Tartans & Artists – Of The line

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This morning I got out of bed, aligned my slippers to put on my feet, and let out a sigh;

“Why me?” I asked heavily.


Last night I am watching the Prince of Wales, the father of Prince William and Harry, talk lovingly about the watercolors Queen Victoria did of her children. Then, he is on the spot, rendering a watercolor of the denuded hills of Scotland that were once a veritable green forest of giant trees – Ents! But, the British got rid of these forests because they hid the Scottish Rebels, who they chased to America where they hid in the forests of Appalachia where my Rosamond kindred lived. What was left of the trees were cut down to make charcoal that was needed to make Gin. Gin Joints were everywhere in London. For a penny you could get ripped after work.

In no time, you did not go to work, because you are now an alcoholic. Needing many pennies to support your addiction, one robbed stable citizens and the good gentry. When the prisons were full, the rabble were put on old decommissioned Ships of the Line. When these wrecks filled up, thousands of drunks were taken to Australia, in chains, in the most gruesome Forced Expulsion in human history. It is hard to believe white people could treat white people so cruelly. Then, on February 2, 2017, the President of the United States got on the phone with Malcolm Turnball and insulted him because the President of Australia asked Trump if the U.S. was going to take those refugees – as promised. My President needs a Historian by his side – at all times!


The reason I let out such a weary sigh, is, I am in a position to launch a Counter Revolution, and put down the Racist Rising of the Neo-Confederate Rednecks who claim they share the humble roots of the Scotch-Irish, but, they are waving treacherous Confederate flags all over the place. And, they got Think Tanks and funding. They got Bubbas on keyboards spreading lies. They are winning! They want to form an alliance with the neo-Nazis in Europe – after destroying the European Union!

Here is a photograph of my grandfather, Royal Rosamond. He is reading his magazine he self-published ‘Bright Stories’. He published several books about the Ozarks and the Appalachian Scot-Irish people who dwelt there. Royal was a good friend of the Ozark Historian, Otto Rayburn. Below are videos about the Scotch-Irish Rebels who beat the British. Some historians have concluded, that if it were not for the long history of fighting the Royals, we Americans would be celebrating the long reign of Queen Elizabeth. When she dies, an artist, a watercolorist, will be the first King of England in sixty years. In the documentary, it says Charles likes artists, and takes one with him when he travels so that there will be a continuance of History of the Family Art.


When my late sister, Christine Rosamond Presco, married Garth Benton, two family lines of artists came together. Garth is a cousin of Thomas Hart Benton, whose daughter and granddaughter are artists. In 1971 I would enter Jessie Benton-Lyman’s kitchen to get  food for my commune of artists bought as part of the Food  Conspiracy. Mel Lyman played Appalachian music. I married Thomas Pynchon’s ex-wife, who was an artist. Christine did several images of my nephew, Cian, whose mother was born in Ireland. Our kindred, Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor, was an art collector like her uncle, and, she encouraged Michael Jackson to take up art. I am a writer and artist, I was Christine’s mentor. We are looking at an American Artistic Dynasty. We are kin to Princess Diana Spencer.

When I see ‘Trump Supporters’, I wonder what White Culture they are protecting and promoting, and, do they have Cultural Permission from the True Heirs and Historians of this alleged Redneck Movement – to make America Great Again!  The reason I sighed, is, my letter to Senator Lindsey Graham has turned into another book, and, an International Affair. A petition to keep Trump away from the Queen, and her artistic family, has well over a million signatures, thus, Parliament is discussing the matter. Many Brits are looking at the drunken, beer-guzzling, neo-Confederate racists going hog-wild behind Trump, and are wondering IF they should make peace with this un-cultured scum.  I say nay!

South Carolina is becoming a progressive State. What I am attempting to do, is to get the white folk of South Carolina to identity with the history and culture of the Scotch-Irish, and, sign a truce with the Royal Family. Let us have a cultural exchange. Let’s work together to put trees back on our Native Hills in Scotland. Let is live in peace!


My point is, we don’t have to kiss-up to the Fake Trump Royals, and swallow the swill they pass for culture. We can go to The Source, and be creative with the Real McCoys! If Charles does become King, perhaps we Sane Ones can anoint him the Titular President of the United States of America? Plein Air Societies will break out all over our Beautiful Land. No one will want to go indoors, lest they be tempted to turn on their T.V.’ and hear the bombastic boasting or you know who, who is praising our enemy.

God save the Queen!

Jon Presco

President: Royal Rosamond Press

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The petition says that while Trump should be allowed to come to the UK as president, “he should not be invited to make an official State Visit because it would cause embarrassment to Her Majesty the Queen.” It argues that “Trump’s well documented misogyny and vulgarity disqualifies him from being received by Her Majesty the Queen or the Prince of Wales.”

The petition, launched over the weekend, reached the threshold for debate in Parliament, 100,000 signatures, on Sunday and has gained serious momentum after being widely promoted on Twitter. The petition passed 1 million signatures just after 9:50 a.m. GMT (4:50 a.m. ET) on Monday.

Met Museum associate curator of Modern and Contemporary art Randall Griffey dubbed Benton a “cultural anthropologist” in a video for the exhibition, citing the unique attention to the details of social life that appear in his work. Benton’s knowledge of Americana led to working in Hollywood, producing promotional posters for films like John Ford’s The Grapes of Wrath, and A Streetcar Named Desire. Benton also produced the illustrations for the original, film-inspiring John Steinbeck novel, Grapes of Wrath, Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, and many other titles. The artist settled in Kansas City, Missouri in 1935 where he taught at the Kansas City Art Institute.Continue Reading this Article

In “Father Figure,” Ms. Benton ruminates on her father’s Hollywood acquaintances, his often-contentious reputation with the public, and his dedicated studio habits. Below, some highlights:

Her perspective on his controversial public persona:

I knew from a very early age to distinguish between the public and the private persona. And there was a big difference. Publicly, he was an ornery, hard drinking Missouri boy who swore a lot and painted angry controversial paintings, and didn’t give a hoot for culture. This is not who he actually was. I knew that a great deal of the flamboyant, rascally personality was crafted by him on purpose, and all of what he called his “Big Talk” made for great copy in the press.

