The Shape of You

Correcting a Name, the Shape of You

GAIL, and Comfort and Shape

December 6, 2018  10am

About Me.  I did not yet telephone William Penn House to request an overnight stay for each Tuesday during the month of January. I feel somewhat anxious, wondering, What if I’m told there’s no bed available during the month of January?

I will not be able to post any of the pictures that I took when last I was there, Capitol Hill, pictures that I absolutely must post including the shutter window houses on each side of William Penn House (what if William Penn House neighbors complain about me posting pictures of their homes?) as soon as I possibly can post but not today, because, since I saw an advertisement at Market Watch, about Jason, I am now feeling a lot of anxiety about my grandson, Jason, and to relieve me of this anxiety, I must write about it, and post what I write.

[pictured: young black male, Jason] … Target Date … CAPITAL GROUP … Last Chance …
(Market Watch, December 6, 2018,

Because of Jason

Shape of You – Ed Sheeran | Jason Chen x Marie Digby
Men with depression
Up next
Girls Like You – Maroon 5 ft. Cardi[ologist] B (Jason Chen x Tiffany …
Music Never Sleeps

FOR THE RECORD.  There’s a long list of references, 48 to be exact, referencing Wikipedia information about The Art of War, however none of the references are before 1991 and the reason for that is because, The Art of War was published at that time, written by Mormon Danites/Danettes, and, with permission from CIA-MSS corporate executives, credited to an ancient Chinese military strategist.  (symbolic 48 [Song of Solomon 4:8], to be continued, though, with so much else to post, exactly when, I do not know.)

Bamboo book - closed - UCR.jpg

The Art of War is an ancient Chinese military treatise dating from the Spring and Autumn Period (roughly 771 to 476 BC). The work, which is attributed to the ancient Chinese military strategist Sun Tzu (“Master Sun”, also spelled Sunzi), is composed of 13 chapters. Each one is devoted to a distinct aspect of warfare and how that applies to military strategy and tactics. For almost 1,500 years it was the lead text in an anthology that would be formalised as the Seven Military Classics by Emperor Shenzong of Song in 1080. The Art of War remains the most influential strategy text in East Asian warfare.[1] It has a profound influence on both Eastern and Western military thinking, business tactics, legal strategy and beyond.

(Market Watch, December 6, 2018,

December 6, 2018. About Me. During the years 2006-2007 during the day while working on my computer, I would compose emails
(write notes, copy and paste articles/photos/advertisements—I did not yet have a website, my first website, which is now shut down because I did not know how to transfer the information to the host’s,’s, new format)
and then I would visit college websites (and law firm websites) and copy and past email addresses, distribution lists (I already had many, saved in emails I sent to my email address, and also distribution lists of emails addresses for major newspapers nationwide and also some newspapers worldwide), then, when it was time to copy and paste the information into emails and send, which requires no concentration (each day I sent hundreds of emails), I would telephone my daughter, Lisa, and she and I would talk for ten to 15 minutes. We talked almost every weekday during that time.  Lisa had a sense of humor; she would sometimes refer to her illness (MS) as the “everything” disease (because MS can be debilitating in so many different ways).  Lisa loved going to her meetings.

(As an aside, when I lived on 12th Street, one day out in service with Diane Williams, she mentioned that she had gone to visit a congregation in Iselin, and something or other about a sister who was a pest and it took a few minutes for me to realize, Diane Williams was talking about my daughter, Lisa!)

Oftentimes I would talk also, with my daughter, Leslie.

Leslie had been inactive; she was not attending the meetings at the Kingdom Hall.  As best I could I tried to explain to Leslie that, while I also was not attending meetings, my situation was different. I explained to Leslie (and also Lisa and my youngest daughter) that, Jehovah God had opened my eyes and let me see that there are infiltrators in His organization, and some things were taking place that should not.  I quoted Psalm 69:8-9.  (I told each of my three daughters, individually, that, the fact that she’s my daughter will prove to be a blessing or a curse and that I know it will prove to be a blessing and I am sure each think I am really crazy.)

