USA!1776🇺🇸

God✝️Family💜USA❤️🤍💙

[Art @ZarkFiles]

Communism through (my) ages:
1) When I was 15, a teacher told me "It isn't as bad as they say, and makes a lot of sense."
2) At about 19, college friends, "Socialism isn't communism."
3) At 20, on meeting my grandfather-in-law, "They are evil. We escaped in 1949."
4) At 30, "China is a wonderful developing Democracy"
5) At 35, I was sent to communist China on business. It was a crowded, smelly, dirty, factory of despair and hopelessness. This I saw with my own eyes.
6) At 36, "China doesn't count. Successful socialism is in northern Europe."
7) I moved to northern Europe when I was 40. It was much nicer than China, but also felt like I was living in the past. I had to wait 6 months for a hernia operation.
8) When I was about 45, the migrant crisis began. The socialist/globalist/pacifist allowed them entry into every country, regardless how many crimes they committed along the way. Just 20 minutes from my house, in Calais, I was shocked to see migrants jumping onto trucks, breaking open the doors, scattering the contents across the highway, then climbing in. They went through the Chunnel and got out in England.
9) At 52, the soft socialism around me had transformed into globalism. I was told I had to call people by their preferred pronouns, though it was a lie, and even if I didn't know what the preferences were. I quit.
10) I returned to the US, and am now 60. "Socialism" is no longer a dirty word here. People openly espouse the virtues of it. Politicians run as socialists and win.

Socialism has taken many forms, from the Bolshevism of Russia, to the CCP in China, the Nazis in Germany, Fascists in Italy, and the many forms of it found in Latin America. It is one of the two most destructive ideologies on earth. It is designed to deprive, despirit, and murder everything that comes in contact with it.

Socialism is a great lie at every level. It helps no one, not even those who benefit the most. This is because the cost is the imposition of one's will on everyone else, and that destroys the soul of the usurper and the life of the oppressed.

Socialism always fails on its own, but only after destroying almost everything in its train. It can also be conquered. Those are the options.

[Heatherheather007 @LibertyValkyrie]

A lil boys first encounter with happy tears 🥹

[Simon Ateba @simonateba]

America beyond politics: He was genuinely kind to him so he blessed him too, just a regular day here in the United States. Despite what politicians here in Washington say, this is what I have experienced here the most!

[Freddy🇩🇪 @FreddyLA7]

After a long day of driving we’ve finally had the time to explore a bit and it was WORTH it. This is somewhere in the Watkins Glen State Park in New York.

For a moment I felt like I was deep in the jungle searching for an ancient lost city.

[Sama Hoole @SamaHoole]

Just an appreciation post for cattle. The animal that turns a rained-on hillside into the best meal you'll ever eat, and asks for nothing in return but grass and the occasional scratch behind the ear.

A short and incomplete list of what a cow actually does for you:

- Upcycles grass, the stuff you physically cannot digest, into the most bioavailable protein on the planet
- Recycles the offcuts of human food production (brewers' grain, distillers' draff, the bits of the harvest you'd otherwise bin) and quietly returns them to you as ribeye
- Fertilises the ground it's standing on, for free, no invoice, no delivery charge, no subscription
- Keeps the permanent pasture and the carbon locked beneath it exactly where it is, by the demanding act of being a cow in a field
- Grows your leather, your gelatin, your tallow, and once upon a time the very word "vaccine"
- Maintains the landscape you drive past on holiday and describe, misty-eyed, as "the lovely countryside"
- Produces butter. Just butter. That alone should have earned it a knighthood by now

All of this on grass and rain, on land that grows nothing else, with no software update, no charging cable, and no notes app full of excuses.

Where would we be without them?

Hungry, cold, and standing in a field of scrub we can't eat, wondering where it all went wrong.

[GENO™️ @WeldrSkeltr]

“The Greybeard Goes Full Cowboy”
From the misty pubs of Britain to the red rocks of Utah… one British dad just got Americanized in the most legendary way possible.

