Poor Man Survival
Self Reliance tools for independent minded people…
A Digest of Urban Survival Resources
The American Experiment is on life support…Preparing for Civil War Against Leftists
Regardless of who wins the elections, American cities will burn because elements outside of U.S. hell bent on destroying our communities [even Wall Street and Silicon Valley are in on the coup of American values], erasing our shared history, and ripping out the roots of our nation, and replacing it with a perverted communist agenda…Part III
My UK associate, a former MI6 agent [the same one who warned me in ’16 of the fake Steele dossier used to start a coup against Trump] tells me of the Deep State snakes ongoing coup efforts funded by globalist/socialists Soros, Bloomberg, et al and its ties, along with the Biden family, to Communist China. Due in large part to media manipulation by these two anti-Americans, he projects Biden’s of a win at 49%, giving Trump a 47.7% odds.
These globalist are hell-bent on destroying America and even the indoctrinated socialist youth of America will rue the day if Biden and his cadre of Communists win.
–>link to previous post here: https://poormansurvivorblog.blogspot.com/2020/10/what-to-do-if-america-turns-socialist.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed:+blogspot/zAXAf+(Poor+Man+Survivor-The+Urban+Survivalist)
Many years later while at Stanford, I ended up living in a progressive student house. One of the things that made this house so progressive was the heroic attempt by its students to grow their own vegetables in the house garden. I couldn’t quite understand these efforts. We didn’t need food, and nobody had time to genuinely mind the garden, so the result was meek, half-rotten crops whose main function was to feed local rats and raccoons. There was something almost sacrilegious in growing food that systematically went to waste. I looked at it with a mixture of cultural wonder, sadness, and confusion. It was like raping Mother Earth, stealing from her what we didn’t need for an empty symbolic gesture of self-righteous grandeur. In their fashionable quest for sustainability, the students also decided to cultivate their own compost pile in the backyard, but since nobody had either the time or the patience to mind it, the compost too became a favorite playground of all the local rodents, and a constant source of aroma that filled the air of my small ground-floor room. My mother used to manage her own compost, too, but as I remember it, it never smelled, and I never saw one rat frolicking on it in joyful abandon, as they often did on our Stanford compost. Perhaps it was because my mother sprinkled her compost with soil each time she put something on it. Or perhaps it was because she would check up on it a few times a week, aware that it was supposed to feed a good part of her yearly crops. I don’t know.
Our share was located a few miles outside of our town and it took us about an hour, hour-and-a-half, to walk there. My mother made this walk a couple times a week from early spring to late fall. The season started sometime in late March, early April, and it always opened with the same ritual. After work, my mother, still dressed in her office clothes, pushed my stroller slowly through the winding roads by the riverbank and train tracks. We spotted the first signs of spring, but never really talked. My mother was always somewhere else, ahead of herself in her thoughts, stopping only occasionally to fix the straps of her high heels, or to pick a wildflower that I asked for. My small dog marched bravely next to my stroller, tangling its leash in its wheels or around my mother’s legs. Once we got to our share, a huge pile of horse manure that my mother bought from the local farmer was waiting for us. Spreading the manure was supposed to be my father’s job, but since it had to be done before the first rain washed all the nutrients out of it into one spot in the ground, and since my father always took his time to get around to it, my mother would customarily lose patience and do it herself. I suspected that my father procrastinated each year on purpose, fully aware of the fact that she would eventually break down and do it herself rather than worry about the manure losing its nutritional value.
And so, each spring, the ceremony repeated itself. My mother would take off her office clothes, her high heels, and her wedding band, and change into old jeans and my father’s plaid flannel shirt. With a gesture worthy of a film noir femme fatale, she smoked a cigarette while strolling around between patches, checking up on the soil and the roots of whatever survived the winter: her roses, raspberry bushes, and trees. Then, she rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, grabbed a dung-fork, and began spreading the manure neatly all over the ground. Once this was done, she smoked another cigarette, took the shovel, and flipped the manure over so that it was now covered with soil. Another cigarette and she grabbed the rake with which she broke the larger chunks of soil, smoothing it away in preparation for the spring seedlings. I sat there in my stroller, dressed in four sweaters, grumpy and whiny, with my dog on my lap, watching my mother lazily, pointing out the spots she had missed and complaining about the smell of manure. Once she was done, my mother took off her jeans and her flannel shirt. She put her office clothes, her wedding band, and her high heels back on, fixed her hair and her makeup, and washed her hands in the nearby river. Slowly and silently she pushed my stroller as we went back home for supper, picking up more wildflowers on our way back. Our dog, bored to death, jumped around, happy we were going back.
