RedStateLady

Today is October 16, 2020 A.D. It is heresy to even write the date in the manner of the old Christian calendar, but I will probably be dead before anyone reads this. For eight years I have been keeping track of the days and the months and the years. I don’t want to forget. I used to take things for granted, like calendars and newspapers to remind me of the day. That was my first mistake.

I had convinced myself that nothing would change, everything would continue on as usual, even though the signs to the contrary were evident from the start. I chose to ignore the obvious because it would mean giving up a life that was comfortable, even indulgent.

Before the present era began, I had a good job. I say “good” in that I was paid more money than
I deserved. The work itself was tedious and I often wonder now about its value. But it allowed me to delude myself with the panacea of material possessions. I used to pamper myself and feel I deserved it. I enjoyed buying new clothes and, most especially, shoes. I drove a car that was ridiculously expensive just for the status. I loved first class, out-of-the-way restaurants and fine California wines.

It was not easy for me to leave all the trappings of vanity behind. In fact, they tethered me longer than I should have allowed. But it’s easier to hang on to the known than to jump into the unknown. And it is often easier to be conscious of what the right thing to do is than to have the impetus to do it, especially when action means personal discomfort.

I remember clearly the night our caravan headed west. It was December 21, 2012. I like to think we were similar to the early settlers who ventured into the uncivilized territory of Oklahoma a century and a quarter ago. In some ways we were like those pioneers who left the relative comfort of cities like Philadelphia, Chicago, and St. Louis for the harshness of building a life from nothing but the hard red earth and their own sweat.

For those willing to homestead the Unassigned Territory, Benjamin Harrison opened up two million acres of land. In those last years of the nineteenth century, the President held out a promise of a new, and perhaps better, life. Those who took the challenge branded Oklahoma forever as a land of independent, self-sufficient, freedom loving people. Like the first Oklahomans, we were a small band of families determined to work together to carve out more than mere survival.

In more important ways, however, we bore no resemblance to those men and women who piled hope in a conestoga and headed into the vast, savage plains. I myself was filled with fear and despair. Oklahoma, in the new era, rather than holding out the promise of freedom and endless opportunity, had become the target of repression and persecution. We were searching for those precious liberties that had been lost, or stolen.

Allyson, of course, viewed our expedition as a grand adventure. She was only twenty-one and was neither jaded nor afraid. I was both. It was not lost on me that the date we embarked had been predicted by many ancient civilizations to be the exact date of the end of days.

We had been making preparations for years. It started out casually, a joke, really. During the last real election, or at least the last one that resembled a democratic process, we would gather at work, Mike and Robert and Frank and I, and discuss the major candidates. The one who emerged as the front runner deeply disturbed us, but we laughed off our alarm.

We concocted what we thought were farfetched plans to move to the empty territory out west in the no man’s land of the Panhandle. Robert, a brash and entertaining Texas transplant, talked about needing guns and ammo. Frank, who was usually only concerned about where we were going for lunch, suggested we all stockpile canned goods and beans.

Jotting on a white board, Mike made neat lists of the hardware we would need from portable generators and cargo trailers to flashlights, screwdrivers, and duct tape. Mike was an Okie born and bred, even though he had actually been born in Bakersfield, California. He said Bakersfield, the destination of countless Dust Bowl refugees in the 1930’s, was just Oklahoma West. As a child, he’d lived in a truck for a while and it was a move up when his family became “trailer trash”. He had succeeded in life through his own hard work and determination. He knew how to make do with nothing and he was imaginative and resourceful. I thought if I were ever to actually head west to live hard scrabble, I would certainly want Mike to go along.

We argued whether to convert our money to gold or to buy chickens, whether eggs would be a better currency than precious metal. With my friends, I played along with the academic game of impending calamity. As Frank suggested, I bought a few more cans of soup, thinking more in terms of winter ice storms than rationing or shortages or the collapse of the dollar.

But it wasn’t just my colleagues at work with whom I played the doomsday scenario. Amanda, Allyson’s mother, was my real estate agent slash manicurist, although admittedly I spent much more time with her having my nails done than looking for property. It’s odd to look back and assess which of her many vocations was the one we ultimately required. In those days, I used her talent for pampering me and only toyed with the idea of her finding a spread of land for us out where few people wandered.

