Note: You don’t have to read all the links, they are for reference if you want them.
After my post regarding Percy Sutton and his family’s communist connections, Wolfmoon wrote:
“I’m deeply interested in whether ‘George Covington, a New York State Supreme Court Justice’ is in any way related to James Harry Covington, the founder of the law firm of Covington and Burling – legal alma mater of both Eric Holder and Trisha Beth Anderson, and now home of Michael Chertoff, former DHS head with sketchy connections to Las Vegas incident and anti-Trump, as well as monetization of false flags.”
A George Covington was one of the original partners in Percy Sutton’s law firm, when it was formed in the early 1950s. So I started looking to see if I could connect the two men. James Harry Covington has some interesting, confusing, and somewhat murky origins, so we will look at him first.
I won’t bore you with all the details, but James Harry Covington was born, according to every source I found, on 3 May 1870. His supposed mother, Emma Robinson Covington, however, DIED on 19 Mar 1870, two months before he was born.  This information is on her headstone, found at findagrave.com.
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/66138260/emma-v_-covington
Emma was married to James H. Covington, born about 1837.
On the 1870 census, baby James Harry is found in the household of Elizabeth Robinson, his grandmother, and Ella B. Robinson, his aunt. James Harry is the only Covington listed in Easton in that year. His father’s whereabouts are unknown, I couldn’t locate him anywhere in the U. S. On the 1880 census, James Harry is living with Elizabeth Robinson, and is called “grandson.”  James Covington, Sr., his father, has remarried and lives with his new wife in the same town.
Ella Covington, listed on the census with James Harry Covington above, was born 19 Apr 1846 and died 11 Jun 1882. Ella was Emma B.’s sister. She was still unmarried as of the 1880 census.
The information I found leads me to a conclusion: James Harry Covington was most likely illegitimate. His mother is probably ELLA Covington, not James’ WIFE Emma. Emma was dead before James was born. It is possible that he was the child of another mother, but I have no way to determine that. Here again is a mysterious beginning for a well-known family.
This is speculative; it is possible that all of the sources (himself included) have James’ birth date wrong, and he was born before his mother died, it just seems very unlikely.
On the 1900 census, James Harry Covington, age 30, is listed as a boarder in a large household, along with his wife, Ethel. He is listed as a lawyer.”
James Covington, Sr. had a brother George B. Covington, who had a son George. I thought he might be the one who was associated with Percy Sutton, BUT…
From an obituary in the Princeton Alumni Weekly, this youngest George B. Covington attended law school for three years at Columbia, but never practiced law. His father is said in the obit to have been of the law firm of Covington and Moesel.
https://books.google.com/books?id=OxlbAAAAYAAJ&pg=RA3-PA48&lpg=RA3-PA48&dq=%22George+Bishop+Covington%22+died+1967&source=bl&ots=zXpXtGpT86&sig=ACfU3U29OEgxdZ4TkbLiUQHUKIxj70Xbrw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj73tDf26jgAhWCCTQIHc06An0Q6AEwAXoECAAQAQ#v=onepage&q=%22George%20Bishop%20Covington%22%20died%201967&f=false
In 1922, 1924 and 1930, Covington & Moesel is listed as having offices at 60 Wall St., New York. In a survey of the area conducted after 1935, the firm has moved to 80 Broadway, New York. It does NOT appear connected to Covington & Burling.
So, all of this information actually EXCLUDES George B. Covington from being the man who founded the law firm with Percy Sutton. At this point, it appears that the Covington family of Covington and Burling, and the George Covington who partnered with Percy Sutton are NOT related.
BUT…
That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything of interest to us in the law firm of Covington & Burling! This law firm, founded in 1919, which Wolfmoon accurately describes as the “legal alma mater of both Eric Holder and Trisha Beth Anderson, and now home of Michael Chertoff, former DHS head with sketchy connections to Las Vegas incident and anti-Trump, as well as monetization of false flags,” is (what a surprise) connected to Communists and Margaret Sanger, the infamous eugenicist founder of Planned Parenthood!
There was a lawyer named George Rublee in the firm almost from the very beginning, becoming a partner in 1921. Rublee was a Harvard graduate, and close to noted Progressives such as Learned Hand and Herbert Croly while there. Later, he was a strong proponent of “New Nationalism,” converting Woodrow Wilson to the program in 1914. New Nationalism called for social insurance for the elderly, unemployed, and disabled, worker’s compensation, and a Constitutional amendment allowing for a Federal Income Tax, among other things. Rublee was also the primary driver in the creation of the Federal Trade Commission, which he hoped would be a “promising experiment in the regulation of big business.”
https://books.google.com/books?id=hh2WpPTG53sC&pg=PA193&lpg=PA193&dq=Covington,+Burling+%26+Rublee+New+York&source=bl&ots=1y1PSNZZ4M&sig=ACfU3U1eoW_Kd5JzCiNDAnWzBWc8FCm19w&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjljqOlhKrgAhVk0FQKHRFhAZUQ6AEwCHoECAIQAQ#v=onepage&q=Covington%2C%20Burling%20%26%20Rublee%20New%20York&f=false
George Rublee married Juliet Barrett in 1899. He and Juliet went to Europe in 1902, returned to New York briefly, and then went back to Europe for medical treatments for her. They traveled to Sweden, where George became a regular tennis partner for the crown Prince of Sweden, later Gustav V.
Then, here it comes! Wolfmoon called it, there is always a “VISIT.”
Early in 1904 George and Juliet traveled to St. Petersburg and Moscow with the Russian sculptor Paul Troubetzkoy, the son of Russian diplomat Pyotr Petrovich Troubetzkoy. They traveled to the Riviera in the spring, and returned to the U.S in the summer of 1904. The book with this reference is Earnest Endeavors: The Life and Public Work of George Rublee, Marc Eric McClure, Praeger Publishers, Westport, Connecticut, 2003.
