Should tree-huggers get the death penalty?
In the surrealistic America that we live in today, the delusions and values of the former bullies in the back of your high school classroom now hold sway over with those with intellectual curiosity.
It has been 40 to 80 years since most proto-Creek, Uchee, Chickasaw and Kansa town sites in the Southern Highlands received any serious study by professional archaeologists. Several important sites have NEVER been professionally excavated. Most of the petroglyph sites are also ignored by archaeologists. There is nothing we can do about the cause of the problem in North Carolina. You know who the culprit is there. As a result, state history textbooks, museum pamphlets and historical markers are filled with mythology. Most of the myths were created by white academicians and bureaucrats, who didn’t know diddlysquat about the ancient histories of the Chickasaw, Uchee and Creek Peoples and certainly didn’t have a clue that the Mandan, Kansa and Quapaw once lived in the Lower Southeast. Nevertheless, in order to help remedy that problem, a group of Native American descendants and historic preservationists attempted 13 years ago to form a Georgia Mountains Archaeological Society as a chapter of the Society for Georgia Archaeology. The Anthropology Department at Kennesaw State University was to be our academic sponsor. This was before I became the person, most hated by Dixie archaeologists. None of them knew then that I had a significant background in Mesoamerican architecture or that I was working almost full time on projects for the Muskogee-Creek Nation.
We placed notices in local newspapers in four edge-of-north-Metro-Atlanta towns and within a week had 87 members signed up. We would have been the largest chapter of the Society For Georgia Archaeology. However, that next week I began getting strange emails. An 8 year old boy, 11 year old girl and 16 year old girl repeatedly sent messages, emphasizing their age, wanting a photo of me and wanting to visit me in my home. I told them all, “absolutely not” and that their parents would have accompany them to chapter meetings.
One new member wanted to be chairman of a committee to plan vandalism of construction sites. I wrote him back, asking why in the heck, would he think an architect would be possibly interested in damaging construction sites. He (or she) never communicated again.
Another new member wanted to lead an effort to sabotage logging machinery and vehicles in the national forest. Most of the other founders of the group also were getting weird emails, while two were also getting strange phone calls.
I knew how to access the locations of all email servers, plus the IPN’s of privately-owned computers. Two of the “children” worked at the Pickens County Sheriff’s Department (where I lived). The 11 year old girl worked somewhere in the Georgia state government bureaucracy in Cherokee County, GA. The timber-company saboteur worked for the US Government in Gainesville, GA . . . probably for the US Forest Service, but the server ID only said, “US Government, Gainesville, GA.” The vandal of construction sites worked somewhere in the Georgia state government bureaucracy in Atlanta.
I received a terse email from a history professor at Kennesaw State, which informed me that the anthropology department was withdrawing from its agreement to sponsor our chapter. Meanwhile, my girlfriend, who was an art professor at Kennesaw State University, was called into a meeting with her department chair and dean. They said that Homeland Security agents had visited them and said that she was a suspected Marxist anti-war activist and spy for Cuba. (Her mother was Osage ~ Native American . . . so to some idiots at Homeland Security, she probably looked Latin American.)
She emphatically stated to me that she was ashamed of the US invasion of Iraq, but was not a member of any organizations other than the National Art Education Association, National Committee for Art History, Democratic Party and the Cobb County Historical Society. She was definitely not a Marxist. She said, though, that an art history professor from another part of the country had called her recently and immediately brought up the subject of the Iraqi War. She had told the woman that she thought the war was immoral. That’s all. She was never contacted by Homeland Security or anybody in the federal government, but was fired at the end of the semester, anyway. The only job she could get afterward was teaching commercial art at a community technical college in her hometown in Nebraska. Her historic Marrieta, GA home was foreclosed on. She blamed me for the sudden demise of her career and the hardships place on her four children. I never saw her again. That was the last time I was allowed to be even in a dating relationship. Since then I have received numerous pre-approved membership cards from various monasteries around the world.
Furious, I emailed the new member, who wanted me to sabotage logging trucks. I told him that I knew he was a federal employee in Gainesville and probably he was in some form of law enforcement. I asked him why he and his kind wanted to destroy the lives of so many innocent people. His response was an EMOJI laughing face and the comment . . . “Everybody knows that all you Injuns are tree-huggers and eco-terrorists. We are just doing our job and stopping you before you commit another crime.”
Stop burying your heads in the sand. These are dangerous times. I am receiving more and more emails from Native Americans around the country, who are complaining of persecution merely because they are an Injun, who served in a Special Ops unit of the US military or are well-educated. These persecutions are occurring in locales, where there is no organized tribe to protect them. Apparently, political extremists and control freaks are terribly afraid of Native Americans. Are we the only sane people still standing?
During the winter of 2011, I lived in the office of an abandoned chicken house near Track Rock Gap. It had electricity and a phone connection . . . so my only form of entertainment was surfing the net and writing landmark books on architectural history. One evening, I stumbled upon an advertisement by the Central Intelligence Agency, seeking recent college graduates. Just for the fun of it, I took the CIA aptitude test.