“Are we doing color today?” She would ask as she rubbed lotion on my hands.

“No. Just clear,” I always answered, even while examining the tiers of bottles: Wild Girl Red, Flaming Lips Red, Ruby Slipper Red. “Color would chip if I have to end up living like a pioneer woman.”

“So, dear, are you planning to do that in the next two weeks?”

“Maybe.”

“Awright! When are we leaving?”

“You haven’t come up with a nice chunk of land for me to homestead yet.”

“How big a chunk?”

“I don’t know. At least a hundred and sixty acres or so. Do you think that’s big enough?”

“You tell me!” Amanda would always laugh, knowing it was just a game.

Despite our extensive make-believe plans, in reality all any of us did was stand by and watch the country race headlong to its own destruction.

The man who rose to power in that year was known by many names. His past was shrouded and unknown and the forces that propelled him were mysterious. His given name was Barry Dunham. He eventually came to be known as Moja Ulimwengu Mfalme, One World Leader. He spoke eloquently in vague generalities. He allowed every person to believe their beliefs were his beliefs. He practiced the art of demagoguery to perfection. He became all things to all people. His praises were sung and he was elevated to the highest position of power even before the mechanisms of our way of government were exercised. Books were written and movies were filmed about his rise to power before the ballots were cast.

But the die was cast even as the ballots were cast and The One was elected President of what was then the United States of America. My country, ‘tis of thee. Sweet land of Liberty. Of thee I sing. As they say, that was then.

At the time, I was cynical and suspicious but still complacent, assuming my life would continue on as it had been. I was comfortable and that was what was important to me.

Even as The One was ascending, the secret forces behind him began the insidious destruction of our economic structure. Just prior to the elections, an economic earthquake caused the foundations of the free market system to crumble. The stock market plummeted drastically, removing the wealth from the wealthy overnight. The government began to step in and take over businesses.

But I wasn’t wealthy, just comfortable, and my good job was secure, so I was not as concerned about it as I should have been. It was merely a diversion to see how far the markets could descend. It wasn’t that I enjoyed seeing other people lose their savings but I enjoyed that I wasn’t being taken down in the destruction. As I have said, I was selfish. There was almost an entertainment value in the events and I was merely a spectator.

Soon, though, the first chink was made in our Constitution. The One had not even been sworn in yet. We should have taken this as a warning of things to come. Many citizens began to question his shrouded history, his many identities, and demanded that he prove he was a natural born citizen and had never renounced his citizenship when he resided in foreign lands. The Constitution specifically states the requirements for presidential eligibility and one of those requirements is to be a natural born citizen.

Now, I had been employed in one manner or another by the government for over twenty-five years. I have had to produce documentation and provide background information for positions well below the level of Commander-in-Chief. Not long before the election, I was required to provide my birth certificate to get a replacement Social Security card. The One’s eligibility should have been an easy matter to resolve.

Instead, some of the lawsuits were thrown out. The judges in those cases stated that the parties bringing the suits had no vested interest. Who has a more vested interest in the President’s qualifications under the Constitution than any one of the millions of citizens of this country? Didn’t every one of us have an obligation to ensure the Constitution is enforced? I can tell you now, without proper vigilance, the rights you take for granted slowly erode. You don’t even notice until it’s too late.

One lawsuit, however, made it to the Supreme Court of the United States. This was an opportunity for the Court to not only ensure that a Usurper was not about to take the oath of office, but define for the ages the definition of “natural born citizen”. The Court, unfortunately, did not take up the challenge. It was their job and they did not want to hear it. Interpreting the Constitution was their JOB. No, but that same session they chose to hear a case concerning the habeas corpus rights of a terrorist. The rights of a terrorist over the rights of every man, woman, and child. They could hear the case of a terrorist, who committed acts against the nation, but not demand simple prove that The One met the requirements set forth in the Constitution, that he was not a Usurper. It should have been clear to us then that even the highest court in the land was sworn to bring The One to power.

Since then, Allyson has instilled in me the respect for the Constitution we all should have had.

But I’m getting ahead of my story.

The media, if they even chose to comment on the issue, which for the most part they didn’t, hailed The One as a “Global Leader” and a “Person of the World” and one whose ascension should not be questioned. They painted the questioners as lunatic fringe nut cases. We would have done well to have all been lunatic fringe nut cases, even the media.

