Action!

My fabulous friend, Michal, posted the words and office addresses of four Republican senators who, in 2016, publicly, vocally backed that fart lozenge, Moscow Mitch, when he blocked Obama from appointing a Supreme Court justice NINE months before the end of his term.

Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell said in a Friday night statement that President Donald Trump's  nominee to replace Ginsburg will get a vote in the Senate. Doing so would be a complete reversal of his position in 2016, when the GOP-led Senate refused to hold a hearing or vote on then-President Barack Obama's nominee, saying it was too close to the election. (source)

We are now a mere 44 days out from the November 3rd election and 121 days until that corrupt, incompetent, heinously coiffed and diseased ratfucker, his taint fungus admin AND fam are kicked to the curb. OH, but the chinless wonder thinks his bullshit made up rules only apply to Democrats.

What can we, even still physically weak and limited me, do? 

 
Call or write your senators. Weigh in. AND you can send a postcard to each of these four senators who VERY publicly stated their “belief” that it wasn’t right/fair to the American people for Obama to appoint a Justice in the year before an election.

Buy one of those Post Office 10 packs ($3.90) of pre-stamped postcards and write out the short, simple, senator specific messages  below.

Senator Mike Lee (R-Utah)
361A Russel Senate Office Bldg.
Washington, DC 20510

You said in 2016: "We think that the American people need a chance to weigh in on this issue, on who will fill that seat. They’ll have that chance this November and they oughta have that chance." It's 2020, and the shoe still fits. Please don't be a hypocrite – do the right thing by delaying SCOTUS nomination hearings until 2021.

Senator Lindsey Graham (R-SC)
290 Russel Senate Office Bldg.
Washington, DC 20510

You in 2018: "If an opening comes in the last year of President Trump's term, and the primary process has started, We'll wait to the next election." Those are your words, sir. Keep your word. SCOTUS nomination hearings should not start until 2021.

Senator Marco Rubio (R-FL)
284 Russel Senate Office Bldg.
Washington, DC 20510

You said in 2016: “I don’t think we should be moving forward on a nominee in the last year of this president’s term. I would say that if it were a Republican President.” It’s 2020 and we’re in the same circumstances. So, SAY IT AGAIN: We shouldn’t be moving forward on a nominee in the last year of this president’s term. Please prove you are a man of your word. Don’t be a hypocrite.

Senator Ron Johnson (R-WI)
328 Hart Senate Office Bldg.
Washington, DC 20510

In 2016, you wrote: “In a very unique moment in time, eight months before an election where the American public will decide the direction of the country, why not let the American people decide the direction of the Supreme Court...Let the American people decide.” It's 2020 and the shoe still fits, only it 44 days until the election, not 8 months. Please do the right thing, and hold the SCOTUS nomination hearings until 2021. Please, don't be a hypocrite.

You’ve written out your four cards and have six left in the pack? Give them to an intelligent (AKA NON Trumper) neighbor or friend so they can join in.

Do it Monday. Tomorrow. Let’s FIGHT this fascist court packing bullshit!

Also too:

Celebrating Harry Jones

Harry and one of his great grands

Harry Jones – what a GREAT name! Puts in mind, mine anyway, superhero alter egos – like Reed Richards, Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. You know, straight forward, no nonsense, solidly good humans.

Harry was my very good friends Jenny, Jeff and Michal’s father. Also Steve’s but I’ve not met him YET. I did however, happily, have the chance to meet Harry.