I  found THIS fascinating little tidbit, about Rublee’s wife:
“It is interesting to note some important historical footnotes concerning the law firm of Covington & Burling. George Rublee married Juliet Barrett, who was very active in the modern birth control movement, along with Margaret Sanger. Ms. Barrett was a vocal pacifist at the beginning of World War I. She also produced a film on the Mexican War. A biographer of Margaret Sanger wrote that Barrett, (Mrs. Rublee), “more than any other woman in the country’s social establishment, would be responsible for subsequent changes in the orientation of the birth control movement.”
https://chestertownspy.org/2012/12/19/eastern-shore-footnote-the-seeds-of-covington-burling-law-firm-giants/
Juliet Rublee was Margaret Sanger’s most significant financial backer, and was on very close terms with her. One has to wonder if she was also a eugenicist like Ms. Sanger. Seems likely to me.
Juliet is an interesting character. In the 1920s, George Rublee went to Mexico as legal advisor to American ambassador Dwight Morrow, after the Mexican Revolution.  Julia produced a film there called “Flame of Mexico,” a “romantic” tale which “incorporated the “oil problem” into the romantic narrative, creating what could be called a political melodrama.” Part of the “oil problem” was that in 1925, President Plutarco Elías Calles placed limits on oil concessions, creating tension between US oil companies and the Mexican government. In 1928, Calles’s oil laws were amended by US ambassador Dwight Morrow, who resolved the dispute by adding the word “confirmatory” to those concessions that were acquired before 1917, thus leaving the question of ownership open to negotiation.
The film Juliet produced was not appreciated by all:
“Flame of Mexico received, for the most part, positive reviews in Mexico, in El Nacional and El Universal Gráfico, as well as in the United States, yet there is some evidence that Rublee’s portrayal of Mexico’s struggle for economic sovereignty conflicted with the opinions of some US moviegoers. Writing in the New York Herald Tribune, one critic expressed his disapproval of the film’s “ambition to be propaganda” (n.p.).”
https://wfpp.cdrs.columbia.edu/pioneer/ccp-juliet-barrett-rublee/
During the Revolution in Mexico, which lasted from roughly 1910 to 1920, Walter Lippman, a colleague and acquaintance of George Rublee, set out to convince American businessmen that an intervention in Mexico by the U.S. was a mistake:
“First, he had to discredit the idea that the Mexican Revolution was a part of a communist plot to bolshevize Latin America. This he did in a barrage of editorials stressing ‘the thing which the ignoramuses call bolshevism in these countries is in essence nationalism, and the whole world is in ferment with it.’ Second, he had to come up with a workable alternative.’ I feel I know pretty well how to carry on an agitation against the use of violent methods,’ he wrote lawyer George Rublee, ‘but this agitation will come to nothing in the end unless the people who are opposed to them can work out a program….our job, as I see it – by that I mean all the people who are opposed to a break in diplomatic relations – is to show haw a possible settlement could be made.”
https://books.google.com/books?id=y8k3DwAAQBAJ&pg=PT379&lpg=PT379&dq=George+Rublee+%22communist%22&source=bl&ots=8KQwq_hkXl&sig=ACfU3U2dHhyT7aGy-j1UMEejlMEdC1H-SQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiCnej3jrLgAhVVJ30KHXZiBXEQ6AEwEHoECAgQAQ#v=onepage&q=George%20Rublee%20%22communist%22&f=false
Lippman himself was Soviet intelligence agent, working for the Soviets at least until 1944:
“Lippmann retained his socialist sympathies even in the midst of the Nazi-Soviet Pact, when “WJL” [Walter J. Lippmann] wrote to “ECC” [Edward C. Carter]—head of the Communist-front “American Russian Institute” and Institute of Pacific Relations (“a vehicle used by the Communists to orientate American far eastern policies toward Communist objectives,” according to a unanimous report of the bipartisan Senate Judiciary Committee)—urging ‘cooperation with the European revolutionaries and the Soviet Union in their attempt to build a socialist Europe as a nucleus for a world socialist order, with the obvious corollary of the establishment of socialism in this country.’
Until 1943, Lippmann’s secretary was Mary Price, a Soviet agent. Lippmann himself was a Soviet intelligence source as late as 1944. According to Eric Alterman, a columnist and blogger for The Nation, Lippmann “offered much more useful information to the Soviets than [I.F.] Stone ever did.”
https://www.conservapedia.com/Walter_Lippmann
By 1927, the U.S. Government openly declared the Mexican government a Bolshevik regime:
“… in 1927, another military coup was attempted, this time receiving support from land owners. Calles quickly crushed the rebellion with help from the newly mobilized peasant battalions, who later on were used to fight against the Church. In the midst of the mobilized worker’s militias, land reform, and anti-church actions, the American government began to openly declare Mexico a Bolshevik regime. To recover from the backlash, Calles began to tone down the radical rhetoric and slowed land reform policies in 1928. A year later, a brokered ceasefire was issued to end hostilities.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mexican_Revolution
Emma Tenayuca, the Communist activist associated with the Sutton family, was born in 1916, right in the middle of the Mexican Revolution. She came of age in the era of President Obregon:
“Despite pressures from the U.S., Obregón flirted with the newly formed USSR. To appeal to intellectuals and left-leaning peasants, official Mexican propaganda began having a very Marxist spin. Murals with Lenin and Trotsky began to appear in government buildings. Despite the sympathy towards socialism, the government began to ferment nationalism amongst the peasantry. This was accomplished by memorializing revolutionary figures and creating anti-Western murals. Among the artists employed was Diego Rivera, who had a Mexican nationalist and Marxist tinge to his government murals. Despite these moves towards an anti-Western and pro-socialist regime, Obregón did not separate the Mexican economy from foreign capitalists, allowing free trade with some restrictions.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mexican_Revolution
All of this information about Communist activity in Mexico in the early 1900s makes it easy to understand the Communist activity in San Antonio, Texas, the hometown of Percy Sutton, only 150 miles from the Mexican border.
Eventually, George Rublee, a personal friend of President Roosevelt, was appointed to handle the refugees coming out of Germany prior to WWII:
“His public work climaxed in 1938 when Franklin Roosevelt requested Rublee become director of the London-based Intergovernmental Committee on Political Refugees Coming from Germany, which attempted to arrange for the resettlement of German and Austrian Jews prior to the outbreak of World War II. He was unsuccessful in that effort other than being able secure visas for about 600 Jewish refugees to Argentina.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Rublee
It doesn’t appear he did a very good job helping the Jewish people.