Amanda took note of the issue, complaining to me, “I have to show Natally’s and Allyson’s birth certificates just to enroll them in softball. Why doesn’t Barry Dunham, or whatever his name is, just show his birth certificate?”

“Because Satan doesn’t have a birth certificate,” I blithely responded.

In January, as the Constitution specifies, the exchange of power from one president to the next took place. Immediately after, what is called “The Fairness Doctrine” was reinstated. The Fairness Doctrine states that the media must provide equal time for opposing opinions.

Of course, it was only enforced against those broadcasters who criticized The One. The talk radio hosts were silenced, one by one. The few television personalities who were not already praising The One quickly modified their tone or disappeared from the screen. Dissenting voices were muffled. But I barely noticed. If I listened to the radio at all, I only listened to jazz.

While I barely took note of the disappearance of our First Amendment right to Free Speech, Robert, my co-worker, fretted about the sanctity of the Second Amendment. The former Texan firmly believed in his right to bear arms. Fortunately for all of us, he promptly purchased more guns and more ammunition. He possessed a sizeable arsenal. He had taught his sons, Justin Case and Weldon Rod, how to handle weapons from the time they were able to hold a gun. Those young boys were much more ready than I was for the coming days.

Mike’s white board list grew. He added water purification tablets, axes, diesel fuel, and baling wire. He didn’t want to forget anything we might need.

Frank was purchasing cases and cases of MREs, military rations packaged in individual pouches, one full meal in each pouch, that could be stored for years.

Over the following weeks, seemingly inconsequential stories appeared, stories which also should have alarmed me more than they did. The Department of Education announced national child care for all preschool children. The Amber Alert Program, part of the Justice Department, announced a program to implant GPS location chips in children. The programs sounded benign, even beneficial, at first. Then you find out they are insidiously claiming the minds of our children.

One Friday in February, as my hands were being babied by Amanda, Allyson suddenly burst into her mother’s manicure salon. She was very agitated. “Mom, look at what they handed out in school today!” She thrust a shiny new American History textbook under Amanda’s nose. The cover depicted portraits of George Washington and Barry Dunham against a furled American flag.

“Look at it!” Allyson pulled the book back and paged through it until she found the passage that she wanted. “Listen.” She read, “ ‘Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the only president who performed well enough in office to be elected to more than two terms, until our present day president Barry Dunham. President Dunham is surpassing even FDR’s performance.’ Mom, they don’t even mention the 22nd Amendment limiting presidents to two terms or that prior to the amendment, the two-term limit was a tradition set by George Washington. This isn’t right!

“And look at this!” Turning to earlier chapters of the textbook, she laid the book on the table between her mother and me, open to a section on the Constitution. Jabbing her finger at the text, she continued excitedly, “They’ve left out all the amendments and they didn’t even mention the Bill of Rights. I think they’ve even edited the body of the Constitution.”

Picking up the book again, she found another passage and read aloud, “ ‘The United States Constitution was written by men who were considered well-educated by eighteenth century standards. They were, however, limited by the mores of their times, which were basically isolationist, separatist, and racist in nature. They could not foresee the advances in global communication and world relations of the present day. In the twenty-first century, the document will certainly be expanded to reflect the needs of the modern global community.’

“Mom, you have always taught me that the authors of the Constitution were extraordinarily wise and created a document that is so well-written, it is as relevant today as it was when it was written.”

Amanda nodded, “Yeah, that’s right. I believe our Founding Fathers had special assistance from God in writing both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Divine guidance.”

“Well, then, you won’t be mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” Amanda continued to fuss with my cuticles as she talked to her daughter.

“I’m supposed to turn in my old history book, but I told my teacher I lost it. I want to keep it.”

“Oh, I agree with you! Keep your old book.”

“There’s a twenty dollar fine.” Allyson looked sheepish. “I have to turn in the book or pay the fine by next Friday.”

Amanda and I both laughed. I pulled my hand away from Amanda to retrieve money from my purse. “I hate revisionist history. Here’s two twenties, Allyson. Get two books.” That was the smartest forty dollars I ever spent.

