Preserve, Protect, and Defend the Constitution: Written by an Old American

Copyright © 2014 Bill Terrel.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-0606-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0608-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0607-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014933911

Archway Publishing rev. date: 03/03/2014

CONTENTS

Chapter 1   Introduction

Chapter 2   A Narrative by a Patriotic American

Chapter 3   Obama versus Romney

Chapter 4   Obama: Man of Many Faces

Chapter 5   Now and Then

Chapter 6   Obamacare, an Insurance Racket

Chapter 7   Immigration: A Day to Remember

Chapter 8   BP Oil Spill

Chapter 9   Sequestration

Chapter 10   Letters to People of Importance

Chapter 11   Phony Scandals

Chapter 12   Benghazi

Chapter 13   Guns

Chapter 14   Dream

Chapter 15   Syria

Chapter 16   Government Shutdown

Chapter 17   Why?

Chapter 18   Final Chapter

CHAPTER 1

Introduction

Reason

I FEEL I NEED TO introduce myself and explain my reason for writing this book. My name is William Edwards Terrel—most know me as Bill—and I was born in Texas on June 11, 1929, which makes me just one month shy of eighty-four years old. I spent the first eleven years of my life, which I consider the formidable years, in Texas, and I moved to New Mexico in 1940. They say, Once a Texan, always a Texan, but that was not quite true in my case. I guess you could say I am a Texacan. I have lived in New Mexico ever since. I have worked hard all of these years. I have been up and down financially three times—bankrupt the last time, in the late 1990s—and too damn tired to get up and try again. I might sound a little bitter, but I hope not. It’s been a hard life but a good life. God, if I could, I would love to live it all over again. Certainly I would like to make a few changes, but if I couldn’t, I would love to repeat each and every day. The good most definitely outweighs the bad in my memories of those eighty-four years. Some choices I made were good, and some were not so good, but they were my choices. I lived as a free man.

This country that I so dearly love has a Constitution that grants me the right to live as freely as the breezes that blows through the trees. I am as free as a bird soaring through the sky. No, America is not perfect—hell, nothing is—but it is unquestionably the greatest nation on earth. Eighty-four years is not such a long time, yet it’s almost a third of the time this nation has been in existence—just a little over two hundred years. Over the past eighty-four years, or the last third of this nation’s existence, this country too has seen some good and some bad times. For the most part, after the bad times, it has emerged stronger. History as well as my memory pretty well make that a fact, and until recent years, this has been the case; however, it is no longer true. I am concerned about the future of our nation; my overwhelming concerns and my desire to be heard are the compelling forces that cause me to write.

I certainly am not going to blow up any buildings, not the Pentagon, police stations, or the Capitol Building—you know, all the places Bill Ayers tried to attack. He and his underground organization didn’t have the brains to make a bomb that would do much damage; however, one of his pupils (or an observer, if you prefer), Timothy McVeigh, blew up the Murray Building in Oklahoma. This imbecile, for his dastardly deed, was executed. Bill Ayers, rather than receiving punishment, became a professor at Columbia University as well as other universities. I mention these incidents only to make it plain that I don’t want to do anything this stupid in order to draw attention to my ideas or to be heard.

I realize that my lack of education and experience in writing make it unlikely, if not impossible, that I will be able to write this work in an intelligent manner and that many people will read and give serious thought to all that I have written. I realize that I ramble, that I am a radical (it may appear), and that my attempt to write over a period of months—or even, in some cases, years—has caused me to repeat myself perhaps too much, but because of the way I have written the book, it has just turned out that way. In the beginning, I wrote many times to different organizations and different congressman and senators. I tried e-mails, phone calls—anything I could think of in an attempt to be heard—yet all of my efforts seemed pointless. Then I thought that if I wrote a book, I could pass what I know on to all Americans who are honestly interested in the true facts of the problems we face today. Much of my reputation is not by accident. Nor caused by stupidity, but is done intentionally . I repeat statements—sentences, perhaps an entire paragraph. I do this through out this book in an attempt to stress the importance (example). The preservation of the Constitution of these United States is the most important factor facing our nation today ! Preserve, Protect and Defend the Constitution!

Preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution. This is my battle cry—and should be that of every American ! Yes that’s what I said every American, Republican, Democrat, independent, every person who truly loves this nation knows, without doubt, the Constitution is the fiber that binds this country together.

I wish to make it perfectly clear that I am a conservative Republican, but all of my writings, claims, and statements are for one reason: to find and show the truth, to show everyone the facts that are so clear. These facts are obvious, yet for reasons beyond my understanding, many people seem to ignore them—often because they believe they cannot do anything about the situation. Many people are not even aware of what has been and is going on, partly because of the neglect of the mainstream media (whether it’s just neglect or possibly involvement in this so-called cover-up) or, as Hillary says, At this time, what difference does it make?

It makes all the difference in the world, if we cannot—do not—find and expose all of the truths pertaining to Benghazi as well as the other phony scandals, we are in one hell of a mess. Without a doubt, some will criticize what I write, call it trash, or say it is politically motivated, part of the political circus, or part of the Republicans’ political game—those are the phrases Mr. Obama used in his news conference on May 13, 2013. I always wanted to be a circus performer, and thanks to many in his administration, to any and all connected to the Benghazi situation, we can consider that debacle a three-ring circus.

But after you have read my book and given serious thought to what I have said and the matters I consider factual, you might be ashamed and embarrassed to realize that we—we being a large part of this nation’s population, including those who voted for Mr. Obama, those who voted against Mr. Obama, and those who didn’t vote at all—need to consider the current state of America and accept the fact that we the people are responsible for the existing conditions, yes! We the people are responsible and we the people , every American citizen eligible to vote, has a duty to this country to cast their vote for the good of this country, not for the party but for the good of this nation. I I have written about other matters of great importance to our nation, such as immigration, guns, gun violence, our financial conditions, and unemployment, expressing my memories and views of a few everyday problems. I invariably come back to the issue of Benghazi, the reason being that this is the worst atrocity ever committed against the American people, and for eight months now, it has not gone away. If I have my way, it never will until the people involved in this atrocity are brought to justice. I believe the attackers should be executed; they do not even deserve trials. Their terrorist acts were acts of war. When I use the word atrocity, I mean the people who lied to us—the people who altered statements and knowingly lied to us for whatever reason. I don’t know the full story, and without a thorough and complete investigation, we will never know—and yes, you had better believe there is more involved than just a cover-up to aid a political election.

Old American

I AM AN EIGHTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD AMERICAN, a Native American. That’s right—I am of Caucasian origin according to my birth certificate issued by the great state of Texas on June 11, 1929, registered as William Edwards Terrel. Eighty-four years doesn’t seem like such a long time when you stop to think about it; it’s roughly a third of the time our great nation has existed. Now that I’ve paused to look back over the years, I realize that our institutes of higher learning do not offer any courses that could even begin to teach what my experiences over the years have taught me. I attribute much of my early remembrance to my father and his philosophy of life. He taught my two older brothers and me what I feel is, or should be, the foundation of the American way of life. According to historical records, the Great Depression began in 1929. My father called me the Depression Kid.

I was a little over three years old, yet I remember this as though it were yesterday. Although he had a full-time job with Phillips Petroleum, he always stayed busy. He worked hard, he played hard, and on his days off, he would work on our house, take odd jobs, or play with us. He loved to play baseball but taught us that work comes first.

One time, a neighbor had his house ready to be plastered but didn’t know how to plaster. He asked my dad to help him, stating that he didn’t have much money but needed to get the work done before the winter weather started. After measuring the house and estimating the time needed to do the job, my dad asked the man, John, if he could afford five dollars. The man responded somewhat bashfully that he couldn’t. My dad said, John, I know what it is to be broke, and I understand your situation. How about a dollar?

Again, John looked down and shuffled his feet, and he said, Jack, I’m sorry, but I haven’t got a dollar.

