Category: Bureau of Prisons



It has been three months since Gary left this world for a much better place; however, he is yet to have a resting place. I had promised Gary that I would see to it that this cairn is built. It isn’t just a cairn for Gary, it is a cairn for Folk. I have soil with Bob Mathews and David Lane’s ashes that will be added to the cairn. Gary said no rush on getting the cairn together, but it has bothered me that it hasn’t been built yet, so I’m doing it myself. I will, however, be looking for property somewhere in the Ozarks to permanently build this Folk Cairn. This is just its temporary home, so that people can come and pay their respects to Gary, Bob, and David Lane. The only ashes I don’t have is those of Bruce Pierce. Here is the area, pre-cairn. I will add pictures once it is completely put together. Anybody who wishes to visit, that I do not know, will have to be checked out. Additionally, if any antifa or SPLC try to gain access to the cairn, this is on PRIVATE property and there are motion lights and security cameras. I will not allowed this to be destroyed or the ashes stolen. The ashes will be in a stone urn on the cairn.

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This was a questionnaire that Gary filled out in 2008, when we were just really getting to know each other. This has a lot of his history as a person and as a member of the disbanded Order. It is a very interesting read!!!!

GARY LEE YARBROUGH

07/29/08

 

Salute!  My name is Gary Lee Yarbrough.  I was born in San Bernardino, California on October 19, 1955.  My parents, “Red” and “Rusty,” as they are affectionately called by friends (both are redheads), soon returned to Oklahoma from whence they came.  My ancestry is Scots / Irish / Welsh and English, by way of the hills of Kentucky and Tennessee.  I was born third in a family of five children, the eldest being my sister Glenda, my older brother Robert, and two younger brothers Steve and Lloyd.

 

The early years of my life were spent on small farms in the sticks of backwoods Oklahoma around Holdenville, Calvin, Horn Town, and Poteau.  My father drove heavy equipment.  We were so poor, we couldn’t even pay attention!  We lived in an old, two-story clapboard house that didn’t have a lick of paint on it.  All the windows had been busted out, and there was no electricity or running water.  We drew our water from a well, using a bucket on a rope.  We grew our food in a garden or hunted it down in the woods.  There was no such thing as welfare in those days, but the government had commodities it gave to poor folks once or twice a month – a couple boxes of beans and rice, flour, cheese, and canned goods.  We raised hogs and a few chickens.  We would trade poultry to the farm a couple miles down the road for milk and beef.  I remember the long walks lugging a gallon jug of milk, which I didn’t dare drop.  From that, we got cream and churned butter and made cheese.  We mostly ate deer, squirrel, rabbit, and fish we’d catch in the creek or small ponds around.  My Uncle Glen, on my Dad’s side, and his five children lived with us.  His wife had left him for a year or so.  That’s a lot of poor, Okie redheads under one roof!  We had an outhouse for a toilet and we bathed in a #10 wash tub or, in warmer weather, we’d all head to the creek.  We were too poor to have toys; we used Prince Albert tobacco tins to play in the dirt, or we rolled old tires down the dusty, dirt road.  We did have a rubber-coated hard ball and a stick for a bat, and we would play baseball in the peanut field across the road.  We used to catch turtles.  Oklahoma is overrun with turtles and snakes.  We would bust the turtles open and dry their eggs in the sun.  These made very nice balls that we could bounce.  We all went to the same school, grades 1 through 12.  We carried a watermelon we all shared for lunch, as did everyone else at school.  We didn’t stand out, because everyone was as poor as we were, but we were close and happy.  That all changed when we loaded up like the Okies in the Grapes of Wrath and went to California again.  I was eight years old.

 

The first time I ever saw a Negro was at a gas station in Texas.  My uncles and other kids at school used to tell us little kids that the “Boogie Man” would get us; of course, the “Boogie Man” was black, by all their descriptions.  I had walked into the station restroom and marveled at the first urinal I had ever seen.  As I was using it, the “Boogie Man” came in to get me!  As soon as I had seen him, I knew who he was, and I screamed bloody murder!  I scared the “Boogie Man” so much, he ran out the door, followed by me because I wasn’t about to get trapped in no bathroom!  I was screamin’ and cryin’ and everyone was looking at me, pointing at the Negro and yelling, “Booger Man!”  And, there was the poor old Negro; he had his hands up in the air, swearing to God, “I never touched him!”  My Mom and Dad were laughing – they knew exactly what had happened, but I was traumatized!  To this day, if I see a urinal, I remember the “Booger Man,” odd, since urinals are white … 🙂

 

In California, which in those days really was a paradise, we first lived in Ontario.  My parents both went to bartending school and, after graduating, tended bar.  Bars in California closed at 2 a.m., so us kids were home alone a lot.  My sister basically raised us, but we didn’t mind her very well.  My parents started drinking a lot, coming home drunk and fighting a lot, too.  Us transplanted Okie boys, who had never seen a skateboard or a bicycle, or the money to buy ’em, got the bright idea to just take ourselves some!  After that, if we wanted anything, we just took it.  We didn’t have much of a childhood after that.  We moved to Fontana, California, where my father operated heavy equipment at Kaiser Steel.  Between Dad’s moving to where the work was and our juvenile delinquency, I didn’t get a very good education.  I went to juvenile hall nine times and was in two reform schools and one foster home.  I was very rebellious towards all authority and made my own rules, which was a perfect medium for suicide, exactly what was planned for me by the culture-distorting enemies of our race that orchestrated from behind the scenes to create just such conditioned behavior.  I didn’t have any childhood jobs, though I did mow a few lawns on a stolen riding mower once, but that was really more like vandalism …

 

I liked Country Music as a youngster because I grew up to it in the bars my Mom worked in where I would shoot pool all day.  Eventually, I got into Rock Music, which is called “Classic Rock” now – The Stones, The Doors, The Animals, Iron Butterfly, Credence Clearwater, etc.  I don’t listen to any music now because all I have is a radio, which I detest …

 

I didn’t have any hobbies as an adolescent.

 

I read a few books that I was made to read in school:  “The Old Man and the Sea,” by Hemingway, was great, and “Tarzan,” by an author whose name was Burroughs, I believe.  My favorite has to be “The Scottish Chiefs,” by Jane Porter, a book which the movie, “Braveheart,” was adapted from.  It is a classic book, which tells the story of William Wallace.

 

We always had a pet dog growing up on farms, even in California.  Southern California, in the early to mid-60s, was largely farms, mostly citrus trees, grape vineyards, and poultry farms.  There was still un-worked land between the towns in those days – between Fontana, Bloomington, Rialto, Ontario, etc.  I remember when the San Bernardino Freeway was built; before that, Valley Boulevard went all the way to Los Angeles.  We had dogs, a cow, hogs, even a pony.  In the foster home in Barstow we had 3 or 4 horses.  I had a female German Shepherd I called “Sam,” short for “Samantha.”  She was bit on the nose by a rattle snake, but she survived.  I love all animals and I’ll have a few pets, if possible, wherever I am, even in prison.

I’m not into sports at all.  I played softball and soccer as a kid, and I liked that.  I wasn’t in any youth groups or on any sport’s teams.

 

[***************** proofed up to this point, also – 05/22/08 *************************************]

 

For kicks as a young boy, hmmm, my two younger brothers and I were junior daredevils; hellions, I mean, and we didn’t always use our heads either.  We did things for kicks that no daredevil would even consider doing, let alone attempt.  Not having the usual pastime equipment, we were creative.  There was a dry reservoir behind our home in Fontana with steep, grassy slopes running about 150 feet to the bottom.  We found an old Buick hood and used it to sled down the grass.  When it was no longer fun, we decided that the embankment to the overpass on the newly built San Bernardino Freeway would be a real thrill ride!  So, off the three of us went with the hood over our heads like a canoe, ages 10, 8, and 6(or there abouts).  It was a ½ mile trek and we went over the 8 lanes of heavy traffic to the other side because the slope was longer and therefore a lengthier ride.  The angle was “totally bitchen,” straight down for a good 200 feet, and bluntly ended at the first lane of traffic.  The speed limit in those days was 75 m.p.h.  There were small breaks in traffic and, if we timed it right, we’d be okay, in theory.  The slope was hard-pan dirt with rocks, no grass, and we would fly!  Lloyd was the smallest and lightest, so he would ride in the bow of the hood, out front, and Steve and I would push off from either side in the rear.  Lloyd was already airborne out in front because the angle was so steep.  We were rock’en the hood forward, so that gravity would eventually take us down when we heard a car honking and my parents screaming at us.  We were fearless, but that factor didn’t apply to Mom and Dad, so we backed up.  Good thing, cause that ride would have been fun all the way to the bottom and then we’d have been scattered out across 4 lanes of southeast-bound semi-trucks.  My parents just happened to be driving over the overpass with some friends and had seen us; otherwise, we would have gone over … We had a three-story barn and hay loft, and we used to pile up 4 or 5 old mattresses and see who could turn the most mid-air flips out of the bay doors in the loft.  One kid even went up to the tin roof and jumped, on a double dare, and he flipped a good 3-½ times and landed on the edge of a pile of the pile of mattresses and was flung right into an old outhouse.  That was the end of that fun … The grapefruit and orange groves were fun to have wars in.  One time, we bombed a sheriff deputy’s cruiser.  We had a grapefruit fight with the whole sheriff’s department and even a few city cops.  We used to make them chase us just, so we could get the practice.  We did so many crazy things in those days.  I thought of writing the tales down, but no one would ever believe it and they would swear I’d made it all up.  In those days, a kid could have fun and get into trouble and not be put away forever; it is a different story these days.

