Another Season Comes

 By Anna Von Reitz

The winter has ended and spring has come in just these last few days.  Uriah has once again come through with a cup of morning coffee for me.  The young British men who form the early morning crew have just left the premises, Justin Knight among them.  Bathsheba and I are left alone in the main salon, bathed by the clear morning light, lazy and warm for once. The odd "English chill", a unique combination of cold and wet,  that you must either learn to love or hate, is vanquished for the moment. 

I watched the queue of men departing and I spoke without turning my head toward Bathsheba: "Young lesser gentry being able to marry for love --- whose idea was that, yours or David's?" 

"Mine," Bathsheba admitted, "and then-Prince Charles." 

We let a long pause settle on that one, thinking about love and how unaccountable it is, how you can love two people at once, and how no love is ever the same. 

"I hope you will bring a Guest to the wedding," Bathsheba finally offered.  

"I don't think there's anyone out there for me," I replied honestly. "I was lucky enough to get a good one the first time around." 

"James was very special, but then, he'd have to be.  You wouldn't marry for title or fortune." 

"That was only fair, as I had neither."

"Remember when the fairy godmothers tried to set you up with Tom Harriman?" 

"Because we were both short and both liked to knit?" I quipped. 

"Because he was terribly rich and you were terribly poor," Bathsheba corrected. 

"Poverty has its merits.  You learn that you can survive without being rich, and so don't fear poverty anymore.  It sets you free in its own strange way." 

"Do you ever think of him?  Tom?" 

"Of course," I shifted my weight and glanced at her. "The ironies of age aren't lost on me. What if we'd taken a different course?  Right now, we could be sitting on opposite ends of a long fireplace, knitting sweaters for unicorns." 

She smiled in spite of herself. 

"With your genetics, you could last another forty years and be like the Queen Mother." Bathsheba observed--- but then, Bathsheba has always been practical to a fault.  

I knew what she meant.  Feisty and full of it to the end.  That's the expectation for someone from my peculiar Scottish lineage: naturally auburn hair, "eyes of an uncertain color, flecked with gold", pale but very durable skin....  And yes, I could face all those forty years alone.  

It's a daunting thought, but Bathsheba has sense enough to know that she can never gauge my heart.  I was built on a different scale than her, meant for different purposes.  She couldn't imagine forty years alone without a man to comfort and guide her. 

"I know you miss him terribly," she said softly. "Is there no one else?" 

"No, no one," I replied and I know I looked very earnest when I said it, because I was trying to make her understand something foreign to her own nature. "I was lucky enough to find one among the millions, and anyway, I have always been a wild colt, out running beneath the stars, content without a rider." 

This brought us both back to a night when we were on the Night Train to Glasgow and saw a young horse racing the train in a  pasture we were passing by, a leggy grey Hunter running for the sheer joy of running beneath the moon and stars. 

She nodded, for the moment discouraged. 

"Just because you can have your cake and eat it, too," I said gently enough, "Not everyone is as lucky as you.  Some of us don't get second chances." 

Sometimes, that's just the way it is, and we both knew it.  

"I'm happy for you and Uriah," I added. "Your storybook ending may have to be enough late-in-life satisfaction for me." 

"I started drinking the peppermint tea and taking the milk thistle and other herbs this morning," she confided. 

The herbs will dry up her milk, gradually, painlessly.  She will lose a cup size, maybe two, but not as much as you might think. She will still be large enough up top to get more than glances, but Uriah remains adamant and promised Mrs. Pam in front of God and everyone: "No knife will touch her breast, if I am alive and have anything to say about it."  

Coming from a veteran MI6, we all considered that to be a permanent settlement of the breast reduction surgery issue.  

"It's really not so easy to break a person's neck," Uriah once assured me. "Not like in the movies at all.  That's why hanging isn't such a good method of execution.  Most people end up strangling."  

"Jim much preferred a good strike to the Vagus nerve complex," I replied.  

Uriah gave me a knowing look and nodded. 