An article at American Thinker, Trump Should Just Let the Democrats Self-Destruct, written by Gary Gindler on 16 Feb 2019, stated that:
“It was the Democratic Administration of President Roosevelt that turned away a ship with Jewish refugees in 1939.  A vital role in the refusal of Jewish refugees to go ashore in America was played by Secretary of State Cordell Hull (by the way, it was with him that the shameful history of the undeserved Nobel Peace Prizes began).”
https://www.americanthinker.com/articles/2019/02/trump_should_just_let_the_democrats_selfdestruct.html
This sent me looking for a connection between this man and George Rublee. And, of course, they were connected. This is the man to whom Rublee reported as the director of the ICPR. Given the statement in the American Thinker, one has to wonder if either of these men was trying very hard to help the Jews! Reading about this time period before WWII, it is clear that while there was a lot of lip-service to the idea of helping German Jews escape persecution, very few countries, including ours, wanted to actually DO much about it. Even Rublee himself later expressed the opinion that Roosevelt’s primary incentive was to express “some sort of gesture” that could “assuage the [moral] indignation” that resulted from the German persecution of Jews. The conference (at Evian in 1938) had minimal “hope of success” and primarily served as an “impressive protest.”
http://haruth.com/jw/China/1938TheJewishTrailofTears.pdf
I found a source which stated that “although Cordell Hull was himself married to a Jew, within the habitus of the foreign service, anti-Semitism was respectable and perhaps even mandatory.”
http://www.ihc.ucsb.edu/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/Zolberg-8.pdf
Why Jews in America continue to vote Democrat is beyond me.
Then, just when I think I’m done with this thing, there’s MORE!
Wolfmoon referred to and pasted in a series of images from tweets in the “It’s Time to Return Publicly” post by SteveinCO. The tweets were by J. Arthur Bloom, and concerned American economic policy being manipulated by Communists during the latter years of WWII. The images were pages from a book, The Web of Subversion, by James Burnham, published in 1965. As I read, one name I had already seen in association with George Rublee, Dean Acheson, jumped out at me. Acheson was another early partner in Covington & Burling. The book stated Acheson was a “good friend” of Harold Glasser, who was a member of the Perlo group of Soviet spies during WWII! He is the subject of quite a bit of the book pages tweeted by J. Arthur BIoom. I highly recommend reading through the images, they are pretty illuminating. Here is the link:
https://wqth.wordpress.com/2019/02/09/q-its-time-to-return-publicly/
Dean Acheson served as Assistant Secretary of State under Cordell Hull. These people have been enmeshed in our government for a century!
So, there you have it. George Covington of the firm of Sutton & Covington is NOT related to James Harry Covington of Covington & Burling. But he DOES have those Communist connections, just like George Covington did. Who knows how much of that influence has carried down through in the law firm into the present day.

Who is your favorite President – besides the obvious choice of our fabulous President Trump?
In our house, it’s President James Knox Polk, 1845-1849.
My son, Gunner, had a project due on an assigned President, and he was uncharacteristically stalling writing his essay. Old Presidents were “old” and not exactly engaging for him. At the time, I knew next to nothing about Polk. My son kept wandering into the kitchen, searching for help from me, trying to get his essay started. In other words, he wanted me to stop what I was doing and help him write his essay. No. Not happening. I won’t do your project for you, but I didn’t want him to die on a vine either.
I prodded him with a few questions about President Polk, and he gave me a brief bio. As the last minute, he mentioned Polk was from Tennessee. I stopped washing dishes, “Where in Tennessee?”, I asked him. Gunner replied, “(mumble)…., somewhere near Nashville”. He was so discouraged, counting tiles on the kitchen floor. His voice and the mumbles came from his chest. He was swinging his arms and playing with his feet. Completely unlike him. We had great history teachers when we were kids. Sad to see him not involved, using his imagination about the time period. Time for an intervention, I thought. “Sounds like a road trip to me!”, I replied.
Road trips are legendary in our house, and at the mere mention of a road trip, Gunner’s attitude did a 180 degree turn. We sauntered into the den to ask husband, “How do you feel about going to Nashville this weekend?” Husband preplans everything and spontaneity is not his strong suit. “When?”, he said, “Tomorrow morning?”, he was almost spasm/panicking. We couldn’t really afford it, true. BUT, I remembered a huge Marriott credit I had, called around, and booked a cheap room. We invited a buddy for Gunner to make it more enjoyable, and I packed snacks and sandwich stuff to save a little bit of money. In less than 12 hours, we were on the road….. looking for adventure.
Before we left, I printed off what seemed like a ream of paper, downloaded info on President Polk, and President Jackson, Gunner’s buddy’s President. Along the way, the boys read to us data on the two Presidents. We were brushing up.
We took the scenic route to Nashville, through historic battlefields the kids had never seen, Bloody Pond, and Shiloh. Husband, from Boston, was amazed. The history was coming to life – my eyes twinkled a little – that little seed planted was growing. We talked about what it must have been like, in the midst of a Civil War, while munching on sandwiches from home.
We made our way to Nashville, checked in, and I whipped out the Platinum Amex, guaranteeing an upgrade in room and an early check-in. Wow, did we get a suite. It was like a palace! We stopped at a few historical sites that afternoon, around Nashville, to get into the mood before returning to the hotel. Kids were thrilled and headed to the pool with husband. Exhausted, in-hotel grill food, another Marriott credit, and off to sleep. So far, so good.
The next day, we did the Hermitage, President Jackson’s home, and the assignment of Gunner’s school chum. I love that kid and swear he will be our Governor one day, natural people skills. It was his first vacation outside the state and everything was new and wondrous to him (he wanted to take his hotel pillow home with him). He objected to the price of admission at The Hermitage, so, they let all of us in on student pricing (next to nothing). We spent all day there, wandering, learning, completely absorbed.
Suddenly, as only 8th graders do, they were tired and their “feet were hot”. They thought the only cure would be the hotel pool. Home we went to the hotel, more in-hotel pool grill food and very tired young men.
