FBInformant

Posted 11/30/2003 09:09:00 PM by DC
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LATE NOTE

A kind person has asked that I provide the Jedediah Bartman Deathbed Confession. The lengthy entirety of it may be found on many areas of the internet, but here are a couple portions I kept that were recorded 4 days prior to his passing. His words and warning to us are priceless.

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SOURCE:

http://stevebartman.blogspot.com

BARTMAN FAMILY STATEMENT

[Nov 1, 2003] My name is Jedediah Bartman. On April 15th of this year, I was diagnosed with an inoperable tumor in my spinal cord near the brain stem. My doctors informed me that I had only 4 to 6 months to live. I'm now in the seventh month, and on borrowed time. The pain is manageable, thanks to modern medications, however I can no longer walk or take care of my own hygienic needs.

I am the great-great-greatgrandfather of "Steve Bartman," the infamous fellow who is being hunted down by media, and also many angry Chicago Cub fans, some of whom that lost money in wagering. It is my fervent hope that this piece, "my gift to Chicago," will be accepted as a fair exchange for his "interference" at Wrigley Field two weeks ago.

Steve's family, friends and employer have suffered enormously, and the so-called "jokes" have now done irreversible damage to our family name. I am devastated more by this recent turn of events than by my impending death.

As the head of the Bartman family I humbly ask you, as an American, to consider my plea. I am 94 years of age and at the end of my life. Since last Wednesday, members of the family approach me as though they know the truth. I am dying. Very soon.

People nearing their death can sense it, just as you may sense the change of a season in a single day. Though subtle, it is unmistakably clear. I'll not make it to my January 4 birthdate. Daily now the decrease of my energy level is pronounced in me. I am using literally my final reserve to speak these words. This is why I do it now. I am old yet proud, and I have something to share, with you. Not you the "Cubs fan," but rather you, as an American.

This morning I have asked my granddaughter [Bonnie] to make a tape recording of my words. I've asked her to then carefully transcribe them so that what I say may be read by others, over the Internet. I've also asked that she release it, if as she is able, on the day of my death, as I have no strength to enjoy the outcome, and wish not to be bothered with the flurry such distractions, at this personal and sobering time.

I trust that my words will go far, and that they will accomplish some good. May they set things straight, and bless lives immediately and in the future. I will share with you the reality of my life, as I lived it. God knows that I would not lie to any soul on earth. Like Steve, I've nothing to be ashamed of, nor do I need to impress anyone at all. I share my past in order to clear my conscience before dying, and to restore Liberty to the country that I have served and so cherish. As head of the Bartman family, I only want my descendants to be safe and free.

UNTOLD HISTORY

Never have I told my story to anyone until this day, being the first day of November 2003. What I've lived must not be buried with my body, but rather should be made available to those interested in print, for a swift and widespread distribution. I've instructed the family to not copyright this, nor to receive any remuneration at all. It is my free gift to the people of Chicago, to Steve Bartman, our fine boy, and to every decent American.

Though my memory has had lapses of late, I am at this hour as lucid and keen in thought as I have ever been. I recognize that my language is that of an elderly soul, but for this I offer no apology. It is how I was taught to communicate in my generation. If my plain words are not stylish and modern, forgive the inadequacy.

ABOUT MY LIFE

I've lived a sweet, long life. I have toiled honorably. I've never stolen anything, nor destroyed anything of worth. I fathered six wonderful children. They parented 28 children. These gave me another 102 great-great-grand children and finally, I have held in my arms (just this past week) 5 great-great-great-grandchildren, all infant girls!

The photograph of me with them is the most priceless thing I have ever owned.

My life's work will be complete after I tell you my story. I've chosen to share it this way, because media does not usually publish lengthy and personal pieces such as this. This tale that has been in my breast for so long must come out. It feels wonderful to finally share it with you now. May it produce a blessing to those you cherish. America is about to enter its greatest era. It will happen rapidly. With great turbulence.

Cling to loved ones, help your neighbors and all will work out well. Remember...YOU are America. And that is a privilege, far beyond the common understanding.

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Transcribed by Mrs. Bonnie Bartman. (Part 1 of 5)
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Subj: DEATH NOTICE
Date: 11/4/03 1:43:56 PM Central Standard Time
From: MayorDaley@CityofChigago.org
To: controlcover@juno.com

Please notify time and place. The Mayor desires to attend.

BARTMAN FAMILY DEATH NOTICE
replies received as of 2:30 pm EST

http://stevebartman.blogspot.com
.

"Chicago and the world has lost a giant." - Mayor Richard Daley, Chicago
.
"One of the finest men to have ever lived." - H. Ross Perot, Dallas, TX

"If all families were as his, the world would know peace." - David B. Guralnick, NY

"The finest Scout Leader since Baden-Powell." - Charlton Heston, Beverly Hills, CA

"Scholar, friend and one helluva soul." - Brian Lamb, Washington, DC

"The world will not be the same with him gone." - Judy Collins, NY

"Everyone has lost a guide, mentor and teacher." -Larry King, Atlanta, GA

"We send you our warmest sympathies and love." - Gordon B. Hinkley, SLC

"Our lives have been blessed and now we mourn." - Barbra Streisand, Malibu, CA
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Send personal sentiments to

Father Jedediah Bartman was pronounced dead on Tuesday morning, November 4, 2003, at 4:16 AM, two months before his 95th birthday. This message (Part 2 of 5) is released in fulfillment of his last wish. "He left us gently, still." He died peacefully, while in his sleep.

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Subj: Part 2 of 5 - PERSONAL HISTORY
Deathbed confession of Jedediah Bartman
From: bbartman@xxxxxxx.net
To: MayorDaley@CityofChicago.org
November 4, 2003 09:11:01 CST
[Internet Release]

The 5 Parts will be posted at:
http://stevebartman.blogspot.com

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Dear Mayor Daley,

On a rainy morning in the Hudson Valley of New York, on January 4, 1909, a boy was born.

That boy died this morning. His name was Jedediah Bartman. Some knew him as the great-great-great grandfather of Steve Bartman, (the hated Cubs fan.) But we all knew him as Jed...the Sage of our family. A wildly popular Scout leader for years, Father Jed enjoyed public speaking, traveling and especially his vast family. Before he died, he made a farewell statement. He asked that you be given a copy of the cassette, as well as a printed transcript. He knew your father well, before you were born, having met with him several times in New York. Please feel free to share this with the folks in Chicago. Gramps loved the joint. And the people. Tell them the full 5 Parts should be up at the blog by Friday noon. Thank you, Mr. Mayor.

Respectfully,

Bonnie Bartman

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Witnessed by immediate family.
[Recorded by D. W. Crosby]
Transcribed by Bonnie Bartman from tape. Duration: 86:53
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DEATHBED CONFESSION OF JEDEDIAH BARTMAN

Life was very different when I was a child. The simplest conveniences did not exist for the poor. My father's family was indeed that. Very poor. The poor of today aren't. We lived in a shed on the outskirts of the farm. A farm that had been my father's. In 1867 he jumped off a wagon and decided to settle in the Hudson Valley "because it just looked so right."

He cleared the portion of ground consisting of some 160 acres. This task took him and two other young men 22 months of terribly difficult work. Every tree and rock was removed completely by hand, axe and lever, and then he covered the land with soil that had been taken from the banks of the river which was less than one mile away. His farm was called "Control Cover Farm," and no one, until this day, knew the reason he gave it such a name. He was an experimenter, later evolving into a 'fanatic' . A farming perfectionist. Certainly he was a genius. His descendants converted to Mormonism and still maintain ownership of the farmland and another business based in Utah, using the same name.