The next morning, I woke up to see an official email from the CIA! It was not a form letter. The CIA administrator said that I had scored a perfect 100 on the test . . . higher than most veteran CIA operators and in almost record time. They wanted me to fly up to Washington as soon as possible for an interview. They provided a toll free number for me to call for a telephone introductory interview and to arrange for a plane ticket and hotel room in Langley, VA. They also attached an interactive PDF questionnaire. I was to call the number after completing the questionnaire.
As references, I listed the names of three friends in the CIA from my days of living in Virginia. In addition to standard questions like Home Address (I put homeless, living in abandoned chicken house), there were several directly related to being an overseas operative. Apparently, they figured out like the US Navy that I was really good at figuring out unknown languages. Several related to active military service and combat experience. I told the truth. I had only been a NROTC midshipman and then Inactive Naval Reserve Officer, who didn’t exist. I did know how to watch Soviet ships and submarines passing through Scandinavia.
On the other hand, I did have combat experience. A wealthy Texas friend of the Bushes had hired some Army Rangers from Fort Detrick, MD to kill our dairy goats and sheep with a hybrid mycoplasm organism, developed at Fort Detrick, which a year LATER was found to cause Desert Storm Syndrome in over a hundred thousand veterans of that war . . . so he could buy our colonial farm cheap. I whipped their butts with a Creek war club in two feet of snow, because I had latched on to the frequency of their radios. I even captured some of their Ranger berets. That’s something that the German Nazi’s couldn’t claim.
A phone call to Langley, VA was supposed to immediately follow my questionnaire, but I hesitated for almost an hour . . . thinking that they would be extremely angry and might even want to arrest me. I finally decided that I was so accustomed to winter time camping in the mountains that they could never find me. I called and introduced myself.
Immediately the administrator said, “YOU ARE A HOOT, SIR!” He yelled out, “It’s Richard Thornton!” and immediately everybody in his office started laughing. One woman said, “We gotta have him here, just to liven up the place.” They didn’t believe a word I said on the questionnaire. He asked me this time to tell him the truth. How did I get so good at intelligence skills?
I told him that it was from being Public Enemy Number One for Georgia’s cops for over a decade because I played Southern Rock records with Jimmy Carter and Senator Joe Biden. He laughed and said, “Okay, so you have been involved in national security concerns that you can’t talk about. We respect that. When you get up here, you will have the opportunity to meet the Director, whose has the security clearance for you to tell him.”
He said, “Okay, what’s your real age Richard. From your photo with the dogs, we know it’s not what you put down.”
I told him that was my real age. He first didn’t believe me, but typed in my Social Security number. The computer screen confirmed my age. He said that was unfortunate. I was too old for the program that they were seeking recruits for. They were looking for people under 30. However, with my score on the test, and 8 years of education, they could hire me as a contractor. He said that he would send my application to the overseas contracts administrator with a recommendation of immediate service. “When can you fly up here?
I told him that I had to wait until Spring thaw. I told him that I was living in an abandoned chicken house and that if I didn’t constantly feed the wood stove, the pipes would freeze. Also, there would be no one to take care of my dogs, Rob Roy, Mack and Angel. They had saved my life several times in 2010 when Ninja Nerds attacked my campsites in North Carolina at night. In fact, it would be better if I drove up and then the CIA arranged a contract for the three dogs too. “You can always replace a bad wife, but it’s awfully durn hard to find a good herd dog.”
The CIA employees just howled. They didn’t believe me again. The CIA administrator, chuckled, and said, “Okay Jed Clampett. You can’t make up your mind right now or is there a woman in your life? She can come along with you overseas, if we approve her in advance.” I told them that the only woman in my life right now was Angel the Herd Dog, but would be happy for the CIA to furnish me a foxy lady spy, if I approved her in advance. He laughed and said, “We can do that, but we have to be sure that you two get along. There will be a trial marriage, of sorts.“
Well, that ended my career as a mysterious CIA agent.
However, last night I finally got bragging rights over my Cuz Ray. He thinks that he was the hot shot spook in our youth, while I just went on picnics with Swedish flickor (young women). I had to wait 20 years, but he still can’t tell me some of things he did, so he’s kinda uppity. I think he was just an electronics nerd somewhere in the Pacific, while I was the one proudly carrying the US flag to discos in Mexico and Sweden. Well, not actually carrying flag . . . more like showing that Georgia Boys can dance.
Last night I got proof that I could have been a bonified James Bond, if I hadn’t decided to be a goat cheese farmer in the mountains. So Cuz Ray can’t be uppity anymore.
Online, I took the actual 1944 US Department of War aptitude test, which was given to new recruits during World War II. It was used to determine what branch of the service they would be sent to.
Guess what service I would have been sent to? The Office of Strategic Services (OSS) the forerunner of the CIA. See Cuz Ray, you were a wannbe James Bond! You were just lucky that the US Navy likes to use Creeks and Uchees for weird assignments overseas.
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