Next morning, we were off to Polk’s home, shown above, and again, we were lucky. Three docents and we were the only ones there. Polk is not nearly as popular as Jackson. The docents were thrilled we showed up and told those kids stories all day long. Best history teachers – ever. They even took us to the store-rooms. We were sitting on crates as they spun tales of the Texas-Mexico Wars, Stonewall Jackson, a YOUNG America, and the push “from sea to shining sea” = Manifest Destiny. Even my husband was wide-eyed. The kids were hanging on their every word. Great teachers are truly a gift. They closed for lunch but asked us to come back after lunch – they promised a surprise.
I wondered how a little museum could get any better, but dutifully, we went to lunch and returned to the docents. They knew Gunner had to do a school report on Polk and that’s why we were there. They took us to another room, and outfitted us all with gloves and masks. They let the kids handle historical archives, old guns, clothing, speeches – and they explained the policy behind the speech. It was like being in the world’s greatest attic but also a research lab with chemicals and weird lighting. The whole time, they stressed how important it was to preserve history and the art of preservation. I watched my son handle a letter from Polk to Jackson, his mentor, and my son was holding it like it was the Gutenberg Bible or the Declaration of Independence. It was so cute. But the young grad student was a male and connected extremely well with the kids.
After our lesson on historic preservation, the docents presented my son with a large frame of Polk’s campaign token cards, elaborately printed ribbons, pictures, and paraphernalia from his inauguration. My son froze (and so did I). It was surreal, like the President wasn’t really dead, but passing his legacy to a future generation. Reaching, forward to the future, to inspire. Gunner was speechless but understood the importance. Message received loud and clear.
The docents took my husband and I aside and cleared that it was just a loan from the museum, and they expected the frame to be returned (which we did). They let us know they checked our address while we were at lunch, but they were beyond kind – not big-brotherish at all. I was blubbering with thanks and appreciation. They came out to the car with us and I carefully wrapped the frame in a blanket. Lots of hugs for goodbye. One docent, a retired teacher, hugged me and whispered in my ear, regarding my son, “You make sure to watch over him, he’s a special one.”, like she knew a secret. Still embraced, I looked at her, searching for the secret through her eyes. She had the lightest blue eyes and was still, a striking woman. “I know”, I whispered in her ear. About that time, my son hugged her from the back and caught both of us. The best of days.
When we got in the car to go home, husband turned to me in a deadpan stare and said, “I love the south, that would NEVER have happened in Boston”. I couldn’t believe it happened… anywhere.
It was was mid-afternoon and we planned on taking the expressway home – fast route. “NO!!!!”, came the objections from the back seat. They wanted to take the scenic route home again. I shifted in my seat, fighting a stupid seatbelt, to look to the back, “How come?”, I asked. My son’s buddy piped up and said, “We have to say goodbye.” and my son nodded, “Yeah”. I glanced at my husband, and he nodded in agreement, “And so it shall be done”. Within 30 minutes we were out of the city on a two-lane road. I was staring at the white dash lines on the road as they flipped by. “They wanted to say goodbye”, I thought, as if those men weren’t dead, “Gone but not forgotten” took on a new meaning.
Both boys got an “A” on their papers and presentations. My husband INSISTED that he did not trust FEDEX (the most reliable courier on the planet) to return the Polk frame and in one day, drove 4 1/2 hours to Nashville and 4 1/2 hours home. I do love that man. He also wrote a handsome check to the museum. A few weeks later, a package arrived from Nashville for my son. It was a faded campaign ribbon from President Polk, with a packet of copies from his speeches. The message was handwritten and simple, “Know your history and be inspired.”
It’s no surprise, Gunner still talks about Polk, years later. The Polk campaign ribbon is the tree topper for his Christmas tree. His electives are history classes and he’s an avid reader, usually historical, war, strategy related.
Moral of the story: Find a great teacher, wherever they might be, and travel with your kids, even when you cannot really afford it. The payback is priceless.
What did we learn about President Polk? A lot. See below. He was strikingly similar to our President Trump.
Polk oversaw the annexation of Texas, went to war with Mexico and resolved the final problem with Mexico with the Gadsden Purchase, and settled the Oregon Territory (49th parallel) with England. Manifest Destiny was also part of his administration and Polk made it happen through land acquisition. Polk was not expected to be President and agreed to only serve one term, keeping his word. He and his wife were strict Presbyterians, no drinking, and swept out the swill and substantially changed the party atmosphere of the White House. Polk established an independent treasury and what do you know…… substantially lowered tariffs. He worked 16 hour days, nonstop, and kept his cabinet busy on the business of the nation. Polk was relentless. He retired to Nashville and died three months later. For a President, Polk accomplished an incredible amount in 4 short years. Sound familiar?
Yes, the politically correct historians will point out Polk did own slaves, but both he and his wife’s wills freed their slaves upon their death.
Look at Polk’s opinion on tariffs. Polk was “America First”:
“A potential pitfall for Polk’s campaign was the issue of whether the tariff should be for revenue only, or with the intent to protect American industry. Polk finessed the tariff issue in a published letter. Recalling that he had long stated that tariffs should only be sufficient to finance government operations, he maintained that stance, but wrote that within that limitation, government could and should offer “fair and just protection” to American interests, including manufacturers.” http://www.tn4me.org/article.cfm/a_id/194/minor_id/67/major_id/22/era_id/4
Tariffs, for revenue or for the protection of American manufacturers. Who does that sound like to you?????
I won’t bore you with a full dissertation of President Polk but he was fascinating. His time in history was pivotal to what became our America.
Happy President’s Day!

This one is in honor of Nebraska Filly and ZooNTexas. Please, let me slip my arm around your shoulder and give you a tight squeeze. Grab a cup of coffee, settle in, and let me tell you a story.
One bereaved or angry person can ruin the spirit in a room or a group. Most often, it has nothing, whatsoever, to do with us. We’re merely in the line of direct fire. Often, we quickly ascertain something is wrong, and we shun that person. We stay away from conflict. No – wrong. Don’t take offense. Run to the conflict. Be the firefighter or LEO to a friend. Figure out what it is. Dig deep. Let them rail at the stars and get it out. Free them.