Meet Jay Miles — the original Greybeard. Proper Brit. Tea-drinking, reserved, probably still says “cheers” when he means “yeehaw.”
Then his son Harley (the Brit who already made the move to America) hands him a brand-new set of American duds.

Not just any clothes. We’re talking:
• Wrangler cowboy-cut jeans that actually fit like they were made for him
• A sturdy plaid shirt that screams “I fix things and I mean it”
• Boots built for actual dirt, not just Instagram
• That quiet confidence that only comes when a man realizes he doesn’t need to ask permission to look this cool

The second Jay slips into the full Western kit… something shifts.
The accent doesn’t disappear — it just drops an octave and picks up a drawl. The posture straightens. The grey beard suddenly looks less “distinguished gentleman” and more “pawpaw who could rope a calf before breakfast.”
One minute he’s politely sipping tea.
The next he’s standing there looking like he’s been living in St. George his whole life and everyone’s just now noticing.

Comments from the reel say it best:
• “You fit right in 🇺🇸”
• “Pawpaw now 🥰”
• “Country boy can survive”
• “Literally one or two octave changes and he’s speaking pure drawl”

This isn’t just a clothing change.
This is the American Dream in denim. A father flying across the ocean to visit his son… and instead of just visiting, he steps into the life his boy chose. He doesn’t just tolerate it — he owns it.
From grey skies to desert sun.
From “mind the gap” to “mind the horse.”
From British reserve to American swagger… all because of a good pair of jeans
and a son who knew exactly what his dad needed.

Jay Miles didn’t just put on new clothes.
He put on a whole new chapter.
And honestly?
He looks like he was born for it. 🤠🇬🇧➡️🇺🇸
Drop a 🔥 if this is the ultimate father-son glow-up.
Who else wants to see Jay get the full cowboy treatment next — horse, hat, and all?

#BritishInAmerica #GreybeardGoesWest #AmericanDuds #FromBritToCowboy #HarleyTheBrit #TheGreyBeard #StGeorgeUtah #WesternTransformation

[Sama Hoole @SamaHoole]

Your government will cheerfully let you:

- Drink until your liver waves a white flag
- Smoke forty a day for fifty years
- Inhale a kebab at 3am with a fistful of chips and a fizzy drink the colour of antifreeze
- Eat ultra-processed gunge until you're diabetic at thirty-four
- Swallow pills with a side-effects leaflet folded like a road map
- Get inked by a bloke called Spider in a garage that smells of Dettol and regret
- Hurl yourself out of a perfectly good aeroplane
- Climb a frozen mountain that kills experienced men every year
- Pay good money to swim with sharks

But there is one substance so dangerous, so reckless, that a grown adult cannot be trusted with it:

- Milk. From a healthy cow. On a clean farm. The next village over.

They'll wave you onto the skydive and the shark cage, then step in to save you from a glass of the stuff your great-grandparents drank every single morning of their lives.

Funny, that.

[USA!1776🇺🇸 @SLichtfuss]

@codeofvets 💪🏻

[Sama Hoole @SamaHoole]

Keith went to church yesterday. Inside the church, during the service.

The churchyard he has done many times, on his usual east-to-west grid, a standing Sunday booking the Reverend makes and Steve objects to on principle. Yesterday he did the churchyard, and then, with the east section tidy and the morning still young, he found the south porch propped open for the early service and went in.

The ten o'clock was, by the time Keith arrived in the nave, approximately at the second hymn.

Accounts vary on the exact moment the congregation noticed. Most agree it was during "All Things Bright and Beautiful," which several present later judged poorly timed. By the third verse there was an Anglo-Nubian goat standing in the centre aisle, assessing the building with the calm professional eye of a surveyor who has been called in about damp.

He did not panic. A church is, to Keith, simply a large stone field with excellent acoustics and an unusual quantity of flowers. He worked it methodically. He sampled the arrangement on the south windowsill, found it acceptable, and moved on. He considered the green altar frontal at length and, to the visible relief of the churchwardens, declined it. He ate precisely one rose, thorns and all, from a pedestal near the font, the way a man tries a single olive at a party to confirm a suspicion about the host.