In socialism, organizing a food co-op with your friends and family is a must. We didn’t know we were creating co-ops, and there was no official roster as to who exchanges what, but everyone had a specialty food they produced. My parents’ friends’ in-laws had an apple orchard, so every fall we got a couple of boxes of apples from them. My mother peeled, diced, and dried them for winter. My aunt Kazia had a large orchard with cherry trees and raspberry bushes. Every year, my mom and my aunt Eva, with my three cousins, went to visit Aunt Kazia to pick the cherries and raspberries. The boys climbed trees and I sat on a little wooden stool by the raspberry bush, eating most of what I picked. Every year, all three of my cousins and I got sick from overeating freshly picked cherries and raspberries. My grandmother had a garden with edible roses. When the rose flowers were picked, my job was to de-petal them. Once all the petals were removed, my grandmother made rose jam, by blending them with sugar and a touch of vanilla. My grandmother’s garden was bulldozed years ago to make room for a new socialist bungalow, and it’s been over twenty years since I’ve eaten rose jam. If you’ve never made or eaten rose jam, you’ve missed out on one of life’s most sensual pleasures. . . .
Ironically, whatever food we did have, it was 100% all-natural and organic, and not because we were health conscious, elitist, or obsessed with our longevity. No, there were simply no fertilizers, hormones, or pesticides that anybody could buy or even afford. There was only horse manure and compost. I grew up without soda pop and refined sugar. Without chewing gum and M&M’s, without Lunchables and Gerber baby foods, without Snickers Bars, Power Bars, and breakfast bars. Without Pop-tarts, Popsicles, and popcorn. Once in a blue moon, my father bought a bottle of Pepsi or a tablet of Swiss chocolate from Pewex, a chain of stores that catered to foreign tourists. Pewex carried Western sweets, drinks, coffee, and alcohol. You could only shop there with dollars, which meant that only foreigners could shop there, as it was illegal for any Pole to own dollars. The fact that owning dollars was illegal didn’t stop anyone from buying them on the black market to shop in Pewex for birthday sweets and coffee. My father did too, and so each birthday and holiday was celebrated with a tablet of Swiss chocolate, which he ceremoniously divided and passed around among us like a sacred offering.
6. My first encounter with the plentiful and the tasteless
When we came to the U.S. the only grocery store we could afford was Aldi, a chain of stores catering to immigrants and food-stamp recipients. If you’ve never been to Aldi, it looks somewhat like a warehouse. For twenty bucks, you can feed a four-person family for a week. The only problem with Aldi’s food is that it has no taste. Whatever we bought, it had no taste. Strawberries tasted like paper, bread tasted like cotton balls, milk tasted like bleach, and ice cream tasted like tissues soaked in sugar. Within my first month on U.S. soil I developed a strange rash, most likely a response of my spoiled body to the avalanche of chemicals it was suddenly asked to process. My mother and I wondered aloud whether American children who were born here ever knew what a real strawberry or real bread should taste like. It seemed incomprehensible that in this richest country in the world, most of its citizens grew up never knowing the taste of real food. Eventually, I got used to tasteless food, and my rashes went away, but eating became a constantly failed search for the lost taste. It took me thirteen years before I could afford the same kind of food I ate as a child. I remember the anticipation I felt when I finally bought my first pint of organic strawberries. Would they taste like those from my mother’s share? Or would they taste like paper? Another irony of socialist life was that though our socialist government was not able to maintain regular delivery of bread or toilet paper to its stores, it had ambitions to produce and deliver luxury goods.
In fact, each country in the socialist bloc proudly exported its own brand of luxury: Poles had world-class vodka, Russians had Beluga caviar, Cubans, our friends, had cigars, and Hungarians had their Royal Tokaji (currently sold online at $500 for a half-bottle). Once in a while, usually for their anniversary, my parents enjoyed some of these perks of socialist living as all the countries in the socialist bloc would customarily exchange their luxury goods at nominal mark-ups. Since I was too young to participate in these pleasures of adult life, unfortunately, I missed that part. It will probably take me another thirteen years before sentiment moves me to splurge on Russian caviar or half a glass of Tokaji. . . .