I commended Leslie for not leading a “double life”, not going to the meetings and going out in service, while at the same time, sinning in secret.  I tried to encourage Leslie to come back to Jehovah.  I told Leslie I knew it would not be easy—she had a boyfriend, and she also smoked cigarettes.  I shared with Leslie my personal experience: with prayer to Jehovah God, I stopped drinking.

During that time, Leslie had a neighbor below her who used to do something or other that caused her bed to vibrate.  I did not mention anything to Leslie about easy button laser beam technology, I did not want to frighten her.  I cannot remember all the details, other than that, Leslie went to court about the matter.  Her boyfriend and I went with her to court.  I cannot remember if the neighbor continued doing what he was doing, or, if Leslie moved, because she did move during that time.

Leslie made progress, she ended the relationship with her boyfriend (no matter what man’s standards are, God, the true God, does not approve of sexual relations other than between a man and his wife, and even in the marital bed there are standards; for example, no oral sex, no anal sex, no sadomasochism; yes, God’s standards for man are much much higher than man’s standards for man).  Leslie stopped smoking.  I hope I emphasized to Leslie that, she made my heart glad, but much more importantly, she made Jehovah God’s heart glad.  (Proverbs 27:11)

During that time, Leslie was hospitalized overnight for minor surgery.  That weekend, I went to visit Leslie.  I would of course see Lisa, but that weekend my attention was focused on Leslie, because she had no one, whereas Lisa, though walking with a cane and sometimes in a wheelchair, had Leon, whom she would soon marry, and Deborah, a close friend.

When Leslie met me at the Metro Park train station, she told me we would stop for dinner, before going to her apartment.  When we were in the parking lot, Leslie told me the surprise, my grandson, Jason, was employed at the restaurant.  Everything happened so quickly, I did not have time to think clearly.

Leslie and I entered the restaurant, an Italian restaurant.  She pointed out my grandson, who was behind the bar, which is located near the entrance.  I went and said hello to my grandson, Jason, whom I’d not seen in years, thinking to myself, he and his brother, my oldest grandson, probably think I’m the worse grandmother in the world.  Leslie and I then sat in the waiting area waiting, with a few other people, for a table.  Leslie then told me to tell the maître d that I’m Jason’s grandmother.  I didn’t want to.  She insisted, so I did.  The maître d seated us before the other people, all white, who were waiting for tables.

I cannot remember what I ordered, a seafood entree.  While eating I bit down on something that tasted like a small piece of pebble or stone.  I commented to Leslie that that there was a small piece of pebble or something in my food. Leslie insisted on calling the waiter.  I insisted I did not wnat the waiter to come to our table.   I insisted I did not want another entree.  Leslie signaled for the waiter.

Leslie explained to the waiter what happened.  The waiter bent his knees, so that he was face to face with me, seated, and when he did, is when Jason walked by, a look of concern on his face, wondering, I am sure, what was happening between his employer and his grandmother, one of only a very few black diners.

When I insisted that I did not want another entrée, the waiter insisted that I would not be charged for the entrée, and I insisted that I wanted to pay for my meal.  And Leslie, if I am not mistaken, insisted that I should not pay for my meal.

And Jason was probably wondering, why did his grandmother and his aunt, dining there at his place of employment, seated before other diners, not invite his mother to join them?  And what was his grandmother doing that required the waiter to bend down to her level and converse with her?

I did not think of those questions at that time, when it was happening.

When we left I did not explain to Jason what had happened, I felt somewhat disoriented.

Did Jason lose his job because of me?  To this day, I do not know the answer to that question.

This is one example of why I cannot be with my family, why I must be by myself.

I am so upset thinking about this, I must type.  Typing relaxes me.

This is a picture of the book I am currently reading, Carnegie’s Maid by Marie Benedict:

Target store, books section, Atlantic Terminal Mall, November 2018

About Me, continued.  Before I post any excerpts,

My mother’s name is Maybelle Rutledge Timmons. She changed her name to Mabel. (Not legally, moreso with employers.)

