you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but I have known people who would believe every word of it …


6 February 2013

So, my first wife, Dianne, mother my three children, came to me in a dream before dawn yesterday, and said something about my going to England to attend a criminal prosecution. There were more sections of the dream, which right now do not come to me. Often my dreams are like that, with each section being about a different topic I will need to address on waking, or before too long. I lay there letting the dream make suggestions. England fixed the dream on two possible topics, the earliest in time seems to be where I should start, and perhaps that will be the whole of it.

I met Dianne at Vanderbilt, and we were married at the end of my junior year. Right after that, my father told her, which she would tell me decades later, that the fun was over now that we were married. From then on, it would be work.

After our honeymoon, we returned to Birmingham, my hometown, and I went straight to work for my father’s company, doing manual labor maybe 15 hours a day, as a new warehouse had been built and the inventory from the old warehouse was being moved to the new warehouse. I came home each night dead tired. It eased some, as the summer passed, but it was very rough still.

We went back to Nashville that fall, and continued our studies. Then, Dianne dropped out of school. We made plans to go to Lake Placid in New York State, to get summer jobs at one of the hotels there. I had been there once with my family on a business convention. After working there for the summer, we would move to Tuscaloosa and I would enter law school.

When I shared those plans with my father, he got really upset, said, if I ever wanted to get to know his business, I needed to work there that summer. Many times when I was younger, he had told me, “Son, I built this business for you.” I had felt awful every time he said that to me. Dianne was really upset with me, when I told her we weren’t going to Lake Placid.

After I graduated from Vandy that May, Dianne had been a year behind me, we went back to Birmingham and I worked again at my father’s company, in the warehouse again. It was some easier that summer, but I didn’t really learn anything new, but Dianne worked that summer at a low-paying job, and had to ride a city bus into the city and back, and that was no fun.

That fall, we moved to Tuscaloosa and I entered law school.

Flash forward.

In the late fall of my second year in law school, Dianne conceived. She delivered a son the following July. We were in heaven, literally, the three of us.

We took several trips, showing off our son, and all along were were really afraid for his safety and would let no one hold him but ourselves. We did not even arrive at a nickname for him, or what to call him, although he was named after me, Sloan Young Bashinsky, III, as I was named Sloan Young Bashinsky, Jr., after my father.

I see I am telling the second part of what I wanted to tell, first. Interesting.

Well, driving back to Tuscaloosa after the last out of town trip, Dianne and I made a pact that we would not travel any more with “the baby”, as we called him, until he was much older. People who wanted to see us could travel to where we were.

Not more than half hour later, we arrived at our home and Dianne got out of the car with the baby and went inside, as I started carrying in the luggage and baby stuff.

The phone rang. Dianne’s younger brother Jim in Memphis, at their parents’ home, where we’d been about two weeks prior. Jim then was away in Texas, finishing his aircraft mechanics training with the US Air Force. Now he was home to tell his family goodbye, before flying to Thailand where he would service American B-52 bombers, which were flying missions over Vietnam, among other places. Jim had called us to tell this. He and I were very close.

Well, Dianne told Jim she was coming to Memphis that day,to see him off to war. I said, what about the agreement we only just made, not to travel? Dianne yelled, the deal was off, she was going to see her brother off to war. Yelled was an understatement. She was enraged. Teeth bared, eyes bulging, convulsing. Scared the hell out of me. I said, okay, I will take her and the baby to the airport later, to catch the Southern Airways puddle jumper to Memphis.

She held the baby while all of that transpired.

Two mornings later, she called to say the baby had died in his sleep the night before. The cornor’s pathologist up there later ruled it “crib death”, known today as Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

Flash forward.

Now fully exposed to the Vietnam war draft, I was going nuts about that. On top of that, my heart was ripped to shreds, I was trying to finish my last semester in law school, and did not know if I wanted to be with Dianne any more, for I was convinced our son would still be alive if she had not made that trip.

After waffling between joining the Marines and playing the draft lottery, I decided to go to my Draft Board in Birmingham and apply for a student deferment, which would mean certain induction into the Armed Services after I graduated from law school. I drove to Birmingham and applied for the student deferment.

About two weeks later, Dianne learned she was pregnant. Hoping against hope, I drove back to the Draft Board and told the same woman clerk who had processed my student deferment what had happened. She said she was sorry, but the student deferment was irrevocable. She opened a file drawer and pulled out a file, mine, she said, to show me what I had signed.

Then, she paused, said, there was some mistake. What mistake?, I asked. You signed the wrong form, she said. The deferment is void, you will have to reapply. I laughed, said no thanks, I will keep the father deferment, and I walked out knowing I had just experienced a miracle.