His ingenious act of using 'river muck' enabled him to harvest the finest vegetables in the eastern United States. You see, the river was a repository for thousands of years of obscure nutrients. This was due to natural resettlement of the top of the land. The rains and wind harmoniously combined, over many years time, to provide an exceedingly rich, fine silt-sediment. Then the northerly summer sun and lazy flow of that river with its daily tides, gradually refined it even further. Nature is patient, and thus rich, beyond the imagination of man. The riverbank silt was like "dark gold" and nobody knew this in his day but father. Even today educated men call such "dirt" and utilize it only for roads, airport runways and landfill cover, as they are ignorant, like the neighbors surrounding dad's farm.

Father learned of the uniquely precious river-sediment and its hidden qualities, for he had obtained an unpublished manuscript done by the hand of Thomas Jefferson, who posited this 'silt theory,'' after studying the Amalfi Coast and also the Tuscany Hills of Italy. As any historian may tell you, the young Jefferson was an avid student of things that were unknowable in his day. Jefferson would have loved the Internet! Instead of Monticello, we might be visiting a place called 'Google' as his lasting monument, I 'm sure of it! (much laughter) Yes...Jefferson's mind was second only to Franklin's, and he used it well for the entire duration of his life. There are few around like those men. And the world suffers for it.

Jefferson wrote his 'Soils Manuscript' after studying wines. He meticulously catalogued the various wines of the world and in so doing, discovered a strange fact. The wines of Tuscany could be enjoyed to excess, yet give the imbiber no subsequent headache nor hangover. This fascinated Jefferson. He sought out to learn why this was so. Not only did he consult with visiting dignitaries, but he also frequented the vineyards in search of the answer. Finally he discovered it in a chemists parlor in the southwest quarter of Milan.

The families of Tuscany enjoy the benefit of their forefather's labor. From around 1680 until 1710, men and oxen had transferred hundreds of tons of ancient silt from three rivers, spreading it across much of the region in order to cover an ancient lava field. Their work was rewarded and still is. No finer wines exist to this day on earth, and awards are consistently earned every year like clockwork. Many hundreds of them, perpetually guarded like sculptures at the museum in Umbria and at Rome. I have seen them. They are some of the finest, proudest pieces of art and workmanship in all the world. In Tuscany it is love for life that leads, and not money, as here in the States. Every Tuscan hovel has its own little spot where the vines reach to embrace home, just like family. All this, because of that envied soil.
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Father obtained the manuscript from a steamer chest that had been sold at a circus auction out of Albany. The trunk had remained unopened, causing a curiosity that had joined a record heat wave that passed over the entire county. Heavy, rusted and caked with plaque-like dirt, the auctioneer, Phineas T. Barnum, could scarcely withhold his glee as the old (and potentially worthless) trunk commanded the price of $265, an unheard of sum in those parts. But it was just an act. And before father arrived at the house with his 'treasure chest', he prayed that his young pregnant wife would never learn how much he'd paid for it. She never did. He felt so foolish and hid it for morning's light. But when a man tries to sleep he can't. And father recalled the jeers and thought he could hear a voice, from the shed! People were superstitious then, even the wisest. He could feel it: There was something in that old chest, and he knew it. It beckoned him and he opened in near darkness. He found something far beyond mere treasure. And those who had leered at him, laughing as he left, would never learn what father had gotten for his money. Be careful when you laugh, for laughter may cost too much.

[D W Crosby]: "Why didn't she hear about the price he had paid?"

Well, men and their business dealings were a private, solemn...even sacred affair back then. Wives didn't meddle, if loved. It wasn't like today, where only crimes and underground deals are kept secretive. Things weren't always out in the open, loud and boasted like now. Today nearly all is transparent, not like the honored privacy of days in the past. It changed because of greed. Stock manipulations of the 1920s. Graft caused a loss of trust; money stopped as people held it too tightly and a Great Depression followed. When dishonesty is infectious, people stay home and stop believing anything. They know better than to be led by clever fools. But prior to that awful time, men conducted business away from the scrutiny of anyone. They used one simple handshake to seal their deals, regardless of the enormity of sums involved. It was a whole different atmosphere, a truly strange climate by today's standards. It worked beautifully. But now men use expensive attorneys. They buy insurance and these things have complicated matters. Distrust has harmed commerce inestimably.

Anyway, opening that trunk, he found the manuscript and many wonderful, books. All of them were mildewed. But he sold those, one by one, to Harvard University. It took him awhile, but he recouped his entire cost five times over. The manuscript was lost in a fire, back in 1889 but not before it made father a very wealthy man due to its applications on the farm. He learned what to do, in order to increase yield without sacrificing textures or taste. Today our food is inferior to that of father's. But the day will come soon when customers change all that. They just don't know how to yet. Now then, after reading about the silt soils, and unbeknownst to any neighbor, father would go down when the moon was full and he would use those few days each month to secretly extract the rich loam, filling his wagon. He had a third of the cover spread in a single season. All night work. No one knew his secret and he told me that those were exciting times for him.

They didn't know how he could grow such large, beautiful and delicious vegetables. They were downright tempting to look at, better than any dessert. Many folks came to study his methods of planting, irrigation and weeding. They would come from the universities; even from as far away as Ohio, in hopes of discovering his secrets. One man over in Battle Creek offered to pay him to remove to Michigan, but father had his soul invested in that land, and he loved the Hudson Valley and his family too much, so he stayed put. Folks had roots then. "Wealth ain't money," he would say to us often. He was right, and one day soon, the world will learn that, too.

People stopped by to learn his secrets, but he had just that one. Keeping it to himself: He simply stole 'the muck' at the river and spread it over his land. Then, after it had dried in the sun completely, he'd use a screen of an old door, still in its framework. He then would shake the small pile on the screen till he had about three inches of excellent "top soil" that gave his vegetables a faster start than that obtained by the other farmers of the Hudson Valley. From Jefferson, he'd read that greenhouses, which he never later used, overly protect and so, fail to winnow out the lesser strains that produce a perfectly tasteless food. Father used natural methods only. He told us that a greenhouse was like an orphanage, "sounds nice but ain't so," he would say. Dad was faithful to nature and nature became his best friend in return. He was very wise, but never schooled. That was only for his kids, and I still don't know why, having gone myself for too long.

Father became not only wealthy, but quite popular in crop circles of that era. Rich men bought his produce for too much.

To this day, no one has had a better harvest than his between the years of 1873 and 1889. His wagon would be loaded and taken to New York, where he could get five times the profit from any other place. There's a clue. You see, the people of New York have always rewarded the best and brightest with the most. This is why it attracts, to this day, such an amazing array of restaurants, talent and minds. Manhattan is no mystery to me. I watched her grow and it seemed like overnight she grew more, when I was a boy. Dad told me there were more hammers in New York then, than in all of the States combined, and from spring till the late fall, you could hear them from before sunup until after it set. This is because...let me tell you something here, (louder) those men and boys, working like ants...were well paid to build quickly the demands of a thriving place! It was coming into its maturity, then, just like a beautiful girl of seventeen (laughs). The best of nature makes a man flourish, and Man's nature, if he's allowed to deal rightly, makes a world to thrive!

