The Great Blizzard (of 2011) {In Retrospect}

What day was it? The 4th? 6th? A Tuesday? Thursday? Who cares? I don’t know. I was at Braum’s in Quah. In a long line of patrons buying last minute survival supplies as a blizzard was expected for overnight. I started chatting with an older Cherokee woman in line in front me. “Don’t worry,” she assured me,” The snow will hit the hills north of Tahlequah and bounce north…” As soon as this woman told me this I knew – we would get slammed with the mother of all snowstorms. I accepted my fate quietly and with mixed humor. Short of starvation or being forced to attend a weekend Unitarian ‘Tolerance Seminar” not much scares me.

And sure enough we got about 12 inches overnight. A lot of snow for eastern Oklahoma. I considered myself, officially – snowed in. I had a fair amount of wood that the fiddle player and I had cut on consecutive Wednesdays so that was not an immediate concern. But when the overnight lows are bouncing around -10 one can burn a lot of wood. To complicate matters the chainsaw was NOT GOING BACK TOGETHER. This was troublesome. I spent the last hours of light the day before the storm dragging deadfalls into the front yard and smashing them with a axe to make extra wood. Then I went to the coffeeshop in Quah. There I ran into the Keetowah girl and we quasi made up. I was (of course) thinking post snow rendevous but (of course) it took about 15 minutes for my bad manners to piss her off. (I was distracted by impending fate and take the blame for that one. Sorry hon.) Then I went to Braums….

Snowed in. Day one. I spent my time feeding wood into the stove, playing with the dogs and reading the ‘PreHospital Trauma Life Support’ manual and boring books about the downfall of the 3rd Reich. When I slept I did so in 3 hour intervals so I could keep the woodstove burning hot.

Day 2. I realized I had forgot one item – dog food. The dogs went on an emergency diet of summer sausage, wheat bread and cheese. They were happy about this until they realized I had only a limited supply. It became clear I was going to have to get out to town. I voted for going to Peggs for a number of reasons. (1.) I have never bought anything at the Moody’s store that was worth what I paid for it. And (2.) the road to Peggs is curvy but FLAT. and (3.) my semi-smart phone has no reception in Moody. I was off to Peggs….with all my gear….come a longs, logging chains, high lift, shovels, gore-tex, spare gloves. What I would encounter in Peggs I had no idea. So I took my only semi-automatic handgun – a Russian army surplus Tokarev TT produced at the Tula factory in 1944 in what must have been, “unpleasant circumstances.” I left the Tok in condition 3 and stashed it in my backpack. I stuck a spare clip in my vest pocket. (I tell you no lies, gunning down a handful of crazed detoxing Peggs residents is not even close to the top of my ‘worst-case scenarios’ list.) The road was bad but I’ve driven on worse. But that says more about my poor judgement that it does about the conditions. It was a nerve-wracking 40 min 8 mile drive. I turned out on SH82 and it was a sheet of ice/packed snow. The final 3 miles were the worst and scariest. I made it to Peggs and bought dog food and made phone calls. Masterpieces of human debris were straggling in wrapped in filthy Carhartt coveralls and sweat shirts and stocking caps. With blank desperate eyes they waddled into/out of the store. It reminded me of scenes out of some horror movie. The living dead rise and walk. Rather disappointed they were as apparently Peggs was SOLD OUT of cigarettes and beer. Those items being the least of my concerns I got the hell out of Peggs and went home.

The next day it snowed more. 5, 6 inches. The wood supply was running low….It was getting old fast but I am emotionally uninvolved with the weather conditions. (It’s the short days that make me depressed and filled with loathing. The days are long enough in early Feb I am fairly carefree.) With plenty of cereal, milk, thc, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and chili I was gaining weight by the pound as the snow piled up. The next day @ 8amish I calculated I had about 10 hours of wood remaining. I had taken a shy rick of wood over to my parents a few weeks before and with my chainsaw inoperable my only choice for heat was to drive over there and bring some back. 90 miles round trip for a pick up load of wood has got to set some record for squandering energy resources to gain energy resources. I made it there and back before dark.

Super Bowl Sunday – I went over to the fiddle player’s and scavenged wood we had cut earlier out of the deep snow. We watched the first half of the game but I found it to be a real snooze-fest and the temperature was plummeting. At half time I left and crept down the meandering driveway, out on the road and back to my house.     They were saying more snow was expected. I had perhaps a day of respite then it started snowing again….The next morning I measured 15 inches in my front yard. Another two days of snowed in. I was becoming comfortable with my isolation and inability to communicate.     Eventually it thawed and began to melt. Freed from my personal Siberia I picked up where I left off in matters great and small.

