A Happy Mother's Day Greeting from Social Services

MP-F - I wrote this article originally in 2010.  I did not, at the time, realize the individuals reporting me for abuse were Morgan Pillsbury Gell, and her then husband, Jay Earl Gell. Morgan had not seen Arthur since 2001. Jay never met or talked to him.  They had contacted me after I started the website for Sassoon Saleem Sassoon, in 2010.  That story is now being written, and will be added, with a link here.  

I have to apologize to the ladies from Social Services.  I did not realize Morgan and Jay were responsible, or what their motives could be, until some years later. 

Two women, Michelle Hammond, and Lynn Sears, accompanied by a sheriff, Deputy Kemmerling, drove up to the house in two white cars, one a patrol car and the other a government vehicle. They asked to see Arthur, my son. Arthur is 30, but disabled. Arthur had left to take a short constitutional after having lunch, he had then been gone for about 15 minutes. I told them he would be back shortly and went inside, leaving them to wait on the driveway.

The house is a cabin located in a small subdivision. Most of the cabins are occupied only on weekends as most owners only vacation here. We live here full time to save money and since Arthur needs full time care this is the only way I can provide that care and survive, and that just barely. I work from home doing free lance writing and an online radio show. The downturn in the economy has hit all of us.

I was informed that there had been an anonymous complaint regarding the care of my son. When I let them talk to Arthur out of my hearing I later learned from him that he was asked if I abused him. He was asked a series of questions that each served to demean me, prying into our personal lives in ways that clearly violate our rights. My son was asked if he used illegal drugs, among other evidently routine questions. It was manipulative, ignoring my son's Constitutional rights. This would have been true even if he was not severely disabled.

We are obviously being targeted. My son represents potential income to the system. Income that amounts to more than $400,000.00.

There was a time when being poor did not make you fair game to predators like the people from Social Services. That time is past. Having ascertained that Arthur is not abused; he was astonished at the suggestion, any legitimate inquiry should have ended. Instead they used intimidation as an opening wedge in an attempt to influence my son. Having listened to their blandishments Arthur told them that although he was sometimes lonely he preferred to stay with me. Arthur helps when and where he can; he knows families pull together.  At that point they transferred their attention to me. Arthur had unwittingly thwarted their agenda.

There was a time when we all knew that the family was the center for our lives. Families stayed together, in good times and bad. Families were and are the kind of insurance that both protects and makes our lives whole. We are who we are because of our family; being a good mother, father, sister, brother, son, daughter carried us along with our faith in God through things that otherwise would destroy us.

Refusing to tell either of us who might have filed such a charge they demanded answers to questions that no part of government has a right to know under the Constitution. Arthur and I have a happy and amicable relationship having passed through much pain and adjustment; he receives all the care I can afford and participates in every event and activity possible. Hearing his voice makes the hardships of the last ten years unimportant. He has his own computer and spends time on line. He attends church and goes to Bible Study once a week. I drive him to events when possible but attend few myself since it is costly and interferes with my work. At our small church I usually read the weekly lesson.

The obvious thrust of the procedure the women followed was an attempt to get control of Arthur if money could be generated for their department. The presence of a deputy sheriff, although he said later he was only there to show them where I lived, was intimidating and embarrassing. I am nearly 60 and have suffered two heart attacks, I am no threat to anyone. Although the deputy then said he was only there to show them where I lived, the place is not served by the Post Office, he stayed, listening to what transpired making his explanation problematical.

Over and over Hammond implied that I was 'keeping Arthur away from his friends,' that he was not happy. They asserted that Arthur had a 'right' to make his own decisions regarding where he lives. If such a 'right' exists, and it is not included in the Bill of Rights, then most of us would choose to live in Beverly Hills. Arthur well knows that we live at the cabin because I do not have funds to live elsewhere. 

These well paid government 'workers' assumed as a matter of course that Arthur should be receiving welfare or disability; he is not and never has. The distress on their faces was obvious. Immediately they wanted to know if I would apply. 

There was a time when Americans stood tall, accepting help from friends and family in need. Government was not part of the equation. That was a better time for all of us. Why do those who make their living supposedly, making us safer, bring a message of fear? Why have so many families, already struggling, been forced over the edge from just this kind of predation from the agencies funded through our taxes? Why can they afford nice homes, goodies, and pensions when so many of us are struggling to stay off the street?

The answer is obvious.