For example, if you and your spouse are arguing, fiercely, about whether to have chicken or salmon for dinner, I guarantee, you’re not arguing about what to have for dinner. Figure out the source of the problem, and fix it, no matter how long it takes. Eventually, put your baggage into a suitcase and toss it, or give it up to a higher power as a great, unsolved mystery. Life is too short to live in black sludge.
In life, we can hold on to anger, betrayal, resentments, slights, or we can purge it all and live in the sun. No matter how grievous the pain… no matter how long the process to move through the grief, find someone to help you and hold on tight. What we cannot do, is carry the pain, or the grudge, to our death. If we hang onto it, we rot from the inside, and the rest of humanity is cheated out of our natural gifts. It’s a crime against humanity! We poison everything around us. We become the human version of a legit EPA Superfund Sight = Toxic. Our opponent wins. To hell with that idea. Choose to live!
Let’s start with small steps. Little things. Daily chores. We can work up to bigger problems as we gain strength. We all, at times, have to do chores we would rather not. Okay. We can either have fun while we work, or we can gripe and moan. It’s all about attitude and the will to survive. We CAN have fun going to the grocery store, getting gas, mowing the lawn, or even, ironing!
My mother was consumed with demons, bitter and miserable her entire life. I was lucky, however, and had a dad who could make small mundane tasks seem like fun. He was the sun. And like our tree of refuge, I leaned into the sun for those brief happy moments. I chose to follow his path. He passed his spirit to me, and I passed it to my son and stepdaughters. Yet, I had no idea where his spirit came from….. or that it was born from misery, buried deeply.
We moved from Chicago to New Orleans when I was 10, and our house wasn’t quite finished by the contractor. In August, Dad and I laid sod in the yard. Being from the north, we weren’t used to the humidity. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever again been that hot. Sweat ran down my arms and legs like a river, and a curious thing, collected on my eyelashes. Yet, we drank a gallon of Iced Tea and played in the hose. We had a wonderful day, and we proudly finished the job. We were foul, nasty, smelly, stinky, and could not have been happier.
When I was a little older, I learned my Dad’s great attitude came from his parents,  Grandma Della and Grandpa Earl. If I look back on old photos, my Grandfather is ALWAYS smiling, beaming. His eyes sparkle, as if he was the one who ate the proverbial canary. He was notoriously mischievous. I recall family meals where we laughed so hard, my stomach, rib muscles, would hurt for days afterwards. Grandma Della even made ironing enjoyable…., which is hard to do…, but this story will break your heart and then, make your heart soar.
It’s all about ironing, birds, and the source of great pain, and the purest form of love.
I was 21, finishing college (the first time), and had accepted a job in Manhattan. Thrilled with the opportunity, I was feeling big and bad, full of “femme” power, ready to shake off the dusty little town in Mississippi, and move to the big city. My wardrobe was updated, new luggage purchased, and I was brushing up on my Cosmopolitan Magazine. My attitude needed a gut check, and I got it that day, in the most humbling of ways.
During college, I lived with my grandparents, which was good for them, me, and a lot of fun for us all. One day, midweek, I came home from work for lunch, and Grandma was ironing in the kitchen. I gathered my triscuits. cheese, and leftover grilled chicken, and slid into the deacon’s bench to eat and talk to her. I was staring out the big bay window at the bird feeders when a Chickadee landed. A Chickadee was rare, and I prompted Grandma to look. “Grandma Violet came to visit!”, I said. Chickadees always reminded my grandmother of her mom, but I never knew why…., until that day.
Grandma Della had quite an extraordinary process for ironing. The ironing board was a metal contraption left over from the war (WW2) and weighed almost as much as my grandmother. Grandpa would set it up for her on ironing day. She would wash Grandpa’s white shirts in hot water, Tide and bleach, then, rewash them, with starch added to the mix. She would take the shirts out of the washing machine, straighten them, and roll them up, placing them in a leftover, clean, Wonder Bread wrapper…… and put them in the lowest shelf of the fridge to chill. A “chilled shirt on a hot iron, made the shirt more crisp”, she claimed.
I was watching my grandmother labor in this process and I noticed she closed her eyes when she was almost done with the shirt. She murmured something, spread her hands, eyes still closed, the length of the shirt. Satisfied, she opened her eyes, hung it up, and moved on to the next one. I bit into a triscuit, and watched her. The kitchen was cozy and smelled fresh with the steam from the iron. She did the same thing several times. Breaking the silence but with my mouth full, I asked her what she was doing. Of course, like all 21 year olds who think they know better, I interrupted her before she could speak. I asked, “Why, on earth, don’t you take the shirts to the cleaners?” After all, they could afford it, and it would save her time. She stopped, glared at me, and physically recoiled, as if I had accused her of murdering the neighbor.
She said, “I don’t want to tell you.” What? Huh? Grandma told me everything! I didn’t know she had any secrets. For the first time ever, I looked at my grandmother like she was another woman, not my grandmother. I lowered my voice and sincerely asked her to please, tell me. She sighed deeply, stalling, big breath in and out, and looked at me hard. Whatever was coming, I had the sense it was big.
She told me that she said a small prayer over every shirt she ironed for my grandfather. To her, it was his suit of armor. It was his shield placed BY HER, to keep him safe, throughout his day. She felt that her love, with a little help from God, would protect him…. I could feel the tears sting my eyes. Her love for my grandfather was like a mountain.. like a whole range of mountains.
She pointed at me for emphasis. She reminded me how she always hugged her husband and told him she loved him before he left. She sternly warned me, “You should never (still pointing) take anything for granted, anyone you love can be gone in a flash.” She gestured to the window dismissively, and flatly stated, “Chickadees were not my mother’s favorite, they were my father’s favorite.” She hardly ever spoke of her real father. I knew my great-grandfather died when she was young. My great-grandmother remarried a man named Ross, and they were married for 30+ years. Apparently, my great-grandmother was not feeling well one morning and my great-grandfather let her sleep in when he went to work. He died that day and my great-grandmother never had the chance to say goodbye, to kiss him one more time. It haunted her and Chickadees were a reminder. My grandmother explained, “Chickadees were like a good but bittersweet ghost, who had returned for one final kiss goodbye, just a quick peck on the cheek”. My grandmother, as a young girl, understood, life was precious… and she still missed her father. No wonder she hugged me so hard every time we parted.