My dad said, John, I came over here to look your job over and try to help you out; you have everything ready to go. You’ve got the sand, the cement—what can you afford?

John said, No, Jack, I won’t insult you. I’m sorry I had you come over.

Once again, my dad said, John, how much do you have?

John responded, A dime.

My dad said, It will be a long, hard day. I’ll be back here at daybreak and will get this job done.

On the way home, my oldest brother said, Daddy, you can’t do that for a dime.

My dad stopped, pulled the three of us close to him, and said, Pay close attention—this is a very important lesson, a rule of life that you need to understand and should be a guide for you all through life. You take a job, whatever exists, and you perform your duty to the best of your ability. If you don’t like the job because it don’t pay enough or it’s too hard—whatever the reason—you keep that job until you find something better. It is no sin to ask for help, and it is no sin to receive help, but it is much better to work and receive some pay than to not work and receive no pay. My father stressed his belief that this was what made America great.

Early Years, Texas

MCLEAN, TEXAS, A SMALL TOWN in the northeast portion of the Texas Panhandle, was my hometown, my place of birth, and it was where I spent the first nine years of my life. The first, second, and third grades of school started every morning with the entire school body placing their right hands over their hearts and clearly and loudly saying the Pledge of Allegiance. To my recollection, no one disagreed with this practice. Everyone and I looked forward to starting the day this way—by doing something that made us feel good, made us proud to be Americans. I was proud to be a Texan, but the knowledge that Texas was part of the larger body enhanced this pride.

At that time, Texas was one of the forty-eight states that made up the United States of America. When I mention things I remember, I do not think that I am exaggerating. Sure, we thought about the Fourth of July as a reason to celebrate. Even at an early age, we enjoyed the picnics, fireworks, and rodeos, but even at that early age, we were taught to remember the sacrifices made by our forefathers who gave their all so that we could enjoy the freedoms we had as a free and independent nation. Our school days introduced us to many things, such as the Fourth of July. We looked forward to other holidays—any excuse to get out of school—including Thanksgiving Day, Valentine’s Day, Christmas, and probably several others. The America I grew up in gave each individual the right to pick and choose and to live according to his or her individual beliefs. No rules or laws said one had to honor, respect, or in any way accept these holidays or, for that matter, any of the practices exercised that express our freedoms. Free, freedom—any way you say it, it means America.

These are the formidable years, from infancy till death. All living things have instincts in the beginning, and then, out of necessity, we learn to crawl, stand, walk, run, cry, and laugh. We learn what’s bad and what’s good—all of the basic human necessities of life; the human brain is like a sponge. It soaks up knowledge at an early age, and things are embedded in our brains. We each develop a memory bank, so to speak, though at the time, we are not even aware of it. Things that we hear and see become parts of our memory and are parts of us. Our parents and our teachers have a great influence on our lives, but our everyday surroundings are equally important.

For the most part, in the early 1930s, the American public primarily depended on the printed news (newspapers, etc.) to stay abreast of current events. The radio was more for entertainment than for news broadcasts. The movies had barely advanced from the silent-picture days; films were black and white, of course, and mostly westerns with cowboys and plenty of action and guns. I’m sure the producers and directors didn’t know what they were doing; the good guys invariably won, but strangely enough, the bad guys never got shot—the good guys simply shot their guns out of their hands. There was always a comedy and a newsreel. People accepted the news from these newsreels as fact. The pictures shown on these newsreels are my first recollection of a man named Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party. My book will include more about the Nazis and what I learned of them at that early age. I mention the movies mainly because regularly going to movies was how I learned much about the world’s current events taking place. I see things today that, to a large degree, seem to run parallel to many things I saw sixty to seventy years ago.

We moved to Amarillo, Texas, in 1937. Life was pretty much the same, except at the time, people considered Amarillo a small city. So naturally, life changed from a country style to city life. My middle brother, Tommy, and I began selling newspapers—the Amarillo Times—for five cents a copy. We weren’t bashful; Tommy and I sold more than the old guys. During this time, while living the city life, we were introduced to gangs. Texans still stressed the idea of remembering the Alamo and felt Mexicans belonged on the other side of the tracks. Consequently, frequent youthful skirmishes occurred.