What follows is the text from his memorial service, happening later today. Yup, Harry checked out of this specific existence. He’s missed BIGLY and remembered with mondo love.
~~~~~
Harry Donald Jones, left this blue marble, Spaceship Earth on May 7, 2016.  He  was born in Punxsutawney Pennsylvania on February 25, 1923.  

Until his son Stephen  was old enough to read, Stephen thought that the sign coming into Punxsutawney said "birth place of Harry Jones."  He was preceded in this life by his parents, Alice Shields Jones and  M. Rae Jones, brothers Elias “Kiyi," Jack, Rae and Sister Rachel.  Harry’s beloved wife,  Zureta Timberlake "Timmi" Jones – who he wed on June 29th, 1957 – preceded him in 2010.

Harry graduated from Indiana High School in 1941, was an Ensign in the Navy during World War II and, afterward, attended Bucknell University, graduating with a chemical engineering degree.

He was the owner of Jones Furniture  Company, located  at 1019 Philadelphia Street and later worked for R&P Coal Company until he retired. Harry was a lifelong member of the Indiana Volunteer Fire Company and past secretary of the Indiana Borough Parking Authority. He was also a member of the Benevolent Protective Order of Elks and a Mason. Harry loved to travel and he and Timmi crisscrossed the country in a camper many times. In later life he enjoyed traveling to see his family. He also enjoyed restoring antique furniture. He was a formidable Scrabble and bridge player and took no prisoners as anyone who played against him can attest. Also, anything chocolate was his!

We bid him a fond farewell.

He is survived by his children Michal Jones-Stewart of Shelocta, Stephen Jones and wife Laura of Tucson AZ, Jenny Jones-Moats and husband John of Phoenix AZ and Jeffrey  Jones and husband Mark Secord  of Lisbon NH. He is also survived by his grandchildren Diane ( & Brad) Neal of Seneca Falls NY, Colleen (& Jason) Epstein of South Plainfield New Jersey, Russell and Andrew Stewart of Fredericksburg Va.  Great grandchildren too – Noah and Hunter Epstein of South Plainfield.

I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.
~ Umberto Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum

I lost my father this past year, and the word feels right because I keep looking for him.  As if he were misplaced. As If he could just turn up, like a sock or a set of keys.
~ Mark Slouka 

Great Jones!

At sixteen,  you still think you can escape from your father. You aren’t listening to his voice speaking through your mouth, you don’t see how your gestures already mirror his; you don’t see him in the way you hold your body, in the way you sign your name. You don’t hear his whisper in your blood.
~ Salman Rushdie, East, West

I’d love to know how Dad saw me when I was six. I’d love to know a hundred things.  When a parent dies, a filing cabinet full of all the fascinating stuff also ceases to exist. I never imagined how hungry I'd be one day to look inside it.
~ David Mitchell, The Bone Clocks 

Because Dad told you he’d be here forever. Because I thought forever was like Mars – far away.
~ Kwame Alexander, The Crossover

We never get over our Fathers, and we’re not required to. (Irish Proverb)
~Martin Sheen, Along the Way: The Journey of a Father and Son

Hope Chests

My friend Michal wrote me, bemoaning the passing of this custom.

From about 15 on you collected things that you would need when you set up housekeeping.  Nice table cloths, place mats you embroidered yourself or pillow cases.   You picked out your China, stem ware and silver pattern so you could set a beautiful table on special occasions.   I have all of those things.  Place settings for 12 and Fostoria stemware and my "good" stainless silverware (as opposed to my Mother who had sterling silver silverware—well she did get it from her mother/my Grandmother). The tradition lives on with my niece who presents a full table at Christmas.  But so few of the so called millennial generation do. 

I’d read about the custom, maybe in Little Women or Jane Eyre or some such. I thought it was something women did back when there were dowries and women, on marriage, became their new husband's responsibility or, horrifically, their property. You know, the days of coverture.

 But no, I was wrong.

From Chronically Vintage:

As recently as a few decades ago (and especially prior to the twentieth century) it was exceeding common - virtually de rigueur, actually - for all young, unmarried women to put together a trousseau of household items that would serve her well later on in her married life (or, much less commonly, if a woman set up a house on her own, away from the family home).

In use for centuries, the hope chest (also known as a dowry box, or in the UK and Australia, a glory box) was a means by which women could help contribute to the home they'd one day share with their husband.

This was def not a thing, a custom, in our home. Clearly I was raised on an alien planet or, at least, BY aliens...or something.