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Smersh

Smersh
(Eastern Germany 14 April, 1945)
A red flag flew from an improvised flagpole in front of the villa. Below it fluttered the regimental Headquarters flag of the 337th Engineer Battalion. Neither the regiment nor the battalion existed. American jeeps and a pair of trucks were parked in the mud. The villa had a security detachment of Cossack cavalry who were camped on the high ground which had once been a potato field. Their steppe ponies sought out green shoots of grass and were saddled with their girths loose. The cavalrymen watched their animals, smoked Majorca and cleaned their carbines for the hundredth time.     An old Cossack sergeant watched the two American jeeps turn off the road and onto the muddy drive that led to the villa. The sentry waved them past and the sergeant watched as the jeeps rolled to a halt. Their occupants wore Red Army tanker uniforms but they were bereft of armor. They were all officers, the sergeant noticed and none of them had stains of grease or oil on their trousers. The oldest of the men was a major, and only he entered the villa. The more junior officers stretched their legs and loitered about the jeeps, immediately they extracted American cigarettes from their pockets and lit them with lighters instead of matches. All of the men were wearing semi-automatic pistols, the sergeants heart began to sink, but the  tanker corps were only issued revolvers. An involuntary shudder went through the man and he casually began to distance himself from their presence. These people, he realized, were not in the Red Army. Nor were they even NKVD, had they been they would be wearing security forces uniforms. No, the sergeant shook his head, these people were Smersh. The female Colonel in the villa, the “Crazy woman,” as the Cossacks had already nicknamed her was probably no Colonel. It did not matter. She was something far worse than any Red Army Colonel. She could sign hundreds of death warrants with a stroke of her pen.

Zoya Rybinka wore the uniform of a Red Army full Colonel and as her visitor, “Major,” Yablov entered the villa’s second floor she jumped to her feet drunk on exhaustion, vodka and adrenaline. “Comrade,” She threw out her arms, Yablov had never seen her so elated. “Zhukov has crossed the Oder River in force! Germany is ours!” She hugged him and leaned against his hip.

“Then it’s nearing it’s end.” Yablov forced himself to return her affection. He hugged her back briefly. Rybinka released him and half-tottered toward a desk covered in papers and maps. She leaned over it with both clenched fists against the desk top. “The fascists are collapsing!” She was breathing quickly and with depth. “The monsters are sending children out against our T-34s!”

“I know. And those children have already destroyed hundreds of our tanks.”

Rybinka sat on her desk and lit a cigarette. Yablov thought her hips had broadened in the months since he had last seen her. He could hear her mind spinning as he found the vodka bottle and a glass.  He poured. Rybinka blew smoke. “I flew in from Moscow two days ago,” she said.

“It’s good to see you,’ he lied, “Instead of just communicating by wire.”

“Yes.” Rybinka nodded, “On a human level I have missed you.” She crossed her ample thighs and questioned Yablov – “What did you find in the Broder forest?

“Only bodies.”

“Of what formation?”

“12th Ukrainian SS. A few militia and some Hitlerjugend.”

“No survivors to filtrate?”

“They saved their last bullets for themselves. Most died fighting. The rest suicided.”

“All the better. We will have more Germans than we can feed soon enough.”

Yablov tossed down the vodka. It was the good stuff of course, he thought, she brought it with her from Moscow.

“What are the conditions in the countryside?” She asked.

“Chaos. Mayhem. Most of the Germans have fled west.”

“Still. Good.” Rybinka clapped her hands like a schoolgirl, “More we don’t have to feed.”

“What ever ends it fastest. I don’t care.”

“Have you seen the big picture lately?

“I don’t know if I ever have.”

Rybinka laughed and stood up from her perch on the desk. She pointed out a large map pinned to the wall. On it red lines bisected Germany. “These are the fronts as of yesterday.” She tapped the map with her finger. Yablov saw how fascist Germany had shrunk to an hourglass shape zone inverted by the Red Army in the east and the British and American forces in the west. Yablov stared hard at the map and Rybinka stood beside him. He hated to admit it but she smelled good, like a Russian woman. She traced her finger down the map. “The Americans believe the fascist leadership will evacuate to the south before the country is split in two. They are very credulous. They think an alpine redoubt exists in the alps. That this is where the fascists will make their last stand…”

“This is untrue?”