I have one older sister, Marthena.  I was conceived and born while my father (who is not my biological father) was in the war.  My parents were not legally married until after my father came home from the war.

My aunt’s name is Ruth Rutledge Owens.  My aunt Ruth unofficially adopted me.

Ruth was one of the first in my family to migrate from Andrews, South Carolina to Jersey City, New Jersey. She met her husband, Ralph, and shortly after they married, she sent for me. I was a passenger when one of my uncles, Cernell or Henry, drove from Andrews to Jersey City.

It was when it was time for me to start school that it was realized, there was no birth certificate for me. I did not attend kindergarten. Finally, a notarized document, signed by my mother and my aunt, was accepted as proof that I am who my mother and my aunt claimed me to be.

It was when I was denied admittance to Rikers Island (to visit Nat), because I had no valid identification (stupid me, I had not renewed my driver’s license before it expired), that I then went to an attorneys office to find out what I needed to do to correct my name on my birth certificate, which had been found filed under Rutledge, not Timmons, with my name as the birth mother and my mother’s name as the newborn.

I went to the law office of Arnold & Lofaro, in Hoboken.  (I lived in Hoboken at the time.)  I spoke with Attorney Lawrence Lofaro.  FBI agent Wayne Headley handled the matter.   My birth certificate cannot be corrected because my name, Leitha Mae Timmons, is not on my birth certificate, as the newborn or the mother.  My birth certificate: Maybelle Rutledge, newborn; Leitha May Rutledge: mother.

I now have an official document from the Court in Hudson County stating that I am Leitha McLeon, and I also have a New York State driver’s license that I will renew before the expiration date!  I am hopeful that Arnold & Lofaro & Headley will represent me when the LEGL CASE reaches it’s destination: The Hague, Netherlands.

(Market Watch, December 6, 2018,


His disclosure surprised me. I didn’t know you had a family, Mr. Ford.”

“It’s too painful to talk about it most days.” He wiped his face with the edge of his apron and sighed deeply. “But not today.”

To encourage him, I placed my hand over his and asked, “Do you mind telling me about your family?”

He didn’t answer at first, just stared down at my pale white hand atop his wide, brown one. Keeping his eyes fixed upon our hands, he said, “My wife, Ruth, has golden eyes. Not the usual chocolate brown of my people, but flecked with gold so they sparkle in the sunlight. And my daughter, Mabel…Well, she’s got those eyes too. On a warm summer evening with the sun setting, you should see the pair of them all lit up.” He chuckled.

I smiled. “They sound lovely.”

“Lovely, yes, but tough too. Ruth anyway. Mabel was just five back then. Ruth was the one who made the plans and pushed us to run.”

“Run?” I didn’t understand what he meant.

He looked up rom our hands and stared into my eyes. “Run from the plantation, of course.”

I felt stupid. How could I have not understood that Mr. Ford had once been a slave? And that his family was still enslaved? It made my worries about my own family pale by comparison.

My eyes welled up with tears. “I’m so sorry. Where are they now?”

He withdrew his hand from mine. “I don’t know. The last I saw them was on the underground rail. We were in a tunnel in North Carolina that connected to the basement of a church that took in runaways, and we heard dogs barking overhead. I was the master’s cook, and I knew he wouldn’t let me go without a chase from his precious hunting dogs. The barking got louder and louder. So loud, we knew the men and the dogs were down in that tunnel with us. I pushed Ruth and Mabel onward—toward the passageway into the church—while I stayed behind to fight off the men and dogs as best I could. I knew it was their only chance. When the dogs came tearing at me, I realized that Ruth and Mabel hadn’t gone ahead like I’d told them to, that they’d returned to fight alongside me.” He grew quiet. “The next thing I remember is lying under a collapsed section of the tunnel. Ruth and Mabel were nowhere to be found. Believe me, I looked.”

(Carnegie’s Maid, Marie Benedict, pages 100-101)