I recall the topic coming up while I was visiting my Aunt Mary Ann, a very proper person, in Manhattan. We were shopping and lunching near the Met one day when she asked me if I’d begun mine yet. First I had to ask her to remind me what this Hope Chest thingy was. She was excited about helping me start mine.

I didn’t want to tell her that I couldn’t see myself marrying and being all Suzy Homemaker-ish. Children? NOPE, they were DEF not in my pic. I’d envisioned living in Berlin squats, painting and dancing until dawn to raggedy ass punk bands along with great big clots of my artsy chums. Husband? Ah, no—I felt slightly allergic to the concept.

I was afraid, possibly, that she wouldn’t approve. At 21, I wasn’t hiding who I was or concealing the person I felt myself becoming. No, I just wasn’t ready to wave my freak flag. Not yet anyway.

Besides, wandering around the Upper East Side, looking at China together was fun.

How to Answer a Stupid Question

Jake by Frank Olma

My pal Michal posted this recent experience on Facebook last night:

Jake’s barking madly—someone must be in the drive way. I go to front door. to find two men. One’s older (not sure what that is anymore since I'm older) and one is younger (in his 20’s maybe) both toting bags and bibles. Mormon's or Jehovah Witnesses?

Older Man: Good morning
Me: Good Morning
They introduced themselves and chit chat about Jake being a Puppy and he'll get "big" when he grows up
Me: He’s nine.
Younger Guy: Oh he's so cute.
Me: Yeah I like him.
Older Man: Have you ever thought about death?
Me: No one gets out alive.
Older Man: .. opening bible... Revelations says ...
Me: I’m an atheist.
Older Man: What?
Me: I'm an atheist.
Older Man: Have you always been one?
Me: No, I was raised a Methodist but don't have time for all that made up voodoo. I hope you have a nice day.
Older Man: But...
Me: I'm an Atheist .. have a good day.
Younger Man: ... do you think your dog is mad at me
Me: WHAT?
Younger Man: (as they walk away) ...because I thought he was a puppy.
Me: No, he's flattered. 

Thought to self... too bad he didn't think I was a puppy.

Hilarious! I've never heard Michal's voice (we met after my hearing crapped out) but am imagining this arch yet friendly, deadpanned, whiskey-ish tone.

I wrote of my experience with Jehovah’s Witnesses visitors a couple of years back. Mine were women which was, for me, much less intimidating than having two strange men appearing on my doorstep.

If I’d been in Michal’s shoes I might’ve not answered the door AND dialed 911. How do I know strangers aren’t potential thieves and/or murderers? Carrying a bible could be a ruse. Yeah, I’m not a very trusting soul.

If for some reason I did as Michal had, how would I’ve responded to that preposterously presumptuous question from a complete stranger: Have you ever thought about death?

I imagine it would’ve gone something like this:

For fuck’s sake man, I’m 56 years old—think for a second. I've had a life. There were three brain surgeries, a spectacularly dicey back surgery where every goddamn muscle in my back had to be sliced so that the tumor could be removed. In my time on this good green earth I’ve been kidnapped, held at knifepoint and threatened with rape and chased by would be muggers and rapists. My mother and mother figure have both died. So, now that you know my background, waddya think pal. Could it be that, as a sentient being, I might've given the whole death biz a thought or two already? I'll give you a sec or two to think on this. 

Ya know, a better use of your time, a more productive way to serve this theoretical god you believe in would be to stop the sales pitching and start helping. Go work in a soup kitchen. Plant a vegetable garden and share your bounty with the poor. Go to a women’s shelter and read Dr. Seuss to the children there. Become a clinic escort. Teach the uneducated how to read and write. Stop cheap-talking and act—make a difference for those less fortunate.

Also, whether I believe in a god or gods is none of your business. Now, if you’re going to continue with this uninvited preaching gambit, you’d be well advised to change your opening. Try using a less loaded approach. Maybe even ask questions so you can learn more about your marks. When you fly in with your ridiculous canned speech, you’re make insulting and erroneous assumptions.

Just so's ya know, Monday through Wednesday I’m a polytheist, Thursday is pantheism day and Friday through Sunday I’m a straight up agnostic.  Sorry, no room for your door to door sales god.

Yeah, Michal handled the sitch WAY better than I would’ve.

Genealogy as Time Travel

My pal Michal (AKA The Balm of Idaho) was recently musing about family history -- where do we come from, who came before us and such.

I think genealogy is interesting and I like to read the family trees, researched over the years by some of my relatives. Maybe someday I’ll delve into it myself -- I’m curious about my maternal grandfather’s side.   

