Half Broke Horses

Gerda Mueller bent over a patch of spinach, her enormous backside swaying and twitching as she grabbed any weeds insolent enough to sprout in her garden. Given she didn’t see him approach, Andrew cleared his throat. Gerda spun, her hands still strangling the mangled roots as she tittered. “Oh, Andrew! Some velcome, eh? With my bum wavin’ hello to ya!” She threw the plants to the ground and wiped her man hands on her skirt. “Looking for Pieter, then?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He met her at the row of vegetables, scanned the even, abundant lines. “Got the hardiest garden I’ve ever seen, Mrs. Mueller.”

A mighty arm wrapped around his shoulder and a wet kiss landed on his cheek. “You! Charmer, Andrew Houghton!” She pinched his cheek in the spot that she had kissed. “A good man.”

“Ah, Ma!” Pieter carried a harness over his shoulder while several horseshoes lined his wrist like a bracelet. “Stop bruising our neighbor.”

She laughed and squeezed Andrew heartily, thumped him on the chest while he tried not to let the wind get knocked out of his lungs. “Psssh! You’re a strong one, eh?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, and coughed, cringed in case she squeezed, kissed, thumped or broke him in half.

(Beneath the Apple Leaves, Harmony Verna, page 256)



When a man breaks, the air breaks around him, the ground cracks below his footsteps. His face remains unchanged, in fact, little changes, and that is where the break is first seen. The blank expression, the even line of the mouth and the pupils that do not contract in light or dilate in darkness. For all is gray, all is blank. And so a man breaks even as his limbs still move and his voice still speaks and his lungs still respire.
(Beneath the Apple Leaves, Harmony Verna, page 279)


October 17, 2017. About Me.  One of the most emotionally painful experiences I’ve had in my entire life happened in the year 2010. I was standing on Lexington Avenue in Jersey City (New Jersey) with my youngest grandson Wesley. I was on my way to the bus; I had visited my daughter and him and my two granddaughters, a rare visit. (It is too emotional for me to stay in touch with my family, and, too easy for Mormon Danites/Danettes to use my family to unwittingly set me up or orchestrate an “accident” befalling a family member while in my care or something or other, perhaps a false accusation that I improperly touched my granddaughters; I know my daughter would never make such a false statement but considering the very cleverly orchestrated sex abuse scandal now surrounding Jehovah’s visible organization, this possibility I must consider.  The best way I can help my family is by staying all alone concentrating fully on this crazy woman lunatic nutjob work that I do.)  Wesley seemed listless, lifeless. He told me he was broke. He was saying that he had no money, but I knew, he was really broken in spirit. Emotionally I was devastated.  cc all Mormon barristers




(Cole Schotz, attorneys, barristers, counselors, lawyers, http://www.coleschotz.com/)

Half Broke Horses is Laura Ingalls Wilder for adults, as riveting and dramatic as Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa or Beryl Markham’s West with the Night. Destined to become a classic, it will transfix readers everywhere.

“Those old cows knew trouble was coming before we did.” So begins the story of Lily Casey Smith, Jeannette Walls’s no-nonsense, resourceful, and spectacularly compelling grandmother. By age six, Lily was helping her father break horses. At fifteen, she left home to teach in a frontier town—riding five hundred miles on her pony, alone, to get to her job. She learned to drive a car and fly a plane. And, with her husband, Jim, she ran a vast ranch in Arizona. She raised two children, one who is Jeannette’s memorable mother, Rosemary Smith Walls, unforgettably portrayed in The Glass Castle.



The next day we gelded the new males, since if they were going to be worth anything, they had to be turned into workhorses. It was nasty work, me, Dorothy, Zachary, and his wife, Ellie—who was not quite as big as her daughter but every bit as tough—each holding a rope tied to one of the horse’s legs after we’d caught him, knocked him down, and flipped him on his back. Apache tied the horse’s two hind legs to his belly, then Dad wrapped his head in a burlap sack and held it down while Apache knelt behind his rump, working first with the cleaver then the knife, blood spraying everywhere, the horse neighing hysterically while [flatulence] and kicking and twisting his back.

But it was over pretty quick. When we let the first horse free, he rose and staggered around drunkenly for a few steps. I herded him out of the corral, and after a moment he sighed and put his head to the tall grass to graze like nothing much had happened.