 

We moved to Arizona around 1970, way down south of Tucson by the Mexican border; I do love the Southwest desert.  I did a lot of hiking and hunting in that desert.  I shot my first gun when I was 6 or 7 years old.  Actually, it shot me.  My Dad was holding it up for me, helping me aim a 30/30 Winchester at a clump of walnuts in a tree in our yard in Oklahoma.  I used to have a habit of licking my lips when I was concentrating on something.  My tongue got caught in the hammer of the rifle and like to cut the tip clean off.  Blood went everywhere!  For years, I was scared to death of guns, but I started off with a smaller caliber and worked my way up.  There was nothing safe in Arizona; I’d shoot anything that moved and some things that didn’t.  I spent a lot of my latter teens exploring the wild western desert and hunting.  My Dad bought me a single-shot, 12-guage shotgun on my 14th birthday.  I loved to hunt quail; they presented a bit of a challenge and, cooked with wild rice, are delicious.  I enjoyed hunting wild pigs, called Javelina, in Arizona.  The deer there were pretty scrawny, and you had to be good to get close enough to bag one.  They fed on bitter mesquite beans and saw grass, so the meat wasn’t that good.  In Idaho, the deer are huge, and I would bag them in or near Alfalfa fields.  Venison raised on alfalfa is sweet and fatty and very tasty.

 

I’m a naturalist.  I like earth tones, browns, and greens.  My favorite time of the year is Autumn and Fall.  I named my first daughter “Autumn.”  The setting sun is my favorite color, and dusk is my favorite time of day.  I named my second daughter “Hannah,” which means dusk or early evening.

 

I love good food, period.  The best tasting food is smoked pink salmon.  I love pheasant and wild turkey.  I love steak, especially T-bone.  I love fried, jumbo shrimp, hot Mexican food, and Japanese food, also.  Barbecued deer ribs from Idaho’s hay fields are all that!  I like iced tea, and very cold, fresh cow’s milk, unpasteurized.

 

My preferred outdoor places are anywhere outside of this razor wire and concrete!  I love the desert and the mountains.  In a little spot in the southeastern corner of Arizona is a national monument called the Chiricahua – it was the Apache stronghold of Cochise.  The area is desert and mountain terrain mixed together, with pine trees standing next to saguaro cactus and red sandstone formations.  A branch of the Colorado River flows underground from Colorado and pops up in this valley and hills.  It is my favorite place.  I shot my first deer there when I was 15 years old.  Next to that, the Bitterroot Range of the Rocky Mountains cannot be beat.  I miss the Idaho Rocky Mountains.

 

I do not play sports.  I used to enjoy tennis until I got arthritis too bad.  I detest all organized and televised sports.  I do love to repel and climb mountains, hike, shoot, camp, etc., or used to anyway.  I never even saw a TV until I was 9 years old.  Before that, we used to gather up a tote sack of pecans in Oklahoma, which my parents traded at the trading post.  We would get a quarter to see a movie and a quarter to spend on candy.  Actually, I first saw color on my aunt’s TV in Cucamonga, California.  The first real movie on TV I saw was “The African Queen” with Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn, if I recall correctly.  There were lots of colors, I was awed!  We didn’t even have a radio in Oklahoma, as we had no electricity.  In my teens, in Barstow, California, I went to the theater every weekend in 1966 through 1968, except when I was skating with girlfriends.  I remember “Easy Rider,” “Hell’s Angels,” “69,” “Bonnie and Clyde,” “Dirty Dozen,” a few James Bond movies, all the ‘spaghetti’ westerns, and Clint Eastwood’s westerns.  As an adult, I enjoyed “Lonesome Dove” and “Braveheart,” even though “Braveheart” slandered Robert Bruce.  There are tons of movies that I liked.  “Enemy at my Gate” was good.  “The Outlaw Josie Wales” is loosely based on one of my heroes, John Wesley Hardin.  ‘Pretty Boy’ Charles Author Floyd and Jesse James are two other heroes of mine, alone with Rudolph Hess.

 

As for musical instruments, I can play the radio!

 

I can’t draw a straight line with a ruler, but I can tattoo very well.  I can crochet, which is one of the few approved crafts in here.  Can you imagine hard-core prisoners doing crochet?  Hee, hee, but many do.  I also enjoy Origami, the Japanese art of folding paper.

 

We had one family tradition – we would go camping and fishing every summer.  That was great!  On holidays, my Mom would cook, and she is a great cook.  I would have to say that I liked Halloween best, after we moved to California that is; there was nowhere to trick-or-treat in Oklahoma.  There was a wealthy cattle rancher with a huge barn and he would host a Halloween party every year.  There were spooky stories, bobbing-for-apples, and costumes.  When I was 7-years-old, I kept hemming and hawing about what I wanted to, right up to the last minute, so my mother dressed me in one of my sister’s dresses and made me up like a girl!  I was so humiliated I cried like a girl all evening, sitting on a bale of hay in a corner of the barn, so none of my friends would see me.  Worse, yet, a redneck Okie in bib overalls (not a costume!) came over and sat next to me and said, “Ain’t you just the cutest little girl?”  I still haven’t forgiven my Mom for that!  J  I was ready next year!

 

Like I said, California was a literal paradise in the early 1960s.  I enjoyed vacations in the San Bernardino Mountains and Big Bear.  Lake Arrowhead was not a well-known vacation spot back then.  Salton Sea was even lesser known, and a lot of movie stars vacationed there.  Death Valley was hot, but memorable.  On San Gregonio Peak ********check spelling********* above Burbank, in those days, one could see and count all the volcanoes up the coast from Mt. Baldy to Mt. Shasta to Mt. Hood.  You could see the Catalina Islands.  You can’t even see Burbank from Burbank now!

 

I remember school field trips to San Juan Capistrano, the Griffith Observatory, the tuna cannery in Los Angeles, and the tide pools – all are great memories.

 

I guess you could say that my folks were backslid Baptists.  We went to church in Oklahoma, but never in California.  I didn’t go to church again until I was almost 17 years old.  The juvenile courts in Arizona had made my folks send me back to Oklahoma to live with my Grandfather.  I had been out in them sticks, plowing fields and setting up irrigation systems for 6 months, bored outta my mind.  A fat old boy would stop by every week and invite us to church and, being the heathens, we were, we’d refuse.  My Grandpa made the best home brew around. When you popped a cap off the bottle, blue smoke would roll out of it.  I had drunk a couple of bottles when old boy dropped in, right after I had returned from town.  I had just bought some new clothes and there was no place to wear them to.  First, old boy asked Grandpa if he wanted to go – Grandpa said, “Nope.” Then, he asked me (same old routine) and I said, “Nope.” So, he tossed in a hook with, “There’s some pretty girls there.”  I told him to hold up, I’d be dressed in a flash.  I ain’t even seen no girls in months.  So, off to church we went.  Sure enough, a crossroads church out in the middle of Podunk nowhere, full of corn-fed, Okie, country girls!  Thank you, Jesus!  I met a lady named Zoramae who had 7 daughters, and I was in church three times a week!  I went to every potluck dinner, social, and hayride they organized.  I had no idea what the sermon was about one Sunday, but they were all looking sideways at Zoramae.  She stood up and walked out followed by her 7 daughters, like ducks in a row.  The rear was brought up by me.  From then on, church was where hypocrites met, and I was obverse to any and all religion.  I would verbally ridicule anyone who attempted to preach religion to me from then on.  It wasn’t until after almost 3 years in the Marine Corps and 2 years in prison that I seriously discussed religion again.  Again, lured in by yet another hook, this time the bait wasn’t girls, but race.  I had seen an ad in “Easy Rider” magazine where I could request information on extremist White organizations in the United States, a subject that had appealed to me since about the 6th grade during history study on the Reconstruction Era after the Civil War.  Although the history book vilified the Klan, I could not see what was wrong with wanting to cultivate and protect one’s own race, culture and heritage.  It was okay for Indians, Blacks, and Mexicans – why couldn’t White people be proud?!  The person who responded to my inquiry recommended the Aryan Nations literature above all; however, I wrote to the Klan and National Socialists, as well.  In those days, David Duke’s Klan was making the most noise, and I enjoyed the Crusader paper, but the Aryan Nations literature piqued my interest.  I thought I knew a little about religion and The Bible, turned out I didn’t know night from day.  These folks were claiming that Whites were the true ‘Chosen People’ not the Jews.  They said that Jesus had been White and not a Jew, and that The Bible was written by and for Whites only.  All this was exactly the opposite from everything I had learned in church and in Sunday School when I wasn’t trying to impress some pretty girl.  So, I actually started out to prove them wrong and ridicule them, just as I had every other sky pilot I ran across.  So, I searched the library and studied the literature, and eventually I crossed over to the Christian Identity way of thinking.  That was in 1978.  I was doing a 5 to 8-year stretch in Arizona State Prison at the time.  After I was released in 1979, I met my wife and we moved to Northern Idaho, and I worked at Aryan Nations.  Although the Identity religion lead me to a deeper understanding of The Bible, I continued to hone and improve my beliefs.  There is no doctrinal standard or set of tenets for Christian Identity, and folks who claim this title have a wide range of beliefs and interpretations of The Bible.  I personally have eliminated all of the priest craft and spiritual mumbo jumbo from my doctrinal faith.  I have a more secular interpretation of The Bible rather than ecclesiastical.  I believe The Bible, minus the priest craft machinations, as well as all the older religions, boil down to “Naturalism,” that these doctrinal beliefs all evolved out of the study of nature.  I do not believe in evolution of species or Darwinism, and I do believe kin a supreme creator, but I do not add all the anthromorphisms to the Creator that The Bible and Odinism and other faiths do.  The Creator, or “God,” if you will, is no man or anything like man, thank God!  I believe “God” is a force just like gravity is a force.  I believe God is an intelligent form of pure energy, like light.  I believe Nature, the Cosmos, is the countenance of God.  To know and be in harmony with Nature is to be one with God.  That is what The Bible is about, and the study of it will lead one to conclude this, if one looks close enough.  How would we know the Creator’s will if priests never wrote The Bible?  Simple, look at its creation.  There is no strife or division in this interpretation, there is nothing to argue about, though I am sure some will and can make an argument.  Nine out of ten people who condemn The Bible have never really studied to understand it.  It’s like science and nature, it must be studied to be comprehended.  Unless one has done this, he or she is not able to even comment.  And, a simple study of The Bible itself is not enough to comprehend it; one must also study the cultures and history from whence it came; the ancient texts, the mythology of the ancient Babylonian peoples, of Egypt, India, and China; the beliefs of Canaan, the languages of Hebrew, Greek, Chaldean, Aramaic, even astronomy and astrology.  If you have not done this, you do not know the night from the day!  Why go through and do all of this?  To me, it is a rite of passage to search out our rots, our history, our beginning, the truth!  All this, so that one can in turn pass that knowledge on, so that one can lead.  Our race is not limited to one faith, one belief, one culture, one history; we created all of the traditions of the ancient world from the dragon worship of China to Egyptian sun worship, from the Aryans to even the Japanese.  How would you know about the Ainu of Japan unless you studied?  What is Stonehenge and who built it?  Do you know?  Where is Mohenjodaro and Harrapa and how do they relate to our racial history?  What is the Babylonian Genesis and who is Gilgamesh?  Who were the White mummies found in China, where no Whites were supposed to have been, according to modern historians?  Was Bergen Belsen a gas, or what?  That little voice in my head demanded answers.  To those who say there is no God, no life after death, perhaps there isn’t, for you.  God dwells within me; that energy is in my blood.