Strange things we know and strange things we've had to understand, I thought at the time.  How is it that mankind has developed a hundred thousand ways to kill each other, and not nearly as many ways to save a life? 

Chalk it up to the patriarchy again. 

Uriah drove me to the airport himself and lugged my one suitcase up the metal stairs from the tarmac.  He wasn't winded and didn't tilt over sideways the way you might expect from a man his age. He has retained his muscle mass and balance.  

As if to make a total break with the past, he hugged me again, very close and said, "You'll have to keep in better touch, now that you're officially my Best Man." 

I had a brief vision of myself in a formal suit, standing between the two of them at the altar, but it was too silly to contemplate. 

If anyone had any cause to wonder if my love for the British people is sincere, the words I have recorded here should give them no cause to doubt.  It's always been an odd and yet understanding love affair, lived on opposite sides of a fence, but in full view of the other.  

My objections and anger have instead been posed against the reckless elements of the deceitful and largely unaccountable British Government complex, the barking mad aspects of a "planned society" that placed political expediency and commercial advantage above common sense and honor.  

I suppose in the end, my life's work has been a battle cry against the unbridled patriarchy, running roughshod in its own blind self-interest.  

I settled back in my seat inwardly clucking about the cost of private jet service, but very grateful for its comforts.   

My thoughts paused briefly on young Justin Knight and his whole cadre of middlemen being prepared to carry on the fight for humanity.  Unavoidably, I had to think about King David, without whom none of this would be happening. 

In my mind's eye, I could easily remember his handsome face and the fast-moving kaleidoscope of emotions that passed over it almost as quickly as his thoughts. Like a Chess Master, he triangulated the patriarchy's every move, their Death Cult, his Life Cult. 

The rest of us didn't even know we had to choose a side.

Granna 

------------------

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About the Uriah Articles

 By Anna Von Reitz

If you don't understand the journey you won't understand the destination.  Open your mind and take in the information and you will understand the depopulation agenda and everything attached to it from the push to legitimize abortion to Covid-19.  

If you haven't wondered, "Why would people be doing all these evil things?" or "How are all these disparate anti-life policies and programs connected?" or "Who is pushing this Death Cult crap and why?"  then you can afford to ignore these articles, but if you have been perplexed and searching through history and scientific publications and every other venue for answers, then this is it.  

I am literally sharing the process of discovery I went through.  

We are facing a worldwide struggle between directly opposed value systems --- those that cherish and value life (represented by matriarchy) versus those (represented by patriarchy) who promote death for profit. 

You will also get a sense of the use and misuse of science and bureaucracy, the multi-layered impacts that this struggle has had during our lifetimes, and some of the ways people have been pushing back to return to a moral and sane world that values life. 

This is the journey I took to gain the insight I now have into the clashing value systems that are literally at war with each other and which have used other issues, like religion and race and economic ideologies, as storefronts to hide the actual causes of war, destruction, and moral decay for centuries. 

I made it very clear that some people might be uncomfortable with some of this material but if you want to understand the motivations and fears and craziness that has gone on in this world, I know no better way to bring you along and allow you to grasp what we have been fighting —- than to follow the process of observation, discovery, and analysis. 

If people are too squeamish to see through the sexual aspects of this discovery and its implications, and don't understand that a life v death struggle necessarily involves sex — I don't know what to say to them.  

Having made this discovery and connection concerning these opposed hidden value systems, there is no going back.  

For many years we have struggled to define the problem in order to solve it.  We have endlessly studied and researched and at every turn, the pathway toward a solution turns inward, while the outer reaches of the problem expand. 

As I have wrestled endlessly with aspects of history, government, law, religion, and politics, I have long sensed that somewhere, somehow, it was all connected and that the fundamental conflict went far beyond any lesser struggles like rich v poor, black v white, republican v democrat, Catholic v Protestant.   There was always something larger, a misty, amorphous cloud of evil generating the dischord and poverty, illness and death.   

