808MCoop

@MeghanMcCain Mass demonic presence and possession of the weak empty vessels. They walk amongst you. It’s their time to devour the lost and deceived.

Google Fountaine Ferry Park Louisville Ky. It’s the way of the world. And it’s not stopping for your vain memes. Live like there’s no tomorrow. Move your kids. Keep them away from it. That’s the only out.

@1Nicdar Spinach

What was your favorite school lunch?

@jsolomonReports @TASPatriot Well yeah

You Vote: Trump endorsed Paxton over Cornyn for senator from Texas. Do you agree with his choice? justthenews.com/politics-polic…

Trump and Xi's Secret Garden: Why London Is Panicking and Carney Is Done youtu.be/LSYv2UUYfp8?si… via @YouTube

@MittRomney Says the Bain man. We’re screwed and we know it but it ain’t going down easy. We wanna see justice for the common man. You greedy bastard.

The Senate to now lose an exceptionally brilliant and creative mind, an MD who chairs healthcare, and a person of character. Bill Cassidy’s departure is a loss for the country.

@benonwine Marie Antoinette

What’s the FIRST thing that comes to mind?

@CrazyVibes_1 Convenient photographer there

The Soldier Who Found a Baby on the Battlefield and Carried Her for 40 Miles The American Soldier Who Found an Abandoned Baby on the Italian Battlefield and Carried Her 40 Miles to Safety — Then Spent 60 Years Wondering If She Survived, Italy, 1944. January 1944. Anzio, Italy. The Anzio beachhead was a particular kind of hell — a narrow strip of Italian coastline held by Allied forces under constant German bombardment, no room to advance, no room to retreat, just the grinding daily mathematics of holding ground under fire. Corporal James Whitaker, 24, Georgia, was moving through a bombed farmhouse on a patrol assignment when he heard it. Not crying — past crying. The sound an infant makes when it has cried beyond what crying can accomplish and has gone to a place beyond it, a thin persistent sound like a mechanical thing running down. He found her in the farmhouse cellar. An infant girl. Eight months old at the most. Alone in a wooden crate lined with a woman's wool coat. Alive, barely, from cold and dehydration. No one else in the farmhouse. No one else anywhere visible. He picked her up. The Problem James Whitaker was on a combat patrol in an active battle zone carrying an infant who would die if he put her down and who he had no ability to help if he kept her. He had no formula, no milk, no baby supplies of any kind. He had his canteen, a chocolate bar, and forty miles between his position and the field hospital at the rear. He started walking. The Forty Miles He carried her inside his field jacket, against his chest, where the body heat kept her warm. He gave her water from his canteen, dripped slowly from his finger to her lips the way he had seen his mother water young animals — a memory that surfaced from childhood without warning and turned out to be exactly applicable. He broke small pieces of chocolate and let her suck the sweetness from his finger. He moved at night when he could, staying off roads, moving through terrain that was simultaneously trying to kill him from German positions and from Italian winter. He talked to her. Quietly, constantly, in the specific soft register humans use with infants regardless of whether the infant understands. He told her about Georgia. About his mother's cooking. About the farm where he grew up. He told her it was going to be fine, which he was not certain was true but which he had decided to commit to regardless. She was alive when he reached the field hospital at dawn on the second day. A nurse took her from his arms. He sat down on the ground outside the hospital tent and did not get up for an hour. The Handoff The field hospital logged the infant as a found civilian, turned her over to an Italian Red Cross representative, and that was the last official record that connected her to James Whitaker. He asked about her before he went back to his unit. They told him she was stable, that she would be placed with a relief organization, that she would be taken care of. He went back to his unit. He went back to the war. The Sixty Years James Whitaker came home to Georgia in 1945. He married. He had three children. He farmed and then he worked in hardware and then he retired. He thought about the baby for sixty years. Not obsessively — he was a practical man, not given to obsession. But consistently. On certain mornings. On certain nights. A presence in the back of his mind, an open question he had never been able to close. She would be in her sixties now, he would calculate. He did not know her name. He did not know if she had survived the war, the occupation, the chaos of postwar Italy. He did not know if she had a family, children, a life. He knew only that he had carried her forty miles and handed her to a nurse and never found out what happened next. In 2004, his granddaughter Sarah — seventeen years old, working on a school project about WWII — asked him if he had any war stories. He told her one. Sarah put it on the internet. The Finding Three months later, a woman in Bologna, Italy, contacted Sarah's email address. Her name was Maria Conti. She was sixty years old. She had been told, by the Italian family who had raised her, that she had been found as an infant during the Anzio campaign by an American soldier who carried her to safety. She had been looking for that soldier for forty years. James Whitaker was eighty-four years old when Sarah showed him the email. He read it twice. He looked up at his granddaughter. "She's alive," he said. "She wants to talk to you," Sarah said. They spoke by telephone first — Sarah translating between English and Italian. Then by letter. Then, in 2005, Maria Conti flew to Georgia. She was sixty-one years old. She was a schoolteacher. She had three children and five grandchildren. She walked into James Whitaker's living room and he stood up — slowly, at eighty-five, he stood up — and they looked at each other. Maria crossed the room. She took both his hands. She said something in Italian. Sarah translated: "She says she has wanted to say thank you her whole life. She says she is sorry it took sixty years." James Whitaker held her hands. He said: "Tell her sixty years is nothing. Tell her I just needed to know she made it."