 

I believe I was in the 3rd grade when I realized something was desperately wrong with society, with the way folks were living.  I couldn’t put my finger on it, but this was not the way people were supposed to live.  I was walking home from school in Bloomington, California.  On one side of the street was an orange grove, all the trees exactly the same size, in a neat row, column after column, for a mile, definitely not natural.  On the other side of the street were houses all in a row, exactly the same.  I don’t remember what my thinking was, or really even why, it was just this very uncomfortable feeling of something being wrong and of impending doom.  It was from then on that I became a rebel, a rebel without a cause.  I scorned all society, all authority, every symbol of authority, parents, teachers, police, and government, even though I could not explain why.  I became very stubborn, stiff-necked, I had the forehead of a whore.  I made my own rules and cared only for myself, and is this not what this society breeds?  Who could I blame for this, except authority?  Especially the ultimate authority, the government?  I used to blame my parents for the way I was, but they were victims and trapped just as I was snared.  Governments have their own agenda, and hat agenda is not in the best interests of the people or even the nation; it exploits both of these to give itself life; it is a blood-sucking vampire, a leech, a parasite on the life force of man.  This is how it has been since thieves banded together and established the first social contract, in order to steal from unsuspecting and naïve people.  Governments, ALL of them, are inherently evil, even when they begin with ‘good intentions,’ they ultimately succumb to the criminal element, comprised of greedy men who have lost the true meaning of life and do not care.  It is said that less than half of the American population votes on election day; if that is true, then, in my opinion, the non-voters win, and we should abolish the U.S. Government.  Unfortunately, we have strayed so far from our true nature that it will require government to help us return.  Strict laws must be implemented and enforced until we are able to abide in harmony with Nature.

 

What is my ideal form of government?  Just as the ancient kingdoms of Mesopotamia broke up into city-states; just as the empires of Greece and Rome broke up; just as the European and former Soviet Union broke up into smaller dominions, so will America.  It is inevitable.  This is the result of government.  Eventually, a new super power will evolve just like all those mentioned above, and history will repeat itself over and over, spelling*****ad nauseam *****spelling.  Unless we learn from our mistakes, we are prone to repeat them.  My idea of government is no government.  Animals abide by natural law via instinct.  We men have lost our basic instinct.  It was lost when we abandoned nature for the social contract.  We gave up certain elements of nature to band together for protection from rogue elements, i.e., criminals.  Then, we became criminals ourselves, denying our nature for the sake of fitting into society, which is still orchestrated by crooks and thieves whose agenda is not our best interest.  Their society will fall from within, just like those mentioned above.  Until then, those of us who resist and oppose these criminals are branded as criminals, but there is a higher authority and correction will come.  When it does, we must be ready and intelligent enough to replace it.  As it stands now, there are so many “isms” and philosophies, all believing they have the best way.  I believe my way is correct, but am I willing to destroy others of my race to prove that?  Not when I feel there is a better way.  Personally, I don’t really care which “ism” our people practice, so long as there are no racial aliens within our borders.  An Aryan economy based on race will not fail, in my opinion.  So long as racial purity is maintained, and non-Whites are excluded, I believe the nation will evolve into my “ideal” government, which is NO government or as little government as possible.  As it stands now, we are bogged down in the mire we have inherited from “criminal governments.”  To return to our natural state, or harmony with natural law, will require a system of government that will aid us in that return.  This is what “Mosaic Law” or “Biblical Law” was designed to do, aid in the return to “Divine Law” also known as “Natural Law.”  This law did not fail, it was never implemented!  Right-wingers, Separatists, and Racialists tend to see things in plain black and white or in terms of themselves alone, but America has a host of various races and a mélange of miscegenated pro-creations.  This situation must be addressed, and a system promoted and implemented that the majority of them will accept as corrective measures to our common situation.  After all, the majority of non-White America are victims just like we are, victims of a criminal government.  The government and society label us as “Racist Hate Mongers” when, in truth, they create racism!  The more appealing the corrective plan is to everyone, the less violent the implementation will be.  I’m in favor of the easiest way possible.  We have strayed so far from nature that some violence is impossible to avoid.  If nature has to continue to correct us White people for neglecting our duty, then the correction will be far more thorough and more violent than I care to witness … this plan can be implemented now, before the collapse of America as we know it, or after.  I doubt it will happen before; we still haven’t been chastised enough to want the return bad enough, to turn and face the culture-distorting criminal authority; afterwards, it won’t be so hard because there will be so few of us left.  Either way, it is going to happen! 

 

What I would rather see now is all people educated to the point where they would seek to correct our situation.  I am no statesman, but I can venture or hazard a stab at it – I would like to see a plan implemented that would eventually reduce government to practically nonexistence, where people instinctually avoided unnatural or transgress behavior.  To get to that point, I imagine a system where there is no real authority above the community level, I.e., Posse Comitatus ****check spelling **** The county elects its own leaders and legislates its own legal system, education structure, economy, and militia.  If a person in that community does not agree with any aspect of the community, say a law or religion or what have you, he or she can lobby for change or reforms.  He or she can also opt to relocate to a county or community more suitable.  Criminals would be judged, literally, by their peers who also determine the punishment.  The county could be Communist, Capitalist, or Socialist; it could be Christian, Odinist, Atheist, or Nudist, for all I care – or, all of the above!  So long as they are White.  I believe that, eventually, by example the best model will be adopted by all the others.  Such a system would create pride and competition, a necessity in survival and nation building.  The next level of government is the state, which is limited to regulating trade between counties and states and protecting the border with a militia made up of an equal number of soldiers from each county.  To be a member of the voting community of the county and state, one must first become a citizen by completing basic education and serving in the county militia for at least 2 years or be enrolled in a college or university for at least 2 years.  The national or central government is limited to regulating trade between states and foreign nations; it regulates transportation and communication, as well as protects our state and national borders.  The nation’s armed forces are made up of equal numbers of soldiers from each state who have served at least 1 year in the county militia and 1 year in the state militia.

 