America was a mighty and a healthy people then. Children aren't that told today. Educators dwell on her imperfections, her blemishes. The newsboy has always cried out the miseries, because it sells his stack, as people like to feel luckier than the next. Sure, we had toothaches. And we injured and we burned ourselves...much too often, but as mistakes were made, we wizened up and improved every situations as we could. Hell, that's the way of life, anyway. The way the world works, after all, if you let it. All of this 'regulation' mumbo jumbo it'll wind up strangling the goose and starving everyone, even with the best of soils. Nope. Incentive never sticks around for another beating. Now way....never. You see, progress flees to where there's liberty. Freedom. And she's always running from the 'clever boys' with honors, and their clean hands that don't know how to work. She always has fled. Coddling and safety never produced a whit of worth. It's risk, adventure and mistakes and error that play midwife to the greater discoveries. Wisdom wants her children to have a chance to fall and fail and try again. That's the way. The sure way. The only real way. And it's around us everywhere, if you can see it.

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[4:45 PM] Jed rested, was bathed and fed, then resumed. This third session was very brief, as he was tiring, but he insisted on continuing. It was RECORDED four days before his passing, on the afternoon of Saturday, November 1, 2003:
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I witnessed this great land grow into a beautiful perfection. I do not marvel at the rapidity and potency of today's inventions. Her systems and the novel capabilities of business. I comprehend it now. Completely. I don't marvel anymore. This brings me to a point that I want to make here. A point that must be told. No one's saying it clearly enough today.

I want to speak to you America, before I die. I have something to say. You'll be better off if you listen to it. Carefully. Ponder what I am about to share with you: America is nowhere near where she ought to be by now. In fact she is in steady decline already. Listen to my words. I've lived it. I've seen it. I speak to you knowing the truth, because I have lived through it. I have seen the effect of liberty and I now see the result of oppression. And if you don't listen to me, I promise you as surely as I'm dying, that you will become a people in utter and complete bondage within ten years! (coughing)

Let me tell you how I know this. I've seen it happen before, on the way to my manhood.

My father took the vegetables to Manhattan himself during the first several years, because he knew the traces, the pathways that were tried. The weather taught him which way to go. But still, the way was difficult, and the jostling would destroy too much produce before he even got to the ferry. He thought long and hard. And he designed a simple suspension system for his hauler, which was unique at the time. The only one. Most farmers were willing lose portions of their loads, spoiled, as their were no good roads back then. They sold the stuff to the poor on the way. Dad would have none of that. He hated waste. So he fitted his wagon with a springwork and leather binds so it swayed...that wagon influenced Ford years later when he met dad outside of the city, during the Fair. The great Thomas Edison purchased my father's the wagon at auction when it was worn out and it later was given to Ford as a gift. He had his engineers study it and replicate them. A little while later, because of the European competition, they made significant material improvements. But father was the first to experiment with such a system. It protected the vegetables for him. He was a genius, I tell you. All men would be, if they would just think together and solve their problems, rather than suffering them.

This better suspension, and hundreds of other brilliant ideas made Ford a titan who, in his day was the Bill Gates of America. Then, there were giants in the land. I saw them. Working men. Always searching to beat the competition by offering a finer product. It was a mighty thrilling time, there was quality then, and you people today have no concept about how wondrous it was. Things were real. They lasted a lifetime and longer. Pride was in every article, in those shops.

But every great emprise has its shadow. The underbelly. My father's business was not immune.
-
BB

Continued in Part 3
// posted by The Sage @ 11/4/2003 12:24:00 PM

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The following is Part 3 of 5:

http://stevebartman.blogspot.com

NOTE: As children were present during this taping session, Father Jed told his account as though it were a story. He assured the adults (later on) that it was accurate historically, according to his recollection.
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EARLY MANHATTAN ACCOUNT

In the seventh year of fathers cartage, he came upon a group consisting of some fourteen men. He saw them just as he was approaching the West Ferry docks that served as gateways for anyone transiting from the west, to Manhattan island. The band surrounded him. He slowed to help, if needed. They positioned themselves as though they had done it before, however, and father had sensed, "it just didn't feel right."

He was not afraid. Father trusted men. He was always able to strike clean bargain, if anyone could. But that was in the business arena, and these men didn't have such methods in their plan. Thieves are theives, because they don't care about business details. They just want the harvest.

Halting his wagon by drawing the reigns tightly to his chest, he removed his hat, calling out to ask the three in his path to step aside. This was a proper courtesy then, like tapping a horn is today. Father knew a lot about fresh produce. How to care for it. He needed to get it into town. He comprehended so much that these men never could. You see, the freshness wanes early on, if each bushel isn't separated and washed, then cooled in the icewater rinse. They need to be polished carefully and fast, prior to being set into attractive pyramids. Grocers put the ripe atop, along the wide, shady marketplace displays. This allows the ones below to be ready, for late customers. And in Manhattan, timing the delivery is critical for success. Dad and the merchants wanted to get every load onto the island before the sun ever broke.

New York shops always reject even the best of loads after the day's offerings are prepared for display. Competition was keen. So dad had to get on in. "Move away, sir, delivery coming through." Like the ambulance is special today, so too were the team haulers of foodstuffs in New York back then. People knew that these farm boys sustained life itself, and brought the varieties of goods that the business community demanded. New York has like a fever, a vital addiction. Food is life in Manhattan. "Step aside, I deliver food..." It was heard everywhere. But rather than respect and give leeway, for this natural act, those simple spoken words of labor, something next occurred that changed father's life forever.

From behind, a younger fellow that father never saw, swung a polished branch, larger than a bat; and it struck dad at the base of his neck.

Four days later, he regained consciousness. Dad never walked again, as well as before. Nor could he read well afterward. His eyes now fluctuated side to side, though slightly, and without any notice. This hurt dad. He'd loved to read, though he hadn't much time to before. Farmwork days were too long and tiring. His visual defect also made strangers nervous about him, like they knew something was wrong with his character or something. Perhaps a curse from God for a misdeed he had done.. Thereafter, he wouldn't read again on his own.

His wife read to him though, so he was satisfied. He came to love her voice. It seemed even more special since that awful experience, and they grew close as she helped him.

Anyway, when he returned home, she ran out to him and was afraid, for he was on foot. (Where was the wagon, the horse...) Later, after it all came out, mother read the note that gang had left pinned to his shirt. The same one that a nurse had folded and tucked into his chest pocket. It was stuck together like glue, due to some dried blood, but they soaked it in warm water, and in a little while, it became an opened sheet that read, "We ask six percent to Manhattan passage. Pay up or suffer."
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My father was an American, and Americans are survivors. It's one thing we do well, even with little. So dad wasn't defeated: He built another wagon to replace the one that disappeared. He made it somewhat larger, and three months later (in a way) he was happy about the attack. It had brought a real love into the marriage and also introduced him to many new friends of character, who didn't seem to notice his nervous eye movements. And to top it all off, the misfortune had prodded him to further perfect the suspension of the new big wagon with a greater circular sway. One day a great thought came. And so he bolted a thick iron ring at the back of the base, like a horizontal loop, so that he could hook another wagon behind it, thus bringing over twice the produce volume to the markets. His newfangled setup drew plenty of attention to him in every village and square. Many wanted to touch it and some artist for Harpers even drew sketches of the hook assembly, as well as the wagon's "modernized" undercarriage. Both drawings appeared in the same issue, with his name over them, bringing two weeks of excitement to the village. One visitor, a blacksmith from Poughkeepsie, even offered to buy it all, with the team intact, and vegetables, too..."for whatever price you declare." But father never sold tools, large or small. He knew that tools were like family, and the best insurance, after all, regardless of the tides of a man's fortune.