The story she told made her tear up. Her grief bubbled to the surface as if it were fresh, although 50 years prior. I comforted her, for the first time, our roles reversed. We embraced and she sobbed on my shoulder. I understood her in a new way never thought possible. She never spoke of her father’s death, and she desperately needed to talk about it. I was astonished at the way she turned her fear of death, into ‘extra’ love for her family and friends. She turned her grief into a positive, without knowing it. It was a ‘thing’ in our family. We always hugged, kissed goodbye, and told each other we loved them when we were separated. As a kid, it sometimes made me impatient. Now, I understood why.
From then on, grandma and I were closer than ever before, not as a familial obligation, but as two people who cared about each other deeply. Gut check to me was received. Priorities reset. I was humbled, a little bit wiser, and grateful.
The years flew by as I whizzed through Manhattan and Miami, finally cashing out to return home. I married and found myself ironing shirts for my first husband. They were work shirts with blue or brown collars, but they were immaculately pressed. No fridge treatment for me, however. My first husband asked me, “Why in the hell don’t you let me take them into the laundry service.” I refused but was reluctant to tell him why. He finally prodded it out of me one day, and he thought I was silly. I still ironed his shirts no matter how gruff he was – and I added a little prayer for patience.
Flash forward a few years.
We bought the big house and turned it into a B&B. I did about 80 loads of laundry every week, and always ironed the pillow cases and top sheets – light starch. We turned one of the bedrooms into a larger laundry room because I spent so much time on laundry. I moved in a television so I could watch stock reports (old habit from the brokerage days), and a couple of comfy chairs. We also bought an old ironing MANGLE, with foot pedals, so I could do linen and sheets in one pass. Blue jeans came out beautifully when run through the MANGLE. I had the system of “laundry” just about perfected…. but I needed music to soothe my soul.
A few months later, my first husband rewired sets of speakers with a big switcher. We could broadcast music to different places, central hall, upstairs hall, kitchen, laundry, side porch, and powerful waterproof Bose speakers for the backyard. The switcher was rather complicated and I didn’t really pay attention. I put in Tina Turner or AC/DC when I ironed. Unknown to me, the outside speakers were on the whole time. Teachers at the school got to the point where they knew I was ironing….. because Tina was blaring. Embarrassing, but I made friends.
We live next to the school and my girlfriends would stop into my kitchen after dropping off their kids for leftover coffee and to chat. After about an hour, one girlfriend mentioned she had to go home and iron…. she was whining about it, too. Another girlfriend joked, her husband’s “iron pile” has been in the same position for 3 months. She ignored the iron pile. Another girlfriend piped up about the drudgery of ironing. They were all downtrodden, accumulating their purses, keys, and putting empty coffee cups in the sink… leaving……. when I had an idea.
“Wait a minute”, I said, “How about you all go home and get your ironing and we’ll do it together!” They stopped and looked at me like I lost my mind. I continued, “Because of the B&B, I have irons and ironing boards in every room, plus mine downstairs. That’s five irons, ironing boards, plus the Mangle.” I said, “It makes sense. Instead of you being alone and miserable, we can get our ironing done together and be happy.” They were looking at each other, waiting for a signal…..,  few moments of silence…….., when one girlfriend said, “I’ll make Bloody Mary’s – we can iron and drink!” The idea was sold.
We laughed and cackled all day – ironing. We laughed until our sides split. We got ‘tickled’ and slapped at each other. Belly laughs. Laughing to the point where you beg to stop and stomp your feet. Laughing until you have to pee. Laughing so hard you have to leave the room to catch a breath. It was great. Someone made sandwiches and while we were eating, I told the story of Della, my grandmother, ironing for my grandfather, creating a suit of armor for him, and a love so deep, so big, like mountains. We cried like babies. I told them about the Chickadees, and the ghost returning for one more kiss goodbye, and we cried more. All my girlfriends knew her. Della was a community grandma.
For years, about once a month while the kids were in school, we got together to iron. We always made a “special” drink and sometimes a “casserole event” for lunch. The husbands knew, eye-rolled, “It was ironing day”. The kids became jealous and wondered what we did on those days. Finally, we decided all the kids would just gather at our house, snacks for all, until we were finished. In that way, the kids felt like they were part of our secret club – The Ironing Club.
I was at a wedding when a pregnant young woman approached me who was new to town. She asked me if she could come and iron with us. She had “heard stories”. “No kidding…”, I said. I threw my arms around her and hugged her big, “Of course, you can come and iron!”. She needed a little bit of Grandma Della love. She was accepted immediately and her baby was born into a clan of cave bear moms. It made her better and it made us better.
We burned a few shirts over the years, sure, but we mended things and saved them as well. We taught each other countless tips and worked together to get a job done, just like dad and I laid the sod. We didn’t just whistle while we worked, we sang loudly. We danced with a zeal, enough to make Tina Turner proud. Above all, we laughed. More than anything else, we laughed.
Over the years, all of us suffered hardships, some suffered intolerable pain and loss. There were deaths, divorces, the death of one child, and coincidentally, we were all together, in the laundry room, watching television, when the planes struck the World Trade Center. Somehow, being together, made it less painful. We knew, whatever happened, we would face it together. We would survive, and eventually, we would laugh and dance, once more.
So, the next time you iron, think about the person who will wear the item, and say a little prayer, or wish them well. It won’t hurt you. I promise. If you see a Chickadee this spring, smile, and remember Grandma Della. Do we ever have enough kisses for those we love? Wouldn’t we all want just one more kiss before we said goodbye?
And here’s a hint. You might not have to look so hard for a deep and profound love, like a mountain range…… it might be right under your nose.
 
 
 
 

McCabe’s reasoning behind his mandate to investigate President Trump were startling. The President’s disappointment in Paul Ryan/McConnell to not fund the border wall, after President Trump signed the original Omnibus Bill, leads us to be suspicious of the motives of the GOPe. When we learned McCain sent the Exec Director of The McCain Institute, to London, to pick up a copy of the dirty dossier, our hearts sank. We realize the power of the forces arrayed against our President and we support him, but he is fighting everyone in DC.