The Reverend, to his enormous credit, did not stop the service. When the hymn reached "all creatures great and small," he gave the smallest nod toward the goat in the aisle, and the congregation, being rural and unsurprised by very much, sang on. Mrs Pelham, eighty-one, in the second pew, reached out and scratched Keith behind the ears as he passed. Keith permitted it. Keith permits very little. Mrs Pelham has dined out on it all weekend.

Steve was in the fourth pew. Steve and Keith made eye contact. Nothing was said, because nothing is ever said, but a great deal was understood. Steve did not sing the rest of the hymn.

Keith left during the notices, which is when most of the congregation would have left if they could, and was found by Dave in the lane outside, eating cow parsley, with the unhurried air of an animal who has done a thorough job and is ready for his lift.

Dave's log, Sunday: "He got into the church. I do not want to discuss how. The Reverend says he is welcome any time, which I am fairly sure was a joke. I have written it in the Ecclesiastical column regardless, in case it was not."

The flowers are tidy.

The roses are down one.

The Reverend has Dave's number, and now, apparently, an open invitation.

Keith is thinking about Harvest.

[dejanira @dejanirasilveir]

🚨🚨LA ÉLITE GL0BALISTA NO TE DIRÁ ESTO, pero la ciencia es clara.

Un estudio de la Universidad de Nebraska DEMOSTRÓ que las vacas influyen positivamente en el ambiente, debido a que las pasturas utilizadas para alimentarlas absorben más carbono del que emite el ganado, DESMINTIENDO la narrativa contra la industria ganadera.

Las vacas producen más oxígeno que el metano y carbono que emiten.

La MACABRA IDEA de eliminar las vacas es una de las mentiras del Psicópata Gates. Ese hombre necesita ser arrestado. ES UN PELIGRO GRAVE PARA LA HUMANIDAD.🔥

[NancyH @NancyH_60]

Two majestic bald eagles claiming their own little island in the middle of the water — an abandoned boat becomes their perfect perch! 🦅 Just sitting there singing their hearts out. What a beautiful, unexpected moment in God’s creation!
These powerful birds remind me how the Lord provides and gives us a place to rest, even in the most unlikely spots.
“He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.” Isaiah 40:29
Have you ever spotted wildlife in a funny or surprising place like this? Share below!

[Cary Kelly @CaryKelly11]

Either I've been ignoring rainbows or the real ones are become rarer.

This is probably the most vivid and closest one I've seen in a long time.

To think, you have to be in the right place and water and light have to meet at 42° to bring this all into focus, makes it pretty cool.

[Dogman @Dogman1013]

I post pictures of Northern Maine wildlife in my forest.
If you like this kind of thing, please consider following and reposting so others can find this account. I don’t do this to get monetized. I just love wildlife.
Thank you.

[History With Jacob @HistoryWJacob]

In 1884, Ulysses S. Grant was dying of throat cancer and was dead broke.

His money was wiped out by a swindler who stole his fortune.

Desperate to leave something for his wife, he agreed to write his Civil War memoirs and was close to signing a contract for a meager 10% royalty.

Mark Twain stepped in, called the deal robbery and offered Grant 70% of the profits through his own publishing company.

Grant raced death to finish the book, completing it just days before he died in July 1885.

It became one of the greatest memoirs ever written.

The royalties left his widow nearly half a million dollars, about $16 million today, and the book has never gone out of print.

[USA!1776🇺🇸 @SLichtfuss]

@144KDNA These guys are hysterical. The laughter is as funny as the jokes. I’ve been told I will laugh at anything.

[Benny Johnson @bennyjohnson]

I don’t own a nice watch or a super car or a yacht.

But I do have this…

And this makes me the richest man in the world. Happy Fathers Day.

[NOBUNAGA🇯🇵🏯_夏樹蒼依 @japan_nobunaga]

USA. A backyard. The sun was going down, and a man named Dale stood before a black iron drum, feeding it wood, the way you feed a fire that must not die before morning.

"Brisket," he said. "Gonna be a long one. You're welcome to keep me company."