SECOND ATTACK

In June of the next year, father drew that double hitch wagon into Manhattan's view, and again saw the same group of men, only not so many. They came to his side and one held up a hand with a form printed on it, and asked father to sign it. He read it, and learned that it was a "Promissory Note." It asserted, (if he filled it out), that he would owe them a "fee" of eight percent for leaving the island. That paper, if signed, meant that he would agree to pay them before taking his return trek home.

Father refused to sign it and just as soon as he did, a man with red hair and a burly build swung a fist with metal about the knuckles, landing it at an angle across father's jaw. That evening, he found himself nursed again, the same as before, but now missing a wedge of bone mass that had been home to seven of his teeth. It was on the right side, the same side that the Irishman had been on, just before imposing that swing.

Father had time to think deeply overnight, unable to sleep, as he was seriously swelling now. Then, after the throbbing had calmed down the next day, he detected that he'd lost his hearing almost completely on that same right side. Now just an aside here. Today you're pretty safe from such ruffians and thugs in America. Our modern government protects you, and this is a wonderful benefit that was not at all developed in father's time. Things were loose then, and "blood days" happened by, from time to time. There was downright terror, in many parts. Not from airplanes that struck into towers, but there were vicious men and boys then, in many towns, who preyed upon the people who were alone, mainly. They'd take watches from the wealthy men and bags from the womenfolk. Gangs of them raped any young girl that was foolish enough to go out alone, whether day or night, anywhere outside of the busy sidewalks. Inside town, one need only fear the skilled pickpocket, or a sidewalk cardshark trickster.

There was no note or form in father's pocket that second time he came without his equipment. But he knew what they wanted, for he had soup in a diner the next day, as that was what he could eat. He told a man from Boston what had happened, and the man told dad that the corruption was everywhere. Not just New York. And he said it was growing worse, because people were letting it. "Just like weeds." He told dad that it was the nature of men. That only an rough defense could correct such a thing. But father never wore a gun, as suggested. He wasn't raised to hurt anyone. But he had lost now two full wagon loads of product, two horses, (one had been his finest), and the new wagons. Life was hard back then.

Before going home, he stopped into the Sheriff's Office on Third Avenue. He reported what had occurred, the same as he'd done a year before, almost to the day. Comforting assurances were given and they even had a stenographer take down nearly every word. He offered to go and show them the spot, thinking that the men might still be there. But the Sheriff and his eight men present told him that that would not be necessary. They knew the bunch. They'd take care of it all for him. They told dad not to worry, and to leave it to them. One said he was wise not to carry a gun, for it brought death, usually for those who weren't deputized and well trained in its use.

A year later, the City of New York passed an entire new book. "Ordinance" they called it. It had a penalty determined for every conceivable offense, and the additional horses and men, all armed, was to be funded mainly by those entering the city with "commercial goods." Such funding would fill coffers of the County and City, that would go toward training an expanded regimen of young men, all smartly Uniformed, and well paid who would ensure safe passage for those in who did business with the merchants of New York City.

Father was at first very grateful for this progressive agenda, but then six years later, he was "assessed" eight times as much as that first years' fee.

He never went to New York again. Instead he sent tough, young riders, together, and they had weapons of their own, at the ready. They had practiced much at the farm, and were as slick and sure as the mind and body, eyes and hand of man can be. Just to look at them, the way they dressed, walked and looked at you, let you know that any misstep would be your last. The men were devoted to dad, as he paid them well. Instead of paying the assessment, however, they found a way into the city, and though they were forced to do it at night, and through a bog, it was well worth the safer passage and they pocketed the difference, for father still paid the assessment to them, not knowing their route.

They were good men, and saved my father much grief.

Now I want to repeat something, so it's clear, and not forgotten: When they got the wagon loads to Manhattan, they were supposed to pay the assessment of transfer fees to the City, and also the portion to Local, "The Boss," or they couldn't unload. This therefore had evolved from a disorganized, disjointed scheme, into an organizedand well-staffed pillage. And it was complete with paperwork, and secretaries and every useful means to operate the new system. The city of New York and the gangs were now in cahoots. It thus became civilized theft. Systematized extortion, and even took place right in daylight, with regular business hours. And the laws actually originated and therefore supported this racket, as it made the City rich overnight. Now, I will admit, the streets, the bridges and most of the rails were much safer, thereafter. But it was a system of theft, backed by force, just like the one small bands had rigged, and it cost about the same, in the beginning. This puzzled me and many others, for a good long time, too. We read about it and discussed it, and finally I came to know for myself. I've come to understand it quite well.

But it infuriated dad deepl down. He was always like that. He could see that things were really changing. "Getting modern," as they called it. "Improvement Districts," and other fancy college terms that excited the people who voted them into being. They were able to change the whole country in about twenty years, simply because the majority, the silent, private, busy folks who did good...and worked hard, they allowed it. And because of that, America began a quiet turning. A steady walk away from individuality and self-reliance and outright ownership of a thing.

These things were the Hallmark of the past, since the Founding, and in my opinion, acted like fertilizer, even river-silt, that grew this nation like a field of fresh pumpkins. You see, it is incentive, that makes honest men work well, and it is theft that engorges any government, and hurts a people. Today, man's property really, has all but vanished. You don't own and you can't keep what you don't come up with the timely taxes for, so we are instead renters. We rent freedom, our homes, the cars we drive, the tools we need and even the movements and communications we make. I've seen the damn phone bill. And what government will do to the folks, the folks will eventually do to each other. Why not, if it makes you rich, and if wealth is the Northern star? "They'll become a nation of bullies and collectors," he'd complain. Dad was always upset about his past.

But today you see, it's gotten worse than that. Dad was right. Let me take you back:

In 1914, when I was not yet in school, I saw my father thrust his fist through the wall at home. It is my first real memory. He had been listening to mother read the New York Times, the Special Christmas Eve edition, no less, that had just come from the train from New York. Though the paper was a week old, the news was still true. Congress had passed a bill at midnight when many were at home with their constituents, for the Holidays, and this new law would now become a new Amendment to the very Constitution.

Father later taught me that the theft he had suffered years earlier at the hands of the gang was now established with solemn approval, in the Capitol of the States, Washington, DC. He told me as a boy that if the people did not resist this new tax "on the rich," that it would develop into an institution before he was dead. I didn't believe him, for it was absurd.

I assumed that he was sore from old anger, and that this had prejudiced his opinion completely. America would never tolerate such a thing, and beside that, the tax was only on the wealthy, so I thought dad's distrust was uncalled for. The rich could easily afford it and they weren't complaining, for that would have been unpatriotic, and also, who could really find pity for "those damn car drivers," as even dad liked to call them.

I turned 21 around the time that the collapse of the Market occurred. It was awful. I saw men who had never thought to wear anything but the best reduced to selling apples that rolled off the carts that raced through town. They didn't slow or stop, for fear of a looting at the corners. The fallen apples became the very sustenance to many. Poverty doesn't touch it. The word is rich compared. No, it was a day of destitution. Scarcity. Fear. And worst of all, of no hope, anywhere.

Those who were fortunate enough to remain at work gladly took the pay cuts, and prayed gratefully at night with their families, clutched closer than before, when times were better.

The absurdities that preceded that disaster were, in hindsight, purely insane. An actor was paid $200 for a performance at "Cavalleria Rusticana" and had refused to work for lack of enough. That was the year before. That same man later sang that same work, and better, father told us, for just $16.