Allyson grinned as she picked up the bills. “Thanks a lot! I will!” She leaned over and kissed her mother. “Bye, Mom. See you at home.” With that, the seventeen year-old flounced out of the salon.

Amanda watched her go, then turned to me and said, “How awesome is Allyson?”

“Pretty awesome!” I replied. That was to prove to be a gross understatement.

The next Monday, we were notified at work that our pay would be cut by twenty-five per cent, effective in the next pay period. The memorandum stated that the United States was in a grave financial crisis and the government deficit, already enormous, was expected to grow much larger as it took over American manufacturers, retail enterprises, and financial institutions. We were being called upon to be patriotic and make sacrifices for the good of the country. Most people were numb and the atmosphere around the entire division was quiet and subdued. Except, of course, for Robert who could be heard cussing like the sailor he once was.

The four of us, Mike, Frank, Robert, and I, got together and agreed that it was time to become serious. Preparations must be made for real. We would have less money with which to make preparations, but it needed to be done. I finally began to wake up, although I was far from ready to leave my comfortable life. We took inventory of what we had on hand. My husband, Bruce, had two cargo trailers, three open flatbed trailers, a tractor, and a motor home. Robert, of course, had his arsenal. We studied Mike’s list, culling out unnecessary items and adding new ones.

One day in late May, Amanda called me. “A woman walked in the real estate office an hour ago. Her elderly aunt died and left her an old farm out north of the Wichita Mountains. She just wants to get rid of it. This is really unethical of me, but I haven’t officially listed it yet, and I thought maybe you would want to work a deal directly.”

“How much land?”

“One half section. Three hundred and twenty acres. She says there’s a gravel road and a pond. There’s a house, too, but it’s been vacant since her aunt went in a nursing home six years ago.”

“How much does she want?”

“Three hundred thousand, maybe less if you offer cash. Oh, I wanted to tell you about the math book they gave Allyson at school last week.”

“Math book?”

“Let me read you one of the problems.” I could hear rustling in the background, and then she picked up her phone again. “Listen to this: ‘Mr. Smith has a four-million-dollar trust fund that pays him 5.5% annually. Mr. Jones has a job where he makes $47.58 per hour in wages and $13.00 per hour in benefits. Mr. Washington makes minimum wage with no benefits. Assuming 2080 work hours per year and a minimum wage of $8.28, how must the men’s wealth be redistributed so all have the same annual income?’ Do you believe that?”

“Yeah. Radicalization of education. That’s exactly what The One and his friends, those ‘60’s radicals, the communists with a small ‘c’, have on their agenda. Watch out!”

The next weekend, my husband, Bruce and I and Amanda drove out to see the land. The tract was north of Alden and west of Apache Wye. In other words, the middle of nowhere. An old gravel road bisected the farm with a mile-long branch-and-barbed-wire fence on either side. On the south quarter section, a fifty-year-old brick house sat back from the road in a stand of trees. Behind the house were a faded red horse barn and a rusted metal shed.

The house was small and dilapidated and was in dire need of repair, but it had a fireplace and a well. Out next to the shed was an old gas pump, which indicated a fuel tank was buried there. A wood windmill turned lazily behind the barn, pumping a trickle of water from the pond to a pair of leaking livestock tanks. The acreage of land across the road from the house bore signs that it had once been plowed and had possibly been used to grow wheat or hay. It was overgrown with thistles and Johnson grass.

“It’s perfect!” I told Amanda. “We’ll take it.”

Amanda worked out a sweet deal with the niece. I cashed in my retirement fund and paid two-hundred-twenty-five thousand, cash, for the land. We had the deed signed and notarized, but didn’t file it with Caddo county. We planned to stay out of the government’s sight.

Over the next two years, all of us, the guys from work, Bruce and I, Amanda and Justin, pitched in to fix up the farm. A weekend here and a weekend there. We replaced the roof on the house and put in new bathroom fixtures and kitchen appliances. We installed solar panels on the barn roof and a wind generator. The old fuel tank was filled with diesel. Fortunately, rural Oklahomans worry little about EPA guidelines for underground tanks. Two three-bedroom mobile homes were moved in, next to the barn. And no permits. For anything. And everything paid in cash.