And now, if you patiently plod through the Uriah Articles and allow your mind and sensitivities to be assaulted, quite literally assaulted, you will know what that evil is.  

Believe me, in confronting this material, I have often felt like I was in a mental boxing match, taking punch after punch, seeing things I didn't want to see, having to slog through swamps full of moral ambiguities that nobody wants to slog through, being confronted, embarrassed, reduced, humbled, and in the end, upheld. 

There is a greater battlefield.  There is a Generative Source of all the horror and conflict and corruption.  

And there is a choice --- a relatively simple choice to make, once you clearly see what the choices are. 

So, if you are squeamish, are too embarrassed to read something that deals with mildly sexual topics -- yet topics that are important, if you are ever going to understand the cataclysms we are facing as a species, skip the Uriah Articles. 

Spend your days studying the storefront issues and limit your view of the battlefield to stay within your comfort zone.  I can tell you all honestly, that I have been pushed beyond my comfort zone to observe, discover, and analyze this material, much less write it down and take the responsibility of authorship.  

I have felt compelled to write it all down anyway, propelled by the suspicion that others have come to these conclusions long before, and let their own fear and their own sense of propriety dictate their silence --- leaving the real problem undefined and festering under the surface of lesser conflicts.  It's the things we refuse to see and talk about, out of fear and embarrassment, that continue to threaten us and leave us isolated, unable to organize a solution. 

Well, enough of that. 

I am a Great-Grandma.  There isn't much I haven't seen, done, smelled, touched, heard or felt.  I am not afraid.  Instead, I am humbled.  

Granna

If the Suit Fits....and Also, If It Doesn't

 By Anna Von Reitz

You must understand that I have lived most of my life in a shadow realm, and for most of it, I haven't known who I am.  I had relationships. I had a Mother and Father and pets and friends, all the normal happy accoutrements of life --- but in my early teens things started to depart from the normal world. 

If this makes your skin prickle a little, it should, because we are all in the same situation.  You don't really know who you are, either.  

People have told you who you are. 

They have given you a name and claim to belong to a particular family.  They presented you with an age, a race, a religion.  You have built up a history and formed a knowledge base, so that you have, over time, acquired an identity and accumulated evidence backing up your story line. 

But it is a storyline.  

Feel lucky if you have that distinctive chin or that nose or that wavy hair that identifies you, for sure, as a MacGregor or a Findley or a Pratt, Johnson, Lindhurst, or whatever other family....but none of that was true for me.  I was different from my cradle, endowed with different capacities and a different look all around, apart from anyone in my family.  

By the time I was thirteen, the long grinding process of discovering myself had begun. I was enlisted in a program. 

And now, I give you permission to let your skin crawl, because, well, being "in a program" has meaning.  

Young Justin Knight is in a program to teach men to be competent and hopefully, caring, husbands.  Bathsheba has been in a program to discover everything that can be known about breasts and breast milk and lactation. 

Once you are in a program other factors come into play, other purposes and meanings attach, you acquire a cadre, and you -- in one way or another -- enter the shadow realm. 

I call it the shadow realm because nothing is ever exactly the same as it appears, ever again.  Your own experience makes you view things as if you were looking at life through a prism or perhaps viewing its reflection through the pieces of a shattered mirror. The words "through a glass and darkly" come to life and you know exactly what the Apostle was talking about. 

A few of you have accused me of "writing a steamy romance novel" the past few days.  I can assure you that is not my intent and not the way I look at it.  

Is it romantic when two people you love have been kept apart, used and abused, for forty years ---- and are still paying the price of their parts in a dying social paradigm?  I'm sorry.  That doesn't count as romance to me.  

For me, and for them, for Uriah and Bathsheba, even for the Piper, it feels more like being on a torture rack for no reason and the circumstance of our lives as we have been forced to live them, has been imposed on us, quietly, steadily, almost imperceptibly by largely unseen forces.  