Evidently during their time alone with Arthur they worked to persuade Arthur that he would be happier living elsewhere. It is hard to imagine that they could believe that a man who has had two major brain injuries is capable of deciding for himself that he is capable of making life-impacting decisions, or that they, having known him for around 30 minutes, were better qualified than myself to do so but this was, indeed, their attitude. It is amazing that they could, with straight faces and such fervor, maintain that it is appropriate to interfere with the most intimate choices a family makes. They showed no concern over the stability of any situation they might offer, simply rejecting the obvious fact that the economic meltdown every other part of America is feeling in the most visceral way could impact their small, ugly shake down. 

With bright, glassy smiles, they asserted Arthur's right to be happy over any other consideration. But his wellbeing and happiness were not on their agenda.

They promised Arthur that he could go back to Santa Barbara, something I considered to be doubtful. They ignored his need for further therapy. There are many new approaches now coming into availability for the victims of brain injuries. They demonstrated complete ignorance and indifference about the facts regarding brain injuries. They told me I would let him go if I cared about him. They were insulting, demeaning, and verbally abusive to both me and to my son. That was the underscoring and the message received by me and by countless others who find such 'workers' on their door steps.

One wonders what any of the three would do if someone trying to make their quota in human flesh arrived at their door with the power of a holstered gun and tried to intimidate them into handing over their child. What do you say about the moral fiber of people who profit from such a system? Nothing is ugly enough.

Americans need to demand answers. Among others we need to know what bounty is being put on each child or disabled adult sucked into the system. We need to know what such 'workers' are paid. We need to know the specifics about their benefits. We need to know how many disabled adults die after being sucked into their system, how many children end up sold into sex rings or used for pornographic films. In case you were unaware that is all too often their fate. Children present many possibilities to the greedy.

Hitler also instituted 'homes.' Those received there were put to death under the same benevolent rhetoric I heard yesterday. The long dead Germans were also told they would be happier and better cared for.

There are questions that need answers and now is the time to demand them. The disabled adults and children, now far more vulnerable because of the incessant need to pump more funds into a system intended solely to profit those in power, needs to be stopped.

Government has drawn a bead on all families, yours included. Listen for the knock on the door.

Those in power need to be charged and sued for the damage they have done to lives barely started and at risk. As Americans we have a right to justice and the time for that is now.

NOTE:  Here is the affidavit Jay wrote for Sassoon Saleem to sign, which as far as he told me, he did not do.  He also failed to mention having received the affidavit written by Jay.  Morgan could not have written it because she had literacy issues.

A Happy Mother's Day Greeting from Social Services

Preface - This is an old story, which took place around 2010.  At the time, I was simply hurt and outraged.  I had at that time been my son's sole caretaker since his motorcycle accident on September 27, 1997.  Arthur had suffered a severe brain injury and was not expected to live.  Every moment possible I spent at Cottage Hospital helping to care for him.  You can learn more about what I was then going through at HowTheNeoConsStoleFreedom.com, link leads Throw Mama from the Train.  Since the determination of my soon estranged husband, Craig Franklin, and Dan O'Dowd, to steal the company, Green Hills Software, Inc. from Dan's partner and the man who entirely funded it in 1982, Glenn Hightower, had made it convenient to get rid of me, Craig and Dan had cut a deal, which, I am not kidding, they called the Throw Momma From the Train Strategy.  

I was one of the two problems who needed to be gotten rid of. I was stunned when Craig filed for divorce in January of 1998.  I had just saved him from the IRS. 

You're Not Paranoid – The IRS is out to get you.

I was very inconvenient and did not shut up, especially since they were attempting to steal everything I was due from my more than ten years of marriage with Craig.  So, they hired people to defame me, threaten me, and make it impossible for me to earn a living, which was harder than at all normal because I was taking care of Arthur 24/7/365.  When you love people, you do that.  The story below is just one of the many, but it disappeared from the Internet, so I'm republishing it.  

A Happy Mother's Day Greeting from Social Services
Two women, Michelle Hammond, and Lynn Sears, accompanied by a sheriff, Deputy Kemmerling, drove up to the house in two white cars, one a patrol car and the other a government vehicle. They asked to see Arthur, my son. Arthur is 30, but disabled. Arthur had left to take a short constitutional after having lunch, he had then been gone for about 15 minutes. I told them he would be back shortly and went inside, leaving them to wait on the driveway.

The house is a cabin located in a small subdivision. Most of the cabins are occupied only on weekends as most owners only vacation here. We live here full time to save money and since Arthur needs full time care this is the only way I can provide that care and survive, and that just barely. I work from home doing free lance writing and an online radio show. The downturn in the economy has hit all of us.