The great plan of our new President would change it all, and so the citizens did not bemoan the new tax on all of the workers, great or small. It was only 5%, and this was better than a nation at its knees.

When I returned from France in 1945, my first "payroll check" showed that I had contributed $11.60 out of the $56.00. That was for two weeks of work, and included plenty of overtime, away from home. No one else griped too much, because everyone else had it taken out, before we could see it. It seems the new "deduction mode" was made necessary because an estimated 25% of Americans weren't squaring up with the government at the end of the year.

Mothers were by then working, in order to help pay the needs of the family. It seems when you added the new fees, taxes, permits and other more hidden costs, that were passed onto us through businesses, in the cost of our goods...it took two adults to be comfortable with a family of children to raise.

As the older folks grew up, they had to be cared for by strangers, because we were too busy and tired working, to have to come home and then care for our parents. We tried, but it just didn't pay.

The government offered security, and we took it, just as America went for it much earlier, like I've told you. Father died in early 1960. But not before the best and worst days of his life. They were both the same day, just past noon. The hour's events were as twins, close together, and ended suddenly. It was the day he went to Washington, DC. That grand Capitol. We went together, to observe the Oath of Office which would be made by John F. Kennedy. Our town had paid the way, for us veterans, and as you know, by now, some of you here, that he was the oldest male American Veteran in attendance that day. The Washington Post captured it, there on the third page of the Sunday issue following. It is the one framed in our hallway, right there (pointing). Father and I were so very proud! Though he was nearly 100 years of age, like me now, he was "shown the town" as though he were a star or mogul the night before. Everywhere he went, he was special. We were so pleased and honored. It was as good and as sweet as a day can be, except for a birth.

The next day, in but a single hour, every bit of it would change. I recall the event so well. I supported his hand in my own, at every moment. I remember I turned to look at him, into his eyes. I gloried with him. And I saw him shed tears of pride and great joy, with mine, welling up from the depths of our being, during that solemn Inaugural. Then, tragically, in that self same wondrous hour, as I shall tell you now...I beheld him to weep as though a small child...in utter despair, as though a toddler, who had lost its mother in some tragic event, still watching. I witnessed both. The highest and the low. It so crushed him. My father and I saw the might and Majesty of our country. And then together we also witnessed the stark horror of this same America, in that very hour.

Our joy and our pride, (mutually felt), was destroyed soon after the celebratory applause of that great Inaugural. It was completely shattered just as our cab rounded that block so near that inspiringly bright Capitol Building. Dad was leaning, gazing out the window, and I knew his bony forehead had been pressed closer against the glass, in order to take in a view of of something important coming around. Then his eyes saw it, a moment before mine. "Stop the car!," he literally screamed, terrifying the driver, who had just helped a different, much feebler old man into his vehicle a minute earlier. Father opened the door with his own stern will, then bent out to standing. I saw his taut body then freeze. A human life now stood still! I saw it myself, with these eyes...that living statue who was my father, (as though in some miracle), yes, that man in that stone-like fixation wept. His frail, skeletal body heaving as though he were being slugged in stomach. For you see, what was to be the third largest stone building he saw that afternoon in that great City of Holiness and Hope...until then, was the vast one that had itself inscribed, "DEPARTMENT OF THE TREASURY - INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE."

It had been etched in massive granite slabbed fascia, carved perfectly, powerfully and in ancient, bold Roman type. The letters were half as high as a man, and those words nearly as wide as half of that enormous building. It was utterly imposing on his entire being, even for him, for father had seen similar vast stone structures while in Europe, but they hadn't caused him any such breakdown. But this was his home. His native land, and those few words instilled, he felt, a time-arresting, deafening, impotent feeling within, to any who would look up to them. Especially for him. Creating the sense, by their existence, of some enormous foreboding. The words appeared as if half eternal. As cold a threat as those mortal attacks of his early misfortunes.

That structure represented to my father at that moment, the very embodiment of some quiet, unassailable Master. A darkened One that held an absolute and fierce power over the lives, the hearts and even the very Souls of over 72 million workers then. These were the thoughts of my father at that curbside. They were the sorrows of a man lost in his memories of brutality and multiple injustices. I know of his thoughts and feelings. I have them each and all completely memorized within me...for I've read those clear moments of his, over and over again. They are written in his personal Journal. And that cold day is easy to find in this book. It's near the end, right here. (showing it open) And the deformed pages, with his most singular accounting, is inscribed on these two pages. He wrote about that unforgettable moment, and it is perpetually warped with the stains of that noble man's tears. Teach the children to keep sacred this red Leather Journal. (holding it high) It is as priceless as any existing document on earth, for it is the voice of a Soul on fire!

My father died twenty-one days later, at the honorable age of ninety-seven. Yet, he died a completely broken man. He died fearing for his offspring! He died mourning over the future of this country. Dear Father died a despondent American. This, after a Grand Life of pure Love for us. After scores of small and great works of social ingenuity. After a life of perfect integrity and example, meekness and intense personal sacrifices. Father died having served so well. Here on the last page it is written. In this final diary entry. He quoted a truth from another tragedy-laden sage, "For in much wisdom, is much grief."

His sorrow was deep. My great Father died sadly because he saw that the Republic had become a terribly factioned Democracy. He saw that America, the Beautiful, had abandoned its birthright of liberty and instead been seduced by the promises of an institutionalized, accepted form of oppression. Father lived during that era in which the very sins of the individual thief...the will of a thug and the tactics of gangs and bullies, had been debated and then passed into a perverted law of this land! That this was done on his watch made him ill. For he saw that Her workers, those righteous, humble and decent fathers and mothers, with their children, so graced to live in the freest, greatest country on the earth, were now controlled like carefully trained cattle with wallets. Father in his grief, had triangulated what he had lived through, to realize fully the inevitable outcome. And then he died but a silent weeper at his passing.

He had been founded so well in school, as most were in his day. Little ones were taught the truth then. Yet still young, they mastered the power to reason. They a had vision now so rare. Enthusiasm and hope, the promise of a better day was as certain as the sunrise. But that was then, before this nation was hijacked in slow motion.

America, listen to my words. They are true. I know that there can be no incentive to excel or to achieve, when men are stripped of their dignity. I have seen it! I swear to you that the progress of every Individual emanates from the privacy and inner sanctum of his personally exerted growth. The individual must be free, or society shall perish, and we shall be reduced to less than animals. I swear to you that if you do not cease your divisions over the petty matters, attending swiftly to the centermost cause of human strife, that many of you alive this day shall perish for lack of food, warmth, and true security.

Every man was created in order to attain his own potential. This is why your mother gave you life! And if that flame called human desire is ever snuffed out, no matter for what lofty cause, regardless of even a "perfect society," I declare unto you and to your children that you and they shall never grow in the warm light of freedom again, nay, not even in a hundred years! The cameras and databanks of endless bureaucracy are nearing the ready. Beware, even the cleanest electrons hold no concern for you. Their gigabytes of artificial intelligence won't ever come to your rescue! The legions of faceless "public servants" have no interest in your life's dreams, whatsoever. They are ruthless. Cruel. They crush men and destroy economy. And terror is their whip.