“The Americans are fools to believe such a thing. Even now they have their tool, Patton, rushing an entire army towards the alps.” Rybinka laughed, “They will encounter dairy cows and yokels, little else.” Rybinka smiled and inhaled/exhaled. “No comrade,” she tapped her finger against the map. “The redoubt, to the extent that there is one – is the capital city. The Great Beast is still in Berlin.”

“Are we sure about that?”

“We have agents very close to the Beast. Yes, he is still there.”

“Then it will be over soon.”

“Yes. Berlin will be ours.” Rybinka swayed on her feet and her smile blossomed into an act of beauty Yablov would not have thought possible. “I spoke to Stalin about this personally,” she fluttered her eyes. “He wants the Beast to be secured. No loose ends. Nor does he want some Latvian conscript to bayonet the mad little corporal.”

Yablov said nothing. He stared into the map.

“Our task comrade,” Rybinka put her hand on his arm. Is to locate the Beast in the rubble of Berlin and to extract him. Be it alive or dead. Stalin believes he will suicide in the final hours and of course I always agree with the Supremo. He is among the wisest men who ever lived!” Rybinka held her forefinger aloft, “Still! The corpse must be located and secured.”

Yablov nodded, “The battle for Berlin is likely to be….as was Stalingrad.”

“It will not be that bad.” Rybinka was pouring herself another glass of vodka. “The fascists are in total collapse. Their ideology has always been irrationalist. The battle for Berlin will be like a young widow’s grief – sharp, but of short duration.” She laughed madly at her own joke. She tossed down the vodka between breaths without wincing. “You comrade Yablov, will witness it all. Tomorrow we will go to Zhukov’s Headquarters to arrange the details. The frontoviks will be told – when the den of the fascist beast is discovered – to set up a perimeter and call for Smersh. You will then do your patriotic duty to secure and extract the Beast, etcetera. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Very good! Very good!” Again Rybinka clapped her hands. “See that your staff finds a place to camp. I have wine for them and American Spam.”

“Wine?”

“Yes comrade, sacramental wine liberated from some Lutheran cess-pool.”

“Sacramental wine?” Yablov laughed in spite of himself.

Rybinka handed him two, then three, then four bottles. “Yes comrade,” she laughed wildly, “Pretty churches make pretty flames.”

Their dining, even by the rarified standards of Smersh, was luxurious – American tobacco and Spam, wine and vodka, primitive grainy bread and boiled potatoes.  Even a hunk of cheese and a fire in the fireplace. Rybinka un-did the top buttons on her uniform tunic and swayed in her seat as she lectured – “The great mystery is why the German proletariat never attempted political revolution contra the fascist regime!? A proletariat youth movement exists in the urban areas. They call themselves, ‘Swingers,’ but they spend all their time partying, listening to American records and fucking each other. An avant-garde counterculture must do better than that!”

“Had they risen up they would have been massacred,” Yablov expressed his professional judgment with a shrug and sigh.

“Clearly the ‘Swingers,’ are not hardened Bolsheviks.” Rybinka tipped a wine glass then sat it back down. “But they have been massacred anyway.” She shrugged with unconcern. “Personally I would rather die at the barricades than starve amidst Jews and Gypsies in a concentration camp.” She laughed in the familiar old Rybinka way, with out any self-consciousness. “But of course Yablov – I am a hardened Bolshevik!” She continued talking, shifting effortlessly into an auto-discussion of Engels’ ‘The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State.’ “Of course,” she was saying, “He made extensive use of Marx’s notes…” But Yablov was not longer listening. The alcohol, sleep-deprivation and the fireplace’s flames were taking him back to places he did not want to go. What happens, he wondered, when the nightmares no longer wait for unconsciousness. Is that when you go mad? Is that when you shoot yourself. It would be easy enough, he thought. Yablov had seen a lot of people die from single gun shot wounds to the head. Hundreds, thousands. Corpses stacked on trucks and wagons. Mass graves a hundred meters long. He shook his head to clear it and gulped wine. Rybinka droned on, “…thus while each gens was strictly exogamous, the tribe embracing all the gentes was no less endogamous…” These things can not be cleared away by wishes, Yablov thought, you have to work through it and come out the other side.