The lying, dirty-dealing, false promises of politicians, lobbyists who write legislation, perks and pork slipped in at the last minute, vacations for politicians, rubber stamp of nepotism, exponential increase in wealth for politicians, and groups like the US Chamber of Commerce, are the enemies of the people……, and that’s before we get to our problems with the press. Everyone wants a ticket to Easy Street. Everyone is in search of fame. As #MeToo has confirmed, in Hollywood, young men and women disregard their personal ethics for a mere opportunity in a movie. At what price?
At what point are we tempted? At what point do we cross a line? How much would it take for YOU to go bad?
Today, the ‘price’ is pretty cheap. We have a bigger problem in our DOJ and no consequences for half of America. Most of us are disgruntled with the double standard in our justice system. Wealthy people can ‘get away with murder’, or go to a country club jail if they don’t dodge the charge, or make a deal with a prosecutor. Those in the middle, and increasingly, those who are Republican, suffer brutally at the hands of Mueller or the DOJ. Unless we return fairness to our judiciary, the unscrupulous will continue to cheat, lie, steal, and cross the line. The reliability of our legal system is in danger. Our trust has been shattered.
We’re also concerned about the sensational headlines of politicians, CEO’s, cutting corners, selling out, but we don’t often see the reports of their downfall, indictments, and subsequent jail time. The Golden Rule, “Do unto others…” is but a distant memory in the workplace. Corporate loyalty is at an all time low as H1B visas for foreign nationals are on the rise. Some of us are tempted to ‘take’ a ‘fair share’ and somehow, justify the unethical behavior.
We need a return to the ethics of our parents and a clear set of penalties for bad behavior. Sure, we understand. It is tempting to rationalize illegal behavior when it seems like everyone around us is doing the same thing. We all have a price, right? Well, my price was 600 million dollars.
Here’s my story, grab a cup of coffee, and let’s put politics aside for a moment.
I was 24 years old, working for a brokerage firm in Miami. It was the year before I made partner and I was working 12-16 hours a day. That year, I made more money than my father and grandfather put together. I moved into a penthouse, drove a sweet little Alpha convertible, dated a guy in NYC, and we bought a ski house in Vermont. I was single, tall, auburn-haired/green eyed. A woman like me, in Miami, could ALMOST get away with murder. I spent most of my time in little planes scattered about the Caribbean and South America. I was very good at what I did, but far too arrogant and impatient. Life was good and I was winning.
Miami’s underbelly was wild, but drugs never appealed to me – too expensive, and let’s just say, the police didn’t come to my parent’s house. Nonetheless, consistently, I found myself in odd situations, bordering on illegal. Meet a client for dinner at a cock fight? That was a surprise. Meet for drinks, get up to use the restroom, pile of cocaine was available. I had one sales manager who tried to sell me into white slavery to a Panamanian Diplomat. That was interesting (but another story). We did a lot of work in embassies, and the diplomats stretched the rules. After all, it was Miami in the mid-80’s. The best part? From time to time, people would come into our office, to sell things, which just fell off a truck – Italian shoes, VCRs, binoculars, and Colombian emeralds. I was a long way from the suburbs and innocence.
I preferred the right side of the law and had many friends in the legal community. There were so many guys in Miami, from Alphabet agencies, who hit on me, my friends teased me, “someone put your number on a bathroom wall”. Bottom line, I was still my father’s daughter. He was the good guy, the Presbyterian and the Marine. For me, the money had to balance and it had to be legal. I was never tempted… until one day…..
Four guys walked into the office and asked to see me. I had done work for prominent car dealers in the area, after hiring a former F&I manager who knew everyone in the car biz in Miami. One of them recommended me. The front receptionist showed them to my office. These guys were straight out of central casting for the movie, “Scarface”, but they weren’t that unusual for Miami. Two were carrying stainless steel briefcases (stereotype much?) and one had a duffle bag. Two remained by my office door, like they were guarding my door. I wonder to this day if they brought weapons. The other two sat down opposite me, in the club chairs. As they crossed the room, I recall my dad’s voice ringing in my ear, “Never do business with a guy who wears more jewelry than your wife.” They were dripping in gold, but again, not uncommon for Miami.
They had interrupted my day and I was miffed. They had no appointment. No one like surprises and clients make appointments. Guy A was in charge. I asked why they did not make an appointment and it rattled him a little bit. He halfway apologized, but he quickly referred to the car dealer. He mentioned financial details of the plan I put together for the car dealer, which made it clear the two were close enough to share intimate details of their personal finances. I calmed down and settled into my chair to listen.
Now, please understand, many of the people in Miami previously lived in dictatorships, where the banking and legal systems are not stable. They hid their assets and never trusted anyone. My “sales pitch”, if we can call it that, was that I could do things for them, LEGALLY, and find a way to give them the same benefit. In this way, they would not run afoul of US authorities, and their children would grow up to be upstanding American citizens.
My “Scarface” friends had a similar problem, Guy A explained. They wanted to be legal but had a problem with cash and property. I started to giggle, “cash”? How stupid did they think I was? “Oh, no”, they said, “the cash is already in a US institution.” Which means, it had been ‘laundered’. I was physically backing away from the men and my desk. “Which bank?”, I asked, and they replied it was a bank well known for sleaze. He explained the problems he was having with the bank, bank officers, and his desire to move his business. He wanted to “be in the stock market” and “be an investor”. Oh, he talked a big game but then, his voice changed and his story was compelling. He told me stories of the bank managers denying movement of his funds and he felt like a prisoner at that bank. He was convincing and sincere – hard to fake. I was curious and smelled a double-cross by the bank. Why would the bank need to keep roughly 20 million on deposit? Theoretically, Guy A was correct. Once deposited, the funds are his and should be clear to move or do whatever he wants. OBVIOUSLY, there was some other reason the bank officers were not allowing the transfers. Legally, I COULD help them.