An enemy is one who has no feeling. Only bloody Revolution with all its sorrows, will bring you back from a brink of annihilation as a free society, if you continue the present wading. Wake up this day! O that men would learn the sacred nature of his own rights! Only then will you be equipped sufficiently to fight mightily, fiercely...anyone and anything, anywhere and in whatever season, to protect such wondrous perishables before they became completely lost. Such warriors will ignore any cost. ANY COST, I say! Those with such a vision, why, they will abandon all of the paltry, meaningless tripe now offered. Ignore their lies and threats! Live on and fight instead WITH GLADNESS though you will be found ragged, scorned, weary, despised and all but defeated at the day of His Coming. Be a member in that Human Harvest, and not the other.

I am quite weary now. Enough then. I have finished the recalling of my life. You now know enough about my father. I will rest. In the morning, if my energy is sufficient, I shall speak to you concerning the things Steve has shown me. He obtained them from the Internet. I think it's time, for I'll leave you soon. Today I have told you how men are so very devious to others. Tomorrow I will share what those schemers have planned for you. Their dream is nearing now. And though you won't enjoy hearing where it will lead to, it simply must be spoken. In full measure. Let there be no children present then, as I shall be blunt, for I am dying.

[D W CROSBY: That will do. End of session 3]
Recorded by D W Crosby
Transcribed from the tape by Bonnie Bartman
FILE: Deathbed Confession of Jedediah Bartman
Part IV will be posted when typed.
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Recording services provided by Benson Energy
http://www.rumford.com/store/ControlCover.html

. ¶ 11/5/2003 06:42:24 PM
Tuesday, November 04, 2003

Subj: Deathbed confession of Jedediah Bartman - Part 4
Date: 11/7/03 2:36:04 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Jalmond2000@cs.com
To: controlcover@juno.com

http://stevebartman.blogspot.com

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From: Bonnie Bartman, A personal note:

November 2, 2003: Sabbath morning. Relief! Though yesterday was trying on all of us (as our spirits were low), Father Bartman was in a much better mood upon waking this morning. After bathing him, the family had a wonderful breakfast together in the large hall. That was followed by our Sunday Service for the family. This Bartman tradition began in 1974 as a temporary event, but as we all discovered that so much was gleaned, within a shorter time, it became the norm, instead of "going to church." Our church services were thereafter held in the various homes of the extended families. These meetings addressed what we were each (personally) in need of, and were flexible, realistic and not vain, as church had become, just before we stopped going. At the "home meetings" we got more real learning done, and it was OUR study, not things prescribed from a central place, created by paid strangers, who had never met us ... working a big building somewhere. Frequently these home meetings were fantastic, and lasted for hours, turning into pure love!

The feeling of warmth and support was priceless to us. Father once mentioned that such practice was the way worship had been in the beginning, when the world was new and pure, and as it had also been almost 2,000 years ago, after Christ left. He said, "There are no echoes in a home, no weird feelings, stares and gossip." He said, "Best of all, there aren't any more strange rules and rituals." After devotions, snacks followed. We spent about twenty-five minutes chatting and catching up...some made phone calls, and then father called to us from the room, as he wanted to get started again. He said he had more to say, and we were all eager to hear it. He is feeble and very old, but his flame burns still so very brightly. Elderly souls possess what we ought, but cannot, as they "know" what we can only hope to one day learn.

So we all took our seats. The little ones, according his wish, went to play outside with Lisa and Sarah. It didn't take long until something miraculous happened as we listened. We were changed. Not merely by words, but by truths. We were present to hear what would later be realized (by those present) as the most sublime and memorable words spoken, since our Lord delivered the Sermon on the Mount. The original tape recording (in dad's own voice) is now the most coveted possession of the Bartman Family. A copy of this and the other sessions will be duplicated and will be given to every member for Christmas, 2003. We will not be exchanging any other gifts this year. Some decided this, even while Father was still speaking. Today a precious occasion. Life just doesn't get better than this...for Our head and stay, Father Jedediah Bartman revealed a truth to his family. Powerfully and out of concern for our safety. He told us to post it onto the Internet, to seek no profit from it ever, save the spiritual one that comes from sharing freely. He said that others should be helped by it, too, because if we kept it to ourselves, it would be of little value. Throughout his long life, he taught us the power of truth.

The following words were recorded just three days prior to his death. There were 24 present at this meeting. Prayer was offered by Joseph (Almond), and then, holding each other, in comforting silence, Father told us the truth as he knew it.
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http://stevebartman.blogspot.com
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[Jedediah Bartman]: I feel wonderful. (smiles) You are all so beautiful. I love you. (composing himself) Each of you. You are so wonderful. I have been so very blessed. (pause)

The world is not as it should be. Things have gotten out of hand. Too much has been entrusted upon too few. What individuals should be doing is not getting done. There are distractions. Too much "busyness." Not enough prudent living. But all this fluff will now end, and you will again incur the mantle of responsibility that every person was born to bear. This is reality. It will happen soon, for it is time.

"And God created man in his own image. Male and female, created he them."

Think of that. We are his children. Literally. And there are too many toys in the room. The room is messy. There is fighting. Not enough sharing. Too much quarreling. We're injuring one another. Some of the kids have even dressed up, taken their squirt guns and tomahawks. They've left the mess here, to go set things straight clear across town!

"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread..."

We have scattered and hidden from labor. We have created a new way to get around it, or so we thought. Most aren't really working any more, just being present, but still eating. Our food doesn't satisfy for long, and so we drink to feel better. We watch sports, as the images of "heroes" makes us feel strong and right. Better than the others.

"If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted?"

It was not always so. We were once proud children. We did do our chores, and were clean, obedient and humbly attended to the work of our forefathers. We once cared for the others, helped them, taught them rightly, nursed them into their own right paths.

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

But then it happened. Money and fun things began to multiply as we worked so well. This made many stumble as they forget why they came here. We arrived not to aquire, but to become. Our fathers had told us this, and it still resonated for a while, but later was lost. So things will have to be taken from us, soon, to return us to our senses.

"My punishment is greater than I can bear."

But it wasn't. The one who will bring the scolding loves us, and is ever watching. He gives us life, and sees too, that we cannot abuse others, thus turning it the life into some lesser purpose.

(Then Father rose. We helped him to his feet, for it was wanted by him.)

(standing, looking at Paul directly): You are an individual, Paul Bartman! There is no one on this earth like you. Not one, not even in all the three billion sons of earth. And if there were thirty-billion more born, crawling over each other, there still would be only one...just like you.

(turning to Rebecca, age 21): Becky Jo Williams, there is nobody else like you! You are the only one. I have read your poetry, and there are a million poets, but not a single one of them can write with your sweet words. No, not a one! And oh...your singing, with that voice that is so preciously yours...and your fine, tender and helpful heart...it, too, is unique to only you, Rebecca. I say to you...though there are ten million other angels doing the same works you love...not one of them performs them just like you.

(turning to Elissa, age 16): Elissa, over time, though thousands and thousands will be given your noble name, Yet still...YOU are the only you. You always will be the only Elissa just like you! And only YOU will bear your unique, wondrous children! An each one of them will be just as differently special in their own sphere as you have been and are, and ever will be, in yours. Yes, those one-of-a-kind infants will each find out what's been carefully put in store for them. And for them alone, to learn by. Their obstacles, their advantages, their once-in-a-million opportunities and also their very own terrible tragedies...each will be unique and alone in their own little "petrie dish of living," though they may be surrounded by so many others, all equally diverse!

THE WORK OF GOD

(sits down): The vast kaleidoscope of the varieties of life was our Heavenly Father's grandest achievement. Through all of Creation's attempts and experimentations, he became infinitely wise. He then instinctively fell into a state of Pure Love. Indeed, He became Love itself. He is Love. Wondrously fortunate, we mortals...as His offspring...are like unto Him. We too are filled with immense joy when we have done a thing well. But God, having created sufficient time, became God at the the moment he decided to do all things to perfection.

