Yesterday I decided to redo my lost painting of Rena Easton as Stella Maris who I believe was the Blue Angel that appear at the foot of Christine’s bed when she was nine. In February I posted this;

“Rena was my beloved Muse who married a Commodore who no doubt owned a yacht and went sailing with his beautiful wife and children around the Isle of Wight where they lived.”

Rena’s schoolmate forgot the rank of her husband and told me “Admiral of Commodore”. Ian Easton could have been a Commodore of Yacht Racing.

I told Marilyn about the spirit of Rena when she was young coming and visiting me for a month.

“I think Rena is dead. I think she died in a car accident. She wants me to help her find rest.”

When I sadly read Rena and Ian’s daughter was killed in a car accident, I wondered.

Above is a painting of my angel that I did in 1976. I knew I could have done better, but, I had become a drinker and partier. I found little time to go to my studio and easel. Christine and her husband saw this painting which prompted Rick to say;

“This looks good. We can take over the Art World.”

The Virgin Mother, Our Sweet Lady, Stella Maris, is the most painted woman in the Art World. The Virgin Mother is often called the Rose of the World. She is also called Marion. Some claim she had a step-daughter who came to the South of France in a boat without sail or oar.

My angel is coming from the sea carrying a glass Japanese float used to net fish. I have told people;

“She is my angel who restored my life, brought me back into the world that she holds in her hand like a gift.”

Jon Presco

https://rosamondpress.wordpress.com/2013/02/23/fire-angel-of-stella-maris/

Rena was my beloved Muse who married a Commodore who no doubt owned a yacht and went sailing with his beautiful wife and children around the Isle of Wight where they lived. Muses are depicted and Angels.
A year ago Rena came to me, and stayed a month. She walked everywhere I walked. When I lay down, she lay down next to me. I came to believe she was not alive. And, being dead she saw my near-death experience, and the death of my beloved sister – at the edge of the sea. She, had come to save both of us. Now, she wants me to come with her. she sees these horrible betrayals. They are more than one angel can bear. It’s too ugly.

https://rosamondpress.wordpress.com/2012/01/12/stella-maris-rosa-mundi/

Stella Maris means ‘Star of the Sea’. The name Marion means ‘star of the sea’ The name MARION FRANCIS ROSAMOND would read ‘Frankish Star of the Sea and Rose of the World’. The Franks have been associated with Mermaids and Stella Maris, as has the Mother Mary and Mary Magdalene -as well as the name Rosa Mundi.
Marion meaning and name origin

Marion \m(a)-rion\ as a girl’s name (also used as boy’s name Marion), is of French origin. Variant of Mary (Latin) “star of the sea”. This form was changed into Marian when introduced to Britain in the Middle Ages, but revived in the 19th century. Marion has 3 variant forms: Marian, Maryon and Maryonn.

Fancis \f-ran-cis, fr(a)-ncis\ as a boy’s name is pronounced FRAN-sis. It is of Latin origin, and the meaning of Francis is “frenchman; free man”. France was originally the kingdom of the Franks.
The name, Franci, applied by the tribes consequently considered Frankish to themselves and their confederacy; i.e., the endonym, was never intended to be an ethnonym.[1] Comprising multiple tribes each with its own ethnonym, it was in origin a socio-political term.

According to another legend, Merovech was conceived when Pharamond’s wife encountered a Quinotaur, a sea monster which could change shapes while swimming.

I have found the TAYLOR family kin to the Rosamonds. My grandfather, Frank Rosamond was named after Francis Marion.

https://rosamondpress.wordpress.com/2013/02/23/blue-angel-of-san-sebastian/

Our bonds with angels began early one Saturday morning when Christine
and my younger sister, Vicki, came rushing into the Boys Room at the
first sign I was awake. I was ten years old at the time, Christine
nine, and Vicki, five. Getting them to calm down, their faces lit-up
with excitement, they told me one of the strangest things I have ever
heard in my life. They told me in the middle of the night they had
woken to behold a powerful blue light filling their room, and in the
middle of the light, was a beautiful woman standing at the foot of
Christine’s bed looking down on her. She was in a long flowing gown,
and if she had wings, my sisters did not say; but they reasured me,
begged me to believe; “She was an Angel!”

Some of us are never called upon to believe in anything so
extraordinary, and as the morning progressed I had trouble with, her,
I not being a witness – and if I had been? In studying my sisters, I
saw they did not quite know where to put it, her, and I felt sorry
for them.

I then got a call from Kay Coakly who lived just up the street, and
who had befriended all the Presco children. She was stricken with
Parkinson’s disease when she was young, brought on by a car accident
at her coming-out party, she the daughter of a famous Judge in
Oakland Claifornia. The Coakley family owned large tracks of property
down by Lake Merrit where Jack London used to sail. Kay was a real
life Crone, and she wanted me to come fix her radio, the atenae that
she attached to her bedsprings prone to come loose. After seeing it
was still attached, I saw her looking tentively out the window. I
asked her what was wrong. She told me she was awoken in the middle of
the night by a powerful blue light – so powerful it burned holes in
her lace curtain; “Come take a look. I think it was those bad-boys
across the canyon shining a spotlight in my window.”

With the hair on the back of my neck, up and alert, I went over to
the window and beheld a ring of tiny burn holes about the size of
one’s head, and no bigger then the tip of your baby-finger. I looked
out the window, stood on my tip-toes, and told Kay; “You can’t even
see the canyon from this window. It couldn’t have been the boys.”

Kay did not say anything, repute my innocent deduction, she already
figuring this out, and, somethings in life do not have an
explination, and defy all attempts to clarify and classify the truly
extraordinary. Such is the nature of this story, and my Family, no
one quite able to believe. But, they did, and they still do. This
story is for them.

Jon Presco
President: Royal Rosamond Press
Copyright 2001