“Don’t even miss ’em,” Zachary said.

(Half Broke Horses, Jeannette Walls, page 51)

My goal is to educate the rider to feel the harmony with the horse. Learn the how your mind and body can communicate your wants. 

The problem with half-broke horses like these was that no one took the time to train them. Cowboys who could ride anything caught them and ran them on fear, spurring and squirting them too hard, taking pride in staying on no matter how desperately they bucked and fishtailed. Not properly broken, they were always scared and hated humans. A lot of times the cowboys released them once the roundup was over, but by then they’d lost some of the instincts that kept them alive out in the desert. They were, however, intelligent and had pluck, and if you broke them right, they made good horses.

One in particular caught my eye, a mare. I always liked mares. They weren’t as crazy as stallions but had more fire than your typical gelding. This one was a pinto, no bigger or smaller than the others, but she seemed less scared and was watching intently as if trying to figure me out. I cut her out from the herd, lassoed her, and then slowly walked up to her, following Dad’s rule around strange horses to keep your eyes on the ground so they won’t think you’re a predator.

She stood still, and when I reached her, again moving slowly, I raised my hand to the side of her head and scratched behind one ear. Then I brought my hand down the side of her face. She didn’t jerk back, like most horses would, and I knew she was something special, not the greatest beauty in the world—being a patchwork of white, brown, and black but you could tell she could use her brain instead of reacting, and I’d take smarts over looks in a horse any day.

“She’s yours, Counselor,” Dad said. “What are you going to name her?”

I looked at the mare. For the most part, us ranch folks liked to keep names simple. Cattle we never named at all, since it made no sense naming something you were going to eat or ship off to the slaughterhouse. As for other animals, if a cat had socks, we called it Socks; if a dog was red, we called him Red; if a horse had a blaze, we called it Blaze.

“We’ll call her Patches,” I said.

* * *

I set about breaking Patches properly. That was one smart horse, and in no time she had truly accepted the bit and was moving off the leg at the slightest touch of my spur. After a few months of that, she even started cutting cattle. By fall, she’d become a true packer and was ready for roundup. I told Mom and Dad I wanted to go hire out at the big Franklin ranch across the valley, but they wouldn’t hear of it, and neither would the Franklins. So I started racing Patches in little amateur quarter-horse races, and from time to time we even returned with the purse.

(Half Broke Horses, Jeannette Walls, pages 49-51)


 Song of Solomon 1:9
New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures-With References
 “To a mare of mine in the chariots of Pharʹaoh I have likened you,+ O girl companion of mine.+
FOR THE RECORD.  Pharaoh is not a personal name, it’s a title.  And so is god or even God also a title; there are many gods.  The one and only true God, GOD, whose personal name is Jehovah.  The pharaohs of Joseph’s day and Solomon’s day are not the same pharaoh during Moses’s day.  That particular pharaoh, like Adolph Hitler, was completely possessed by Satan, as are the men who are plotting to execute a nuclear bomb attack on the Hudson River.  Pharaoh of Moses’ day presumptuously said, “Who is Jehovah that I should obey him by letting Israel go?”  (Exodus 5:2)  Pharaoh didn’t really want to know the answer to his question; he thought he was God! Though not asked with any malice or ill will toward Jesus Christ or true Christians, Pilate, too, asked a question but really was not looking for an answer when he asked, “What is truth?” (John 18:38) Pilate’s question was a rhetorical question, as if to suggest that nobody knows what is truth, or to suggest that there is no truth.  Unlike the fictional Book of Mormon, God’s Word the Holy Bible is historical fact, truth; the promises are true, the prophecies will be fulfilled.  There are not many roads, paths, ways to truth.  There is only one way: Jesus Christ.  Not the Mormon Jesus Christ, the real Jesus Christ.  (to be continued)   I write under inspiration from and with authority from, God, the one and only true God, Jehovah.   cc all Mormon barristers


On November 11, 1918, the armistice was announced. The Great War had ended. In its wake, over 116,000 American fighters perished, another 200,000 wounded. Worldwide, over 37 million soldiers lost their lives on the battlefield.

But the greatest cost to lives did not come from guns or bombs but from the Spanish influenza pandemic that killed over 50 million men, women and children across the globe. In Pittsburgh alone, six thousand people died from the flu, 1 percent of the city’s total population.

