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An Insubordinate Life
From Country Boy to Candidate for Governor
Loren Culp
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eBook - ePub
An Insubordinate Life
From Country Boy to Candidate for Governor
Loren Culp
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About This Book
The word insubordinate, defiant of authority, or disobedient to orders, is the antithesis of what Loren Culp is. This book pulls back the curtain and gives you an inside look at the life of one who grew up in rural Washington State and has made a way where, at times, there was no way. Insubordinate? We think not... but we'll let you decide.
A U.S. Army veteran, small business owner, and retired police chief, Loren Culp took his stand to defend the U.S. Constitution in 2018. He is the author of the #1 best-selling book American Cop, and in the fall of 2020 set the all-time record for the most votes in Washington State history for a Republican gubernatorial candidate. His stance to protect the citizens from restrictions on their Second Amendment rights and his refusal to mandate masks at his political rallies (because he believes in freedom) gave him and his supporters the label of insubordinate by the current governor. That is when #INSUBORDINATE was born.
In his own words: "I decided to write this book after about 18 months of campaigning for governor of Washington State and after about 60 years of waking up every morning 'sucking air.' I'm not writing this to say 'look at me' or 'I'm great, read about me.' An Insubordinate Life is about my life's adventures - some good, some tragic. I hope to show you that it doesn't matter who you are or what your background is; YOU matter and YOU can do anything you set your mind to. I hope this book inspires YOU, as YOU have inspired me."
Loren Culp is the author of American Cop: Upholding the Constitution and Defending Your Right to Bear Arms. He is the retired police chief of Republic, Washington, and has been seen on many national media outlets. For more information, please visit www.chiefculp.com.
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CHAPTER ONE
Sometimes, You Have to Move On
I was walking down a country road as fast as I could to get home from a situation that had gotten out of control. I had several miles to go on foot, but I couldn’t stay where I was. This was before cell phones, and I had gotten a ride to where I had been, so I had no way to leave other than by walking. I was walking quickly; I needed to pace myself and try to calm down. My mind was racing; I was upset.
How did this happen? Why was I in this position? My world seemed to be crashing down around me. I could only think of what I needed to do. I had to get clear of this situation and make it home to Barb, my wife of two years. We would decide what to do, together.
I had made it less than a half-mile when I heard a vehicle coming around the corner behind me. From the sound, I could tell it was traveling at a pretty high rate of speed. I moved off the road about 10 feet. I turned to see what was going on, and my dad’s truck screeched its tires and stopped in the middle of the road, blocking both lanes.
The driver’s side door flew open and he got out, red-faced and angry. He was a big man; much taller, older, and heavier than I was. In an angry voice, he said, “Where the hell are you going?” I told him I was done; that I’d had enough of his crap. “I’m out!” I yelled. He closed the distance between us very quickly, leaving the truck door open, and pushed me with his full force, knocking me onto my back in the wet weeds, rocks, and brush.
He was quickly on top of me, holding me down with his weight. Both of his knees were on my arms, and he began punching me in the face. I felt rapid punches hitting me in the face and head, first from the left, and then from the right. My head was like a punching bag, moving back and forth, as the blows kept landing on the sides of my face and head. His knees pinned my arms down, so I could not protect myself or fight back. This has to end, I thought; Will it ever end? It seemed like I was losing consciousness. He is trying to kill me, I thought.
Then, as quickly as the attack started, it ended. I could barely see. He got in his truck and quickly drove away. I laid there for a minute or two, trying to access the damage, trying to focus. My head was pounding and my right eye was swelling so much that I could barely see out of it. I was in a mental fog. I rolled over and got on my knees as I spit blood and tried to catch my breath. I stumbled to my feet and tried to orient myself.
My legs were weak and my back hurt from the rocks and brush. I was dizzy. I sat back down. I have to get out of here, I thought; he might come back. I sat there for a few minutes accessing the damage, collecting myself and crying. I’ve got to get home and warn Barb, I thought; but there was no way on foot that I could make it to our house before he did – if that’s where he was going. Barb was pregnant with our first son, Nick. We were both 18 years old at the time and had just begun our life together. Now, it seemed like parts of that life were falling apart as I sat there in the weeds bleeding from my mouth and head, trying to make sense of it all.
I’ve got to get going, I thought. I looked as far as I could see in the direction I needed to go, which was the same direction that my dad had just gone. I saw no sign of him and started toward home once again – this time, much more slowly and with tears streaming down my face.