All the time, the country’s economy was tumbling further and further. More companies were going out of business, more people lost their jobs, the stock market approached zero. President Dunham, to the praise and adulation of the entire world, announced that the United States would discontinue our current monetary system and adopt the Eurodollar. He was lauded as a True Global Leader and a visionary who would lead the world out of the wide-spread and deepening depression.

To much cheering, he announced that he was adopting the Swahili name “Moja Ulimwengu Mfalme”, One World Leader, because he was to be viewed as The Global Savior. He was, after all, The One, the Great Unifier.

We had only six months to convert our dollars to Eurodollars. The exchange rate offered was fifty Eurocents to one U.S. dollar. Yet goods still cost the same as before the conversion, which meant they really cost twice as much. A gallon of milk was six U.S. dollars, and it was six Eurodollars, which made it twelve dollars. A loaf of bread was eight U.S. dollars, and it was eight Eurodollars, which made it sixteen dollars. The cost of food had doubled virtually overnight. To wait and hope for better was useless. By the beginning of 2012, the dollar was worthless.

Many people could no longer afford basic needs, like food and rent. Any savings they may have had disappeared. Their already low wages had been chopped in half. They became desperate. It became commonplace to see men rooting through dumpsters behind restaurants and bakeries. Panhandlers and beggars, some merely children, accosted drivers and pedestrians on every street and corner.

Gangs roamed the streets downtown. The number of violent crimes increased dramatically. No one felt safe. We didn’t dare venture out. We locked ourselves inside our houses and set our alarm systems every night.

You may wonder why we didn’t leave, why we still waited. As hard as it is too imagine, we still had hope. 2012 was a presidential election year. Of course, Moja Ulimwengu Mfalme was running. He was the incumbent. But we assumed that others’ misery was as great as ours and a new president might be elected. We also believed the electoral process still worked.

The One’s opposition, our hope, picked a bright, young man to run against The One. Piyush was the governor of one of the poorer states and had shown great leadership in bringing integrity to a previously very corrupt state government.

In October, hoping for an October Surprise, The One tried to have Piyush disqualified, a tactic he had successfully employed when he first entered politics, claiming Piyush had been born in India. Piyush immediately produced his birth certificate, clearly proving he was born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Ironically, the very same Constitutional eligibility issue had been deemed irrelevant when Barry Dunham was first elected.

As the election neared, the polls all showed Moja Ulimwengu Mfalme with enormous leads in all states - except Oklahoma and Louisiana. Those damn red-necked, freedom loving, independent Oklahomans and those wild-ass Zydeco-playing Cajuns. Defiantly, we cast our votes, for what little they were worth. It was still our Constitutionally granted right, we thought.

It was no surprise when Moja Ulimwengu Mfalme handily won the election. It was a surprise, however, that he carried every state. Even red-necked Oklahoma and Cajun Louisiana.

But we shouldn’t have been surprised when, on December 1st, Moja Ulimwengu Mfalme declared a state of emergency in the United States of America and announced the 22nd Amendment was being suspended and he, Moja Ulimwengu Mfalme, would remain president until the world economic crisis was over. The United Nations rejoiced and proposed the Christian calendar be replaced with a calendar that celebrated our One World Leader, Moja Ulimwengu Mfalme. New Year’s Day 2013 would now be Muharram 1, 52.

Moja Ulimwengu Mfalme declared not only a state of emergency for the country due to the economic crisis, but also because there were “cells of domestic terrorists” riddling the central United States, especially in Oklahoma and Louisiana. On December 3rd, he indefinitely suspended the entire Bill of Rights. It was too dangerous, he claimed to allow citizens to harbor weapons and it might be necessary to quarter troops in private homes. The present crisis demanded extraordinary action.

On Friday, December 21, 2012, as Robert drove home, he saw a convoy of HUMVEEs and deuce-and-a-half’s filled with soldiers heading toward Oklahoma City on I-40. As planned, he called Mike. “Gerty,” was all he said. Mike called Frank and Frank called me and I called Amanda. Each time the word was “Gerty”.

“Gerty” was the code word. It meant it was time to head out. We weren’t heading to Gerty, OK, of course. The code word came from a story Mike told about an uncle who lived outside Gerty, Oklahoma. As a child, Mike visited the uncle, who served squirrel for dinner and called Ada the “big city”. Allegedly, the uncle had killed a man in Bakersfield and fled to the ends of the earth, Gerty. Likewise, we were fleeing to the ends of the earth.