I was informed that there had been an anonymous complaint regarding the care of my son. When I let them talk to Arthur out of my hearing I later learned from him that he was asked if I abused him. He was asked a series of questions that each served to demean me, prying into our personal lives in ways that clearly violate our rights. My son was asked if he used illegal drugs, among other evidently routine questions. It was manipulative, ignoring my son's Constitutional rights. This would have been true even if he was not severely disabled.

We are obviously being targeted. My son represents potential income to the system. Income that amounts to more than $400,000.00.

There was a time when being poor did not make you fair game to predators like the people from Social Services. That time is past. Having ascertained that Arthur is not abused; he was astonished at the suggestion, any legitimate inquiry should have ended. Instead they used intimidation as an opening wedge in an attempt to influence my son. Having listened to their blandishments Arthur told them that although he was sometimes lonely he preferred to stay with me. Arthur helps when and where he can; he knows families pull together.  At that point they transferred their attention to me. Arthur had unwittingly thwarted their agenda.

There was a time when we all knew that the family was the center for our lives. Families stayed together, in good times and bad. Families were and are the kind of insurance that both protects and makes our lives whole. We are who we are because of our family; being a good mother, father, sister, brother, son, daughter carried us along with our faith in God through things that otherwise would destroy us.

Refusing to tell either of us who might have filed such a charge they demanded answers to questions that no part of government has a right to know under the Constitution. Arthur and I have a happy and amicable relationship having passed through much pain and adjustment; he receives all the care I can afford and participates in every event and activity possible. Hearing his voice makes the hardships of the last ten years unimportant. He has his own computer and spends time on line. He attends church and goes to Bible Study once a week. I drive him to events when possible but attend few myself since it is costly and interferes with my work. At our small church I usually read the weekly lesson.

The obvious thrust of the procedure the women followed was an attempt to get control of Arthur if money could be generated for their department. The presence of a deputy sheriff, although he said later he was only there to show them where I lived, was intimidating and embarrassing. I am nearly 60 and have suffered two heart attacks, I am no threat to anyone. Although the deputy then said he was only there to show them where I lived, the place is not served by the Post Office, he stayed, listening to what transpired making his explanation problematical.

Over and over Hammond implied that I was 'keeping Arthur away from his friends,' that he was not happy. They asserted that Arthur had a 'right' to make his own decisions regarding where he lives. If such a 'right' exists, and it is not included in the Bill of Rights, then most of us would choose to live in Beverly Hills. Arthur well knows that we live at the cabin because I do not have funds to live elsewhere. 

These well paid government 'workers' assumed as a matter of course that Arthur should be receiving welfare or disability; he is not and never has. The distress on their faces was obvious. Immediately they wanted to know if I would apply. 

There was a time when Americans stood tall, accepting help from friends and family in need. Government was not part of the equation. That was a better time for all of us. Why do those who make their living supposedly, making us safer, bring a message of fear? Why have so many families, already struggling, been forced over the edge from just this kind of predation from the agencies funded through our taxes? Why can they afford nice homes, goodies, and pensions when so many of us are struggling to stay off the street?

The answer is obvious.

Evidently during their time alone with Arthur they worked to persuade Arthur that he would be happier living elsewhere. It is hard to imagine that they could believe that a man who has had two major brain injuries is capable of deciding for himself that he is capable of making life-impacting decisions, or that they, having known him for around 30 minutes, were better qualified than myself to do so but this was, indeed, their attitude. It is amazing that they could, with straight faces and such fervor, maintain that it is appropriate to interfere with the most intimate choices a family makes. They showed no concern over the stability of any situation they might offer, simply rejecting the obvious fact that the economic meltdown every other part of America is feeling in the most visceral way could impact their small, ugly shake down. 

With bright, glassy smiles, they asserted Arthur's right to be happy over any other consideration. But his wellbeing and happiness were not on their agenda.

They promised Arthur that he could go back to Santa Barbara, something I considered to be doubtful. They ignored his need for further therapy. There are many new approaches now coming into availability for the victims of brain injuries. They demonstrated complete ignorance and indifference about the facts regarding brain injuries. They told me I would let him go if I cared about him. They were insulting, demeaning, and verbally abusive to both me and to my son. That was the underscoring and the message received by me and by countless others who find such 'workers' on their door steps.