Guy A wanted to move about $20 million dollars. Again, not that unusual for a client in Miami, but it smelled skeevy. I was trying to trip him up in a lie but couldn’t. Guy A explained he had recently sold his parents Dominican sugar holdings and THAT was the reason for his windfall inheritance. My demeanor changed completely. I knew Dominican Sugar owners. Here was my chance to talk about competing wealthy families in the Dominican.  “OH! Well then, do you know Mr. ABC”, I asked, expecting him to instantly know the whole family. It’s a small circle of friends. Yet, Guy A didn’t know them and wanted to change the subject. Suspicious.
It would have been almost impossible for Guy A to NOT know the family. It indicated he was lying. Guy A was quick to imply he had other ‘friends’ who would like to do similar business with me…. on a regular basis…….. probably quarterly. Gee, 20 million, quarterly. Now, we were back to drug money again, total set-up, but I wanted more info about the bank. Guy A provided me with a large amount of info about the bank.
“What’s in the briefcase?”, I said. A briefcase similar in size could carry about $220K in $100 bills. Like Olympic synchronized swimmers, both men raised their briefcases and simultaneously opened them to reveal a pile full of $100 bills — just like a movie script. I was not impressed. Drama? Really? I did touch one of the bills to feel the paper. My fee, if I could solve his problems, would be $750K in cash, for the 20 million (never mind that I had a regular commission schedule). I pointed at the briefcases and said, “But that’s not even a half million”, and Guy A pointed to another man at the door with a duffle. He approached my desk, unzipped the duffle, to reveal more cash. At that point, age 24, I had never seen that much cash in one place. It was all too surreal and I wasn’t falling for it. Not tempted. Nope. Not me. Not one damn bit tempted.
I was thinking, “What the hell?” and “Why did I come into the office today?” or “Things like this don’t happen”, “is this a dream/nightmare”, “Am I on Candid Camera” or “maybe an FBI camera?”. The whole thing was ridiculous. Absurd. No one ever offered to pay my fees in cash. Who would do such a thing if they were legal? Guy A sensed my apprehension and nervousness. He insisted he wanted to be legal, all the funds would come from a US Institution, and wanted to do business. Then why all the CASH! Why not just write me a pretty, sweet, legal, check? We went back and forth. He was emphatic. Guy B, who had been quiet until then, gave me a disapproving look and said, “We insist.”, which I took as a direct threat. The room changed. He mentioned the building where I lived…… The two guys at the door nodded — which meant they were not FBI — which meant they were crooks. I don’t like to be threatened.
I was more mad than threatened. I was indignant, bothered, but trapped in a room with a bunch of criminals who seemed rather amateur. I got up and walked over to the window, my mind was running. They wanted ‘me’, so, I had to make them NOT want me, and NOT view me as a threat. I needed them to go away and leave me alone. Forever. I had an idea.
“You can’t afford me.”, I blurted out as I swung around. They almost laughed. I walked over to Guy A, stood over him and repeated, “You simply cannot afford me. It’s not enough money.” I slid into my chair and whipped my hair back. I was time to be the $itch. He was confused, “Why not? Do you want 1/20?” and “Do you insist on 5%? (which would be a million/20)”, he countered. I shook my head, “You don’t understand.” I patted his hand like he was a child, but I was mom, and there would be cookies if he kept still.
I reached into my desk for paper and a pencil, which made the guys at the door jumpy. I started to explain and talked numbers while I wrote on a legal pad. I concocted a formula on paper. If I was 24yrs old, and made ‘x’ dollars, and was expected to make ‘x’ dollars per year, for several years, I could make as much as 60 million dollars in my career (which was a BS number but sounded fairly legit). “After all”, I said, “I was so good at what I did, our car dealer friend referred you to me, right?” He nodded. Guy B was looking and listening intently. I was slow and convincing. My formula was intentionally over-complicated, and I added time value of money, etc. Then, I added, if I were to go ‘bad’, and join with them, to HELP them, quarterly, as they implied, I would have to exponentially add to the 60 million. They didn’t know what that meant, so I kept going.
Of course, there would be a risk to whomever I would marry, and the danger to my children- who were not born, YET, and I ‘wanted many bambinos’. Plus, I had to worry about the potential to ruin my family name and shame my father – which they very much understood. “Yes, I would have to have 60 million x 10 or 600 million dollars.”, I drew a circle around the number and finished. Their eyes went wide; their jaws fell. Here’s the weird part, they were OKAY with the 60 million, but not 600 million. GOOD.
Thus, my price, to go bad, was 600 million dollars.
“You’re crazy!”, said Guy A, in Spanish, with a lot of other curse words, as he looked to Guy B for help. “No”, I said, “You’re the one who came to me.” Things had changed. Now, instead of pulling away from him, I was leaning in. He was moving back (which was good). I piled on with specific terms, “My price of 600 million should be payable in terms of 60 million/yr, deposited offshore, for a period of 10 years, and then, I would quit – having trained someone they trusted to replace me”, so I could have a life. They were dumbfounded. I was serious and straight-faced. “It’s too much!”, they said. Both Guy A and Guy B were objecting and I swear — trying to negotiate with me.
100 million would have been fine with them, for 10 years. I opened my arms, palms up, and shrugged, “I was afraid you might not be able to afford me. I’m so very sorry. What would you like to do?” Silence hung in the room. I bit my tongue, knowing the first person who spoke would lose. Guy B, who was apparently the real person in charge said, “We will think about your offer and make an appointment to come back. Thank you for your time.” He called me a ‘gentle lady’, which I thought was odd but genteel for a drug lord. Was I wrong about them and had I just missed the sale of my career?
I never saw them again. They never called back. I gave the details of the bank to a buddy who worked for the FBI and forgot it. About 3 years later, the bank went through a scandal. No surprise.
Moral of the story:
When you’re propositioned, think about your selling price in terms of selling out your entire family. If you go bad, they will fall with you. What’s your price? One million? Two million? Ten million? It’s not nearly enough. Oh, no. Remember, your kids would grow up to be like Chelsea Clinton….
Make your price far too high to appeal to a criminal and you will never have to look over your shoulder. AND, pray the criminals don’t take you up on your outlandish offer.