Was King David a fetisher, a madman, who abused his wife in a truly bizarre and despicable manner, or a hero who fought back using British history and the model of an older social paradigm to save lives and create new knowledge?  And what part does science and the "Mrs. Pams" of the world play in all of this?  Mere tools in subjection, or part of a ready infrastructure all too prone to manipulation for purposes both good and evil?  

And how do I judge that?  What is true is true, and yet, sometimes the truth alone seems to flicker like a candle, shedding insufficient light.  My friend, Bathsheba, would willingly walk across burning coals and would find the courage to do it, if it meant saving a baby's life.  I know that about her. I am absolutely sure of it. 

But would she consciously choose the life she has had, if the choice had been set straight in front of her from the first, and not been insidiously and slowly imposed on her?  

I don't know the answer to that. I only know that in the end result, she has accomplished more --- in a practical sense of having improved and directly saved more lives --- than I have. 

As for Uriah, was he a coward who failed to save her from such a fate, or a man who survived against the odds, and won through to be here at this time?  

I don't know the answer to that one, either -- I am just glad to the foundations of my soul that he made it, and that he's here now for her and they both have a late-life chance at happiness.

The shadow world has taken its toll on all of us, on James and I, too. 

James was sodomized so severely at a prison camp that his entire rectum had to be surgically reconstructed. It's a miracle he survived that physically, much less mentally and emotionally.  He was still a good man in spite of that horrific abuse and he still had love in his heart for humanity.  And for me.  He still managed to be a wonderful husband for me, and a beloved father for his children.  

How did I get my nickname, "Old Iron Pants"?  Because I killed fifteen men who were trying to do something similar to me. I killed them without a second thought, though I can still see their faces in my dreams.  

Because the fight is between life and death, sex unavoidably gets boiled up in it, and if you are too prudish to deal with it, you won't get far and won't survive well.  I am just telling you the way it is, as I always have, like a Dutch Grandma. 

Sex is meant to be sacred, but seldom is in this world.  It's meant to be private, sacred, and cherished between two people mated for life, knowing each other in all ways, loving each other in all ways.  That's what Justin's program is aiming for, to create men who value that ideal and who have the knowledge, skill, courage and acceptance to embody being a husband in real life.  And women who will match them as wives. 

It doesn't mean that Justin and his cohorts will all succeed, but at least the goal has been presented to them, and a pathway forward with skill development as a means to achieve the goal is being given to them. 

All I can say for them and their odd little consummation ritual that seems familiar to me, is God bless them and keep them, God raise his face upon them and grant them true peace and happiness. May they be like seeds to grow a new set of values and models to show the world what marital love and familial love could be. 

Because that is certainly one vital thing that this world needs --desperately -- to remember. 

As for the Piper, he has his own story, too.  He's a harlequin, and not really human, so things were a bit different for him --- slightly different issues of life and death, but nonetheless life and death issues.  

He lost his whole family.  He is the only one left.  No doctors can cure his illnesses.  Nobody can guess his age.  His origins are lost in star charts from the Age of Taurus. 

He remembers when people worshipped Hathor, the Egyptian cow goddess.  He attended ceremonies hosted by Roman Emperors devoted to Mithras.  He swears that I am the reincarnation of the Hindu goddess "Durga", the Great Mother, and that I am here to "settle accounts". 

I don't think he is talking about my work as a Fiduciary.  He means that I have a role in preserving life itself. 

Please notice that William of Normandy's Farewell Sonnet is relatively recent reading material for the Piper.  

I mentioned in passing that he picked me up like an infant and carried me, a stout grown woman, to the couch in his study --- even though he is "much older than me" and I am about to turn seventy. 

I also told you how much the Piper hates the cold.  He is leaving his house in Somerset because he is sick of Somerset's "cold and beastly climate" -- not because he expects to die soon. 

The Greek Isles, Venice, and the South of France are much more like his native habitats. 

And I don't even know if I will accept his gift.  Without Jim, I don't have much need for a large house.  Without Jim, I don't have much need for anything in this world. 

