Hello to Father Davis, Pastor of Church of the Little Flower, thank you sir.
You are a balm and a kindness to offer to have a social group look into this.
Sir? IF you look back to the previous page (pardon the digressions),
you will see a little video "gift" of a single, little flower (Church of The Little Flower),
which I offered to you...in video made years before any of this happened.
And on page seventeen, or sixteen...is a synopsis of the cop travails.
Father? I was beaten to die by an odious cop. Another one then promised me hell to come,
"never an even break!"
Thanking your predecessors, too...in memory, of 1965/66,
for letting the child-Reid run his toy go-kart
on the athletic field and on the courts at the School on Saturdays,
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]Reid Welch[/COLOR]
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]305 999 7522[/COLOR]
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=127810879801&set=t.100002168271147&type=1
Welcome To Church Of The Little Flower
www.cotlf.org/ - Cached
Church of the little flower Coral Gables Florida
Saint Therese of Liseux Saint Theresa Catholic School
Accredited school Accredited Catholic School. ...
2711 Indian Mound Trail
Coral Gables, FL 33134
(305) 446-9950
Father? Please see, the reference to your Church on the previous page, too?
Pardon, please the seeming-ramble? I pass the time by baiting my cop tormentors
and the pols, and such who aid them. All of the purported facts are just that, and not fantasy.
I wrote this, though, and the dialog is re-invented from long ago. Note the location?
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]It's very odd, all these co-incidences, and your name, Father, is that of a former dear friend,[/COLOR]
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]of course, it is a name almost like Smith. Smiths forge good things too.[/COLOR]
Oh....from page thirteen of this thread, recalled, copy and paste,
we were at the Indian mounds...archeology for a father and this boy,
"Judge" Welch, my father,
taught me of ancient customs,
non-fiction at heart,
a sultry day, 1965, west of Miami,
crickets warn of bulldozers nearing the Indian mounds.
Father and son sift under saw grass and cypress.
"Dad, look, neck bones."
Truth requires imagination. "That was once a turtle bone necklace."
"There are lots of them, Dad. What do they mean?"
"Indians know that turtles never die. Father and son wore their necklaces."
"Daddy? Why is there a shell here in the dirt?"
"It is for the daddy to dig them out
so his boy can see the day again."
__________________________________________________________
Dearest Father? I wrote that poem in green, months ago, in a fit of "remembrance".
I had to put it down to print. It did happen, the "dig" my daddy took me to, just we two,
no one else was on the desolate scene. Construction equipment loomed. He had permission,
and no-one else cared. Dig we must, Father.
This is my gift of love to you all. I am giving my life to help stop bad cop work and political corruption.
I am not much and will soon be nothing at all but a forgotten memory, I think...
http://www.archive.org/details/WWII_News_19450506_Drew_Pearson
Reviewer: Logical -- August 24, 2007
Subject: Appreciated here
What serendipity: you present here a broadcast that aired on the very day that my paternal grandfather died (May 6th, 1945).
Coincidence: PB Welch was born the same year as ******, died suddenly one week after ******.
Coincidence: Pearson was my paternal grandmother's first cousin.
That makes him my first cousin twice removed.
I've never heard a Pearson broadcast before, so this is a treat. But it touches me to know that
he's speaking at the same time that my grandfather
had just died.
Their elder son of two sons, my uncle Paul, was in Europe at that moment. Letters did not get to Paul jr.
As late as the first week of July, '45, Paul wrote to his folks back home, "Mom, Dad, I'm coming home in August! I can hardly wait. It'll be so great to see you all again."
(He didn't know his dad was dead)
FIFTY NINE YEARS later, a call came to me from the current owners of that home that PB built,
"Reid, we had workmen here last month. They removed a faulty plaster section in the master bathroom. Something fell to the floor from the attic crawl space above."
Paul Welch Jr. had returned home from France in August.
He lived at home for year or so, taking care of his widowed mother (Pearson's cousin). Paul came home with the usual war booty souvenirs: a Lugar pistol, maps, etc.
How that Nazi SS knife ended on the floor of the bathroom, almost fifty nine years after Paul had hidden it? Why did Paul bury the dagger into the vermiculite up there?
I can guess, because I knew my grandmother's personality. She'd had enough horror. I just bet that Fern saw that dagger and demanded to son Paul,
"NOT in my house. No, you get rid of that dreadful thing right now."
And I posit that Paul put the dagger into that hiding place then and there,and forgot about it.
Paul died about the year 2000.