One wonders what any of the three would do if someone trying to make their quota in human flesh arrived at their door with the power of a holstered gun and tried to intimidate them into handing over their child. What do you say about the moral fiber of people who profit from such a system? Nothing is ugly enough.

Americans need to demand answers. Among others we need to know what bounty is being put on each child or disabled adult sucked into the system. We need to know what such 'workers' are paid. We need to know the specifics about their benefits. We need to know how many disabled adults die after being sucked into their system, how many children end up sold into sex rings or used for pornographic films. In case you were unaware that is all too often their fate. Children present many possibilities to the greedy.

Hitler also instituted 'homes.' Those received there were put to death under the same benevolent rhetoric I heard yesterday. The long dead Germans were also told they would be happier and better cared for.

There are questions that need answers and now is the time to demand them. The disabled adults and children, now far more vulnerable because of the incessant need to pump more funds into a system intended solely to profit those in power, needs to be stopped.

Government has drawn a bead on all families, yours included. Listen for the knock on the door.

Those in power need to be charged and sued for the damage they have done to lives barely started and at risk. As Americans we have a right to justice and the time for that is now.

Protect Yourself from the CPS. Use Copper Cards and the Constitution. Our Founders intended us to be free, not the property of government. Have no doubts, these people are making war on us.  It is time to begin the LoveLution, restore the Constitutions, our freedoms, and the vision of America through non-violent action, starting exactly where you are.

  

Just a few links: Their greed knows no boundaries.

California refuses to reveal the number of children who die in foster care.

California – Foster Care Abuse costs 3.5 million in 3 months

Neglect Found in Residences for Disabled 

Have no doubt, Social Services has been effectively privatized, that means corporatized.  The government that runs it is a corporation that views children and disabled adults, and all of us, as unrealized profits.  Their scam is ugly and it is time it was stopped.

The Day I Broke My Arms

 

I actually started this group Facebook to refresh and extend the happy, funny, delightful, surprising, and other memories we share from our years of growing up on Colby Avenue and the surrounding locations.  For instance, who could forget 31 Flavors at Colonial Corners?

Things change in our lives, our families and over time, but looking back can be sweet and enriching.

So, I am going to start by sharing the story of when I broke both my arms, compound fractures, from falling off the swing  set in our back yard.

Events were set in motion because of a cautionary conversation Dad felt obligated to have with me about my habit of climbing the house.  I clearly remember looking up and wondering if it was possible to get there.  At the time I was about 18 months to 2 years of age. 

Mom, I mention her real name, Mary Alice Reasoner, her mother’s maiden name McReynolds,  as she did not generally use it, I learned later in life.  If you heard her called by a first name that was probably Pam, which is a nickname for Pamela.  But Dad began calling her PAM, MAP after they were married because she hated her first name. 

Mother was in the house when the question of climbing the side of the house occurred to me.  Roses had been growing on a lattice Dad had installed and I realized this was a possible avenue to my goal. 

Sometime later, this could have been several weeks, I began exploring this route and discovered it worked well.  Mom did not catch me for some time.  But when she did, she was very upset, and I refused to come down knowing she would then persuade Dad to eliminate this access. 

So, Dad was called to come home from the University to fetch me down.  I cooperated fully.  Dad knew I was likely to do it again, but the thick layer of roses persuaded him that could not be the way up, so instead tried to impress on me how dangerous this kind of adventure was. 

My response was, “Really, Daddy?”  Thereafter, I was more cautious about climbing and no misadventure ever took place regarding House Climbing.

But, on one of our journeys to Sears (Dad made a practice of taking each of us out alone so he could share interesting stories and time with us away from home. This also included going on trips with him to interesting locations around the state as he was consulting with various people on issues related to his work. 

He must have realized I was either still climbing the house when I was about 4 or other ways to get up higher.  So, one occasion, the one when we went to get paint for the house again. (Mom was always looking for ‘the right shade’ of green (Celedon), which had previously evaded Dad.)

Dad told me a story about his own terrible fear of heights, which came over him in the wake of his parents Dr. Ernest Sargent Pillsbury and Sylvia Florance Ball Pillsbury, dying in an auto crash on September 3, 1911. The road had washed out.  Dad, then 5, and his siblings Grace and Ernest Jr. were in the open back seat of their Auburn Six when they came around a curve going over the pass through the mountains to Santa Barbara, Casitas Pass Road.  They lived in Hollywood before there was a film industry, though Frank Baum’s home, Ozcot was across their back fence.

Dad and his siblings, after a real kerfuffle, were adopted six weeks later by Arthur Clarence Pillsbury, Dr. Ernest’s younger brother and relocated to Oakland. 