Poland, March, 1940. The Supremo had yet to order Smersh into existence. Yablov was still a uniformed Captain in the NKVD. The had spent weeks “filtering,” the Polish army officers being held in camps near the Katyn forest. After endless list-making and cross referencing they had put together a list of nearly seven thousand army officers, policemen and large landowners with, “Pronounced fascist tendencies and sympathy.” The orders came down straight from the Politburo – there was to be a, “Mass liquidation.”     Blokhin himself had flown in on a small aircraft from Moscow. In the recesses of his brain he had remembered Yablov had once been a carpenter and the two of them had worked like the real proletariats they had once been to build a padded, soundproof hut. They even put a drain in the earthen floor to catch the errant blood. Doing the math with a pencil and a piece of scrap paper Blokhin decided he would execute two-hundred and fifty men a night until the camp was empty. He had outfitted himself with a butcher’s apron and cap and a pair of clear goggles. He acquired a variety of German arms –  Lugers, P-38s, Walthers,  out-dated revolvers – then he embarked on his personal massacre. A penal battalion was brought in to cart away the bodies and dispose of them. Blokhin worked like an old-time Bolshevik, seven days a week. Twenty-eight days later the camp was empty, he had made seven thousand corpses.

Yablov could only thank Blokhin. He could have ordered it done. But again, he was an old-time Bolshevik – he would never order a crime committed he was not prepared to do himself.     Soon thereafter Yablov had been tapped to attend the first Smersh academy. He gone to Moscow for nine months of German language study and covert operations training. Rybinka had been among the instructors.
“You are not even listening to me!” Rybinka hissed, “I bore you that much?”

“My mind was just wandering, “ Yablov admitted, “I was thinking.”

“Well I would never attempt to dissuade an intelligence officer from thinking.” Rybinka was pulling off her jackboots and peeling off her socks, “Then you would be no better than an American!” She lowered herself to the villa’s carpeted floor with the vodka bottle clutched in her left hand. “How confining,” she murmured and unbuckled her pistol belt and pulled it out from behind herself. “Why don’t you come here and rub my legs?” She asked him, “Would that please you?

Yablov laughed and pulled off his own boots. Rybinka was laughing hysterically. “Anything for the revolution,” he said.
They lay under scratchy army blankets naked on their right sides. Yablov rubbed her back from round buttocks to her smooth shoulders. The room was spinning and the fireplace crackled. Yablov just wanted to pass out sleep without dreaming but Rybinka kept chattering. “In my own way I will be glad when the war is over,” she said. “I would like to leave intelligence work and have a baby.”

“Really? That surprises me,” Yablov slid his hand around and cupped her breast, stroking the nipple with his thumb.

“Why does that surprise you? I am not too old!”

“I know.”

“How would you know how old I am?” She laughed and moved her hand back between his legs. “You don’t even know my real name!”

“It’s not Zoya Rybinka?”

“Actually yes. I was born with a false name but when I joined the Bolshevik party I threw it away.”

“What year was that?”

“1918. I was just a girl.”

The room had stopped spinning and Yablov stroked her with his fingers. “You feel good Zoya.”

“I met Lenin once and he signed my copy of ‘State and Revolution.”

“You’ve told me before. Sssh.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet. Make me.”

“Yes comrade.”

“Colonel” Zoya Rybinka circa 1945

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some things never change

According to the new census data my current “home county,” – Cherokee County, has the 3rd highest poverty rate in Oklahoma. An astounding 26.8 percent of it’s population have individual earnings of 11000 a year or less. I would hazard a guess that the real rate is even higher, perhaps much higher. According to the new census data my current “home county,” – Cherokee County, has the 3rd highest poverty rate in Oklahoma. An astounding 26.8 percent of it’s population have individual earnings of 11000 a year or less. I would hazard a guess that the real rate is even higher, perhaps much higher.

And still the CNO recenty announced plans for a mega-casino just south of Quah. How much more money do they think they can suck out of some of the poorest people in america? And where are those casino millions going? Obviously the money is not “trickling down,”….I think I know where it goes….haha…The scheme goes back to at least 1808. . And still the CNO recenty announced plans for a mega-casino just south of Quah. How much more money do they think they can suck out of some of the poorest people in america? And where are those casino millions going? Obviously the money is not “trickling down,”….I think I know where it goes….haha…The scheme goes back to at least 1808. .

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A Short History of the Scots-Irish

A Short History of the Scots-Irish 

We ain’t never gonna change
We ain’t doing nothing wrong
We ain’t never gonna change
So shut your mouth and play along”
-Drive-By Truckers

The plow is a weapon to the earth. The lowland Scots held ground that was poor and they steadily degraded it for centuries. Torn between warring neighbors – highlander celts to the north and English anglos to the south they were habitually troubled. Depleted and exhausted by endless waves of guerrilla war the English saw these lowlanders as an intermediate race, although certainly without culture the Scot barbarians were still a step above the savages on the Irish island.

