A quote: “The welfare of the people in particular has always been the alibi of tyrants.” ~~ Albert Camus
I’ll start with a story …
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Our last move was on such short notice packing took the form of grab & drop into a box. We arrived and tumbled boxes into every corner. I opened at random until we found enough stuff to satisfy our needs, promptly ignoring the rest.
Until years later when my grandson was on a ‘treasure hunt’ in the attic. He brought down a box, trembling. I carefully parted tissue, yellowed with age. A delicate hand-carved Nativity.
“It was your great-great Meemaw’s,” I whisper, fear turning my blood to ice. “Put it back. Don’t tell anyone.” Even at his age, he knows.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe stock standard license
Cameron says: I stood at the old church and enjoyed the cool breeze of the early morning.
“You really this matters?” the real estate agent asked.
“I’m doing this even if it doesn’t matter. We fought and won. Now it’s time to rebuild. The church was traditionally the heart of a community. Past time we restore it.” I looked over and saw the caravan of vehicles. Men with wood, metal and tools. Men who had lost everything but still answered this call.
And the pastor was in front of the line of trucks. First to bless us and then to work with us.
Lewis says: I had brought the old Leica, somewhere in the back of my mind perhaps I thought it wouldn’t attract so much attention on earth. Not like anyone might pass over our ship sitting in the barren field next to the old church!
Angus was yelling at me, “Hurry, Lass, hurry, they’re gatherin’!”
I raced around the corners, shooting everything, but trying to get the best shots of the steeple. The pastor said they must have photos of the steeple, not many had any idea what one was or how to construct it! Finally I figured I had enough and sprinted back across the dry stubble, falling at the last moment just feet away from the onboard entrance. Angus reached out and pulled me in yelling “Go,go,go!”
We watched as they all fell back in the wake of our upwards thrust! One more shot of them and my job was done!
Lewis says: I had brought the Leica, perhaps thinking it would not attract attention on earth, as if the ship parked in a field wouldn’t. I had to grin as I started over toward the old church. I began by taking overall shots of everything, racing around the corners to get it from all angles. Then I began close-ups of the steeple. The Pastor had asked specifically for those as very few young carpenters even understood what one was.
“Hurry up, Lass, get a move on, they’re gatherin’!” Angus was watching anxiously.
I focused in for a closeup of the door, it was so ornate, beautiful though weathered and dry. As I turned I saw them, closer now. I sprinted for the ship, falling just feet from Angus who hauled me inside. “ Go, go, go! NOW! “
One last shot of them all staring as we lifted off, information at hand to build us a church in a new world! Thank God He was still with us!
Lewis says: Sorry, guys and gals! These early morning computer glitches happen to me constantly, not sure if it’s me, the early hour, the Panhandle internet, or just the vibes liking to embarrass me! I don’t think it’s any better or worse to post twice, but certainly a little disconcerting!
I like that photo, think I was there once and may have a photo of it myself! Thanks, Victory Girls, for being here consistently, kind of unlike me!
I saw the black-clad man coming towards me with the blindfold. I waved him away – I wanted to see the expressions on the SOBs as they took my life.
He smiled, a grimly amused smile. “This was ordered by the judge. After you had to be tazed and drug out of the courtroom, when you insisted on making that Insurrectionist speech, he didn’t want to give you another opportunity.”
My heart sunk – it wasn’t a blindfold, it was a gag.
The little country church is all that remains of a vanished way of life. Once the countryside was dotted with churches like this one, but now the only sign that remains of most is the little pioneer cemetery, often neglected and choked with weeds.
You can blame it on the Fordson and the McCormick Farmall. As tractors replaced animal traction, farms started getting bigger. So there were fewer farm families, and they were driving into town to go to church. Bigger equipment and bigger acreage became an endless cycle of growth until a single farm might span several thousand acres.
Even the small towns began to die as there were no longer dozens of farm families to need schools, blacksmiths, implement dealers and the like. But what really killed rural life were the ever more stringent child protection laws. You couldn’t have your children doing chores around the farm. And then came the laws about emergency services access, that forbade parents of young children from living more than a certain distance from a hospital. Can’t have the precious little ones dying on an hour-long drive to the emergency room.
Farming became the business of the older generation, and of bachelors hired by the corporations that were increasingly operating farms directly with hired managers and barracks style housing. A few family farms persisted, just outside a city big enough to have a hospital, but they were the exception.
It couldn’t go on forever. Employees just don’t have the dedication of an owner-operator, and yields began to decline. The big corporate farms began to push their workers harder, and found it more difficult to get good workers.
But it was the ever-tightening noose of child protection that finally broke things. It was getting impossible to raise your own kids without laying down thousands on classes and certifications to prove you were a fit parent, your house a safe place to raise a child. And children were growing into steadily less capable adults, because you can’t keep a human being in bubble wrap for eighteen years and expect that person to start taking responsibility and judging risks on that magic birthday.
Now the future belongs to those of us who lived on the margins, off the grid, raising and teaching our children in secret, without government oversight. To us falls the job of rebuilding a functioning society.
Starting with this little rural church.
Dupin says: “It’s a church.”
“Not in over a decade. Stained glass’s intact, though. That’ll work for the studio. No termites, the foundation’s good, plus five acres for farming.”
“You have a lot of wood to replace.”
“I’ll use wood from the old barn.”
“Plumbing?”
“Works, mostly. Same with electricity and propane.”
Dad shook his head. “You have both bandwidth and bats in the belfry.”
I grinned. “That was a selling point for me.”
“Of course it was. It’s your money.”
“Give me three months, and you won’t recognize. My home and graphics studio will come alive.”
“Your Mama would’ve been proud.”
Navig8r says: OPSEC is a challenge for our underground railroad. We use blindfolds and confusing routes bringing “passengers” to our safehouse at night, but there is no concealing what it is.
“That looks like where we were two nights ago, Sis.”
“It is the same place. After the blindfolds and random circling, they let us see it and the route in daylight. Sloppy OPSEC. They’ll be busted before long.”
“Oops!” I said.
Fortunately, plans for these country churches were widely re-used. Revealing “the route” by day was deliberate. This is a duplicate. If interrogated, they will lead agents to the wrong place.
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