Dad’s new father was an inventor and very adventurous, but that is another story.

Anyway, Dad told me heights could be very dangerous and again cautioned me about climbing the house. Therefore, it is ironic that I broke my arms climbing down from the swings.  All I did was walk across the top of them, not as far off the ground as the roof at all. 

Anyway, I landed on my arms and felt them crack.  No one was in the back yard, so I carefully and slowly got up and walked to the backdoor.  I don’t know if your backdoor into the kitchen was glass, but ours was.  And there was a doorbell.  Seeing Mom giving Stevie, recently home from the hospital, where he was born, I rang the doorbell with my nose. 

Mom glanced at me over her shoulder and told me to open the door.  I responded with, “Can’t Mommy.”  She looked at Stevie and turned toward me, taking one or two steps.  Then she could see my arms, which were bleeding.  I held them up for this purpose. 

Mommy fainted.  I looked at Stevie sinking into the sink and suds.

Then, at exactly the right moment, my older sister, Anne, walked in.  Anne was then a student at UCLA majoring in Math (Computer Science), and grabbed Stevie, wrapped him in the towel on the counter, and stepped neatly over Mommy and opened the door for me, shepherding me to the couch where I was instructed to hold my arms up while she got supplies.  There were a couple of pillows and more towels. 

Dad was called and came home to take me to the doctor, who set my arms.  Because I did not cry, he bought me two double comics on the way home. 

So, this is my first story, which I will link from my blog, Melinda Pillsbury-Foster    

Given to the Brain Association of America, appears on their website

Link to original article

Mark Palmer: Realistic Hope FEBRUARY 23, 2012 

In July 2009, I celebrated my 60th birthday surrounded by our adult sons and their wives and playing on the floor with my four wonderful grandchildren. My wife and I will celebrate our 40th anniversary this year. I say that to assure you that, despite TBI, my life has been very fulfilling. By sharing my story I hope to give others the confidence and inspiration to build their lives based on whatever realities they may face. 

 My story began on a rainy day in 1964 when the car I was riding in was broadsided by a bus in downtown Detroit. My head was caved in; my eyeglasses forced into my eyes. Rushed to a busy hospital, emergency surgery saved my life, but I lay in a coma for 17 days. I regained consciousness without the slightest recollection of what had happened to me. As soon as I could eat, void, and walk, I was discharged from the hospital and sent home. 

My family and I believed we had been granted a miracle. The ordeal was over. I was fine. Although I couldn’t do everything I could do before the accident, we were sure that was temporary. After several months of additional recovery at home, I returned to school. (See? Nothing but progress!) 

Then one night I woke up on the floor with a dislocated shoulder. How had that happened? When it happened a second time we began to figure out that I was having seizures. Strange as it sounds to me now, we did nothing about them. They just became a fact of my life: I had seizures. Five years later, I married a wonderful lady who had no inkling of the journey we would travel together. 

Over the next 40 years she would learn to deal with nocturnal grand mal seizures, hundreds of shoulder dislocations (“I don’t care if you don’t want to pull on it, just pull!”), urinary tract scarring caused by an improperly sized catheter; what to do when I awoke from a seizure with a ruptured lumbar disc; how to understand slurred speech, and how to be supportive through innumerable vision problems, as well as chronic sinus issues. 

 Although pain was a constant feature of our lives, I had learned to live with it. I went to sleep on ice. When the ice melted, I would awaken and start the next day. My wife not only had to endure my struggles, she had to put up with my obnoxious optimism. After all, I had been given a second chance at life. Whatever inconveniences I had to accommodate, they were a small price to pay for having cheated death. I was convinced I was living life at its fullest. 

 It was many years before three experiences finally changed my perspective: Getting into a cab in Tokyo, I rested my arm along the top of the seat back and my right shoulder dislocated. I jumped and dislocated my left shoulder. Screaming in pain, I yelled to the cabby to stop, got out of the car and draped myself over the hood to allow one, then the other, shoulder to slip back into place. Because I’d already had two shoulder surgeries—only to seize and pull them out of place again—I’d decided “to hell with it!” I’d live with shoulder dislocations. 

The Tokyo cab ride changed my mind. Arriving back in the U.S., I proclaimed my wife to be correct and asked her to make an appointment with a shoulder doctor. Getting my shoulders fixed did not alleviate the pain in them, however. In fact, I was in constant pain in my shoulders, hips, back—just about everywhere. But again, my attitude was, I’d been given a second chance at life; what was a little pain? Increasing my pain medication was not an acceptable option. 