The truth is that I passed this marker many years ago, when Bathsheba and I were both young.  She had all the wealth in the world, the estates, the yachts, the country houses and I had nothing by comparison.  I was like an unaccountable flea on a dog and we were talking one afternoon. 

"I suppose I should be jealous," I said, and I really, logically, rationally meant that. I should have been jealous of her wealth and beauty and all her worldly possessions, but I wasn't.  I searched my heart and realized that I simply, inexplicably, wasn't jealous of her at all. 

Even I didn't know why at the time, but the fact remained that I couldn't raise the least little bit of a single twinge of jealousy. 

I already knew myself well enough to know that I was better suited to life on a farm or a beach bungalow, somewhere simple, with open skies and stars at night. 

I was and am a Country Mouse and I am content with that.

Yet Bathsheba and I could look at each other across the chasm of social classes and money and everything else, and still see each other's souls.  Being an American meant I didn't matter, though everyone always hoped I'd turn out to be the daughter of an American tycoon.  

At least, I could have the good grace to have a pile of money. 

That's what the Piper was bemoaning and muttering about nobody taking care of me, and regrets that James and I hadn't -- frankly -- been more successful financially.  The Piper is, of course, aware of the sacrifices we made for the cause of American Independence.  He knows why we were never able to become rich in our own right, but that doesn't change the fact of my non-existent bank balance. 

I think that accepting the house might be considered an "emolument" from -- if not a foreign government, a foreign source -- and would require an Act of Congress (one more pleasantly disposed toward me than the present one) for me to accept.  I am not an officer of the Federal Government, but am an officer of the Federation of States, and we may assume that the limits our Founders placed on their employees applied even more strictly to themselves and to us. 

Granna

Uriah Made It Home

 By Anna Von Reitz

Uriah got back in the wee hours of the morning.  Bathsheba and I were in the kitchen hunched over cups of herbal tea, hoping to sleep. Eight days without a word. Iranian missiles carpet bombing most of the Middle East. She stood up and stumbled into his arms. 

I left the two of them clutched together like shipwrecked mariners and fled up the back stairway to my guestroom.  

In the morning, it was only Uriah and I at breakfast.  The late night and the demands of the regimen exhausted Bathsheba; she went back to bed after the first early morning session. Uriah looked  pale and vaguely haggard, but he smiled his old smile when he saw me and said, "Good morning, Pants." 

"If the suit fits, wear it!" 

This was a total formula, earned when I acquired the nickname 
"Old Iron Pants". 

I looked him deep in the eye and asked, "Is it over?" 

"Not yet," he replied with a faint flicker of concern. 

We were talking about the British extraction of records, people, and assets from Dubai, without really talking about it.  

He clapped the lid on the old WWII vintage coffee pot, the one informally labeled as "my" coffee pot, and I considered the kindness that kept a coffee pot for me when everyone else drank tea.  The ancient percolator hissed. 

"How'd it go?" I asked. 

And now we weren't talking about Dubai, we were talking about the reunion with Bathsheba, and we both understood that implicitly without a word being said to shift the subject. It just shifted, and so did we.

"She's exhausted," he replied. "Who wouldn't be?"

We were quiet then for at least a whole minute, just letting the percolator perk, until I finally said, "Isn't it odd? Out of all the young math gurus, none of us actually went into mathematics."

That caused an automatic resorting and thoughts, a sieve-like process as we recalled the names and faces and fates of all the 

classmates and co-workers who started out with us.  

"I turned in my resignation letter," he abruptly confided. 

"That's wonderful!" 

"What time we have left on Earth is ours," he said as he poured me a cup of steaming coffee. "She asked me if I wanted her to have breast reduction surgery...." 

"Well?" I looked up at him, listening intently. 

"No, thank you!  I spent enough years without her, to ever put her at risk.  We'll use traditional herbs to dry her up and -- gradually -- take back our lives with her breasts intact."

He was faced toward the red light of morning pouring in through the high windows.  He looked like a man at peace, a little bittersweet around the edges, but ready and resolved.  