My world was shattered. My trust for my father, who had just attacked me – and a lot had happened before this incident – was gone. I had to get home, to the one place I would feel safe. I could talk it over with Barb, and we would decide together what we would do from here. I pushed on, making sure I stayed off to the shoulder on corners where I couldn’t see very far down the road. On the blind curves, I cut through the woods so I wouldn’t be caught off guard again. On straight stretches, I was ready to jump in the woods and run if I saw his truck coming.
I made it about a half-mile further, where there was a large bridge over the Chehalis River that I needed to cross. The river was too wide, deep, and cold to swim in; I had to cross the bridge, but that would have left me exposed and vulnerable with no escape but to jump in the river if he came back and caught me on the bridge. I hid in the brush at the near side of the bridge, gathering the strength and courage to make a run for it. I knew he would be going back to where I’d originally left him, but I had no idea when.
My mind still whirling, I sat there in the brush just off the road for several minutes, listening intently for any sound of a vehicle approaching from the other side. The road toward town was on the other side of the bridge, but town was still miles away. Up to this point, there had been woods full of trees and brush I could have hidden in on this lightly-traveled country road. On the other side of the bridge, it was a different story. There were open fields on both sides of the road. There was no place to hide the rest of the way to Elma, Washington, the small town where Barb and I lived. If my dad returned, I could only use distance for protection by jumping the barbed-wire fence on either side. The good news was, I’d be able to see further down the road once I crossed the bridge. I could quickly run through the fields away from the road if I saw his truck approaching.
The bridge was made of concrete. There was nothing overhead; the supports were all underneath. Along each side of the bridge, running its full length, was a concrete barrier about 3 feet tall – just high enough to keep cars from driving into the ice-cold water below. But the barriers were also low enough for me to jump over, if I’d needed to escape that way. It was about 30 feet down to the river from the middle of the bridge. I could have survived such a jump; I wouldn’t have fallen onto any rocks because the river was deep. But it was also very cold, and it had enough current that I could be pulled under and drown, or get hypothermia and suffer the same fate.
I was already feeling the effects of hypothermia. This was western Washington, and it’s cold and wet in January. It had just begun to rain. I had been on my back in the wet, cold brush and weeds during the attack. I had walked through the wet woods part of the way to the bridge. I would be most vulnerable to another attack should I get caught part way across. I had to do it; the only other option was to walk several miles upriver to the bridge in the small community of Porter.
That option was out. I was cold and wet, and it would be dark before I made it there. My teeth were already chattering and I was beginning to shiver. I had to cross here. I had to cross now. I had to get moving. One last listen for a vehicle, and I was off. I ran as fast as I could, my back and head throbbing. I could hear nothing but my boots pounding on the concrete and the water rushing underneath the bridge. I made it to the other side and jumped into the brush.
I knelt down, concealing myself, while I caught my breath. My head was pounding with each beat of my heart, but I wasn’t cold anymore. Sweat was on my forehead mixing with the now-dried blood. My breathing returned close to normal, and I started walking swiftly toward Elma, toward home, toward Barb, toward safety. I walked on, still dazed and confused, but with each step I was closer to ending this nightmare.
I made it another half-mile when I looked across the field where the road made a wide sweeping turn. I saw a vehicle coming my way; it was a little over a mile away. I kept walking, trying to see out of my eyes that were swollen from the pummeling I took earlier. Sweat, blood, and tears didn’t help. I wiped my eyes with my wet shirt sleeve trying to get a clear look. I stopped as the truck came closer, now less than a half-mile from me. It was him!
I ran across the road, jumped the ditch, pushed down with both hands on the top of the barbed-wire fence, and jumped over. I ran as fast as I could. Just as I feared, I was in the open. The only thing I could think of was to put as much distance as possible between the road and me, before he got to the fence. I wasn’t about to let him catch me this time. I knew his temper very well after the beating I’d just experienced. I had seen it before, but nothing as out of control as that.
I ran for 300 or 400 yards straight away from the road, looking back over my shoulder a few times as his truck approached. I was out of breath, and began to walk as his truck stopped and he got out. He hollered at me to come back. He ran to the fence and jumped over, and I took off running. He must have realized I had too much of a head start for him to catch me; I looked back to see him cross back over the fence, get in his truck and drive away.
I slowed my pace back to a walk and made a beeline across the fields to where the road met a highway. From there, it was two miles to my house. As I was making my way along the divided highway toward home, I saw Barb in our pickup, going in the other direction. I began waving my arms and shouting, trying to get her attention.
It worked. She took the exit and came across the overpass, down the on-ramp that I had just walked on. My beautiful pregnant wife was crying as she pulled up next to me. I got in the truck – cold, wet, covered in blood, exhausted, and out of breath. I felt safe but very shaken.