Yes, I was married, but not long enough to be very good at it.  It was like “on-the-job-training” for me and that’s not a good platform to start from.  I didn’t really have a working idea of what “family and fatherhood” really was.  Suddenly, becoming a husband and father, with my wild nature and background, is really a recipe for failure.  Being a husband and father is very difficult, and especially in this society.  I was not aptly prepared for it.  My wife, Jeanne, was married twice before and had 2 daughters from those marriages, so she wasn’t much better at it than me.  I guess we kinda just stumbled into our marriage.  We did love each other – I’m sure of that – but perhaps we just didn’t quite know what real love was.  I didn’t.  I do now, too late.  We did have some great times in our marriage, best time of my life actually, and I believe we would have survived each other if I hadn’t gone to prison.  We had 2 beautiful children together, Autumn and Hannah, both born at home.  I would have to say that that was the most wonderful and fulfilling experience in my life.  That relationship is my favorite and most memorable.  Having children together creates a life-long bond.  I don’t think I’ll ever marry again; it’s too late to start over.  One of my step-daughters passed away while I was in prison in Leavenworth, Kansas; Annette died of kidney failure in 1992.  My other step-daughter, Spring, is grown and married and has 4 children.  I’m still in contact with her and look forward to continuing that relationship when I am released.  Autumn barely remembers me, and Hannah doesn’t remember me at all; both were so young when I was captured.  Hannah was only 2-years-old, and she is now grown and has a 4-year-old son.  I have not seen my children since coming to prison.  I’d like to go fishing with my grandchildren someday, just once; that doesn’t seem too unreasonable to me, but the tyranny that oppresses our race and seeks our demise has no compassion.  I can only dream and hope at this point.  If not, well, hopefully my sacrifices will someday insure that my grandson is able to fish with his grandson, and I can be one of the little voices in his mind and genetic memory, and he’ll remember me.  It’s the book of life.  I love and miss my children, more than they know at the moment, but they’ll understand in the long run.  Since I’ve been in prison, hundreds of mothers have written me and sent pictures of their children and thanked me for my stance and for my sacrifices and their children have written, drawn me pictures, thanked me.  I had an entire photo album of these pictures and letters until these tyrants “lost” it.  Whenever I was feeling sorry for myself, missing my children, or thinking I wasted my efforts and sacrificed too much, I’d dig out that album and look at those pictures and read those letters.  People have asked me, “Do you have any regrets,” and, “Was it worth it to do what you did?”  My first inclination is, “Hell, no!”  I lost everything, and another man raised my children.  And, then I remember those pictures and letters and the things that motivated me in the first place – my children and their future, our Folk, and I say, “Hell, yes, it was worth it and 10 times over!”  My wife never understood that I had to do what I had to do.  She claimed that I “neglected” her; that is true, in a sense, but I also expressed in my actions the greatest of love.  She would not have hesitated for a moment to place herself between a raging lion and our daughters and sacrifice her own life for theirs.  However, she could not understand my actions, though a beast no different than a raging lion threatens our children’s lives and future.  I still get those letters and pictures.  One girl has been writing me for over 20 years.  She grew up and had children of her own.  She brought her first son to see me in prison in Leavenworth, Kansas.  She is the motivation behind this book.  Kristina and her children alone are worthy of our sacrifices.  And, therein, is our victory.  Those children are our victory and worth the price.  My children are only a few among many for whom we Bruders fought, died, and continue to fight for.  If that is not love, what is?  I have seen a picture of a trash dumpster full to the brim of aborted White babies; to me, that is neglect, and if I can prevent such neglect, I’ll do my best.  We all have to give.  My wife gave and gives the best that she is able.  I gave and give my best, and that’s all that matters – even if we come up short, we contributed to the overall victory of our conflict.  If others, if more would do that, our battle would be over.  As it is, there are too few carrying the burden.  To all the husbands, fathers, wives, and mothers out there who strive to keep the family unit intact – I salute you!  You understand our conflict and wage a daily battle for our victory far greater than I could.  I wish I could have done better by my own wife and children; I just didn’t have a very solid foundation to begin with.  I hope my children can forgive me and love me for who and what I am, faults and all.  There are a lot of pitfalls and snares in life, some cannot be avoided and some we are pushed into.

 

As a late teen, I did construction jobs in Arizona, building adult retirement homes in Green Valley, just south of Tucson.  This was the same work I did as an adult after my first stint in prison.  I enjoy doing construction, especially carpentry.  I like to stand back and look at what I have built.  I have done about every type of building construction: carpentry, plumbing, masonry, electrical, painting, roofing, and landscaping.  I built a natural stone dog kennel for my father’s greyhounds in Arizona out of river stones.  He had 73 dogs he raced at the track.  I was pretty proud of that kennel.  I don’t know what I’ll do when I get out, too arthritic to do much of anything, labor wise.  Maybe I can get a job at Brinks or Wells Fargo, counting money.

 

I didn’t like to study in school; now, I can’t get enough!  What’s up with that?  My favorite subject is ancient history, especially the pre-Alexandrian period.  Pre-recorded or pre-written history is my favorite period, the myths and legends of the primordial darkness from whence we sprung; by “we” I mean the White race, any ancient artifact associated with our racial traditions and culture.  The stone monuments and megaliths are fascinating.  The religions of our folk, the Germanic tribes, Irish, Scots, and Scandinavians.  The Babylonian, Egyptian, and Canaanite religions and cultures, and anything in relation to the ancient near-east.  It’s aggravating to see the modern Iraqi mongrels complaining about “their” museum of antiquities being ransacked.  Get real!  Those are our race’s antiquities!  The mechanics of the Universe are a subject that piques my interest as well, though I am not up on it as much as I am with ancient history.  I guess my favorite car, like for many, is the first one I ever had, which is when I was 17, a 1951 Chevy.  So, it was 20 years old, it was mine, and it got me around and it ran like a Swiss watch, so I had no complaints.  Last, I seen it, it was still going.

 

As I stated before, I loved the outdoors, especially hunting or just hiking in the woods and forests.  In Arizona, I liked spelunking (exploring natural caverns).  I never did like sporting events and didn’t see many concerts.  I loved the desert and exploring it – it is quite enchanted.  Arizona is open range, so you can hop on a dirt bike and go all over it.  I have stumbled upon lots of graves of settlers and waggoneers who are buried out there, old mines and adobe huts.  Mostly, I just grabbed a gun and some water and “walked about” like they say Down Under.  I was in my element when I was out in the bush, and I loved it.  In here, these guys put pin-ups of girls on their cell walls.  Mine has natural scenery and a poster of a Barrett .50 caliber – hey, old habits are hard to put away …

 

I like animals, period.  I guess a dog can’t be beat though.  “Man’s best friend” fit’s a dog to a tee.  The last dog I had was a red Doberman with an 1/8 German Shepherd mix, named Rebel.  My wife had to have him put to sleep due to wounds he received twice in one week protecting my daughter Spring from a Pit Bull attack on her way from the school bus stop.  This happened after my capture, too.  The Pit Bull was shot first … it belonged to some neighbors.  I gotta say, I miss old Reb.  I doubt Chuck Tate or Randy Duey does though.  Chuck because Reb didn’t like him and pissed down all 4 tires on his Volkswagen van every time he came over.  And Randy because, well, he was a mailman and he shouldn’t have been horse playing with Sonja in Reb’s presence.  I warned him … Reb had character.  I trained him as a pup to search the chapel at Aryan Nations at night when I was on guard duty after the church was bombed.  One night, I sent Reb in and he didn’t return to the door as he was trained and normally did.  When I went in to see what had happened to him, I found him marking his territory; the podium was hosed down, the piano, and Pastor Butler’s chair.  As soon as I flipped on the light, he knew he was in trouble.  I guess he liked Chuck after all.  Reb liked to mark his territory.  One time, a lady knocked on our door and he marked her leg, too.

 

I don’t know what made me so racially aware; the environment in Oklahoma, I guess.  It was all-White where I lived.  I never really disliked non-whites; I have just felt that each race belonged together amongst its own kind. There was no animosity, we were just different.  Ontario, Fontana, Bloomington, and Rialto were all-White when I was a kid (not anymore, I hear).  I wasn’t really around non-whites until I went to juvenile hall kin San Bernardino, California, but there was no racial tension there in those days, at all. There were no problems with non-whites until I went to school in Barstow, California, when I was in the foster home, but my racial mind was set long before that.  I was confronted by one of a pair of Mexicans that everyone considered tough-guy hoods.  This one apparently was all bluff, because after he pushed me to instigate a fight and I pushed him back twice as hard, he decided he better find an easier target.  Too many other students had seen it though, and the little Mexican couldn’t press anyone after that.  He made the mistake of confronting me when his bigger compadre wasn’t around, so he wasn’t as tough as he fooled himself into thinking he was, and he didn’t know that I was from Draper Ranch and had some pretty big foster brothers myself, and a lot of them.  They never looked sideways at me after that and they asked about me.  I’m no big tough guy, and I’m easy to get along with, but when I get mad people tend to notice and get some way yonder.  I don’t like to fight, but I can, and I will.  I ran right into a horde of Mexicans in Arizona.  There wasn’t a whole lot of Whites living in south of Tucson when we moved there.  The Mexicans learned really quick that when you messed with one Yarbrough, you faced us all.  And, my mother was the worst one, no one wanted her on their bad side.  We got respect real soon and a lot of people even feared us, especially law enforcement officers.  Whenever they came to see us, they would meet us in the middle with the Santa Cruz and Pima County S.W.A.T. teams; that’s when I decided it was time to leave Arizona.  I was never around Blacks until I went into the Marine Corps.  I learned to detest them very quickly.  My disliking for them was enhanced in the racial cauldron of violence called Arizona State Prison.  That was in 1976-79, and I have been actively involved in the racial movement since.

 

When I first contacted a racial organization, I was in prison; that was David Duke’s Knights of the Ku Klux Klan the only Klan group that would associate with prisoners.  The only group I ever joined was Aryan Nations, which seemed to me to be the best platform to reclaim our nation.  I left Aryan Nations to serve with the Order Bruders Schweigen.

 

One of the best lessons I learned was from my father, by example and by experience.  My father fought in the Korean War.  He worked and slaved all his life and in the end he had absolutely nothing to show for it.  I blame this government for that, but he did not.  He was a patriot and he loved his government, and whatever they took out of his paycheck was fine with him.  No matter how hard it got, he never gave up and I never saw him without a job.  One time, we were at Salton Sea, California, and he and I decided to swim out to a buoy.  I wasn’t so sure I could go that far, and I think he knew I couldn’t, but he wanted me to go with him and that made me very happy, so I went.  I made it out okay, but halfway back I told him I couldn’t make it.  He figured I could do it, but I went under.  I just gave up, but I knew he’d help me and he did.  When we got to shore, he told me, “don’t ever give up.”  I learned that from him.  If I learned anything, I learned that.  We had an argument once about patriotism, after I went A.W.O.L. from the Marine Corps because the government and its racial agenda of “Affirmative Action” had ruined our armed forces.  I told him that the armed forces of 1973 were not the armed forces of 1950, and that this government and nation were not the same country and government he had grown up in.  That time and place is gone, and we are going to hell in a hand basket carried headlong by our own leaders.  We just happened to be driving through a Black and Mexican section of Tucson when this argument took place and I told my father to look around.  When he looked back at me he had misty eyes and a hurt look on his face, but he knew I was right.  I called my father just after my brother Robert died in 2003.  I was in the Federal Prison in Atlanta, Georgia and it was a constant battle.  My Dad knew this and told me to watch myself and keep my head up.  I told him I’d “never give up,” and I asked him if he remembered giving me that advice.  He remembered it.  He passed away 4 months later, but before he passed away, my sister jokingly commented to him that, “ya can’t fight the government,” in some context or another, and he told her, “the hell you can’t!”  I know he said that with me in mind, and that made me feel pretty damn good.