Unlike the wagon trains of conestogas settling Oklahoma in the nineteenth century, we didn’t travel together. We each took a separate route. For the early pioneers, it was safer to travel as a group. For us, it was safer to go singly and not attract unwanted attention. Frank left from Blanchard and took I-44 to Route 19 through Cement. Bruce and I drove through Mustang on Highway 152 out through Union City and south on Route 81. I left first driving the motor home and he followed thirty minutes later in his truck.

Robert and Rebecca and their two sons, Justin Case and Weldon Rod, took I-40 out to Route 183. Amanda and Justin and their daughters, Allyson and Natally, drove down Route 92 through Amber. Mike and Lynette and their younger daughter Shannon took Highway 37 to 81. We all took gravel back roads to the farm.

Each of us pulled a loaded trailer. We had enough food stores to last a year. Hidden in the bottom of the crates of food were Robert’s weapons and ammunition. Each family packed clothes and personal items.

Justin and Amanda had a stock trailer for Natally’s and Allyson’s horses and, stashed in front of the two horses, four crates containing eight hens. As they were preparing to leave, Allyson carried out a carton of books, including her old history books and two bibles. She had packed tablets of paper and packs of pencils.

“We can only bring what we need to survive,” her mother told her.

“We can’t survive without books,” Allyson informed her, matter-of-factly. “I’m going to be responsible for Natally’s education, and the other kids’, too. She and Weldon Rod are only twelve. They will need to finish their education. That’s up to me. We need books.”

“You’re right. We do need books.” Amanda helped Allyson lift the box into the bed of their pick-up.

It was nearly three in the morning by the time we all arrived at the farm. The first night, we all just crashed. The next day, we started getting organized. The men unloaded the trailers. The girls got the horses and chickens fed and settled in the barn. The women started the never-ending work of keeping everyone fed and clean.

Robert and Rebecca with their young boys moved into one of the mobile homes. Frank, being single, had the motor home to himself. Mike, Lynette, Amanda, and Justin and the three girls settled into the other mobile home. Allyson, Natally, and Shannon had to share one bedroom, but no one complained. Bruce and I moved into the little brick house. We all had to ration water and electricity; we only had one well and one electrical power system.

Over the next weeks, we heard stories of troops storming homes in Oklahoma City and citizens being arrested and held without charges. Would judges ever hear the case of the violation of their habeas corpus rights?

We read that soldiers occupied Oklahoma City. They patrolled the streets, supposedly to cut down on gang activity and crime. Curfews were imposed. No one was allowed on the street after dark. There were reports of people being shot simply because their car broke down on the way home or they were caught rummaging through garbage or merely because they were homeless and had no where to go. Soldiers would randomly sweep the through the streets at night, rounding up anyone who dared to be out and piling them in the backs of personnel transport vehicles to be taken to federal processing stations in undisclosed locations. It was purportedly for the good of the civil order.

Even as we grieved for the lost liberties of our fellow Oklahomans, we knew we had made the right decision for ourselves and our children.

That first winter, we relied on the stores of food we hauled with us. In the evenings, we would build a fire in the fireplace and everyone would gather around for dinner of rice and beans or pasta with tomato sauce.

We bartered with neighboring farmers, trading eggs for milk. Eggs were good currency. So were guns and ammo. After a month, we swapped a high-power rifle and twelve boxes of shells for a milk cow of our own.

Winter in the city would have been far worse. The homeless shelters were overflowing and the soup kitchens could not feed the masses that lined the streets outside their doors. Bodies, frozen stiff during the sub-thirties nights, were discovered daily, dead from exposure or starvation or violence. As we heard or read the accounts, we congratulated ourselves for having successfully isolated ourselves from the hell that was now Oklahoma City.

In the spring, we planted acres of wheat, corn, and hay, hoping to grow enough for our use and for barter. We made a smaller garden of tomatoes, green beans, and squash, just for us. The men farmed and maintained all the equipment. Robert and his boys also shot wild turkeys and rabbits. The turkeys certainly weren’t Butterballs, but they were welcome protein.