A rare and intimate glimpse of what it was like posing for him in the studio:

We never spoke. It was a living silence. Except for his whistling without sound, just breaths of air coming from his lips making a song without a tune. His eyes would click into different focus, like a hawk’s eye, deliberate and fierce. I would never dare to interrupt, either the silence or the intimacy.

Each year he painted a work for her birthday:

Every year he would give me a birthday painting. The first one is of me, one-year-old, surrounded by my kitty, wild roses and in the background our beloved Martha’s Vineyard, the sound and Elizabeth Islands. I was born in July, and all the paintings from then on were painted there. Generally, how many objects in the painting coincides with how many years I am…When I was eight, I asked for eight animals coming to my birthday party. I had visions of Walt Disney-like animals, like Bambi, and Thumper and little cute birds. When I saw the painting, I almost cried. The animals seemed frantic and rushing and unhappy, and there was even a mule. I never would have invited a mule to my birthday.

Poetry On Leaves (1946)


Royal Reuben Rosamond

“Poetry on Leaves

The spring sun was warm now, brightening as with happiness in the
open fields, the broad land resembling a crazy quilt because of the
wooded patches everywhere. Already the wild grapes were in bloom,
and if the sun continued smiling there would be, in every Hillman’s
cellar, many, many jars of grape juice for making jelly, and wine
for those who knew the trick of making it. Those pink-white blossoms
on the pale yellow bushes hard against warm hillside rocks were
huckleberries in bloom. The wild grapes and the huckleberries once
ripe, tangier here in Shannon County, Missouri, than most any other
place in the Ozarks.

I walked on, for I had yet a long way to go before nightfall. Now it
was but a mite after mid-day. After leaving the train at Winona, I
could have perhaps caught a ride to Eminence had I stayed with the
wagon road instead of footing it up the spur-track leading northward
to cross Jack’s Fork at the Hodge place where I left to journey up
Possum Trot toward Little Wonder Schoolhouse and Tucked Away Church
House, above which in the ride to the north, I lived – the place
where I was born and which I called home, where my parents had
settled in their youth and planned some day to die. The way was
long, the trail lonesome and ofttimes steep. As wild a region as
ever grew outdoors. No matter. I wanted to stretch my legs and let
the April breeze take the orders of a Saint Louis foundry away from

I went home on a visit once a year – had already worked five years
up there, long enough to forget how to talk (or write) hillbilly
talk, it seemed like. Still, I didn’t mind being called a hillbilly.
Life in the Ozarks had a tang. I liked everything about them, from
the blooming of the redbud and dogwood in springtime to pumpkin pies
and possum and coon hunting and listening to fox hounds in the fall.
I was born and bred here. This wilderness was in my blood. I felt as
much a part of it as does a back log to a fireplace. I was twenty
six years old now, and when I become fifty, I intend to retire, and
go sit on pappy’s rocker there on the front porch and rock and smoke
and think until I die.

Here on the side of Grapevine Mountain, high above the glistening of
Jack’s Fork below, for days and weeks and years back into the dim
past she had lived in splendid isolation, the silence, save for the
passing Hillman on the road below her cabin, as vast as the greenery
of the heaving land-billows rising higher and ever higher toward the
summit of the far ridge leaning against the blue heaven on the west,
below which was the great spring from which the stream Jack’s Fork
nursed and found perpetual substance. A skinny, faded creature in
her late forties, seemingly as antiquated as the furniture in the
two small rooms in her rustic cabin, yet she possessed the amazing
gift of cheerfulness. Even though her income was very meager, yet
she contrived to spread a spirit of near-opulence and comforting
friendliness about herself which was as convincing as was Mr.
Russell’s plush appearing abundance. In summer she mothered her
pansy beds, naming the little faces, as she called them, after the
little girls she taught in winter, the boys unslighted by living as
vegetables in her garden, the more refractory being a gooseberry
busy or wild plum tree.”

Fredegar was one of the small group of Hobbits who knew that Frodo had the Ring. ‘Fatty’ was a descendant of Hildibrand Took (T.A. 2849–2934), one of the many sons of the Old Took. He was the son of Odovacar Bolger and Rosamunda Took, part of the Bolger family.
When Frodo Baggins, Sam, Merry and Pippin set out to take the Ring to Rivendell, Fredegar stayed behind in Frodo’s house at Crickhollow in an attempt to keep up appearances and delay news of their departure, as well as give any message to Gandalf should he turn up. He was frightened half out of his wits by the arrival of the Nazgûl but escaped unharmed (although he failed to communicate with Gandalf). Fredegar could have gone with Frodo and his companions into the Old Forest, but was terrified of the stories about it and too in love with the Shire to leave it, even for Frodo. Though Merry tried to persuade him that the Old Forest would be nothing compared to meeting the Ringwraiths, Fatty was adamant, so the other Hobbits went into the forest with only the knowledge of Merry to aid them.









About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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1 Response to Tartans & Artists – Of The line

  1. Reblogged this on Rosamond Press and commented:

    The Pretend Days are over! Everyone who grew up with Christine and I knew she was not a child-artist, and took up art with she was twenty-four. We all knew Christine ripped off my art, ad our parents favored her over me. Julie Lynch and Tom Snyder EXPLOITED CHILDREN. I own the onl solution to Rosamond’s Dilema. https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=28382161



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