Last year, one of my Birmingham Facebook friends, on reading my report of the miracle in something I had posted, wrote to me that her father’s mother had worked in that Draft Board, and she had heard quite a few stories of young men who miraculously got a free pass thanks to her father’s mother.

Back to the past.

I completed that year of law school, and by then was decided to be a county lawyer. A series of what today I would view as angel-arranged events led to my striking a deal with an older, very respected Alabama defense lawyer in Troy, Alabama, to go to work in his law office. He was referring more business to other lawyers in Troy, than I could have handled, and he was going to refer it all to me. He had an empty office, his secretary at law was working about half speed and could handle all of my legal work. The Troy County Club sent me an invitation to join, never having even met me. We had arranged to move into an apartment in Troy, which was being built.

Troy was my father’s and grandfather’s hometown, by the way.

When I excitedly told them of my plans, they went through the roof. And, I wilted.

Then, God came up with Plan B.

A US District Judge’s law clerk quit during the middle of his appointment, to go into the practice of law with his father in Birmingham. One of my law professors, who knew of my trial, told me the Judge was looking for a replacement. I wrote to the Judge. He wrote back, said to come see him. I drove to Birmingham. We talked mostly about fishing and hunting, his passions, beside his wonderful wife and being a judge. He hired me.

Clarence W. Allgood was his name. He had created the Federal Debtors Court and had piloted it in Birmingham. That led to him getting appointed to the Federal Bench, even though he had never practiced law. He had graduated from the Birmingham School of Law, an unaccredited night law school. Practicing lawyers were his professors.

I went to work for Judge Allgood after taking the Alabama Bar Exam, for which I studied my butt off, reviewing all of my course notes to the point that I was ready to take final exams in all of those courses. I think that was in April 1968. Because I came into the middle of the appointment, I would clerk a year and a half, instead of the usual one year.

I quickly realized Judge Allgood was a sage. He also ran the Democratic Party in Alabama from his chambers. He was loved by many, including most of the many criminals he sent to the penitentiary, which was quite a few, as he presided over all Federal criminal trials in the Northern District of Alabama. I was meeting top shelf trial lawyers, and got to know the US Attorney and his assistant US Attorneys, and the FBI agents and US Marshalls and US Probation Officers and the US District Court Clerk and his staff.

It was looking rosey.

Then, in March of 1969, I awoke one morning and was constipated. I stayed constipated. The more I did to try to fix it, the worse it got. Now nothing was looking rosy. Now my confidence was gone. Now, I thought more and more about going to work for my father’s company, which seemed safe.

Judge Allgood did not know about the illness, only Dianne and my internist knew, but Judge Allgood knew I was stressed out, and he knew I should not go to work for my father, and he told me I could stay another term with him, if I wished. But I knew that had played out, and I thanked him and declined.

Still, I went to Washington D.C. and spoke with the US Department of Justice about working for them there. And I spoke with Securities and Exchange Commission in Atlanta, about working for them in Miami, covering Florida, and they offered me a job. And I spoke with several Birmingham law firms, but I was afraid, and I knew in my bones I wanted to be a country lawyer, or at least, I should have tried it. So, to fix all of that, I told my father I wanted to go to work for him, and he said okay.

Dianne was really disturbed by that turn of events, and she pressured me into taking a trip to Europe, to give me distance from Alabama and maybe get my head screwed on straight. We were to fly from Birmingham to New York City, and then to Prestwick Airport in Glasgow – now we are getting back to the lawsuit in England.

While in New York City, we flew up to Albany to visit a dear Vanderbilt fraternity brother and his wife, whom I had circuitously introduced to each other, through her college roommate, who I’d gotten a date in Birmingham with my fraternity brother. They tried to talk me back to sanity, but no go.

Dianne and I returned to New York City, and tooled around there a day, before the flight to Glasgow. During that day, we had arranged to visit with another Vandy fraternity brother, from the same class as mine, who was trying to make a go as a Wall Street lawyer. That same day, we “accidentally” bumped into another Vandy fraternity brother and his wife at Abercrombie & Fitch (Finch?). That brother, also in my same class, also was trying to make a go at being a Wall Street lawyer. Then, out on the street, I spotted from behind another Vandy fraternity brother from the same class, also trying to make a go as a Wall Street lawyer. I hailed him and we three went off and had a beer at Rockefeller Center, before he went on his way.

Was I listening? Was I hearing? Well, I knew it was highly unusual, and was talking plenty about it, running into three Vandy fraternity brothers from the same Vandy class , in New York City, who were trying to make a go at being Wall Street Lawyer, but I don’t recall it ever dawning on me that God was trying to tell me to be a lawyer and not go to work for my father.