The women baked and cooked and canned. Rebecca taught me how to bake bread and Amanda taught me how to make jellies and can beans. I never knew it was so difficult to be a pioneer woman. One of the hardest things for me was wearing Dickey’s overalls and gum-soled workboots instead of my old wardrobe with its cashmere sweaters and soft leather shoes.

Allyson took it upon herself to hold classes every day for the younger children. In the morning they would do the chores; gathering the eggs, feeding the horses, milking the cow. Then they would gather in the “girls’ house” for lessons. Allyson would go over each chapter in the history book, taking weeks to discuss the Constitution and each amendment. They read from the Bibles. She assigned essays from their reading lessons and creative writing exercises. She taught them math, up through geometry.

Word spread through the rural Oklahoman territory about Allyson and her school. Soon, mothers arrived with small children in tow asking if Allyson would allow their sons or daughters in her classes. They would bring homemade pies and jellies as payment, or perhaps meant as bribes.

“Please teach my daughter,” a mother beseeched her. “She comes home from school and asks what sacrifices we are making for the good of the country. We are just farmers and times are hard for everybody.”

Another pleaded, “I need you to take on my son. He has learned a song in kindergarten that he sings at home. The song goes ‘My Leader, The One; Sweet Leader of the World.’ It scares me.”
Allyson found herself instructing a roomful of children, repeating the words she came to love, again and again:

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

She especially enjoyed reciting the Bill of Rights and discussing each one with the children.

“The First Amendment says ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.’

“The Second Amendment says, ‘A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.’
The Third Amendment is, ‘No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.’

“The fourth says, ‘The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.”

She would read each of the first ten amendments exactly as it was written and ask each child, “What does that mean to you?”

Last week, Allyson announced to the older adults, “I keep asking the kids what the Constitution and the Bill of Rights means to each of them. Lately, I’ve been asking myself what it means to me.”

She told us then of her bold plan. As one, we pledged to support her to the end. Tomorrow is the day of Allyson’s stand.

October 17, 2020. Allyson rode out this morning accompanied by Robert and Justin Case and Weldon Rod. They took the horses. She wanted to ride through the countryside like Paul Revere and roust all the farmers along the way to Oklahoma City.

The rest of us followed in the pick-ups. We arrived in Oklahoma City ahead of Allyson. The closer we got to the city, the more military vehicles we spotted. As we neared the capitol building, we passed soldiers on foot, sauntering on the sidewalks, their weapons casually slung across their backs.

We parked in the lots in to the south of the capitol building. It was Saturday and there were very few cars. More and more dusty old trucks showed up, filling the lot. They belonged to the rural folks Allyson had alerted. We stood along the grassy median bisecting Lincoln Boulevard and watched and listened for the horses.

We spotted her when she was still a half mile away, trotting up the boulevard. As she passed us, she waved to the gathering crowd who responded with applause and cheers.

When she reached the front steps leading to the massive doors of the capitol, she dismounted and strode up to the top step. Four stony-faced sentries in desert cammies guarded the entrance.

They warily watched her approach but not one budged from his post. Robert and the boys dismounted and followed her, each armed with a semi-automatic rifle. They positioned themselves on each side and behind her.

In as loud a voice as she could muster, Allyson began reciting those words which she had spoken each day for the past four years, instilling in others as deep a reverence for them as she held.

The crowd grew. People were mesmerized by this beautiful young woman, standing proudly on the wide, marble steps with her long hair blowing in the incessant Oklahoma wind, speaking her majestic words.

Within an hour, the police arrived and encircled the capitol with patrol cars, lights flashing. Behind them, camouflage-painted army vehicles filled Lincoln Boulevard, blocking anyone from coming or leaving. Stoic soldiers stood immobily behind the line of police. A uniformed officer with a bullhorn addressed Allyson. “You are ordered to disperse immediately under penalty of arrest!” he boomed.

She stood even taller and replied: “The First Amendment to the United States Constitution says ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.’ I claim the right to assemble here and spread the words of the United States Constitution.”

“Yeah? Well, you can’t have guns!” he bellowed back.

She replied with, “The Second Amendment says, ‘A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.’ Sir, we as citizens have the right to keep and bear arms.”

Justin Case walked down the steps, his weapon checked by his side, and calmly, but sternly, told the officer, “Please hand over the bullhorn, sir, the young lady needs it.” Robert walked up behind his son and stood silently, steely eyed, until the bullhorn was handed over. Justin Case ran back to Allyson with his prize.