 

Pastor Butler was probably the biggest influence in my life.  He turned a common criminal and thug into an Aryan Warrior.  He gave me something to stand up and fight for, something worth fighting for and believing in. He opened my eyes and gave me the answers to my questions.  No one else could or cared to.  He believed in me, even when his lifelong friends accused me of things I did not do, he stood by me.  He could see the spirit behind my eyes, he had faith in me, and he knew my loyalty and dedication to our race.  Pastor Butler was the last of the giants.  Without him and Pastor Miles, we are hard pressed for true teachers and leaders out there.  From my mother, I learned to endure and excel in my environment, no matter the adversity.  Who can count the influences of a mother upon her children?  I got my hardheadedness from her and, like her, turned it into a virtue.  Nor can I count the many examples of our Cause’s Folk and heroes who have blessed me with their direction, guidance, and help.  Where would I be, and what or who would I be without them?

 

I was charged with and convicted of racketeering, armored car robbery, bank robbery, counterfeiting, assaulting F.B.I. agents with a firearm, and multiple weapons violations.  I was sentenced to 60 years, with another 20 years to run consecutively.  I have been asked what I actually did with the Order.  There is only one way to answer this question.  I am innocent of all the allegations above.  I merely held the reins of all the horses while others did all the real jobs.  I was only guilty by association and a victim of misidentification, mistaken identity as it were …

 

I’m now in the United States Penitentiary (Prison) at Marion, Illinois.  It is a 23-hour lock-down prison with a step-down program for transfer.  The stay here is supposed to be 3 years.  I was here 4 years the first time, 5 years the second, and who knows how long it will be this time … I’m in my cell most of the time.  I get to recreate in a 25 x 25 foot cage for 2 hours twice a week outside and 2 hours a day on the tier in front of my cell.  I get up at 5:30 a.m. every morning and wash up.  Then, I do yoga until breakfast comes at about 6:30.  Breakfast is dry cereal, 2 slices of stale bread, milk (which I give to my neighbor), and usually some kind of fruit, which I eat.  My neighbor gives me his fruit.  I drink a cup of coffee and then I exercise for about 45 minutes to an hour.  For the rec period, I come out and shower, shave, etc.  Then, I usually play Scrabble with my neighbor or walk.  The rest of the day is locked in my cell.  Here, all the meals are in the cells.  I usually read, study, or write during the day.  I go to bed at 10:00 p.m. and do the same routine tomorrow.  Exciting life, eh?  There are no jobs here at Marion until one gets to the pre-transfer stage of the final year (in theory).  In the open-line prisons like Lompoc, Leavenworth, etc., there are 10-minute movements every hour to go to the yard, library, gym, etc., and work every day in the kitchen, factories, and laundry.  There’s none of that here.  In open-line prisons, one has “contact” visits where one can sit with, hug, and kiss one’s family and relations.  Here, the visits are through glass and over a phone.  I prefer the lock-down prison, except for the visits.  The Zoggomites claim I am “anti-social” or a “sociopath, “as if that’s a bad thing! Hee-hee.  In reality, our oppressors and their system are anti-social.  They have a distorted definition of what the terms “social” and “society” actually mean.  A society is an interdependent system of organisms or biological units, I.e., a hive of bees is a society, every one of them of one kind, be they actually honey bees, bumble bees, or wasps.  A colony of ants is a society, every one of them the same.  If a black ant enters a red ant colony, it is immediately attacked by red ants.  The black ant is being anti-social!  Because being “social” means to form cooperatives and interdependent relationships with others of one’s kind.  So, racial mixing or multiculturalism is confusion and anti-social!  So, who is the real criminal?  The government that is attempting to shove the black ants down our throats!  It is our social duty to protect our biological unit.  The red ants attack the black ant because their mutual instinct for survival of their kind dictates they do so.  The social experiment of a multiracial, multicultural America is a complete failure, and one which we must throw off.

 

My views have not really changed but have become more refined.  I think I have a much clearer and better overall view of life and our situation.

 

I think what our Cause needs most is educated Folk who are willing to go out and personally meet and verbalize with individuals and promote our Cause on a one-on-one basis.  I would like to see more self-dedication and sacrifice to our Cause in this form.  I think it’s the best medium to cultivate our Folk view.

 

What I will do first when I am released.  Well, first on the agenda is to go and see my daughters and grandchildren, and Debbie Mathews promised me some of her fabulous home cooking.  Then, I’m going to hike the trail around Lake Penoreille.  The Federal whores took my Harley, so I can’t go for a ride.  I’ll have to get another one.  Those are the things I miss most – my family, good food, nature, my Harley, and my guns – in that order.  I wanna go fishing with my grandchildren.  Spring’s son, Wolfgang, is a real fisherman, I hear.  After R&R, I’d like to get back to work promoting and cultivating our Cause, from a more “lawful” perspective, of course …

 

I have no job in Marion, and I have been in lock up for 9 years.

 

My family loves me and respects my beliefs, even if they don’t agree with or share them.  They are concerned and feel bad for my situation and would rather I not be so extreme or fanatical, I’m sure.  My actions have caused them all a lot of grief because of their love and concern for me.  For that, I am sorry, but still, sacrifices are a must; someone must be willing to do what must be done.  Do we really have a choice?  Not in my understanding, and I personally could not look at myself in the mirror and call myself a man knowing that I was not giving our Cause and our children’s future 100% of my best efforts.

 

Invest in our Cause, invest in our Race as a whole and we all benefit.  There’s really not a lot that folks can do for me or us in federal prison.  Letters, photos, books, money orders to purchase commissary items or other needs.  I personally simply enjoy the fellowship via correspondence.  I like to help in education our youth via correspondence.

 

Asked if I have tattoos … Yes, unfortunately, I was young and stupid once.  Enough said!

 

Prison ruins family relationships.  It’s impossible to be a husband and father from in here.  I still have a bit of a relationship with my step-daughter Spring and Hannah.  Autumn is like me, I guess, anti-social.  My mother and sister are still very close to me.  My brothers are close, but don’t have much time to write or visit.  Life goes on … I don’t complain.  I plan on retiring back to the Rocky Mountains and serving out my remaining years working from a computer.  Getting too old to do much else!

 

As for my advice to young people of today:  The thing children hate to hear most, “No!”  They don’t like adult advice either, but education!  The things I hated most growing up are the things that are most important later in life.  School, I mean the basic education, the four “Rs” (reading, writing, arithmetic, and of course race).  Especially math, I should have paid more attention.  But, the “outcome-based education” targeted children like me and purposefully confused the curriculum, which is why so many young “outsiders” or “loners” take guns to school and kill their classmates today.  “Arrested development” is a method of people control.  So, my advice is to get a good education and don’t just study the proscribed curriculum but utilize the public library, as well.  Books open up a whole new world.  Health is another very important issue.  Avoid all the traps the System utilizes to get us to destroy ourselves:  Drugs, alcohol, tobacco.  Exercise daily.  Take care of your teeth!  Life is no party, it’s not easy.  Don’t make it any harder than it already is.

 

I would say my knowledge of race, religion, and ideology has not just changed but, through study, has been refined.  I’ve covered this previously herein, so I’ll just make one comment:  Our White race is one race, all our various faiths are one faith, all our Gods are one and the same God.  Anyone out there that preaches and teaches division and schisms among our race in regard to some philosophy, religion, or ideology is not only a fool but a murderer of our race.  Let us put them to shame and rid our cause of the likes of them.

 

I believe it was when I called my wife from the Ada County Jail that I learned of Bob’s death.  Then, I saw it on the news.  I was grief stricken at first, saddened, then very angry.  This fight is not for the weak or faint of heart.  If one resolves to stand in this battle, then stand to the end.  Know your heart.  Honor Bob’s life.

 

When asked why I decided to get involved with the Order, as much as I would like to answer this question I cannot do so at this time; perhaps never.  My joining the Order was the result of a promise not kept, of which I choose not to elaborate upon.  But, in for a penny, in for a pound.

 

I didn’t consider the Order being “at war,” but simply resisting the tyranny that oppresses our folk.  I didn’t get in the Order to fight a war.  I simply agreed to prepare for a physical conflict we all knew is coming.  I did not think that time had yet come.  My intent was to aid in the financial support of our cause and help in establishing an all-White community in the area of (**sp) Metalene Falls, Washington, which was a virtual ghost town.  We had planned on purchasing the town for that purpose.

 

When asked what improvements I would make to the efforts of the Order, if the experience were to be relived today, I say that it’s not a matter of “if” but “when.” I think that when this does happen again it will be in a very different set of circumstances and __________ (check word??).  But I would suggest that such a group be no larger than 7 members, that a chain of command be clearly established, and that the intent and goals be clearly outlined.

 

The common quality we all had was that we sincerely wanted change and improvement for our folk and cause and were willing to sacrifice to the ultimate degree to cultivate that cause.  I am proud of all the Bruders.