The bowel disorder was running me almost all the way by then. I had no clue what was causing it, but I knew it was a God thing because of the way it had come on from out of the blue, and because it reacted to all of my efforts to make it go away.

We landed at Prestwick, were met by a rental car agent, as prearranged, got into the rental car and headed toward the Loch Ness. From there, up to Inverness. From there over to Aberdeen. Then, to St. Andrews. Golf once had been a passion, and I told Dianne I had to play a round where it had all begun. She dropped me off at the club house and headed for the hotel we had booked.

I only had a little cash me, as turned out. There was a big Rotary dogfight about to tee off. I paid the reasonable green fee, rented half a set of clubs, which cost less, and bought three golf balls, and that was the end of the money in my pocket. I rushed to the 1st T and teed off, alone. By the time I reached the second T, I had one ball left. The gorse had eaten the other two. I sat in the bench at the T, deciding what to do. I would play the rest of the round with a 9 iron. I was going to play that course.

Then, two older men, dressed in Scottish golf attire, not pre-yuppie like me, caught up to me. I told them my sad tale. They laughed, said they knew the tale well, had plenty of golf balls, I could play with them. They had come over from Aberdeen, were members of St. Andrews, played there pretty frequently. One of them was, yep, a lawyer. The other, yep, was a screen writer. Both had done pretty well at their professions. Both were pretty fair golfers, too. They encouraged me to be a lawyer.

Well, there you have it, my life’s work plotted out for me in that one brief span of time: lawyer, writer. Then, I went and screwed it all up by going to work for my father, which nearly killed us both, and four years later I did go into the practice of law, but, right, the bowel disorder did not straighten out, and it made practicing law really difficult.

Nothing I later tried straightened out the bowel dysfunction, none of the massive healing the angels did on me straightened it out, none of the shaman and priest work the angels trained me to do, and gave me to do, straightened it out. It was on its on course, I was living with it and trying very hard to do the work I was being given.

In early 2011, I think it was, the angels told me the bowel disorder was karma from when I was 15 and molested my 5 year-old-sister. At least I finally knew what it was about, although the information was there, for the illness had onset around her and her and my mother’s birthdays, in 1969. I left out of this story the part of the awful healing the angels did in me for my mother molesting me in my crib, which, of course, I did not remember.

Right, my son died of crib death. The sins of the mothers seemed to be like the sins of the fathers.

Starting in 2001, I sometimes was told in my sleep that my son had been murdered, and as time passed, the angels pointed at Dianne.

Imagine you were our son, being held by your mother. Imagine you were our son, who had never known anything but love and affection and the presence of God. Imagine you were our son when your mother went berserk screaming at your father, who had washed out in the toilet every last one of your soiled diapers. Imagine you were our son, taken off to some place without your father, with whom you had never been without, by your mother who had terrified you. Imagine you wanting to stick around without your father there to protect you from her.

Now consider, in the early 1990s, I was told the Pleiadeans had killed my son. How was I to believe that, after later being told his mother had killed him. In this way. The Pleiadeans possessed Dianne and drove her into that rage, to stop what she and I had produced, a son who had unfathomable potential. Dianne had an aunt who was schizophrenic. That gene was in her bloodline. The Pleiadeans activated it in that moment. They did it not only to stop our son, but me, who had no clue then what his potential was, or that there were Pleiadeans, or that his original planet of origin was at war with Pleiadeans, or that both races coveted this planet and had seeded their genes into the aboriginal species living here.

I wrote a great deal about the Pleiadeans in the early 1990s, and of their appearing to be humanity’s salvation, but actually they had hidden, selfish agendas they were not revealing.

Why I was told to write into all of that now, I cannot imagine. Maybe the angels decided it was time for me to be taken to the State Mental. But I was told to write into it, and to publish it to, and to post a summary/teaser and a link to it in a Facebook waking and sleeping dreams, visions, synchronicity group I recently was invited to join, in which questions were asked about aliens.

Soon after I joined that group, that I was told to start dropping explosives in their midst.

I dunno, maybe if I had gone to New York and England and Scotland alone, I would have figured it out and come home and told Dianne I wanted to go separate ways. Maybe I would have gone into the practice of law. But we now had a daughter, whose conception had saved me from the Vietnam draft, and I can’t see me walking away from her.

But maybe I should have. The illness wrecked that marriage, it screwed up my being a father, and, in the end, my daughter and her younger sister walked away from me without saying why. I knew why. They knew I claimed to have been told in dreams that their older brother had been murdered, and their mother did it.

I don’t see this England criminal trial report getting a warm reception.

I did not report today the other criminal trial in England, in which I also surely am involved.

Sloan Bashinsky

About Bash

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