So skilled became He, then...that the shavings of His work became more exquisite than any finished product of His greatest child. We, living individuals, are God's greatest work, and His work continues, in us. Through us. During our lives. In our decisions. We are the literal continuation of his love and a final proof of the grandeur of his labor. He watches over us, letting us fail and scheme and bruise and soil ourselves, for only by such refinement, are we introduced to Wisdom. And as surely as the womb is necessary for the babe, so too is wisdom the prerequisite for a life lived that radiates with Love...Only thus may we understand our suffering and sorrows. Until we choose well, this must be, lest we be unworthily called by name, in his own voice, when He relieves us from the precision of the learning template we call life. As the silt of the river, being tossed about, over and over and yet over again...we too, become exceedingly fine. Heaven is merely home to all that is excellent. And only are finest are invited. They are they who have chosen His ways. It's that simple.

THE GOOD NEWS

Earth draws to its close. Father has prepared the test. No one will be able to cheat for the answer. During this test, we must choose what we'll endure and reap, whether great or horrific, for the duration of our next span. He will allow our wish to be given, one by one...and He will let it happen, even as we shall choose. This allowing process is imperative, for it alone works. He has found that it is the only way that works best, after all that has been tried.

(rising to his feet, without assistance): I tell you this, for I know it: Father will allow you, as an individual, to create a hell for yourself, if this is what you really want. But He will never, ever, EVER allow others to choose for you, that which is counter to your our own desire.

(falls back into the recliner, breathing deeply, to rest)

We are all so precious to Him. More than any one of us can ever imagine. Yes, He has favorites, this I know. They are the Ones nearest Him, and are ever going on, so that others may bask in His Love after them. That is the good news. Now for the bad.

THE BAD NEWS

(taking out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolding it, then holding the three sheets up and shaking it, intently): He will not allow this!

You have your freedom, but you do not have it in this, so long as you are called by the Bartman name. You must never tolerate it, nor be a party at all to it, (begins to tear it up into small pieces), nor ever conform to it! Nor ever, ever, EVER have ANYTHING to do with it, whatsoever! (so saying he threw it the little pieces onto the floor, making a scattered mess all across the room. Some alighted like snowflakes onto Elissa. Though stunned, (as we all were), she nervously giggled).

[NOTE TO READER]: The sheets father had just torn up were 1) a terse DISSERTATION, and 2) a DIAGRAM showing the next big play, planned by a secretive Washington think tank. Steve had culled it from Internet research two months ago. A man who leaked it out was found dead in England three months ago. In the event that copies aren't attached to this transcript, both may still be online, as the government has now grown weary of stamping them out now. (They keep showing up at mirror sites on weekends!)

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[INSERT FROM BONNIE]:

DISSERTATION:

http://conspiracyarchive.com/NWO/microchip_implants_mind_control.htm

and that leaked government planning CHART is at:

http://www.globenet.free-online.co.uk/articles/totalinformation.htm

For those needing serious deprogramming:

http://http://taxableincome.net

If any sites have been shut down, revisit the Steve Bartman blog, where we've posted them in full and will repost them as often as they are removed by the loyal hackers.

http://stevebartman.blogspot,com

A valuable list of useful resources will be posted at the end of the 5th session of Father Bartman's confession. Extensive, it is now being typed and will be posted shortly.

This material tends to hamper the agenda now being planned, by our "protectors." Print them out. They will be forbidden by law to post, download and/or possess them "In the interest of National Security, prior passage of the VeriChip Mandate law in 2006. Keep copies available for future use by others. email them to those you care for, so they may choose in full knowledge.
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(Father rested and took a drink of water, as the girls picked up all the pieces. They went to throw them away. Upon their return, he had calmed down.)

The government of the United States of America has strayed far from its original mandate. It has escaped from its cage, called the Constitution. It allowed its authority, but only if thus confined. But now it is out. On the prowl. Hungry, as an insatiable lion. Its consumes power, and its ferocity is known by some, but not by most. The average American have never heard of Bill Lear or his heartbroken wife Rose. They haven't been told about him at all. For if good folks knew, they would become enraged.

Very few have read about the hell that the organized gang did to Dick Simkanin in Texas.

People haven't learned what they did to Larken Rose, or to his home in Pennsylvania. They raided it for hours, stealing copies of his research tapes*. They also took his computers and terrified his family.

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[BONNIE BARTMAN: *"Theft by Deception" is a riveting video (88-mins). It reveals the history of the IRS. How it carefully manipulated the U. S. Code, Title 26 in such a way that most Americans actually believe they are subject to filing and paying an "income tax." The Rose research, however, proves clearly that they are NOT required to file or pay. Those who view it are stunned, and their lives are changed forever. In fact, when the Bartman family receives "Certified Mail" notices from the IRS, they are now treated the same as junk mail. Unopened and thrown away. Get the tape. Live guilt free.]

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Most Americans don't know about Irwin Schiff's lifelong work, for the reporters AND editors dine with our nation's "leaders" at the finest restaurants in the beltway. They're golfing partners. What articles would you expect from such an association?

Then there's Rick Stanley, of Stanley tools there in Denver. They literally kidnapped him from his wife Pam, and she is forced to run the business on her own now. He is caged like an animal, with no bail, as though he were a criminal, a dangerous man...when his entire life proves just the opposite.

Jim Traficant of Ohio ran for the House on a promise to expose the IRS scam if ever elected. He was and he did. When more and more began to pay attention, why, they hit him from behind with a big stick. One much bigger and nastier than the one that got me so long ago near Manhattan.

Reading only the newspaper accounts, OF COURSE, no respecting family could ever trust the man again. But it was all lies, fabricated into a sickening snare...but it silenced him good. He, too, is now alone...in prison.

That still didn't stop him, as he is a real fighter, from the old school. He went and decided to run for President from his cell, as he began to get contributions from his many friends and constituents, who knew he'd been shafted. RAILROADED out of office by brute force and lies....so they cut off his accounts, even then, while behind bars...Go look at his website now. Has he been silenced, yet?

[ http://www.traficant2004.com/ ]

I remember President Eisenhower uttered an ominous warning to us all as he left office. He warned of a "Military-Industrial Complex" that was forming...and I still remember what President Kennedy said just a fortnight before his death. He gave a speech saying, "There are forces present that are a threat to this nation that must be exposed. I cannot speak more at this moment, but I shall..." He was killed in Dallas before the text of that next speech was even typed.

We now have a President who is loved by all the Republicans, and even some of the Independents. Yet look what he has done to our rights through the Patriot Act and soon, what he will do with Patriot Act II. These "laws" bogus. They are a blatant violation of the Oath he took, "to protect and defend" the Constitution of the United States. They in fact carve out the sacred Bill of Rights completely! Yet pastors remain silent, for the most part. They have to. Churches cannot speak political truths, for fear of audits on their tithing books, and the possible losses they would suffer without their "503(c) write-offs" from the Feds! Schools of every sort are well scripted, too and paid their hush-money in the form of benefits and grants and other favors too numerous to mention. It's a perfect crime: The mugging of a nation, weekly, quarterly...yearly...all by "voluntary compliance."