Keep him company. He said it the way a man mentions the weather. But I heard the truth beneath the words, the way you hear a temple bell beneath the wind. He was not inviting me to a meal. He was asking me to stand a vigil. To hold the sacred fire through the dark with him, two men against the whole of the night, so that something worthy could be born by dawn. My heart rose like a banner going up a pole.

I bowed, deep enough that he would feel the weight of what I was accepting. He nodded back and adjusted a vent.

He gestured at a folding chair. "Sit if you want, man. Gonna be a while."

I did not sit. A sentinel does not sit while the fire still lives. He looked at me a moment, then nodded slowly, the way you nod at a thing you have decided not to worry about. I took that nod as the first honor of the night.

Where I come from, when a thing of great worth is being made, you do not leave it. You stand the whole night beside it. You do not fill the silence with talk, because the silence itself is the labor.

So I stood. I said nothing. He said nothing. We watched the smoke leave the drum and climb into the purple sky, and for the first time in this loud and generous country, I felt completely understood.

After an hour, without looking at me, he pressed a cold can into my hand. I received it in both palms and bowed my head a fraction, the way one receives a canteen passed down the line between sentries who both know the night is far from over. I did not drink quickly. One does not drink quickly on watch.

A neighbor wandered over with a beer, saw me standing at attention beside the drum, and asked Dale, low, if I was doing alright.

"He's good," Dale said. "He's keeping me company."

He had vouched for me. Before his own people. I would have walked into the fire for him right then.

After two hours, he spoke. Once.

"Smell that bark setting up?"

I closed my eyes and breathed in, and I will tell you honestly, my chest went tight. Because it did. It smelled like patience. It smelled like a thing no king and no army could hurry, however mighty. "I do," I said, and I said it like an oath.

We did not speak again for a long while. A dog came and lay across both our feet, choosing neither of us, guarding the both of us. The stars came out over the fence and the cheap string lights and the plastic chairs, and I thought, with my whole heart, that there are grand temples in this world holding less holiness than this tired man's backyard.

Near midnight his wife leaned out the door. "Dale, you two have been standing there four hours. You know you can sit down, right?"

"We're good, hon," Dale said.

We're good. Four words. He had spoken for the both of us, claimed me as his brother of the watch, and waved away all comfort in a single breath, and he did it without once taking his eyes off the fire. I have heard generals give long speeches that carried less.

A fire kept alone is only a chore. A fire kept together is an oath.

When the meat was finished, near dawn, he cut the very first slice and laid it in my hands. The guest. The man who had done nothing but stand beside him and honor the work.

I have eaten at tables that cost a season's wages, served by men trained from boyhood. None of it ever fed me the way that one slice did, handed over by a weary man at sunrise who had decided, hours before and without a single word, that I was worth keeping the watch with.

I do not know Dale's family name. I would stand the whole night for him again tomorrow, and count myself honored.

[Kat Timpf @KatTimpf]

Two Father’s Days ago, we traveled to Charlevoix, Michigan to celebrate not only the father that my dad was, but also the one that my husband was about to be — as it was also the weekend we first told my dad I was pregnant with his first grandchild.

If someone then had told me then that, the following year, I would begin a less-than-14-month stretch of horror in which I’d lose my breasts, my cat, and my father -- let alone that my dad would die unexpectedly in the exact town where we were now celebrating, I likely would have said the exact same thing so many people say to me now: that I couldn’t imagine. But, as anyone who has been hit with tragedy knows, your previous ability to imagine something actually has no bearing on whether or not it does.

Miss you every day, Dad. Today and every day, the world is a worse place without you in it.

[American Nightmare 🇺🇸 @thewakeninq]

An influencer posts a patriotic video and suddenly gets a handwritten note from Trump:

“Congratulations! Welcome to the Family.”

And just like that, it turns into a national loyalty awards program.

Meanwhile the subtext hits harder than the ink:

“I wish some of our current citizens would honor and cherish our country the way you do.”

Translation: a foreign-born creator posted one video and needed to remind half the country what patriotism looks like.

At this point, America isn’t just a country—it’s a vibe check… and apparently some people are failing it so hard they’re getting outperformed by a guy who just arrived and passed the test on day one.