 

When questioned about the rumor that, at one point, the Order almost broke up and faded away, I say the incident in question has been blown out of proportion by the writers of the Silent Brotherhood and perhaps by some individuals who don’t particularly care for Bruce Pierce, and this due to lack of information in other instances and incidences, one of which is as old as the Order itself and concerns chain of command and leadership.  People, even members of the Order, tend to view the origin of the Order as beginning up at Bob Mathew’s home.  Actually, these efforts fell through, and everyone involved in this previous effort scattered like rats fleeing a sinking ship, leaving Bruce stuck in jail to fend for himself, all but Bob Mathews, that is.  At this point, I was not involved, except for a job David Tate and myself did for the group.  However, since Bruce’s arrest, this changed my situation.  I was forced to take my family and leave Aryan Nations.  Bob came to my home and told me that everyone had left him and that he had to find a way to get Bruce out of jail.  He asked me to go and help Bruce.  I had been in contact with Bruce’s wife and agreed to help.  As it turns out, Bruce was released prior to turning himself in to prison.  I picked Bruce up.  We attempted to locate some of the others who, in essence, had abandoned him, but found no one.  Bob had actually repossessed money from a bank in Seattle to aid in getting Bruce freed from prison, but a dye pack exploded and covered the money.  Bob had to get this money on his own because none of the men involved in the previous efforts to create he Order would help him.  This says volumes for the type of man Bob was, and for those who left him and Bruce hanging.  I have no doubt that the people who gossiped about Bruce (now and then) and caused some dissention towards him were the very same people.  They know what they are, and there is no need to elaborate.  Bruce and I decided to liberate another bank while awaiting Bob to reacquire contact, which Bob did in due time.  We also located Randy Duey and it was these 4 men who actually established the group known as “the Order,” after the successful liberation of an armored car in Seattle, Washington.  The planning and meeting of these 4 men took place at a home that Randy D. had rented.  We had a lot to discuss and accomplish.  First, we created a “war chest,” actually, it was more “operational funds” at this point.  Then, we discussed organizational structure.  Incredulously, Bob, Randy D., and Bruce wanted to bring all the men from the previous efforts back into the ranks.  I opposed it and was outvoted 3 to 1.  Hopefully, Randy D. and Bruce now realize my opposition and reasoning…All those men, with the exceptions of Lane, Duey, and Kemp, turned on the Order.  So, we had another decision, leadership and chain of command.  We decided on Bob as the overall leader.  However, and here is what some men from the previous effort apparently were not aware of and what caused some conflict later on, we created an “inner circle” of men that would direct the Order.  Though Bob was the overall leader and had the authority to make snap judgment calls that required speed out of necessity, no one man led the group.  At the beginning, this inner circle consisted of us four men – Randy D., Bruce, Bob, and myself.  This circle expanded with time and new growth.  Although the dispute at the safe house in Boise, Idaho (the incident in question), became heated, it was me who got angry over comments Bob made, and was not a real conflict between Bob and Bruce, although there was disagreement there.  The comment Bob made was the suggestion that perhaps the Order disband.  This upset me because it was a little too late for that; once one picks up the sword, it cannot be put down, and I had sacrificed too much to see someone else take our situation so lightly.  I had a wife and children, and that’s one hell of a loss.  I lost my temper and grabbed and shook Bob, but it was not an assault or an attack, it was more an attempt to make Bob see the seriousness of what he had just said.  Anyway, the meeting ended peacefully.  Bob and I were very close and there was never any serious conflict between us.  We would both have gladly died for one another.  It was at this meeting that I realized that some men in the Order had not truly committed to one another, and I do not refer to Bruce or Bob; both of these men were 100%, as was I.  But, I spoke to Bob privately in my car before I left that evening and told him I would no longer work with the group as a whole and would only be in contact with him personally.  We both knew that law enforcement was aware of a weapon that would lead them to Andy Barnhill and from there to Aryan Nations and lead them to me first.  I went home and waited for them to show up.  Hiding was impossible, and running was not an option at the time because I had a seriously-ill daughter at home who needed me for the time being.  I stayed until the F.B.I. raided my home, escaped and fled to Oregon, where I was captured a couple of months later.

 

There are hundreds of stories one could relate concerning the Order Bruder Schweigen that have not been published or told to the general public.  Some are quite dramatic, some chilling, but it seems the comical ones stand out for me.  Perhaps this is because I have little to laugh at or smile about in here and I often reminisce about these events.  Like the time I was demonstrating a new, quick-draw holster to my Bruder Scoots in a motel room in Portland, Oregon, and I blew a hole through 3 rooms.  My Bruder Brigham and I liberated a bank in Spokane, Washington.  We needed a police scanner for this withdrawal and we decided to liberate it first from Radio Shack.  Scanners were rather bulky and expensive 25 years ago.  We called up the store a few minutes before closing time, pretending to be a security firm requiring the scanner I had marked earlier in the day.  The object of this ploy was to get the proprietor to turn off the outside lights and lock the doors while awaiting our arrival.  A scanner is a big sale and the ploy worked nicely.  Brigham kept the car running and around the corner.  When I walked into the store, I noticed there were now 2 female employees.  I identified myself as Wiley from Acme Security, and claimed my boss sent me to pick up a scanner.  A very elegant, young woman in a pink chiffon dress and high heels said, “Yes, Sir, I have your scanner right here,” as she placed it upon the counter.  I picked it up, placed it upon my shoulder, thanked her, and spun for the door.  They both started sputtering, “Sir! Sir!”  I watched them via the reflection in the glass as I walked out the door and down a long, narrow alleyway beside the store.  It was snowing heavily and there was about 12 inches of snow piled up in this alley.  I was in no hurry as I walked past a security light about halfway to the getaway car.  I could hear snow squishing behind me and turned to see the pretty, young girl in her high heels with her pink chiffon dress pulled up to her knees, tip-toeing through the snow, following me! Incredulous, I said, “Lady, what are you doing following a man with a gun down a dark alley?!”  She stopped, in the snow, holding her beautiful dress up.  I told her the scanner belonged to the Tandy Corporation, not her, and if she followed me I would shoot her.  Women!  What’s up with women?! A man would never have followed me down that alley!  I repossessed funds from Z.O.G. numerous times, and never did a man even attempt to prevent it.  Women, they think the money is theirs and will fight to keep it.  [Why else would a female armored car guard, armed with a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver and a 30.30 lever-action deer rifle attempt to take on 9 men with fully automatic machine guns and grenades??!!]  Anyway, off down the alley I go again.  I glanced over my shoulder and here she comes, dress hiked up, tip-toeing through a foot of snow…I yell, “Bitch!” slap my shoulder holster, and point my finger at her as if I had pulled my gun.  She screamed, “Eek!” and fell face first in the snow.  She did not follow me again.  I laughed all the way to the car.  That scanner proved invaluable in the process of fund raising a few days later.  It saved one police officer’s life, and ours as well a bit later in our escape.  The authorities knew 7 minutes before we even walked into the bank that it was about to be hit.  Scanners are nice, so are diversions and rush hour traffic.  A month or so later, the company Realistic came out with a very nice portable, programmable scanner.  We snagged ‘em up as fast as they stocked ‘em in Radio Shack.

 

I guess I am pretty naïve in some respects.  Naivety can be a virtue at times, usually it just gets you in trouble.  To read some of the Cause’s literature out there, one would tend to believe that this corrupt and degenerate society is on the verge of collapsing any minute.  I believed this.  I was also naïve enough to think that most of the people who were involved in our cause were loyal and dedicated.  Both of these misconceptions were very hard letdowns for me.  I just could not fathom how anyone who has discovered the truths that we have could then turn on their brothers and sisters, their Folk.  Or, how people could use the truths they have learned for their own personal and pathetic agendas.  There is still a long, drawn-out battle ahead of us.  We did not slide into this mire overnight, and we will not climb out of the muck overnight either.  Everyone involved in our cause needs to stop, reevaluate their loyalty and dedication.  If you are not at least 95% certain of your stand, don’t pretend that you are!  Get outta the way; Otherwise, you’re only in for a lot of grief and you’ll aid our enemies in the destruction of those who are dedicated 100%.

 

There is no “rank and file,” and there is no “Movement” either.  These terms are ill-applied to our Cause.  “rank and file” lends the connotation that we are an organized resistance with “leaders” and soldiers.  “Movement” also tends to distort our Cause, it connotates organization, as well.  These are terms our enemies concentrate upon and utilize to distort and mold public opinion against us.  In essence, what we are is a Cause, an ideal, that is growing and spreading, but still not a Movement, as of yet.  Not in the proper sense of the word.  This Cause has propagators, publishers, distributors, people who cultivate our Cause and promote it.  However, we do not have an organized Movement with leaders and followers.  We have subscribers and supporters, nothing more.  People need to quit pretending to be something we are not.  We must, above all, be true to ourselves.  How we present ourselves is how people see us.  Our public relations leave a lot to be desired.  We are not “White Supremacists,” we do not want “White Power.”  We want our own territorial imperative, a state for our nation.  We don’t want to have supremacy over, or rule anyone but ourselves!  Let’s concentrate our efforts in this endeavor.  Let’s promote our Cause rather than elaborate upon the non-Whites’ shortcomings or the Governmental tyrants that oppress us.  In order to know what hate is, we first had to know and understand love.  Let us be known for our love of our race instead of living up to the Media’s attempt to portray us as “haters.”  That is not what we are about.  We are “racialists,” not “racists.”  There is a big difference.  One of my heroes is Charles Arthur “Pretty Boy” Floyd.  He always stated he was an “outlaw,” not a “criminal.”  He was considered a folk hero by many, and to this day one cannot disparage the name of Pretty Boy Floyd in ports of Oklahoma.  Words have power – use them wisely.  Jesse James was a “revolutionary and an outlaw,” not a “bank and train robber!”  John Wesley Hardin was an “outlaw and gunfighter,” not a murderer.  He never took a penny in his life that wasn’t his, and the only people he killed were killed in self-defense.  I am in “prison” and I am a “prisoner.”  This is not a “correctional facility” and I am not an “inmate.”  This is a “cell,” not a “room.”  These are “guards,” not “correctional workers.”  The colors we paint with are the colors people see.  I am not a criminal nor am I an outlaw.  Those who violate natural law are the true criminals.  I am a reactionary in opposition to those who legislate laws that are contrary to nature.  I abide in the laws of nature and its Creator.