@tomselliott @vjeannek It’s past time for a gathering.

Politicians: If you don’t want us to be corrupt, how are we supposed to get rich?

George Washington never went to college. His father Augustine died when George was 11, and the money for English boarding school died with him. His two older half-brothers had already been polished at Appleby Grammar School across the Atlantic. George got Virginia, a demanding mother named Mary, and whatever books he could find at home. At 14 he tried to escape it all by joining the British Royal Navy. His mother shut it down. So he did the next best thing: he taught himself surveying from his late father's instruments, and at 16 he rode west into the Shenandoah wilderness on a commission from Lord Fairfax, who owned over five million acres of Virginia and needed them mapped. His teenage journal survives. It is brutal, funny, and absolutely not the voice of a marble statue. On his first night at a frontier inn, he stripped down and climbed into what passed for a bed, only to find "nothing but a Little Straw Matted together without Sheets or any thing else but only one Thread Bear blanket with double its Weight of Vermin such as Lice Fleas etc." After that he preferred sleeping outside by the fire, even when it rained, even when his clothes froze stiff on him by morning. One journal entry, almost in passing: thirty Native warriors walked into camp carrying a fresh scalp from battle. The teenage surveying party shared their liquor with them and watched them perform a war dance by firelight. George wrote it down the way a modern teenager logs a weird night out. He swam horses across swollen rivers. He ate roasted meat off forked sticks because "our Spits was Forked Sticks our Plates was a Large Chip as for Dishes we had none." He met German settlers and noted in frustration that they "would never speak English but when spoken to they speak all Dutch." He measured timber in country where almost no English speaker had ever walked. By 17 he was the commissioned surveyor of Culpeper County, the youngest official surveyor in the colony of Virginia. By 18 he had parlayed the earnings into nearly 1,500 acres of Shenandoah Valley land in his own name, bought outright, while boys his age back east were still reciting Latin in heated parlors. The man who would one day command the Continental Army, defeat the largest empire on earth, and then voluntarily refuse a crown, did not learn leadership in a lecture hall. He learned it at 16, in a tent, in the dark, hundreds of miles from anyone who could save him.

@EricLDaugh @RealDeanCain That was Charlie’s answer. His spirit moved amongst us and he is with the Lord as our mediator I pray.

🚨 JD VANCE SAYS IT BEAUTIFULLY: "The prophet Isaiah recounts from inside the temple of Jerusalem, 'then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, whom shall I send and who will go for us? And I said, here I am, send me.'" "My friends, we gather this afternoon to honor men and women who heard the exact same call, men and women whose selflessness led them toward danger when others fled." "People who said, send me not send somebody else, but send me people whom service was a way of life, not a burden and their love of community, of their families, of their neighborhoods, of the places they called home, bound them to a life of duty to others." "A duty they lived out every single day from the first time they put on that amazing badge to the moment that they took their very last breath." "In the old testament, God does not force Isaiah to serve him. Isaiah knew it would not be easy, but he steps up willingly. He volunteers just like every single one of you and every single one of your loved ones." "He accepts God's call to give his life in service to his fellow men. And today we remember men and women in uniform who laid down their lives answering that exact same call." 🙏🏻

@Jim_Jordan @JudiciaryGOP Gotta go higher to the back rooms where the orders are laid out

@AnthonyPar18031 @KarluskaP No we’re not. I’d rather take my truck.

@KarluskaP We are the Stone ages Compared to Them.

Bret Baier getting a cup of coffee in China

@Sassafrass_84 @FarmGirlCarrie Retard Finder where are you!!???

The dumbing down of America. A democrat voter in all its glory. Operation let them speak works really well.

@Kenny_Rowe_ @TONYxTWO I wonder if you’re right. Your extreme judgement seems wrong.

@TONYxTWO He was a hateful POS who made money from sowing the seeds of division. Didn't deserve to die for his opinion, but he was definitely not the saint so many try to make him out to be. Now he's unfortunately a martyr for the typical ignorant, low information MAGAt voter.

He had no idea this would be his last day on earth He should still be here

@AnnCoulter Thanks for the bone. I’ll take it.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!