After all, it was my pain and my choice; I was the one who had to deal with it. Then I came home from work one day to be informed that my wife had hired a gardener. She could no longer stand to watch me mow the yard in pain. I’d had no idea that it bothered her! She than asked one of the best questions of her life: “Mark, if you are this hampered by pain at 45, what will your life be like at 55? I want to be able to enjoy life with you. Would you please take responsibility to help yourself?” 

 It was pretty hard to argue with a wife who had been through 13 surgeries with me, pulled my shoulders back into place hundreds of times, and kept the household running during each of my recoveries. So, reluctantly I asked the family doctor to refer me a specialist who would look at my pain from a broader perspective. This doctor reviewed my history of pain, surgeries, massage, and physical therapy, and said that I did not have a shoulder problem; my shoulders hurt as a result of their attempts to compensate for pain. He then looked me in the eye to tell me that I “could probably compensate for most of my brain damage with the right level of commitment to improving myself.” 

 Here I was, 34 years after the accident, hearing for the first time that I had brain damage, that it was affecting the loved ones around me, and that it was my responsibility to deal with it. But I thought I had been dealing with it! Maybe I had been dealing with denying it. Wow. I started on the doctor’s plan, which included hooking me up to a Tens unit to confuse pain signals to the brain; physical therapy three days a week, which involved relearning how to use my muscles starting by crawling; massage therapy once a week; Rolfing once a week; and a visit to the doctor every two weeks to review my progress. 

 The second year we dropped the massage therapy and add five days a week of personal training. By the third year the tens unit was for occasional use only. Although I will spare more details here, let me say that these few years were life- changing for me. I began to get my body back. Five years into the plan, I decided that learning to swim would be a challenging but realistic goal. Today I can jump into the pool and swim a mile. That was so satisfying, I decided to go for inline skating. Yes, I can now roller blade. 

 Over the next 10 years I added the disciplines of EMDR, acupuncture, Pilates, and somatic experiencing. Ten years ago, my therapists told me I was still holding my head to brace for the bus impact. Today that is no longer true. Some of these disciplines have become so essential to me that I have made a personal life-long commitment to maintaining them—because when I stop, pain levels return, their impact on other family members increases, and after all, I really want to be able to continue playing on the floor with my soon-to-be-five grandchildren. 

 Taking the responsibility to be the best that I can be was the best decision I ever made. It completely changed my life—and the lives of my loved ones. As I share my story, I hear comments like: I never knew! What do you mean you slur your words? I was not a very good friend for not helping! You should have told me! You much not have been hurt as badly as I was. (Unfortunately, I know of no answer for that kind of comment) 

 What I have learned from the process is that denial, or failing to accept and take responsibility for the reality of my injuries and limitations, prolonged the suffering for myself and for those around me. The more I tried to ignore the pain and muscle my way past the disability, the more twisted and wracked with pain my body became. Ironically, the day I surrendered and finally accepted responsibility for my actual physical condition NOW, which is to say the day I finally accepted my “new normal,” is the day I began to work my way to freedom. That freedom has not been just for me, but for my loved ones, as well. Today we are enjoying a lifestyle far richer and more satisfying than the one we lived 15 years ago. That is a realistic hope I hold out for everyone. I have shared my story in a book Realistic Hope: Aspirations for Survivors of Traumatic Brain Injury. I have built a website for others to share their story.

The Fascinating, and Horrifying story of the Craig Franklin Institute Care

We all thought Craig was joking.  We were sitting around the table after enjoying a meal when Craig launched into one of his non-computer based dreams, CFI Care.  This was to be a non-profit organization, a small one which Craig was confident would grow through word of mouth advertising. 

The Care provided was to be sex counselling carried out by Craig, who would watch couples have sex and provide suggestions as the couple made love.  We all burst into laughter.  Craig looked chagrined. You see, he was serious.

 

Note that Craig has no qualifications for providing such counseling, either those issued by institutions which train or with any body of knowledge except reading porn magazines and watching porm movies.  In this second category his personal preference is for Incest, Kiddy-Porn, an element of information which would not be available to me for many years, in fact, this did not happen until 2003.  

In 2003, several years after we were divorced, my attorney told me I needed Craig's residence address for services of papers.  I hired a private detective to obtain the information by following him home from work.  

