Lest We Forget

Perhaps it was a week ago that my father gave me something. It is a book, called the “Log of Life.” Originally published in 1948. My father was born in 1956, so this is something my Grandfather had obviously kept in storage. The premise of the book was simple, it was a rubric of records, designed to accompany American parents on their journey of parenthood. Birth weight, first steps, for the youngling years, hobbies, friends (including a delightfully insensitive ‘foreign friends’ category with caricatures of Mongorians.) And on and on. The object principle is for the book to end with the target child having their own children and leaving the book as an heirloom. I can say no better than the book’s own introduction.

“’There is no place like home,” This is the thought that lends endearment to the scenes of our childhood and canopies of Heaven of our to-days and yesterdays with a flood of fond recollections and joyful anticipations. Yet memories are safeguarded only as we record them, we say, and so they are.

Blessed is the community which has a goodly number of public spirited, community minded and home loving parents who, while not forgetting their own welfare, are diligently mindful of the welfare of the individual child.

Records are the building stones of the future whereby the super-structure of a praiseworthy society as well as a more splendid race displaying bodies patterned after the Greek Adonis with minds reflecting the noblest ideals, highest ambitions, and truest Christian principles, may be realised.

Through the co-operative efforts of the parents, this booklet will become a BIRTH-RIGHT not only to the individual child but to all succeeding generations.

And now as we deport ourselves to-day so shall we succeed or fail tomorrow. We need only to remember the words of the kindly Philosopher who said: “By their fruits ye shall know them.”

L. L. Foley
Chas. D. McMillan

Such beauty. 1948, this was the published year. It was not so terribly long ago that the American was weighed down by a glory Biblical scholars know well. Something modern man forgets, that not even 88 years ago our grandfathers knew, glory has weight. It almost brings a tear to the eye. At least for me, because this is a personal thing. My family means something. We are not genetic detritus to be sacrificed on the altar of the salad bowl or melting pot. My Grandfather intentioned his children to bear a legacy. Now, and this is another matter, it might have been to his detriment that he was not able to fully voice this vision until much later, far later than would have been desired, as the pages thereunto are often blank of note. This is true. My father recorded less. Nothing, unless I am mistaken. In both cases the emotional makeup of either man assailed their efforts to create a domestic environment conducive to such lofty ideals. I have broken the record of silence and taken my family’s name back and shall safeguard it from oblivion. If I achieve nothing else with my life, considering all of my other admittedly failed ambitions, than I shall have achieved no small thing.

For years I have sat on the records of my family, being the last male in my line to bear our name – until the birth of my Son. So for me, the quest for meaning, but also of existence, is a personal one. It has been all I have had, seeing as my parents were of the opinion many things were irrelevant. Breeding, purpose, vision were all negotiable. Why? It is a complicated affair, but between the years of 1945 till now a steady decay was allowed for, encouraged, and by design perpetrated. Many of my readers shall know the source of the decay, but that discussion has been had ad infinitum et nauseam in aeternum. The wheels on the machinery collapsed, in less than a hundred years a Nation devolved into a Country, and this Country we have looks to Balkanised even further along imaginary lines.

Here I am, a Nationalist accustomed to the theories of his politick, given a slice of the reality, the firmament. Family is the cornerstone of why I do this. Without family, there is no Race, no Nation. People forget this, they feel it is negotiable. The reality for them, of what has been stolen, is hard to fathom. They work up an artificial anger to mourn a life unlived. Understandable. I’ve done it myself. And then, to excuse themselves from the necessity of doctrinal engagement, they create a circle jerk of cynicism. The American Experiment was doomed from the start, they say. Perhaps it is their own genetic dead-ends that were doomed, whether by God or chance or the unknowable Parcae, Moirai and Nornir I have documents that show otherwise.

Within 88 years’ time, America devolved. This is true, incontestable evidence is to be found no further than at your local Wal-Mart. We were a Nation. Consider that. A Nation with a stable set of phenotypes. A Nation with a Creed, with founding myths and legends. A Nation with preferred folktales above and beyond the found religious testimonies. We had dreams, as a nation, pride of purpose. This book of mine does not speak of ‘races,’ and it did not contrive ‘humanity.’ One many read any number of books published prior to 1950 and find similar sentiments exhausted into the annals of history. Even the “White Goddess” of Robert Graves, so often capitalised upon by feminists and such ilk, spoke of the Racial inheritance of the West, collectively. It spoke of the degeneracy of the lesser man polluting Racial awareness. This from a man who in Christian society professed a kind of Goddess, hardly the stuff of political orthodoxy – for those who wish to say racial preference was reserved for archons of conservatism and paleo-Republicanism.

Upon the foundry of this Nation, such as it was until recently, there was a healthy predisposition to Graeco-Roman mythology. It saturated the face of this Nation so to the point that one might wonder if the obsession was more than a passing interest and not a crypto-sympathy. The colonnades and domes that forged the architectural glories of American Statesmanship purposely channelled the pagan soul of Greece and Rome. The American Heart was split between the beat of Pagan drums and Christian superficiality. Destiny was a concept familiar to all but the stodgiest of limp-wristed unbelievers. Upon this agreed Theist and Deist, there was yet to be revealed into our culture the slithering tongue of the public subverter. Citizens once freely discussed higher things than Sports Ball. Citizens once shared their minds, and were not afraid of upsetting an entirely synthetic status quo upheld by economically sanctioned self-censorship.

It is this past, full of prophesied potential, that statesmen spit on and declare has returned. Donald Trump intoned American values had returned, at his last State of the Union Address. An interesting chose of abject falsehood, may the God of his Ancestors shatter the teeth in his lieing mouth and cast his riches to the winds for his Israeli handlers to gobble up, vomiting filth into the desert. Americans should be so lucky as to even vaguely grasp the loss our Race (for that is what we were, once, a race unto our own) has endured. Their own family was privy to a world we can scarcely comprehend, where there was amid the hardship and gloom (that the state-appointed cynic will remind us of) also a prevailing sense of purpose and belonging.

The workingman contributed to something actually great. Community permeated the fabric. Can you imagine feeling obligated to take pride in your labours, knowing they contributed to the betterment of a great society? Can you imagine a world where things are looking up? A world where your hopes lie in tomorrowland, which you know that by superior science and the Grace of God shall prevail? Can you imagine sleeping easy at night, trusting your neighbours? Can you imagine having an unbroken past, knowing that your family was the culmination of a great voyage of peoples from Europe unto here? Can you imagine feeling belonging, like you are needed, and that your efforts are valued?

That was stolen. And more than that, it was sacrificed. And for what? If you ask your parents why the change, they probably won’t even know. But we do, and that matters. We can turn the tide, if only through generations. We cannot fully absolve the damage that has been done, but there are some wounds that time really can heal, for it was time that drove them deep.

My child will know his racial inheritance, right down unto the drops of blood that make his veins. Will yours?