As the war ended, the citizens of the nation tried to recover from the carnage. They looked up and blinked at the sun again, shook off the stupor that had paralyzed and crazed a country. Posters crafted with hatred and propaganda were torn from windows and telegraph posts. The American Protective League faded into obliteration like exhaust. And those who had cursed and abused their German American neighbors, colleagues and customers now averted their eyes. Their actions distant and inexplicable to their own hearts, clouded as a nightmare.

Pieter Mueller returned from the war. He had only been stationed overseas for four month, but enough time to leave him thin and limping from shrapnel and with a pretty young bride on his arm.

Those who lived along the narrow country road on the outskirts of Plum gave Pieter a hero’s welcome. Widow Sullivan gave him her favorite tan mare, refused to take her back. Bernice Stevens made a cake the size of a butchers block. Every Mueller from every inch of Pennsylvania brought beer and roasted chickens, sausage linked like garlands. Heinrich butchered two hogs. Lily and Claire brought piles of cookies and pies of every fruit. Accordions squeezed and Germans sang. Old man Stevens danced a jig, with Widow Sullivan, their hunched backs twirling like dancers in antique music boxes. Chinese firecrackers lit up the night while Fritz, Anna, Edgar and Will spun under the sparks as they rained in pink and green and gold splendor. Gerda clapped with her thick hands, nearly made the earth shake with her stomping feet.

(Beneath the Apple Leaves, Harmony Verna, pages 331-332)

No matter how many people think otherwise, Jehovah’s Witnesses really is God’s visible organization.
The wrath of Jehovah God really is upon the Mormon Church of Satan, no matter how many people think otherwise.
The stock market really is going to crash, worldwide, no matter how many people think otherwise.
No matter how many people think otherwise, Caroline Kennedy will be elected President in the year 2020; Jim Turner of Texas will be elected Vice President; Robert Kennedy Jr. will be nominated and confirmed U.S. Attorney General; Robert Mueller will be nominated and confirmed Director of the FBI.
No power on earth has the power to prevent this prophetic message that I write from becoming reality, not even these four people themselves.  I write under inspiration from and with authority from, God, the true God, Jehovah.  cc all Mormon barristers

Mayor Warren Wilhelm aka Bill de Blasio is the clean-up man, if the Mormon Church of Satan/CIA succeed in their planned nuclear bomb attack on the Hudson River.  His administration is already prepared to hold tribunals and immediately execute some of the “troublemakers” (30,000 bananas; nationwide: 30,000 guillotines, to be continued).

Partial List of Scapegoats, if the Mormon Church of Satan/CIA succeed in their nuclear bomb attack on the Hudson River:

Former President Barack “Hussein” Obama
Former Advisor to the President, Valerie “June” Jarrett
Former Homeland Security Director “Jeh” Johnson
Newark Mayor Ras Baraka
Minnesota Congressman FBI agent Keith “Ellison”
New York Congressman FBI agent Hakim Jeffries
Former leader of the CIA’s Black Panthers: FBI agent “Malik Zulu Shabazz”
Former Public Relations Spokesman for Mormon Church, FBI agent “Ahmad” Corbitt (now assigned to the Dominican Republic)

The purpose of this website is to expose the Mormon Church of Satan and all enemies of Jesus Christ the Way the Truth the Life, the Prince of Peace. This website is also the beginning of a presidential campaign to elect Caroline Kennedy President of the United States. I prayed to Jehovah God to please, by means of His son Christ Jesus, please, arrange national events and world events in such a manner such that Caroline Kennedy is elected President of the United States.  I know Jehovah God hears my prayer and will answer my prayer because that particular prayer of mine is one of my deepest desires and Jehovah God has promised me that he will satisfy all of my deepest desires.  All of the information posted at this website is interconnected; directly connected to the Mormon Church of Satan’s illegal sting operation surrounding Jehovah’s Witnesses worldwide, and me. The illegal sting operation that encompasses every human being on earth, and has resulted in the LEGAL CASE, unlike any other, ever. The LEGAL CASE, headed to The Hague, Netherlands. cc all Mormon attorneys

As the Storm Approaches,
Maintain Your Focus on Jesus!
(Matthew 14:22-34; Hebrews 12:2)
(Concluding talk, Jehovah’s Witnesses Convention 2015, worldwide)