It starts with people you know, and then you go back to people you’ve heard your Mother or Father talk about and then there are the names of people you’ve seen in old pictures with their names underneath.   

My granddaughter asked me for the history of my Mother’s family so she could join the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution). I found it. Our “Patriot” relative was Abraham France, born in 1739, hailing from Lorraine, France.   Then my daughter found  a web site that not only listed him, but a paragraph or two about him -- when he came to America with his brothers, what regiment he fought with in the Revolutionary War, his wife’s and children’s names all with the dashes . 

 Then I noticed the web site had HIS father listed and his Grandfather and his Great-Great Grandfather… all the way back to 1596.  One Johann Jacob Frantz (1596-1671) born and lived in Alsace France. So it got me to thinking about how my forebears really lived. Somehow I’m connected to the time of Elizabeth I, Shakespeare, King Louis XII and Louis XIV of France. 

My granddaughter has her degree in French and Loves France. Lately I feel I’ve been time-traveling to those times

…. maybe it’s just all in our genes…..

Fueling my own family history curiosity are my cousins Gary and Albert. They both recently shared a pic of our Aunt Mamie -- my mother’s mother’s sister. Mamie, originally Domenichella, was a favorite -- wonderfully warm, a fab cook and always happy. I realize only now that she was more of a grandmother to me -- she took care of/watched over my mother/her niece, after Lucia's mother, Angelina, died (of Nf2 -- the Gabrielle curse).

Mia madre Lucia in 1956

The three Gabrielle sisters, Domenichella, Angelina and Marie, came to the US in 1920 from Gioia del Colle, a town in the province of Bari, Apulia, Italy.

The image, at left, is from when she was Sister Rose. I don’t know what order she was with or where. I don’t really know for certain why she left the convent or how she ended up with Uncle John -- an irascible old fuck. The two never missed a chance to engage in verbal fisticuffs, generally at tall volumes and always in Italian.

Research is clearly in my immediate future.

You know, all this makes me wonder what future generations might say about me.   

‘Did you know? Great-great Aunt Donna worked in the print industry back when film was still shot and there were strippers! No, not that kind of stripper. She made loads of paintings of naked people too!’

I guess snickering descendents are inevitable.

Che Cosa è la Famiglia

Scene from Celeste's VERY sober wedding

View from Michal's kitchen

‘the hell is this thing we call ‘family?’

The definition varies from person to person. Really.

For me ‘family’ is a designation that I use for folks who nourish and nurture me, who give as good as they get. Sometimes we’re connected by blood or marriage but, often enough, not. Being kin, merely because we share a bit of biology, a smackeral of DNA, isn’t enough for me to name a person ‘family.’

Jen on Ice

Yes, yez, we ARE still technically famiglia but I don’t necessarily feel the connection or feel the duty/need/pull to save a life tonight (to wax all purply hyperbole).
Elton John -- Someone Saved My Life Tonight

What inspires this? There’s a lot of mother-love/gratitude/missing happening on Facebook lately. Including a funny from my pal Brian.

My fab talented cousin Della

My mother and I were never close. We were far too different and she lacked the ability to understand me in any meaningful way or accept me for who I was. That is, until The Amazing Bob and I married. All of a sudden she could love me, she could be open, more relaxed and supportive. Apparently I'd been a wholly alien being before.

Cindy's wedding

She would’ve been able to go farther still had I been able to have children/give birth but she understood that, due to the Nf2, I could not. She spent most of her life feeling sorry for me -- thinking, because I wasn’t married, that I was unloved and had no friends. Truth be told, I wanted her to accept me/love me on my terms NOT just because I was connected to a man. This being a significant part of why it took 17 years of living in sin (I just love that phrase!) before I agreed to wed The MOST
Amazing Bob.

Jenny's puppies -- Odie and Bonnie

Me, Daddy and Helen

Oni, Jen, TAB, The Green Miles and me

She felt horrifically guilty for passing Neurofibromatosis Type 2 down to me, in large part because this meant I couldn’t risk pregnancy and childbirth (this being no big deal for me. The only children I ever wanted were The Green Miles and my fabulous Helen. Someone’d already gone through that nasty prego shite for me! Yea me -- I won!)

In any case, in her last few years on the planet, I let go of my need for her to understand me. (took me bloody long enough, eh?) and focused on providing her with news and chatter about the things that mattered to her -- children, her relatives, TAB and my friends (who she could see, now that I was wearing a wedding band).