The detective entered the lobby of the Condo building in Santa Barbara and paused, briefly wondering which way Craig had gone.  Then, Craig entered the lobby carrying a small gift bag and proceeded to deposit it on the top of a pile of trash extruding from the receptacle.  

' 

Noting the number of the condo unit without being observed, the detective then snatched up the gift bag and headed for my home.  I was very surprised when, with the detective still there, we viewed the contents.  But many things were explained.  

Can government immunize a person, such as Craig, from fraud in marriage?  It was clear, given the evidence available after the fact, he married me to get access to my three lovely daughters, all of whom appeared to be the goal of his sexual targets, all of whom he adopted to ensure he was their 'Daddy.'

A test case for fraud is in order, don't you think?  And a conspiracy to help him evade charges on sexual crimes by the company, for which he was Senior Vice President makes the company also a party to the crime.  

What do you think the jury will say?  How would you like to vote on this jury? Let us know, visit the LINK to express your opinion and sign up to receive updates as the Saga of Craig Franklin, Dan O'Dowd, John Fund and Saddam Hussein continues.   

The Lesson of the Duct Tape - Get Freedom; Get Local

Originally published at the LoneStar Iconoclast November 19, 2008

            When my son, Justin, was around 12 he saw a movie about Houdini.  Fired with a sense of emulation he told his sisters, then in their late teens, that he could do anything Houdini could do.  Determined to prove this he followed them around demanding they duct tape him to a chair.  They declined, for all the reasons you can imagine.  But Justin persisted. Eventually, they complied. Justin then told them not to release him no matter what because they would be interfering with his demonstration.  He told them if they released him he would nag them forever.  They believed him, having been his sisters all of his life.

            For forty five minutes  Justin tried to escape the sticky bonds of the very thorough job his sisters had done.  Exhausted, he asked them to cut the tape.  They looked at each other and declined. 

            And that is where I found him when I came home from the PTA meeting though by then he had a sock in his mouth held in place by another piece of duct tape. 

            Raising children was an education in many ways.  Justin had not been thinking strategically.  He had not tested each component of his plan for whether or not it would work.  He knew nagging worked.  He could imagine the awe of his sisters when they saw him standing there, unfettered by duct tape, and he could imagine his feeling of accomplishment.  But the escaping part was entirely untested.  He could get himself into the process but not reach the goal. 

            You need to think strategically first. 

            In the US Army War College  they understand the need to cover all those bases.  Understanding the potentials for any situation dictates that you take into account the present technology and practices and keep an eye on potentials that are yet to be applied.  Ask the builders of the Maginot Line, if your doubt that the rules can change rapidly. The rules are about to change relating to the FED, remember that.

             In software development the need to 'beta test' is understood as the time when the glitches are worked out.  Justin's Glitch:  Ignoring the need to develop  the skills of Houdini, honed by that artist over a lifetime. 

            None of the activities above relate to politics as such.  But the same is true for all forms of human activity from building a composter to a monetary system.  Know how it works.   Have a strategic plan with interim goals for achieving your final goal. Thorough study helps you evade what can be devastating and unanticipated outcomes, like spending an hour with a sock duct taped to your mouth. 

            Raising children was, as I indicated, instructive.  I already knew that politics had the equivalent of 12 year olds who put plans into motion without any thought of connecting the stated goal to a strategic plan for achieving that goal.  All too often the actual goal was to raise money for the organizers and nothing more.  “It educated the public,”  “next time we will break through,” were common mantras heard in the aftermath of confusion, disappointment, and the sad cheers from people what wanted to believe rather than confront the truth.  Their efforts had not achieved even interim goals; there had been no goal but a vague patina of rhetoric but they masked the pain  with illusion.  “Freedom for the individual,” “private ownership,” “return to the Constitution,” sounds wonderful.  But the words will not take you there without substantial planning and focused, effective, action.  

            In each instance those involved believed that their activism and money was being invested in a way that was growing freedom.  They were clearly mistaken since none of those many and varied plans actually moved us any further in that direction.   

            Today, more than ever in our history, perhaps, we need to view our time and money as an investment and treat those investments with discernment. 

            For instance, today we are confronting the break down of the Federal Reserve Bank.  It is likely that the government could end up owning our mortgages, which would put us a long way towards a nationalism more like the USSR and Nazi Germany than like anything we, as Americans, can imagine.  Such popular and well paid gurus  as Larry Edelson opine on the frightening possibilities, such as this article appearing today, “The G-20’s Secret Debt Solution”, in Money and Markets.

            It is not good.  And waiting around until 'they' decide what to do sharply limits our available options.