I found out that she had left the house to come and look for me because my dad had gone there to take out his frustrations and anger on her. He berated her through the locked front door, telling her that everything was her fault. She had no idea what he was talking about as he hollered at her through the door, but she knew I needed her. Once he left, she got in the truck to come and find me.
Despite what I have just told you, there weren’t incidents like this when I was growing up. Mom and Dad never had physical fights that my brothers or I knew about. There were some verbal arguments, as with most couples. I had a very happy, and what I would call a very normal, childhood. When I was growing up, my dad was my hero, and he taught all of us boys many things.
What led to this incident on this day? What made him do the things I just described? I walked off a job because of hostile working conditions.
Shortly after this altercation, which would not to be the last, I joined the U.S. Army. This incident was one of the many reasons for the on-again, off-again relationship I would have with my biological father for years to come. I ended up cutting all ties with him after another incident of violence, which involved the sheriff and an ambulance being called in front of my oldest son. That happened 15 years before my dad’s death. I forgave my father many years ago, for my own peace of mind, but I wish I would have learned my lesson the first time and spared my son from witnessing the second incident.
My Grandpa Culp saw my dad’s temper occasionally, and told me multiple times, “Never let a word come out of your mouth when you are angry.” That’s not always easy to do, but I have heeded his words of wisdom most of the time.
If you are in a violent situation, my advice is to get out of it now and don’t look back. There are many organizations that can help; they can be found with a simple internet search. If you are in danger now, don’t hesitate to call 911. No one should have to live in, or be around, a violent situation. Like I said earlier, what you have just read about wasn’t what I experienced as a child. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get to the fun stuff – the beginning.
CHAPTER TWO
How It All Began
I’ve lived freedom and liberty my entire life. I grew up wild and free – well, for the most part anyway. My parents were strict in the sense that they expected us to do what was right, no matter what, even when no one else was looking. When we failed to do that, we learned really quickly what “go cut a switch” meant, and how to “go stand in the corner” for the perfect “time out.” My brothers – Randy, Kevin and Wade – and I knew what all that meant; we never wanted to hear it, but we all did.
It happened more than we wished. Those were dreaded words to hear, and we knew the result was going to be a swat across the butt . . . and it didn’t feel so good. There were a couple of times that I remember going to get a switch and bringing back an old dead one that I knew would crumble easily, only to be sent back outside to find a “good one.”
Culp brothers
It didn’t take very many times for me to realize that I’d better keep my smart mouth shut and do what I was told, in order to not hear the words “go cut a switch” again.
Discipline is a great way to center a young man who’s “wild and free,” and who at times gets a little too “wild and free.” My brothers and I were a little bit wild, to say the least.
Of course, we can’t talk about discipline without talking about positive reinforcement when things are going right. When discipline is administered, not in anger, but by a loving parent who encourages their children most of the time, the children learn respect. Our mom especially is a very caring, loving human being. She encouraged our adventuristic side. I remember her always encouraging us to do better and to seek out the next adventure.
Baby Loren with his mom, Deeta
Our dad did the same when he was not at work, which was most of the time. He took us hunting during the season and taught us how to safely handle a gun and how to use bows and arrows. Mom taught us to use please and thank you and to say grace before meals, and she taught us that you never give up, no matter what. She showed us by her example that rain leads to sunshine, that hard times lead to good times, and that love conquers all.
I was born in Everett, Washington, on February 3, 1961 to Rodney and Deeta Culp. I remember lots of things from my childhood, including the birth of my youngest brother Wade when I was only 3 years old. Dad took me to the hospital, where I saw my mom standing in the window holding the baby in her arms.
Loren with youngest brother Wade
I remember, at 4 years old, my parents talking about I-5 being completed through the Everett and Seattle area. Prior to that, the main highway was Aurora Avenue. That’s where my dad patrolled as a state trooper.
I went to kindergarten in Lynwood at Beverly Elementary, and then we moved to Marrowstone Island in Jefferson County, where I started first grade at Chimacum School. My parents bought a farm in the middle of Marrowstone Island, complete with a large barn and many outbuildings. The place had a large orchard on the right side of the house surrounded by an 8-foot-high fence to keep the deer out. The property was about 40 acres of mostly fields, but there was a small patch of timber on the left side of the house with a woodshed. We spent many hours there, stacking firewood and cutting kindling. Behind our property, beyond our back field, was a large tract of undeveloped land. There were acres and acres of woods, thick with br...