Grandma

My Mother’s Mother was a little better than half Cherokee. She was, in fact, born and raised on Cherokee Nation, Oklahoma. This is where my Mother came from during the “Dust Bowl.” She then moved to Los Angeles and later to San Francisco where she met and married my Father. My Grandma came with her.

I was raised in a house where racism was never tolerated so I don’t need to be told by the dolts on the left that myself or anyone I know is a racist. Calling a black person the “N” word would get our mouths washed out with soap. I am not alone in this, being white as can be and never a racist. How about if I called people who call others racist, murderers? Same thing. I don’t know them from Adam but they have the unadulterated gall to call us names someone else came up with very long ago. How about Murdering Parrots? They mimic, copy and don’t have any idea who they’re speaking of. How about Polly’s? I once knew of a Parrot named Polly. Violent little bugger! Tear your finger a good one if he didn’t like you for some Parrot reason.

No, I grew up like all little white kids did back in the 1950s, disciplined by hand when needed and not allowed to do anything but respect an adult. And the adults back then earned our respect. They worked, sacrificed for their family and passed that ethic onto us. Not so any more. Adults don’t respect themselves, God, or you and I. They hate, which explains the need to call others names whom they do not know from Adam. Ever been called a “hater,” to your face? They know better than that, the cowards.

I suppose being seventy-five makes me an adult? I certainly think it does. Vietnam service or no. I respect others and hope to be able to show my love for the human condition and that gets tougher by the day with all the stupidity on the left.

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