paper out of the bag  just yet. You’ll all have to wait until the first story is published.

I will be expanding my writing from politics, feminism and the fight against Islam, to sharing my humorous stories about my life growing up in New England. The stories will feature true stories about my family’s vacations, the holidays, and the truth about how eccentric we New Englanders really are and what the rest of America doesn’t know about the prim and proper lives of the Tartan State of Connecticut:

1. The reason we Connecticut natives wear so much tartan is because it’s the law.  Technically it’s part of our State’s Fundamental Orders of 1639. Whether a Nutmegger likes all that plaid or not, the citizen of the Constitution State has no choice but to own at least one piece of tartan clothing. And the citizen must humiliate his or herself, in public, during the Christmas holidays, by wearing bright red tartan.

2. Every antique New England home has an attic. Today’s New England attics are used for storage, but that’s not why they were built. Everything you’ve heard about our attics is true.  We used to lock up our insane relatives in our attics until the politically correct worry-wart psychologists of the 20th century decided chaining your insane grandmother to a wall was somehow inhuman, despite the fact that your insane grandmother’s hobby included hatchets and rope. So, as a result of the do-gooders, we New Englanders have been presenting our insane relatives to the public for decades now, letting them roam the streets and shops as we sane relatives follow closely, keeping an eye on the crazy ones. Native New Englanders only notice other people’s crazy relatives. We New Englanders call our neighbor’s crazy mother insane, despite the fact that some of us used to have an uncle who went about town dressed like Jackie Kennedy with a five O’Clock shadow.

3. I will explain why many New England Psychiatrists need medication: we New Englanders drive our shrinks insane. Oh, but there’s just one thing: we never admit to the fact that we actually visit a shrink. Never discuss the fact you are having a nervous breakdown or mid-life crisis. The proper New Englander goes nuts the right way: we closet-drink, buy a mini skirt  for the family reunion when we women hit 60, and can’t handle the age, or, in the case of one of my Jackie Kennedy cross-dressing male relatives, buy an Oscar De’ La Renta ball gown for the family holiday party, and, have the utter audacity to look better than the 60 year-old aunt wearing the leather mini-skirt and sucking down Martinis for her mid-life crisis!

That’s just a sample.

I have years of stories to share with readers about my very proper, ultra right-wing, Conservative Republican Catholic/Baptist/Evangelical New England family. My family may be the epitome of “Leave it to Beaver” meets “The Philadelphia Story,” but our eccentricity bred  “Modern Family.”

For my political readers, I have not given up the political and historical writings, nor will I ever. Those columns will be featured solely on my web site, and occasionally in the paper.

I’ve been asked for years to write these stories down and put them in a book, but there was just one problem: all of the monied relatives were still alive and I would have been cut out of someone’s will, or possibly a few. Hey, I’m a capitalist, not a moron!

I look forward to this new venture I have chosen; it expands my writing talents and will give my readers a chance to see where my personality, politics and humor come from. I hope to entertain you all with humor, as well as heartwarming stories about my animal rescuing.

All the best,

Lisa Richards