My schooling continued on much the same for the fourth, fifth, and sixth grades. I enjoyed school for the most part, mainly history and math. My brothers and I spent most of our summers at one of two public pools in Amarillo, and we played football year-round.

In 1941, we moved to a small community in New Mexico—actually, you might consider it to be three small communities: Magdalena, the original Magdalena, and Kelly. Magdalena was the railhead; it was third-largest livestock shipping point in the world. In addition, A. S. and R. had a considerable mining and smelting operation. The mine and mill employed more than five thousand men. The ore and concentrates (mostly lead and zinc) were shipped by rail from Magdalena. Considerable timber- and lumber-producing operations in the western part of New Mexico and Arizona also used the rail facility in Magdalena.

Small-Town Life

MAGDALENA WAS NOT A BOOMTOWN. However, in 1941, one might have considered it such, since unemployment was practically zero. Anyone who wanted a job had no trouble getting one. The town consisted of four automobile dealerships, two hotels, two drugstores, two mercantile stores similar to today’s Walmart (but on a much smaller scale, of course), two banks, numerous smaller grocery and hardware stores, and seven or eight bars. Works Progress Administration built a grade school and gym in 1937. The high school was built several years earlier. Oh, I failed to mention that there was one theater. I have described the village in order to reflect on things I believe affected my growing. Magdalena’s population was probably 45 percent Mexican, 45 percent Caucasian (white, gringo), and 10 percent Native American, mainly Navajo. All of the things that happened because of this racial mix had and have a great deal to do with the way I feel about race.

In the New Mexico school system, I completely lost all interest. Classes in grade school were overcrowded; the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades had sixty to seventy students per grade, and there were two classes for each, with thirty to thirty-five students per room. Nothing new was covered. The curriculum included the same information I had learned two to three grades back in the Texas educational system. When we got to Magdalena, I entered the sixth grade, and two weeks later, I was bumped up into the seventh grade. A short while later, I was advanced into the eighth grade, and more of the same continued. My oldest brother, Dale, because he loved football, hated to leave Amarillo, but it seemed as if things might work out for him in Magdalena—over one hundred boys went out for spring training.

Then all hell broke loose, and the world changed on December 7, 1941. The United States went to war, and so did every young man in the Magdalena area and across the United States. White, Mexican, Indian—in Magdalena, it made no difference; it seemed as if every man eighteen and older volunteered (I will cover World War II more throughout this book because of its importance to our nation and the way people and events of that time parallel today’s problems). My freshman class had twenty students, and that number dwindled through the remainder of my high school years. I barely managed to graduate high school—five girls and me.

I do not intend these writings to be about me but about what I have learned while living the American dream for some eighty odd years. Yes, I am a tired old man, and in some ways, I’m mighty bitter, but I can still say I am a proud American—and I’m damn proud of it. I still believe in the American dream, and I know there’s no place on earth that gives a man the chance for a better way of life than that guaranteed to us by the Constitution of these United States. I am a conservative Republican—some would say too conservative, and maybe that’s so.

In America, if you’re willing to work hard, are to some degree successful, and then, for whatever reason, are knocked on your ass and find yourself bankrupt or wiped out, you can get up with profound determination and try it again—this time with the benefit of some of your learnings. Things might seem better, but if you trust the wrong people again, you might become bankrupt all over again. This second time, your misfortune will likely be a little bit harder to stomach, but even though perhaps you contemplate murder, you realize this isn’t the solution and stay the course; instead, you grit your teeth and start at the bottom once again. Pretty soon, you’re a little older and a little wiser, things seem to be falling into place, and you are doing all right, when out of nowhere, up jumps the devil and—bam!—you’re back down for the third time. This time, you realize you’re too old and too sick to try again—you’re physically not capable. But mentally, you cannot—will not—find it within you to give up, so you keep on, continuing to try; it’s the American way. We, as Americans, cannot give up; it’s never been