On May 6th, 2004, Beryl Fournier rang my home phone:
"...Reid, we think you should have it to give to your Uncle Paul."
"He's dead now."
"Well, then it should be with you. Can you come over?"
I visited my boyhood home again for the first time in decades. I came home with this thing I'll show you in the next form.
And so I close this posting, it was no review.
But, instead, another incredible confluence of dates, chance, history, kindness and rememberance
of the dead, of those (Pearson, our country's men, women, the people of the world who died in the struggle, the Allied nation's sacrifices;
for me, it all boils down to kinship with a symbolic knife that somehow has come to my possession,
I know not why, I am not at all spiritual.
I accept wonderful confluences of chance for what they are: rare mediums reinforcing a message.
The knife Fern Wolfe Welch would not have in her home:
http://img256.imageshack.us/img256/9244/screenshot214lk3.jpg
Reid also grew up at 1034 Almeria...and has those relics pictured above in safe keep today, available for view.
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]Everyone should feel free to disregard me or religion, and worship, or not, exactly how and when, they like.[/COLOR]
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]Life was not created to pray to Allah or God, etc. Every life is, is its own font, its own deity, and therefore, an ordained destiny.[/COLOR]
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]I love you all so much I will have to die from you soon...from the joy of being here, so much to bear.[/COLOR]
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]RRW[/COLOR]
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]PPS: Dearest Father Davis? My late, best elder buddy, Ray Busse, of 3921 Hardie,[/COLOR]
[COLOR= rgb(0, 0, 205)]was born on May 23, 1914. I was born on May 22, 1954. Both birthdays were Saturdays.
Today is a Saturday, and like you, I am "working". We are Saturdays' Children, preparing for our Sundays.[/COLOR]
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monday%27s_Child#Lyrics
Common modern versions include:
Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for a living, But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.[1
_____________________________________
PPPS to FBI and other defective detectives: I do not know how I do that stuff.
A few minutes after quitting the propane inhalation (it alters the brain's pathways),
the "visionary" stuff is gone. However, upon =review= of the data I put down in blue,
I see that it is all quite true. I cannot "prove" the theistic stuff.
I can prove the story of the dagger that fell from the ceiling, and figuratively, into my hands;
I have it right here. And you all can hear my cousin's broadcast...and you can see my old parody
of the famed film...and none of the hundreds of "confluences" or "co-incidences" I cite as fact,
are anything less than hard fact.
This and much more is hard fact: my first cousin did co-star in the film,
and I am a former world-class theremin "expert", and this famed film
happens to be filled with theremin sound effects, and I did not know of this film
until AFTER I became engrossed with historic theremins...
Reid/I made this social parody years ago, in protest of a banning from Vimeo,
The real movie, a segment; my first cousin is seen on the TV in this scene,
FACT too, my paternal grandfather "died of a sudden heart attack" at two PM,
on Sunday, May 6th, 1945...which would have been the hour when his wife's first cousin,
Drew Pearson, radio and print journalist to the USA, was preparing an epochal broadcast,
which doubted, in its way, news of ******'s death, "Personally, I won't believe until a body is found..."
P.B. Welch and ****** were both born in 1889.
P.B. Welch, my g'father, died seven days after ******.
Where ****** was hell, on the other hand,
my grandfather was the essence of portable cool,
http://www.google.com/patents?id=CMBgAAAAEBAJ&printsec=drawing&zoom=4#v=onepage&q&f=false
****** and P.B. Welch, MD, were polar opposites and exact contemporaries.
Myself, here at home, January of 1998,
just as my life was beginning to crash in fact,
I am forty three here,
Parody is a mirror of distorted reality.
I did indeed meet the composer of this song,
I was his piano tuner. We chatted for an afternoon, about...1981.
Sweethearts who read this far, I love you. I am, indeed, the figurative Truth.
True it is, that I gave my favorite Lamp, unto Highear Cycling (biblical talk is fun, even when true).
The Lamp can be seen by anyone who visits Highgear Cycling. Please buy a bike while there?
Please bicycle more and car less if you care, more?
I gave my lamp, looking for an honest man. I found a number of you at Highgear Cycling.
I gave my solid glass fishbowl, representation of the security of Earth, to The Home Depot, on loan,
that the workers there could see that I will keep them safe on this Day The Earth Stood Still,
Now, it moves again, and most of humanity had no idea that it could be stopped at any moment.
But, I shall never harm any of my dear ones. I merely stand here, in witness, and beg of you to be as gods.
Reidy