7. Eating habits here and there, then and now, and why a 12-step program doesn’t always change your ways
Depending on the circumstances you grew up in, you develop different food habits. My grandmother, who spent her youth in a German labor camp, had a habit of hiding breadcrumbs in her pockets. My American friends who grew up under capitalism like to throw food fights. I, who grew up under socialism, developed a habit of leaving half of my meal on a plate for later, just in case I needed it in the future. This way, I am always certain to know where my next meal comes from. When I got married, the habit became less burdensome and, in fact, very much appreciated by my husband, who, oblivious to my covert prudence, would gleefully consume whatever I left on my plate. Although with the help of my all-devouring husband, I managed to 12-step myself out of the habit, there are still occasional moments when it returns. Three weeks ago, I had dinner with a friend. It was a nice downtown restaurant with starched white tablecloths and stainless steel candlesticks, my friend was smiling at me genially, and I never felt farther away from socialism than I felt at that moment. But then, in the middle of my meal, the impulse came to stop eating, to leave it for later, just in case. . .
GUERILLA FIGHTING GUIDES
Some Say It Can’t Happen Here. But Many Never Believed a Pandemic Would Happen Either.
Civil disobedience is actually a sign of a functioning democratic society. Thoreau outlined civil disobedience in Walden Pond as a necessary right when expressed through passive resistance. Both Gandhi and Martin Luther King espoused passive resistance as a way to protest without causing damage or harm to others.
Unfortunately, the right to free speech and to assemble in public to protest is not always governed by the calm and sound thinking of Thoreau...
You may also like...
SEVEN PILLARS OF A COLOR REVOLUTION
A group of former government officials, journalists, senior campaign managers, along with other anti-Trump folks met this past summer to war-game the upcoming Presidential election. The group was called (TIP). Some of the dignitaries that attended the meeting as reported by were:
Civil War: How America Could End – Glenn Becktps:/ https://youtu.be/0HaXZgPD1VU/youtu.be/0HaXZgPD1VU
Obama leads the revolution/coup attempts against Trump even publishing a manual-Organizing for Action.
Just a few years ago, the mere concept of a Civil War 2.0 seemed like a fantasy. But now, as tensions have risen and the country has become more unstable, the possibility of a civil war is on a lot of people’s minds.
As a result, we can no longer just prepare ourselves for the possibility of a natural disaster or an economic catastrophe. We have to prepare for the possibility of a civil war as wel. Would you be prepared if fighting were to erupt in your city?
This video by City Prepping explains how to prepare for an American Civil War...
You may also like...
Our phones are extremely important in a crisis.
They hold information and special functions that are essential for survival.
Essential information like important contacts, incoming public alerts, and they give us online access to survival strategies and life-saving techniques.
Your phone also has special functions like digital compasses, levels, and even the tiny flashlight that can be the difference between life or death in a crisis.
Your phone is that important, and should not be overlooked as an essential survival device.
THE MAJOR PROBLEM: Your phone’s power fails quicker than any survival tool you own.
THE SOLUTION: Fortunately, when you grab this "forever charger," your phone will always be charged…available at our storefront!
NEW! Home Circuit Power Saving Device-Save 30—90% on Your Electric Bill.
Home Circuits Power Saving Device-Environment Friendly!
…as advertised in Reader’s Digest
Power Electricity Energy Savings Device- 30% or more Savings 90V-250V 50Hz-60Hz
Easy-to-use---No Maintenance Provides or a more stable environment for your household electrical grid…invented in Germany
Free enterprise, limited government, individual freedom!
Contributors and subscribers enable the Poor Man Survivor to post 150+ free essays annually. It is for this reason they are Heroes and Heroines of New Media. Without your financial support, the free content would disappear for the simple reason that I cannot keep body and soul together on my meager book sales & ecommerce alone.
You Can’t Buy Life Insurance After You’re Dead
That's Bad News...
You Can’t Buy Life Insurance After You’re Dead-Prepare NOW for Emergencies…Small radios, hydrapaks, books, emergency power cell or solar/battery radio weather radio!
Support our efforts by shopping my storefront…
A Smoking Frog Feature, Shallow Planet Production