 

When asked if I have any regrets, I say absolutely!  But not as many regrets as I would have if I’d done nothing.  My conscience is very hard on me.  I could not live with myself if I did not give my faith and race my best effort, or at least try my best.  Even if I fail and fall over and over, I will rise and try again.  Thralldom is a life for no one, especially me and mine.  I was thrall born, but hopefully I have contributed to the freedom, eventually, of my Folk.

 

Never Give Up!


Somebody had these and got them to me. It was good to read stuff of Gary’s that I hadn’t read yet, and thank you to the gentleman, who got them to me. I’m not sure when this was written. It had to be way before we got together because he was in Terre Haute when we got together.

Subject: HELP!

One flew over the jailbird’s nest
(PsychomaleficTherapy)
Health and welfare, Bureau of prison terms style? For Federal prisoners in Springfield, MO. to be examined by a Rheumatologist and treated for Arthritis, I had heard all the usual horror stories about this place from prisoners who’d come here for treatment, and therefore dreaded coming here myself. But my Arthritis is so severe and painful that I had to do something. Any prisoner will tell you that if you become sick or require Dental or Medical treatments in prison you are in dire straits. And, if you have a lengthy sentence, the odds are against you completing your sentence without contracting any one of the myriad of illnesses and diseases that are epidemic in the Federal prison system. If you do contract a disease do not expect the medical staff to inform you of it. There is an unwritten policy to not inform prisoners of a detected disease until it becomes necessary to treat the condition or symptoms. The intent being that “short term treatment” is less costly than “long term treatment.” In many cases this is tantamount to murder because early detection is the key to remedy many diseases. Such is my case, Rheumatoid Arthritis. Sometimes it can be remedied with a simple change in diet. Arthritis is the number one crippler in America and kills thousands of sufferers every year. I began to complain of classic symptoms of Arthritis ten years ago. There is no way that a doctor could listen to the symptoms I described and not tentatively diagnose them as Arthritic in nature. The doctor told me: You exercise too much, slow down, the pain will go away…
I was severely stricken three years ago, sometimes to the point that I could not even get out of bed. I could not walk, brush my teeth or comb my hair. Other symptoms are: Short term memory loss, angst, anxiety attacks, depression, confusion, lethargy and encephalopathy, to name only a few. All are very dangerous conditions to have in a prison environs. All these symptoms are exacerbated by stress and cause one to go totally berserk at the slightest provocation. People avoid me like the plague!
It took three years of suffering the above conditions before a doctor from the “outside world” ordered the Bureau of Prisons to put me on a steroid medication and send me to Springfield for treatment. There is another unwritten policy here at the medical facility, which is to make conditions so intolerable that the prisoners, via attrition, will refuse treatment in order to transfer out as soon as possible. Again, medical treatment is costly. I’ve been here a little over three months and have yet to see a Rheumatologist. They drew blood every two weeks for two months, that’s all so far. The treatment is long and drawn out, part of the above-mentioned unwritten policy of attrition. This policy of attrition is largely reserved for prisoners with chronic and/or incurable and costly ailments such as Aids, Tuberculosis, Hepatitis, Arthritis etc…. And doubly so if you happen to be a White racial dissident to the Bureaucratic tyranny of the US Government.
Sensory deprivation, environmental stimulus, i.e. harassment and exasperation are the policy or order of the day at this facility. After arriving at USMC Springfield, you are processed and if you are maximum custody sent directly to the lock-down ward, which is commonly called “the hole.” In this hole the cells are approximately 12 x 7. The walls are bright white painted steel. The ceiling is ten feet up and banked with double sets of florescent lights, which are controlled outside of the cell. There is a video camera in one corner of the ceiling. The bed is a steel or concrete slab set away from the wall and has iron loops for “four-posting” a prisoner in restraints should he become a nuisance or disorderly. There is the standard stainless-steel toilet and sink, which breaks up the majority of the space the bed does not occupy, leaving little room to move about. There is one window, but it is so crisscrossed with bars, steel wire mesh and dirty glass that are practically impossible to see out of. There are double doors to the cells. The first is solid steel, with a twenty-inch window reinforced with wire mesh and bars. Below this is the “Bean slot,” a 5 x 12-inch slot with a heavy steel door used to pass food trays through the door. The second door butts up against this door. It is an open spaced bar grill, covered with Plexiglas on the outside and diamond shaded steel mesh on the inside, there is a slot to accommodate the bean slot. Why two doors? I have no idea. The first one is more than secure. These are the most depressing cells I have been in anywhere! And I’ve been in a lot…
The day here begins at 5:30 am with the ringing of the entrance bell. It announces the arrival of the nurse with the first of four daily doses of medications. This obnoxious bell is rung approximately 50 to 60 times a day and night. For the next 15 minutes one cannot escape the methodical banging and slamming of the heavy steel doors on the bean slots. These doors are opened and allowed to fall to a steel backstop where they bounce 4 or 5 times before coming to a rest. After the medications are dosed at each slot the door is lifted and struck against the locking bar, backed off and then slammed shut. The opening and slamming of these 25 to 30 heavy steel doors is repeated an average of 360 times a day. This thunderous monotony alone is enough to drive a man to berserking bedlam. As if the doorbell and slamming doors were not enough Pavlovian stimuli, our demented tormentors have added the affect of a never-ending ringing telephone…
Lights! Nothing is more raw and aggravating then to spend hours in total darkness and then to have the nurse blind you with a bank of glaring bright lights at 5:30 am. They claim they need to be able to see us swallow our medications, because we cannot be trusted to take them ourselves. Never mind that it may only be Aspirin or Tylenol or that she can’t really see well enough through these doors to tell if the medication is actually being ingested, palmed or simply dropped on the floor. I am so dangerous and such a security risk that I cannot be allowed a Q-tip to swab my ears or a Chapstick for dry lips. I cannot have an eraser on my pencil, which is only 3 inches long and cannot be sharpened… My ink pen is only 3 inches as well, made of flexible rubber and bends when in use. Is it possible that a man who has the cunning and intelligence to fashion and manufacture weapons and other implements out of such mundane items cannot utilize a bit of simple ingenuity to hold back a dose of medicine? Potentially dangerous meds are crushed, put in transparent cups with water, dissolved and then given to the prisoners. I would suggest that the glaring lights are more for the psychological affects. Part of the continuous onslaught of controlled environmental stimulus to create a conditioned reflexive response, which oft times has the opposite of the desired effects on a given individual, hence the iron loops on the beds…
Before 6:00 am, often before I’ve even had the opportunity to urinate, there is a hack at my cell door inquiring as to if I would like to shower. Since I’m used to a daily shower like all normal people concerned about hygiene, and I’m allowed only three showers a week here, It’s a rather fatuous query. When I return to my cell from a shower stall that is filthy of scum, mold and who knows what else, and of course one in which I have no access to the controls of the hot or cold valves, my breakfast is on my bunk. Cold, except for the milk which is warm. I’ve yet to be fed on a tray that didn’t have the residue from the previous meal still on it. More often than not the tray and cover are cracked and broken, even missing parts at times. There is no way to clean and sanitize trays in this condition. The industrial dishwasher will not even remove left over food particles let alone clean in the chinks and cracks where bacteria and other microorganisms collect. We are forced to use a flexible “spork” (A cross between a soon and fork) to eat with. You get a Spork with your first meal and you’re expected to use the same one for the duration of your stay. The utensils at the local Jack-in-the-box are of a higher quality! There is no way to clean and sanitize these sporks in your cell. Remember, this is a medical facility, a hospital, where every illness, virus and disease imaginable exists. We are forced to change cells every 2 weeks. This is not done for security reasons, it’s done because some prisoners won’t clean their cells and others will, so we are rotated in order that the cells get cleaned. Last week I was rotated to a cell that was previously occupied by an inmate with HIV. Next week I may get one of an inmate with Tuberculosis.
Often, before I choke down the swill that is breakfast, the hack is again at my cell door inquiring as to if I would like to go to “recreation.” Recreation consists of 60 minutes alone in a chain link fence cage on a concrete slab about 12 feet wide and 20 feet long. There is nothing in the cage, no pull-up bar, a dip bar, nothing but me. “Recreation”; consists of pacing back and forth, running in circles or various other excursuses. In approximately 48 hours I can wash the sweat off in my next shower…
When I return to my cell from rec., it has usually been trashed in a shack-down wherein the hack is touted to be searching for “contraband.” Contraband is usually determined by the whim of the petty tyrant trashing the cell; it varies from hack to hack and day to day. But one thing is certain, the hack will not come out of the cell without taking something. Usually something quite paltry, but something a prisoner who has very little to begin with will miss until he acquires a replacement. This is part of the psychological assault upon our senses. Frequently the contraband is an extra pair of socks, a towel or a pair of dry underwear that I had planned to wear in place of the sweaty ones I just “recreated” in for an hour. We are not allowed gym shorts for recreation. The only clothing allowed is a one-piece button up jumpsuit, 1 tee shirt, a pair of briefs (no boxers) and 1 pair of socks. The psychological assault isn’t subtle at all. It is intended to blend in and be part of a “normal”; routine. What the shakedown goons don’t walk off with the ants and fruit flies will, the place is swarming with the vermin. We are not allowed to have, or have access to our personal property, books, photographs, address book etc…. I’m allowed one 15-minute phone call every 30 days. My parents live in Arizona, I have a daughter in Washington, one in Idaho, 3 brothers in Tennessee, and a sister. In 7 months I can call them all, in 14 I can call ’em twice! The Zoggomite dogs are magnanimous bastards, eh? (No pun intended)
After the noon mess, on filthy trays and using my disposable spork, the “liars club” sometimes makes its rounds. The liars club are administrative personnel: Unit manager, Counselors, Caseworkers, Duty officer, Associate wardens etc. Near as I can tell their job is to lie to us, pass the buck or otherwise do the old bureaucratic two-step shuffle. The evening news could air them in the segment titled: “the fleecing of America.” This bureaucracy is the perfect medium for tyranny; the system of checks and balances is nonexistent, as is accountability.
Not a lot happens in the afternoon around here. I do Yoga for medical therapy. The hack comes around with the supply cart. Good opportunity to slam the bean slots again as prisoners exchange their 3-inch pencils for a sharpened one. Exchange their 3-inch, flexible toothbrush and trade out an empty cardboard tube for a full roll of toilet paper. I’ve yet to figure out what security threat could possibly be related to a dead toilet paper roll. Just more prison psychological rigmarole. Or why we cannot have a mirror in our cells? Perhaps they don’t want us to see a reflection that will remind us that we are human beings, men and not animals. Perhaps they’re afraid we’ll act like men; all part of the psychological programming and sensory deprivation. Add to this the debasing indignity of having to exist in close quarters with human refuse that is just shy two chromosomes from swinging in the trees, and the assaultive barrage is virtually complete. They detest me because I’m White. They see the government and their oppressors as White, and therefore erroneously equate us as synonymous. Except of course White women. They sure like the White female nurses and hacks that walk the range. The evenings in here are spent having to listen to the twisted ranting and ravings of these arrogant, obnoxious and imbecilic morons.
Sometimes during the night, long after I have wearied myself to sleep, the hack will turn off the lights to the cell. But he’ll be around every hour to shine a flashlight in my face and count me. I’m awake long before the doorbell rings at 5:30 am, gnashing my teeth in expectation like a Pavlovian dog, dreading its coming. Then the bean slots start slamming. It’s a whole new day on the calendar, but nothing is new in here. All the days are like the one before. And it never ends; it just merges into the next one. This is but a meager example of the extent to which the tyrants will go to secure their rotting throne of thralldom. But it will fall, and I will endure to press it to the pit to which it is reserved. If not, I’ll haunt the bastards from the grave and await them in hell, where I’ll have the keys.
G. Yarbrough
P.O.W.-OrderBruderschweigen