            At the end of the coming weekend we may or may not know what the intentions are for the global interests meeting in Washington D. C., on November 14-15.  This meeting is for, “the G20 special leaders.”  Whatever happens will be more like deciding how to serve us up as yet another entre than about how to save the economy.  At this point that is impossible. 

            So while the focus of most of the world will be on what those 'special leaders'  do our focus  should be on building an alternative for ourselves that allows us to evade their all too clear intentions. 

            Which brings us to the issue again of strategic, planning, and how we spend our time from now on.  Go home to your community and get active.  Community relief programs are over worked and struggling; people have never been more inclined to listen. 

            As you make your plans consider these guidelines.  

            First, decide what outcome you want to enact.  Those long dead revolutionaries who prosecuted the only real war for independence starting in 1775 knew what they wanted.  The outcome was not everything they wanted but it took them in the right direction. 

            What we want is to take us the rest of the way.  What we want is government by the people where the autonomy of the individual is recognized as an absolute       that precedes any government and is not alterable by government.  Here is an example of what I mean. 

            An exchange system is essential to how we live today. 

            The Fed is a system that has been designed to steal our substance and control us.

            Therefore we need a different system, not no system, but one that serves our needs. 

            “End the Fed” makes a nice meme but without a means of exchange we cannot function.  Petitioning Congress has proven to be a waste of breath. 

           

            The goal must be to rapidly displace the Fed with an exchange system that puts control in the hands of the individuals who are doing the exchanging.  That means ordinary people at the most local level.  That way as the Fed disappears we can survive, growing out that system.  

            Now, there are two points we need to consider.  Why we spend so much time and money on such 'projects' as End The Fed and Break the Bailout, both of which fail to do anything to produce the needed alternative. Second, and most important, what we do to produce such a system. 

            End the Fed has a list of 'proposed ideas for action numbering 11 possibilities.  It closes with the note that there are more ideas.  Only Nos. 7 and 8, just ideas mind you, have anything to do with developing an alternative when the need is obvious and immediate.  This is like telling the soldiers at Concord that ammunition would be a good idea and they should develop some. The time to start local alternatives is several years ago. And if that was not bad enough the next step into the quick sand of ineffective action is Break the Bailout.  There, you can find the 'plan,' which is what they will do besides issue tee-shirts and accept donations and 'educate' the public.  Here is their idea. 

“What Are We Planning To Do With the Funds We Raise?

In shorthand terms, the funds will be used to build a transpartisan community of Bailout Breakers; to spread our message about ending the bailouts and taking back control of our money; and to create the tools that are going to be needed for standing up to the banksters and their purchased politicians. For a more detailed explanation of what we intend to do with the donated funds, click here. “

            The 'click here' takes you to exhortations to 'get active.'  That is not a plan; it is a fund-raising drive with no specifics whatsoever.

     What it does accomplish is to keep activists involved in busy work, distracting them from what must be done.  The future would be grim if we were dependent on this level of strategy and thinking.

            Remember the words of Albert Einstein:  “Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

            It is time to dump the summer camp approach to activism; buying tee-shirts and paying $35.00 to “be a part of history,” so that you can get together with like-minded people accomplishes nothing. Go home to your community and become involved, not in politics but in your own community. 

            Start a local barter – exchange system.  Start a coop that uses local food and gleening.  Get to know the people who run the community relief programs. 

            Fortunately, many people have been working busily on these and other actual, working alternatives.  Finding answers is easy. Many of these are now in operation and are providing communities with those working alternatives now in place.  One of these related to a barter – trade system is Fourth Corner Exchange.  But there are many others.  Each should be considered a beta test site, to be scaled up and grown, testing its viability as the community in which it is being tried applies the principle of localizing commerce.  Here, there are also challenges. 

            Localizing means more than talking and it applies not to one part of our lives but to all parts.  It means providing jobs, not talking about theories but in manufacturing and installing energy alternatives.  How about an electric car with a home based system that also powers your house?  We could have one on the market in 90 days. The basic unit, car and home generation, will sell for $20,000.  If you are interested, get in touch.   

            We do not have to originate the answers; they are out there.  What must be done is effective networking and sharing that information, not for profit but because that sharing is, itself, one of the things that builds community, taking us all to the individual autonomy that is the foundation of freedom. Seeing it happen makes believers of the most skeptical.  

            Talking to each other is fun; summer camp was exciting when we were kids.  But it is time to grow up and get serious about freedom if you want to know what it feels like before you die.