America has become a hijacked nation. Her terrified passengers are either drunk or too fearful to resist. The Democrats, who once cared so much about the little guy has become the dance partner with the Right, even though, like a dumb blond...she just can't make up her mind at all. Against the damn war, but signs onto finance it fully. It is a sad, sick mess we're in now. And it's going to get much, much worse very soon. You must see it: They don't just want taxes. Regulations aren't enough...they want it all. COMPLETE CONTROL. And all in the name of your security.

The centralized pretty boys realize that, with the Internet, they can't keep the lid on their lies and schemes much longer, despite the terrorist tactics they've been using...so they've begun to ramp up the biggest "miracle" of all...

THE VERICHIP

Who wouldn't want their precious newborn injected with a tiny RFID device, only the size of a grain of rice, at its birth? It's like OnStar for children. The future of America! It promises to guarantee forever no more lost kids...no more abductions...no more molestations!

Yet it alone is the greatest form of child abuse since abortion itself.

Will the people accept it? Will they choose the chip for their children? Of course they will! Let me tell you how I know: They swallowed the barbaric butchering of innocents that still occurs at the rate of 145 per hour today, everyday. What do you think they'll decide when they're told first that such a wonder will safeguard their precious little ones? What do you think parents will decide as they're later given a $1,000 tax credit, but ONLY if they'll chip the kid before registered at school? Later on, what do you think they'll do as they recognize that to resist the VeriChip is to break the very law of the land? (2006)

Why, I'll tell you what they'll do...they'll swallow it hook line and sinker! They'll do it because "it's the right thing to do." Americans want safe streets, They'll support any programs if it promises to bring Utopia to their village. They'll embrace the VeriChip, too. Already are. Just last month an office opened in Manhattan, and another mobile unit has been ordered, too.

[ http://adsx.com ]

I told you earlier that if American's don't wake up and stir themselves to act against this awful dawning, they'll be in utter and complete bondage, within ten years. You think that maybe I'm just an old geezer spouting off...that maybe I'm senile...imagining stuff. I'm not! Go see for yourself. Look at what they're doing to that radio guy down in Atlanta, Georgia...they froze his checking account!!

[ http://dougkenline.blogspot.com ]

And look what they're now just starting to do to Wes Miller up in Minnesota, why they put their filthy tentacles around his whole damn house last week! [ Wes Miller (218) 851-6000 wes@brainerd.net ] And this is only the beginning. Anyone who watched the Larken Rose tape, or studies the stuff that Rose Lear is now generating [ http://roselear.net ] is going to be watched and if they dare show any conscience at all, or worse, any COURAGE at all...why, the Beast will go after them too.

THE UGLY TRUTH

And so now I come to the ugly truth, and I am not pleased to share it, but I must. I must because I can't hear in my right ear. And I must because I have this steel in my mouth. I must because I am dying soon, and most of all...I must because I love you. Every one of you.

I want you to be free.

I want you to prosper, and to be good to one another. I want you to be able to grow.

The ugly truth is this: Freedom isn't free. It costs blood. Human blood. It requires guts. Human guts. To stand up to a bully is terrifying, and then some. I know. I have lived through it. I have cowered and I am sick of cowering. I am dying, so I don't have anything to fear anymore except one thing, and in a minute, I'll not fear that anymore, forever.

My sole fear is my lot for eternity if I remain silent about what I've just learned. These awful realities MUST be exposed, and soon. If not, there will be greater devastation and hardship and horrors here in America than in any other land, since the world began. It won't be pretty, because American's aren't conditioned for it today, like we were in the last Depression. Pray that Americans en masse wake to their plight, for if they don't, a second Civil War will result. And modern infrastructures, that which supplies life to cities now, simply can't tolerate one.

The ugly truth is that God can't bless America anymore if she is unfaithful to Him. God doesn't pay ANY alimony when He walks away. Believe me as I say, He'll walk away the day she decides to be controlled by other men, instead of enjoying the gift of freedom he gave her.

God is about to destroy this nation, and he will not hear her pleas. The screams will not reach his ears, for there is too great a distance between the mistake and the Creator.

God will allow us whatever we insist upon. He always has. And he will also let us reap the fruits of what we've tolerated to be sewn. That fruit is growing right now. Every day. Cameras are being installed, and wideband networks will soon link the 212 monitoring satellites that are tested and ready. No privacy will be left once that system is up, and it will ALL be ready within four years. There will be no way to obtain food or clothing or books or any thing wanted, from great to small, unless you obey and conform. Only if you are trackable and "plugged in" will you be granted the "privilege" to work, travel, write, speak publicly, or do any other thing that could create an independent thought within others.

THAT IS HELL. It is a sorry imitation of the work and power and majesty of God! It is called CONTROL...and it's fueled by constant FEAR.

Now is the time for all good men and women to come to the aid of their country. No, not the government...the COUNTRY. That great, vast body of decent but timid men and women who feel so utterly powerless, "Because I am only one..." Well, remember, a glass of life sustaining water is made possible only when 8,000 single drops combine to make it so.

One is plenty, if that one is educated and inspired. It has been ONE MOTIVATED SOUL that brought forth every wonder known to man. One man thought of the violin, then 42 years later, one man thought to improve it. Stradivarius was just one man. All great contributors, inventors, and risk takers were just ONE at the moment they decided to do what was needed. Clara Barton, that nurse who changed the world with her fearless love...was just ONE nurse...helping bloody, wounded and dying men. Men with diseases...yet, as others heard about her simple, valiant acts, they came too, and the ONE then became many, and the many have now become the magnificent American Red Cross.

I could go on and on and tell you about hundreds of glorious "ONES" but I am weak, old and so near death now that I can taste it! Hear my words of truth, America! Take them to another. ONE SINGLE POST to a bulletin board can be read by thousands, even as you sleep! This is the power of technology and if you fail to do it now, yes, such a simple task as sharing these truths... I swear to you that you won't be able to later. You will never recover from your bitter regret. Do ONE THING for freedom! For if a hundred do it also, this nation will be saved.

Filters exist to take out such things. Just as I removed weeds from my soil, so too can the Beast remove the "weeds of truth" that strive toward the light. The Internet will turn from the greatest blessing into the mightiest curse, if you don't share these words widely, and fast.

Blogging, now merely an entertaining medium for clever and happy souls will soon be mandated by law, in order to keep a full accounting of what you have been doing with your time, where you've gone, what work you've performed and what you have eaten, spoken and done during your last 24 hours. All technological tools will be turned into swords if you ignore your duty now. What is your duty? To spread the word. No one will benefit but America, and quickly!

If these truths aren't now made widely available, so they may inspire the fight, all of the blessings you now enjoy will become only too many sad memories. They will haunt you. Always.

I speak to you soberly, America, for I must. I have now told you the truth. More clearly than any clergy. More sincerely than any friend, teacher or parent has ever done.

What you do with them, and what it does to you will determine your future. I am weary. I must stop to rest now. In a little while, I will find strength to leave with you my final words. I feel to tell you what you must do, and also what they will do, as you begin. There is a way out. After I share it, I shall be done with this life.
- - - - - -

[Father asked for a blanket, Joseph and Steve carried him into his bed.]

[D W CROSBY: "Recorded well. End of session 4."]
Recorded by D W Crosby and Benson Energy
Transcribed from tape by Bonnie Bartman
FILE: Deathbed Confession of Jedediah Bartman
http://stevebartman.blogspot.com
(Father Bartman Died 3 days after making this statement, Part 4 of 5)
// posted by The Sage @ 11/7/2003 12:53:18 PM

ENTIRE CONFESSION HERE

also

More background at this site

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