"Oh," he perked up suddenly. "And you are going to be the Matron of Honor, next December 12th." 

"You can't possibly be serious," I sputtered. "I've served as Maid of Honor or Matron of Honor at sixteen weddings! Sixteen!" 

"But never at our wedding," he countered.

"No, no, no!  I will be seventy years old next December, and by the way, I live in a different country." 

"If you've already done sixteen weddings, what's one more?" 

"No!" I practically shouted, imagining the difficulties, the endless decision-making, the terrible small arguments, the Guest List, the rentals and dress-makers, and etiquette questions worse than a full session of Parliament. "No!" 

"Dear Pants," he said gently, "there's always a penalty to be paid for loyally supporting an underdog, and this is it.  If not for you, I'd be sitting in my flat in Portsmouth, all alone, with nothing to look forward to but an epitaph: "Here lies a Yummy Plumber." 

I felt like a gaffed fish. 

"You are breaking protocol," I sniffed. "Bathsheba is supposed to ask me." 

"You can be my Best Man, too," he shot back. 

I thought of the two of us sitting at the pub together the night of her first wedding, when she married King David, and teared up suddenly. In an unexpected, totally uncharacteristic breach of his stolid British reserve, Uriah hugged me. 

Hugging is somewhat frowned upon in Britain and is more likely to happen between men engaged in some endeavor -- like a rugby match. 

"Well-played, Uriah," I said, my voice coming out muffled against his jacket lapel. "Well-played. Best Man it is." 

Granna

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See this article and over 5700 others on Anna's website here: www.annavonreitz.com

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Gold Is Down — Here’s What History Says Happens Next

 https://youtu.be/N6LZFVwqMQI

Gold is down more than 17% over the past three weeks. Last week alone, it fell more than 10% — the worst single week for gold since March 1980. That’s nearly half a century. 

It’s jarring. And if you’re holding physical gold right now, you probably want answers. 

Here’s what the data actually shows — and why the panic may be misplaced. 

-------------------------------------

By Paul Stramer

In 2024 we started using the new mint in Indiana to stamp and ship our silver rounds, after over 18 years with the previous mint in Utah.

The mint is now experiencing a larger volume of orders and has extended their production schedule up to six to eight weeks for new orders.

 We expect our volume to rise also, and that run has already started.

 Here are some of the things that are changing for the better for you, our customers.

1. The old 500 ounce minimum order is gone. The new minimum order is now 50 ounces. 

2. They will be very competitive in their price structure, and right now we are offering a price plan based on the volume of metal in each order. See below.

These will be shipped by UPS Ground, fully insured.

 We will still be accepting wire transfers, or cashiers checks like always. 

We can only lock an order after we have received the funds. Here is the formula we use to figure your price.

Go to this link on Kitco.com and look up the ask price of silver. 

https://www.kitco.com/price/precious-metals

It's in the first table on that page. 

The mint is closed Friday, through Sunday, so we can't lock an order on those days.

For a 60 oz. to 99 oz. order, take the ask price and add $5.00

For a 100 oz. to 199 oz. order, take the ask price and add $4.50. 

For a 200 oz. to 299 oz. order, take the ask price and add $4.25. 

For a 300 oz. to 999 oz. order, take the ask price and add $3.75. 

All orders over 1000 ounces will be $3.50 over spot ask price.

Take that number times the number of ounces (50 or over) and then add $30.00 for each 60 to 99 ounce box for shipping, or for large orders add $50 per 500 ounce box for shipping.

Once we have your funds we will run this same formula to finalize the price with shipping.

Be sure to call us when you are ready to order so we can answer your questions.

When you call I will get your email address and send you the bank info for wire transfers or the mailing info for your payment. You can then reply with your shipping address for UPS.

If you have any questions here is my contact info.

Office phone  406 889 3183  8 AM to 2 PM and 4PM to 6 PM weekdays.

