Chapter Two (Childhood)
In 1943 I was adopted out of the orphanage through a Lutheran adoption agency. My new father was a doctrinaire, fundamentalist Lutheran minister from the old school. He had a personality which practically no one could bear, so he was unable to "serve" any church for a period of time. Nonetheless, he was determined that being a "preacher" was his calling and he wandered the country from church to church. My new mother was an enigma. Both my new parents claimed Danish extraction and in fact spoke Danish. My new mother was a gracious and extremely intelligent woman. To this day I cannot fathom how she could abandon her own talents and ego to traipse about the country with someone I considered an obnoxious buffoon. But whatever their differences in intelligence or personality, there is little doubt they were totally dedicated to the rigid form of Lutheran Christianity they
followed. I was soon subjected to endless hours of services, of devotions, of vespers and matins, of prayers and bible studies, all of which I despised from the first moment. Jesus represented never ending hours of pure boredom. And there I find the first evidence of my calling and my struggle. From my first memories I was attracted to the names of the old Gods such as Wotan and
Thor, whose names were spoken of as the vanquished. When adopted my father was pastor of a church near Morehead, Iowa. It
was a charming building which sat on top of a hill and its steeple dominated the countryside. We lived in a primitive parsonage at the bottom of the hill. I remember when my father invented a system to let water from the outdoor rain barrel into a second barrel under the sink. With a small hand pump my mother could have the closest thing to running water in the kitchen sink. Other memories are of a mean rooster named Doubting Thomas. Every month or so my father would have to dunk him in a rain barrel and nearly
drown him to keep him from attacking my mother or me. It never worked for long. Doubting Thomas was what some would call an "unreconstructible mean S.O.B." I remember, also, our underground root cellar for food storage. There was a time we hid there while the garage containing a Buick and hundred-gallon gas barrel burned.Most of all about the time in Morehead I remember Mary. My parents were determined that if I were to think about a girl, she must be a Lutheran. And for many years they were convinced the first love of my life was Rosalie, a little girl living nearby. But I had been to the first grade at the little country school and there I saw Mary. A little Catholic angel with blond hair, blue eyes and charms beyond description. I was totally enchanted. Looking back I believe it was an indication of what would become my life's purpose. Those who know about me know that purpose to be: "Because the beauty of the White Aryan woman must not perish from the earth." I have had a strange relationship with the women of our race from the beginning, something that transcends the purely sexual. Mary was my first love and is an image that I have always carried.
While in Morehead my new parents adopted a second child. She was an infant girl. Years later they paid for her "education" in a Lutheran college from which she graduated to the Lutheran Inner City Missions. In a year she was shacking up with Negroes and once married one. It is a sad story for which I blame an alien religion and an evil country. It is a story too painful to discuss at length.
In 1944 the war to destroy the White race was in full swing and its tragic conclusion was inevitable. We moved to Clifton, Illinois where my father had secured another church. Of course my heart was soon filled with another little angel. Strangely, this one, too, was Catholic, Nancy by name. I was to find, also, that with each new school there were wars to be fought. The new boy had to fight, sometimes progressively up the ladder of ever older and tougher boys, until he was either the total victor or defeated.
For a skinny kid I became exceptionally tough and a bit of a loner. In Clifton my nemesis was named Robert Montgomery. We had some good scraps before becoming buddies. Spring of 1945. I can place the time because my uncle visited wearing his navy uniform which was discarded immediately after the war. One memory stands out clearly. When Robert and I played soldiers I always wanted to be the German and proudly chanted "Heil Hitler" and "Sieg Heil" while giving the so-called Nazi salute. My mother told me to stop and even gave me a spanking when I would not. She regaled me with stories of the evil Germans and how they mass
murdered Jews. I rebelled. Undoubtedly, without the vocabulary of an adult but with the uncontaminated mind of a child, I argued that it was not true. To me it did not seem logical or possible that mass murder was carried out as described. Only years later in retrospect did it seem strange to me that this particular political argument was so important to a young child.
November 2nd, 1947. We were on the road from Illinois to Colorado; my father was in search of another church, or in the priestcraft terminology "a calling." As is the nature of a child all I remember is not getting a birthday present on the trip because there was supposedly no money. We ended up in Evergreen, Colorado for two years. The new love of my life was named
Carol Ann Avery. I remember saving pennies for months and then finagling to get her name when the third or fourth grade class exchanged names to swap Christmas presents. I have often wondered how long that gold colored necklace lasted or if she knew how much it meant to me to give it to her. In 1950 we were again on the road, this time in Texas, searching for a "calling." No success, so we returned to Colorado to settle in what would become Aurora, which at that time had no more than a few thousand people and was almost all White. Many people did not even have locks on their doors. Of course, Fitsimmons Army Hospital and Lowry Air Force Base provided the method for racial integration. Today old Aurora is all colored and no White person is safe. As I have pointed out before, nothing in politics happens by accident, and the so-called cold war between Communism and Capitalism was never anything but a ruse to use America's racially integrated military to mix races in both Europe and America.
At age twelve or thirteen I overheard a conversation that now sickens me. A young man was bragging of his time as a soldier in America's occupational forces in Germany immediately after the second World War. He told of how he could "have" German girls for a little bit of food or clothing. These were White girls of a proud and ancient people, the defenders of our race against
such invaders as the Moors and the Mongols of Genghis Khan. And now they were reduced to selling their favors to barbarian, raceless, cultureless, American swine. In the mid-fifties I attended High School in Aurora, Colorado. Already though, I began to question the moral authority of the system. Although not clearly defined in my mind, I knew something was wrong. I was capable of
achieving any grades desired but was not interested. As early as 1954 I remember teachers advocating the mixing of races into one brown mass. On a more personal level I became disenchanted with Capitalism, especially as it related to the sexes. As a poor boy I worked summers on farms, elsewhere during the school year. Meanwhile, the more privileged boys drove convertibles supplied by their parents, practiced sports to become the athletic stars, and got most of the pretty girls. It taught me a lot about human nature and female nature. While there are exceptions, women as a rule go with the glitter, the money, the power and the security. We can see it today as our women desert their race wholesale in favor of wealthy Jews, non-White entertainers, affirmative action favorites, colored athletes, and on and on. Calling me "sexist" as well as "racist" will not change facts. Between my junior and senior years I earned five dollars a week plus room and board working on a farm. That Fall I purchased a 1939 Plymouth coupe of which I was quite proud, though it was no competition for Bobby Moore's 1954 hardtop or Rich Jacquith's 1954 Pontiac convertible when it came to attracting girls. Don't get me wrong though, I met and romanced more than my share of pretty young ladies. I just want to point out that under the lauded Capitalism it is not the personal worth of a man that is regarded, but rather the depths of his pockets or of his parents' pockets. When we had our own nations and a man acquired wealth through honest labor or from battle it was
well and right for a woman to choose the most successful and even gage success by possessions. Under this system it is suicidal and destructive. It only points out again the need for a total revolution, political, economic and spiritual.