The SPLC and one of their writers, Brett, was horrible to Gary, when he passed. Brett has lied in a few of his articles about Gary, saying that Gary separated from the Movement, when he didn’t. He had separated from other people, including his co-defendants, so that what we were doing wouldn’t affect them. The comments people made on the article about his death were truly evil. These idiots considered Gary an “awful person” but after seeing their comments, they are truly the evil ones. They were talking about pissing on his grave, and even things worse than that. But, I recently read where the SPLC was sued for a few million by an Islamic man that they had falsely labeled a “extremist.” I wonder how many of hundreds of thousands of people they have done this to. When they wrote the lies about Gary, I prayed for karma, and it is finally being served! And, from what I understand, more are trying to sue! I’m loving this and laughing so hard. Morris Dees, you better keep all your money in those offshore accounts! I would so love to see the SPLC go down, and apparently people are seeing them for what they truly are, the worst hate group ever. Here is an article that the Washington Post wrote on the SPLC, saying they have lost all credibility. This truly put a smile on my face!


I hope everybody is well. Just because Gary is gone, does not mean that my work stops. I’m still actively looking for an attorney to take a wrongful death suit against the BOP, so if anybody has any ideas please let me know.

Also, I’m helping start up a new women’s group, called Sacred Sisterhood. This group will help those in need, do prisoner work and try to help families of prisoners, and many other things. We are going to be a very active group.

Also, I’m doing the raffle for those arrested in Charlottesville last year, their legal costs are outrageous, so they need all the help they can get.

Additionally, if anybody knows of a prisoner, who is being denied medical care, please contact me through the contact form or email me at susanhyarbrough1219@gmail.com. Instead of making the wrongful death suit just about Gary, I’m going to try to address the fact that our prisons severely lack in medical care, sometimes resulting in death and or permanent damage left by medical neglect.


I decided to do a raffle, instead of an auction. I’m going to raffle off the handkerchief Gary made and a few of the original news articles that Gary kept from their case. This will go to help Jacob Goodwin, Daniel Borden, and Alex Ramos. The tickets are $5 and you can paypal to susanhyarbrough1219@gmail.com. The total amount will be divided among the three, to go towards their legal fees or whatever else they need. I’m going to run this probably for 3 to 4 week. I will post the closing date soon. They need as many funds as they can get. If you have any questions, please email me at susanhyarbrough1219@gmail. Also, if you get tickets, please put in the paypal notes, an email address I can email your raffle tickets to! This goes to a very good cause!

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Even though Gary is gone, I still try to support our prisoners. The three men arrested from Charlottesville: Jacob Goodwin, Alex Ramos, and Daniel Bordon have struggled. They were given an attorney by TWP (who signed the contract) and who also done fund-raising, but kept the money. It is so sad when support for our prisoners are done like that. So, I’m either going to do an auction or raffle for these 3 men to help pay their legal fees, or for whatever they need the money for. The funds raised will be divided among the three men. I will post once I decide if I’m going to do a raffle or an auction. But this is the handkerchief that Gary made, and is what I am going to auction off or raffle off.

Disclaimer: Because I am doing this does not mean that these men support Gary’s views and they are not associated with Gary. I’m doing this to help raise funds for them.

IMG-6433


Here is the official Justice for Gary Yarbrough website I am sorry it took me a bit to get it going, but dealing with Gary’s passing hasn’t been easy.

It has been a different emotion for me every day. Sometimes I’m sad, sometimes I’m angry. I always can see Gary laying in that hospice bed. I was glad I was able to be with him and he wasn’t alone. But Gary weighed maybe a 100 lbs, was to weak to sit up on his own, and was on oxygen….and he couldn’t speak. I have never seen a person with “liver cancer” who lost their ability to talk. How could he get that way in 5 months? I had just seen him 5 months before and he wasn’t healthy (who would be after over 10 years in ADMAX), but he wasn’t a skeleton with skin, as he was when I seen him last. Gary had been diagnosed with aneurysms and various other health conditions, including sleep apnea. One of these conditions is where he needed monthly blood letting for an iron build up in his blood, which ADMAX quit taking him months before he got sick, and I believe that this is what killed him. After our visit, he was calling me and telling me that he was losing weight, couldn’t sleep or eat, and was really sick. I tried, I tried so hard with letter campaigns and such, to try to get him help. But, people were telling others that I was making all this up for attention, when it was right here in Gary’s own handwriting and his medical paperwork. Many were shocked when he died, because they had heard I was making this all up for attention. This is why I am angry. The drama and stress that Gary was put through, when his health wasn’t that good, and people being told that I was making up how bad his health was. But what I am MOST angry at is that the people at ADMAX seen how he was going down and they did nothing. I called Regional and they did nothing. Something needs to change in our prison system, this just didn’t happen to Gary, it is happening to other prisoners. When I talked to Regional, I told them they were legally responsible for Gary’s health, and they were and are responsible. And those people who made it harder for me to do what I was trying to do for Gary, I hope they have to remember that the rest of their lives. They could’ve and should’ve been helping Gary with getting medical attention. But that is neither here or there.

I do have some of Gary’s unpublished works that I will be adding to here, but I will be concentrating on the Justice for Gary Yarbrough website mostly. I need to find an attorney. If anybody has any recommendations, please let me know. I have all of Gary’s medical paperwork that shows the medical neglect. I miss my husband greatly. I’m so lost without him, and I’m trying to work on all my anger and grief because I do need to get busy with this…I can’t get lost in a depression right now. What’s done is done. The past cannot be undone, but maybe in the future, people will leave a married couples business to the married couple, and listen when somebody says that somebody is ill and needs help, maybe they will listen because it’s too late to help Gary. I’m sorry I wrote this here. This is just about Gary, his writings, the fight for his justice, etc, but I had to vent. I don’t want this to happen again to any of our political prisoners or to anybody who has a loved one in prison. I had to vent some of my anger because it was just growing and growing. I needed this out of the way so I could concentrate on what I need to do for Gary. I am going to try my hardest to find justice for him..he deserves it…he truly does! And, we all need to learn from our mistakes, mine included. In David Tate’s eulogy to Gary, he talked of forgiveness, my husband was a big believer in forgiveness. I’m trying, I really am. But, while I was trying to concentrate on getting my husband medical help, there was all this other crap going on that took away from much needed important time and help he could’ve received. I’m at fault to, I shouldn’t have let it distract me from what I needed to do. I knew Gary loved me, and that’s all I needed to know. But I knew my husband and I knew what he stood for and believed in. I loved him dearly and fought as hard as I could.

I will be contacting people once the cairn is finished and the final arrangements are made for the service.

 

 


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Here it is in PDF format, all you have to do is click on the link. If you haven’t read David Tate’s “The Movement is Dead..Long Live the Folk Cause, you really need to! David does not mind people sharing his works, they are meant for Folk to read. I had referred many to this article, so I wanted to make it available for people to read. It truly is a wonderful article with a lot of truth in it! It was originally published in the National Free Press. As it states at the top of the article that there is permission to publish this article, as long as credit is given to the author (David C. Tate) and National Free Press. I ask David though and he told me to feel free to share any of his works, that is why he writes them, for Folk to read them!


David Tate wrote a eulogy for Gary. They were very close, and it hurt David, when Gary passed away. I ask David, since him and Gary were so close, if he could write a eulogy for Gary, and here it is. He did a wonderful job, and I cried. Thank you so much, Brother. After getting to know David, since Gary passed, I see how strong of a man David is, and I have come to truly treasure his friendship. Christ is King! Please feel free to share this on any other website or social media. David really did a wonderful job.

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