Her voice now rang out across the capitol lawn. “We the People of the United States…”
Soon the television stations arrived with their mobile newsrooms. Satellite dishes were hastily erected and cameras set up. Allyson’s face and voice were transmitted, first locally, and then nationally. Her message was taken to the world. As night fell, the television stations set up flood lights and continued to broadcast. Allyson repeated her message of freedom and liberty throughout the night and into the next day.

We began to hear reports that crowds were gathering in Little Rock and Topeka and Jefferson City and Austin and Santa Fe. Peaceful candlelight vigils were being organized in each of the state capitals. We were told Allyson’s voice could be heard over loud speakers at each capitol building.

Around noon on the 18th, after Allyson had grown hoarse and her words were a croaked whisper, a bystander shouted, “What should we do? What do you want us to do? What can we do?”

Without hesitation she replied, “We must have a free, democratic election and we must have it now. We must not allow the defeat of our Constitution by our own inaction. If we allow Barry Dunham to continue as president, then we will have forever surrendered the Constitution.”

“How can we do that? When do you think we should have the election?” Several people shouted.

“The Constitution is quite clear. It should be the first Tuesday after the first Monday of November. This year, 2020, should be a presidential election year.”

“We don’t know when that is. Today is the seventh day of Shawwal in the year 59. When is November?”

Allyson searched for me in the crowd. She knew I had kept track of the days and the months and the years. I walked up next to her and took the bullhorn. “Next month, ‘Ziqa'ad’ as you know it, is the Christian November. November third is sixteen days from today. It is the day set aside to elect a new president, by the terms of the Constitution.”

As I returned to our little group in the parking lot, a chant rose from the crowd and swelled to a thundering crescendo, punctuated with raised fists pounding the air. “Allyson! Allyson! Allyson!”

For the first time, Allyson looked bewildered. She raised the bullhorn once again and addressed the cheering crowd. “No. No. I can not be your candidate.”
The crowd roared again and chanted her name louder. Even the uniformed soldiers raucously joined in.

“Allyson! Allyson! Allyson!”

“No. No, we must abide by the Constitution and the requirements it sets forth for the president of the United States. It states the president must be at least thirty-five years old. I am only twenty-nine. I’m too young. I can not be your candidate. I’m not eligible.”

A huge groan went up from the gathered throng. “Then who would you chose? Who is your choice?” a woman shouted.

Allyson paused for only a moment then responded loudly, “I would choose the person who has always taught me that the United States Constitution is a sacred document, second only to the Holy Bible, and it must be respected and held in the highest esteem. That it is the foundation of freedom and liberty and should never, ever, ever be surrendered. And that I should always stand up for what I believe.”

“Who?” the question came as one voice.

Allyson looked out to where our little band of pioneers was standing watching her. “My mother,” she answered simply. “Amanda.”

Amanda was shocked and stunned. As one, the faces of the mass of people turned and looked at her. Slowly the crowd began to rhythmically repeat her name.

“Amanda! Amanda! Amanda!”

She turned to me and whispered, “How awesome is Allyson!”

“Pretty awesome!” I replied.

November 3, 2020. We are watching the returns from the election. Barry Dunham’s party, broken by public backlash, half-heartedly nominated a long-time senator. So far, it looks like

Amanda will easily win. The states which make up the Heartland are overwhelmingly voting for her. Only the edges of the country, the two coasts, have a slim majority for the senator.

“Do you realize you’ll be the first woman president?” I asked her.

“Sweet!”

“What will you do first?” I was secretly hoping she would say, “Give you a manicure, dear. You need it!” But she didn’t.

“I’ll restore the Christian calendar, for one thing.” A look of disgust crossed her face. “I can’t stand this Swahili-Muslim Ramadan-Safar-Rajab crap. This country was founded on Christian principles. Next year we’re going to celebrate Christmas on December 25th like we should! And have a fantastically decorated White House!”

“Mom,” Allyson interrupted, “the first thing you should do is make sure the Constitution is fully restored and can never, ever be dismantled again.”

I smiled at Allyson’s earnestness. Of course, she was right. I nudged Amanda and said, “How awesome is Allyson!”