In 1602 King James launched upon a novel scheme – these disposable people could be moved en masse and resettled in Ulster and other Irish environs. There they could farm in their own primitive fashion on land grant plantations given by the King. To earn such privileges and prove their loyalty to the King they had but one task – subdue the wild Irish horde.

By 1641 the Irish resistance collapsed. Tens of thousands of their number lay dead by cudgel and sword. The lowlanders had a new home and an identity as paramilitary farmer stock. In Europe these people became known as the Ulster Scots.

The English had an Indian problem. One hundred years after their arrival in north America they had pushed the frontier only one hundred miles west. The indigenous inhabitants held their settlement of the hinterland in check. The two most troublesome tribes – the Iroquois in the north and the Cherokee in the south were so formidable that the anglo colonists preferred bribery and flattery to cajole them over open warfare.

This “Indian hindrance,” was well noted in London. In 1725 a colonial official commented that it was safer and faster for a Virginia planter to visit London than to travel to the western frontier,( roughly the present site of Knoxville, TN.) The colonial authorities mulled over these problems with great seriousness. They decided what was needed was a “border class,” of European emigrants. A hardy folk whose inevitable sacrifice would not be a great loss to the English-speaking establishment.The English then began bringing in large numbers of Germans to the colonies. Mostly they were settled in Pennsylvania. They were orderly, industrious, excellent farmers, but they were town-folk. They had little interest or inclination to move into the wilderness and fight Indians.

As a second choice in the 1720s emigration agents began openly recruiting the Ulster Scots to move to America. The deal was one they understood quickly. As their ancestors had brought the wild Irish to heel this generation would sail to America – subdue the natives – and farm in their own fashion.

In America these people became known as the Scots-Irish. Benjamin Franklin referred to them in print as, “White savages.” They were ignorant, indolent, unmannered and irreligious. They were also hard, brutal and well accustomed to violence and deprivation. In just a few years it became clear – the anglo elite had found their Indian fighters.

The Scots-Irish traveled and warred in their own clan formations, and they could more than match their woodland foes massacre for massacre and atrocity for atrocity. In the first one hundred years the anglo colonists and advanced their realm only one hundred miles. A century after the first Scots-Irish importation the only Indian resistance east of the Mississippi River was being conducted by the Seminoles in Florida.

It was in the American south that Scots-Irish culture reached it’s logical conclusion. As long-term antagonists so often do they and the Indians began to resemble each other. This process was a two-way exchange – they taught each other about scalping and log cabins and tobacco and alcohol and ambush and deerskin clothing and agriculture and the avoidance of civilization.(1.) And they both learned quickly to set themselves apart from the African slave laborers who toiled in the anglo’s fields. By 1800 the Scots-Irish and Indians might kill each other or intermarry as circumstances dictated. But the African slaves were too valuable to kill and too lowly to marry. It was better to catch them up if possible and sell them or claim the reward. This the Scots-Irish and southern Indians did equally with great zeal.

In the 1830s the southern Indians experienced their forced removal from the American south to the Indian Territory. The Scots-Irish champion ( and first non-anglo President) Andrew Jackson provided the impetus behind this scheme, and it was fulfilled. With the south now “ethnically cleansed,” the Scots-Irish either stayed at home with their plows, jugs, axes and fiddles and devoted themselves to primitive agriculture on the margins of the slave economy, or they continued their decades long trek west.

Sam Houston (mad man, classicist, drunkard, adopted Cherokee) was sojourning amongst his Indian kin and dreaming of revolutionizing Texas, which in 1834 was still a part of Mexico. Houston had been a part of a multi-ethnic army in the Creek War of 1812 and he envisioned an army of Scots-Irish southerners, “civilized tribes,” and wild plains Indians(2.) could smash the Spanish rule of Texas and set up a provisional government. Overall, the plan had real merit. Spanish rule in Mexico had been softened up by a century of warfare with the Comanche/Kiowa. By the 1830s the Indians were winning. The Mexican army (peasants led by noblemen) was potentially genocidal but they were no match for the well mounted and armed Comanche/Kiowa.

In due time Houston did revolutionize Texas, his dream, however, fell apart. The “Civilized Tribes,” had no interest in nation-building in Texas and both the Scots-Irish and Comanche/Kiowa were uncontrollable and convinced they could each defeat the other.