Cell  406 253 4257  when I am not in the office. Try the Office line first.

pstramer@gmail.com   or  pstramer@eurekadsl.net

Thanks for your support over the years.  We are now open and taking orders.

Paul Stramer   S.A.G.

Uriah, Third Chapter

 By Anna Von Reitz

I met with Simon this morning and he shed more light. 

He was enroute to Marseilles and stopped briefly overnight and for the morning.  He took me to his Father's library after breakfast.  I don't think the door has been opened since David died and we had to feel our way to the window and pull back the drapes because the electricity was out in that sector of the house. 

Did you realize that David kept extensive and I do mean -- extensive -- records of what he called "The Realm of England Project"?  

Over eighty big leather-bound photo albums he called "The Baby Books" of all the babies that received breast milk from his foundation. It was overwhelming.  All these photos of sickly and premature babies, literally thousands of them, identified only by first and middle names: "Patrick John" and "Elizabeth Ann" and so on.  

Simon told me 78,770 babies had received milk at last count, the day his Father died and the counting stopped. I think my brain stopped for a full five minutes. 

"I know you hated my Father," Simon said suddenly, out of nowhere. 

That isn't really true on a personal level.  David was always very kind to me; my friendship with you was never discussed and apparently never held against me, Uriah.  I am sure I looked a combination of dazed by the numbers of babies and startled by Simon's sudden assertion.  

"I didn't hate your Father, Simon."  I began hastily. "I was just looking at all this from the outside as an old friend.  I thought he was a fetisher --- another kinky British Lord." 

Which I did, and in part, still do suspect. 

"And he may have been," Simon agreed with apparent equanimity, granting that some evidence was there. "but there is more to this by far." 

I waited for his analysis, which wasn't long in coming. 

"Britain has been in population decline since the War in the Crimea. We never really recovered from the First World War and then the Second World War hit.... among certain old families, this has been a concern for decades--- including ours." 

Were we, I asked myself,  on the verge of excusing madness and abuse? I sat up a little straighter. 

"You are telling me this was an effort to save British lives?" 

"Yes," Simon replied simply. "an effort to save the most vulnerable British lives.  Sick babies. Premature babies. Anemic babies." 

There was a long pause. 

"You have to realize this took place against a backdrop of the Pirbright Institute and the insane eugenists pushing abortion as the answer to everything. Politically, my Father was pushing back and making gains in a way nobody could criticize --- except for what it has cost my Mother." 

"He used her for his campaign." 

"Yes, yes, he did." 

We let that sit on the library desk between us for a good long while. 

Simon finally broke the silence. 

"You know my Mum as well as anyone. She'd walk over burning coals to save a baby --- anyone's baby." 

The pure truth of that made me burst into tears --- old, battle-hardened Iron Pants herself, bawled like a good healthy baby and kept wiping the tears away and gasping and wiping some more. 

He's absolutely right about that, Uriah, and you know it, too. 

Simon's voice was unsteady and low when he broke the silence again. 

"It hasn't been easy, this family campaign.  It cost everybody almost everything, but we gave tens of thousands of babies the best shot we could give them."  

I sat there in King David's library among the dusty books, shaking my head, seeing the method of his madness and how it dove-tailed so precisely with Bathsheba's love of babies and children.  

There was no doubt in my mind or Simon's and there should be no doubt in yours, either, Uriah, that Bathsheba would sacrifice her own life to save a child, much less -- by now -- over 80,000 of them. 

It's time for her to retire, I agree; it's time for you to have a sane life together.  I understand, Uriah.  I'm just saying that I am staggered to contemplate what one woman, basically acting as a Wet Nurse, has quietly, anonymously, accomplished. 

How many others are out there, I wonder, embattled souls fighting for the Cause of Life in their own way?  People we never know. Blood donors, organ donors, women silently donating their breast milk, all the unsung heroes. 

I told Simon that I understand what his Mother chose and why she chose it. And I don't hate his Father in life or in death.  I just intend that we will all have some sweet years left. 

Granna

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