We got on well in those last few years.

I have a lot of fabulous sisters and a few awesome brothers now. Genetic connections not required, nor does it automatically put you outside the velvet rope of my heart.

Tallchiefs and Mothers

a guest post by the fabulous Michal Jones-Stewart  

In my tweener/teen years I was an avid ballet fan, though I couldn't dance worth shit, and made my family sit through numerous recitals.

I was allowed to pick my birthday present and, back then, it was always a trip to the 'Burg (Pittsburgh) to see someone famous.

Not a rock star but some classical superstar -- Van Cliburn, Maria Tallchief and the American Ballet Theater, opera. My mother ALWAYS readily agreed, almost with glee. I never understood. With her depression era frugality, this was a real extravagance.

It wasn't until she was in her dotage that I understood. She lived and breathed ‘culture’ (opera, dance, etc.), with a passion.

At her memorial service, one of her cousins told me the story of Mom being so excited that she could take her to a Standing Room Only performance at Heinz Hall to see an opera when she was in college for $5.00 -- this was 1942.

So, when her 10-15 year old daughter WANTED to go to a live performance she was willing to GO!

The passing of Maria Tallchief, (who I saw TWICE!), is also another passing -- the passing of a memory of my Mother and I doing something together that we both loved. There aren't many of those, we weren't close, but I still remember standing in the lobby at intermission and the joy in my mother's face and voice.
____________________________________________________________
Today is a day to remember our mothers (birth and spiritual mothers) who’ve gone on to other realms. Today is a day to celebrate with the mothers who are still with us.

Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.
_____________________________________________________________

Michal Jones-Stewart, AKA The Balm of Idaho, is a dear friend of mine. It seems unimaginable that we met just a few short years ago.
That's Michal, at left, with her gone-much-to-soon Rodney.

The Day the Music Died -- Michal's Story

a guest post by the fabulous Michal Jones-Stewart

My entire life has been linked to music. It is my life blood and my soul. My earliest memories are of my Mother finding the money for me to belong to a children’s record club so I could listen to music.

The music becomes one with me. It died four years ago, though, when my husband Rodney departed on the journey I couldn’t go on.

There had been patches before -- sad times in my life when I just couldn’t listen to music. I was always able to come back -- it would return in rather short order too.

My base is classical but what I love is everything -- blues, rock, R&B, jazz, soul, big band, hip-hop, swing, be-bop -- it doesn’t matter. I breathe music. I miss it, I want it but my soul is unable to listen to anything with words. I am STUCK. I can’t listen to songs with words and it’s the one thing I want back. I want to be able to become one with a song again. I want my breath to be the music and to soar with notes.

I have a collection of vinyl, cassettes and CD’s. They’re all on my cloud players and I can pick and choose which ever one I want but I can’t. I can’t listen to anything with lyrics -- only the music without. The ones with words, the sad songs, the happy songs, the soothing songs, they all make me cry. They take me back to some time, some place when I was with Rodney or after Rodney or even before Rodney and it makes me sad that I was with someone else and not him.

This is making me crazy!

I want to jump and dance and sing off key with the music. I want to hear the new Emily Lou Harris album, or listen to Paul Simon or Captain Beefheart, or Carly Simon, Bob Dylan, Barbra Streisand, Linda Ronstadt with Nelson Riddle, Celtic Women, Moody Blues, Tull, Jefferson Airplane, Zeppelin, Richie Havens, CSN, Who, Rolling Stones. All of them. I just want to be able to go back to my music where I could listen in peace without crying.


Michal and Rodney's song was/is, Feels Like Home -- Linda Ronstadt

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Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break. -- Shakerpeare (or as TAB refers to him Willy the Shake)

There is no greater grief than to remember days of joy when misery is at hand. -- Dante

We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey, -- Kenji Miyazawa

Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief? -- William Blake

Even if happiness forgets you a little bit, never completely forget about it.  -- Jacques Prévert

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Michal Jones-Stewart, AKA The Balm of Idaho, is a dear friend of mine. It seems unimaginable that we met just a few short years ago.
At right is Heike, me and Michal in Pittsburgh, the day after my mother's funeral.