And so the pattern continued. The Comanche/Kiowa soon learned that these white southerners were nothing like the Mexican army. They were willing to ride their horses to death to overtake their prey, to go for days without sleep or food. They did not hesitate to kill women and children. They possessed the field craft and social memory necessary to wage a protracted race war. They could track, shoot expertly and live off the land just as well as their enemies.

The Texas Republic was founded in 1836 and less than forty years later the great tribes were eradicated from Texas. The Scots-Irish conquest of Texas however, came at a staggering cost – on the Texas frontier each mile of western advance cost seventeen white lives.(3)

In the interim, back in Dixie, the Scots-Irish had served en masse as foot soldiers for the Confederate slave state. And of course they would eventually taste the defeat they had visited upon so many other tribes. In response to this military defeat and occupation they abandoned their traditional irreligiosity and embraced fundamentalist Christianity. In 1865 this defeat appeared total, but the Scots-Irish southerners fell back upon their clan ties and paramilitary tradition. The Klu Klux Klan was formed and in a few years the Reconstructionist state governments were overthrown one by one. Yes, the American south would be thrown open to northern capital and industrial progress, and yes, it would maintain the classic southern social dynamic – white supremacy – with the Scots-Irish as prepared as ever to kick the asses and cut the throats.

By 1910 the map was closed and the frontier existed only in isolated pockets. The “occupation” of frontiersman became defunct. Indian fighters were no longer needed. The Scots-Irish occasionally rose to middle-class prosperity but far more often sunk to squalid unsustainable agriculture practices and muddled through decades of accepted poverty.(4.)

In 1917 the United States entered World War 1. At this time the Marine Corps was a tiny organization that did little more than police ships and form color guards. Scots-Irish southerners still harbored a healthy distaste for the U.S. Army, whom they associated with “Lincoln’s Black Republicanism” Grant, Sherman, et al and the fallen Reconstructionist state governments.

As a consequence the Marine Corps was flooded with southern recruits. This was the true beginning of the Marine Corps traditions of marksmanship, fierce fighting, racism and fundamentalist Christianity. To this day the vast majority of U.S. Marines (officers and enlisted men) are white southerners.

Back home after the war these men joined the second generation KKK and carried on their long march of interpersonal and collective violence. And they (we) march right up to the present day. Take a look at any demographic data – the southern states continue to elect lunatics like Reagan and Bush, they continue to lead the nation in murder, spousal abuse, alcoholism, church-going, ignorance, racial segregation, traffic deaths, illness, crime and vice.

What can one say? We came by it honest.

(1.) Scots-Irish culture was always elastic and would envelope any who fell among them. By 1810 Germans, Dutch, Cherokees, etc. would be acculturated as Scots-Irish. To be clear though – even in the 20th century most southern “poor whites” would remain genotypic ally Scots-Irish. (As an illustration of this trend – several years ago I attended a Cherokee Nation propaganda forum masquerading as a academic conference. Two doctoral candidates, both Cherokee, gave a power point presentation on “Traditional Cherokee Culture.” With no sense of irony they told us “Traditional Cherokees,” lived in log cabins, gathered ginseng, ate deer and rabbit, tended corn patches and let their hogs run loose in the forest. It soon became clear that what the presenters were describing was not “Traditional Cherokee Culture,” but traditional southern culture. Which then, as now is multi-ethnic when it is not mulatto.
(2.) “Negroes,” would however be excluded from such a state. Houston’s radicalism was limited, Indians wielding political power was acceptable to him. Africans would remain a permanent slave-laboring class.
(3.) The best single book on the Scots-Irish/Comanche race war remains, ‘Comanches: History of a People’ by T. R. Fehrenbach
(4.) Incorporating Scots-Irish (and Indians) into the industrial working class would be a long and uneven process. Italian, Polish, Czech, even Slovenian colonies usually sprung up around southern industrial centers. Physical labor under a supervisor would remain “Nigger work,” to the Scots-Irish commoner well into the postmodern era. When eastern Oklahoma suffered limited industrialization in the1960s and 70s management personnel from out of state would often express amazement at the local’s (Scots-Irish and Indian almost to the man) lack of a work ethic and refusal to submit to authority.

Selected Readings –
‘The Mind of the South,’ by W.J. Cash
‘The Scotch Irish’ : A Social History by James G. Leyburn
‘Cracker Culture: Celtic Ways in the Old South’ by Grady McWhiney
‘Born Fighting: How The Scots-Irish Shaped America’ by James Webb

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