vintage mural ads & other signage by Frank H. Jump & friends
© Frank H. Jump
© Frank H. Jump
© Frank H. Jump
© Vincenzo Aiosa
Vanessa Sanchez & Miguel Rodriguez of Latin Reflections © Frank H. Jump
We are really enjoying our Cha-cha lessons. Miguel Rodriguez is a master instructor and wildly charming. His assistant Vanessa Sanchez is equally charming. Check out his Latin Reflections website or call him for private instruction or booking performances @ (917) 859-7317.
Don't Attempt This At Home © Frank H. Jump
Back in the 80s, I enjoyed feeding squirrels by hand. Once, a squirrel mistook my finger for a peanut and put my entire digit up to the first knuckle into its mouth. I decided not to panic and did not flinch thinking that would be a sure way of getting bit. Within seconds the squirrel realized my finger wasn’t a peanut and backed off my finger, then took a peanut out of my lap and ran. I’ve had two squirrels fighting over me, some climbing on my shoulder and then chasing away others trying to crawl up my leg – once two ran around my thigh like it was a tree trunk. This little bugger had its hand on my face while it gingerly took a peanut out of my mouth. So sweet. I should have had my head examined.
In August 2001, Enzo and I went to Italy to be Best Men at his niece Maria Grazia’s wedding. At the end of our vacation together, Vincenzo left early for the US with his mom, sister and niece Concetta (just prior to 9/11) and I took a roadtrip from Torino to Budapest. In Ljubljana, Slovenia – I met a lovely Swiss man who was also in a relationship and we went out for a night on the town. We chose this nice restaurant off the Ljubljanica River to take in the sights and smells of the town. After scanning the menu, I asked the waiter about the paté. He said it was homemade and delicious. I asked if it were pork or liver paté and he exclaimed, “No. Small furry animal.” I looked at my Swiss date for the evening and smiled and then asked the waiter if it was made from one particular furry animal or several kinds. He said, “One but I don’t remember name. I come back.” After a few moments he returned and said “Ssquirrial.” I asked which wine went well with squirrel and he pointed to a local red which was outstanding. The paté was exquisite or should I say “Exsquirrial!”
Now that I grow bulbs and tomatoes, I hate the little buggers. Even throw rocks at them on my terrace. Yet I still have a hankering to feed the cute black ones.
Eleanor Cooper, who began her lesbian activism in the early 1970s, was a leader in the passage of the New York City gay and lesbian rights bill in 1986, and managed to stay active through most of her last 13 years in a nursing home, died of complications from a series of strokes and sepsis on December 6. She was 68. – Andy Humm
When I went to Philadelphia in 1978 as representative of Queens College LGBT youth to help plan the first Lesbian and Gay March 1979, I was wandering around the Friends Meeting House during orientation where our national committees was hosted and, not by accident wandered in with the womens’ caucus. The men’s groups seemed fractured to me and I was tired of getting hit up on by NAMBLA members and getting ignored by other members of the youth organizations – so the womens’ caucus seemed like a safe haven. After a few minutes of “checking in” we sat around holding hands and sharing how we felt “in the here and now.” I had very long hair, I was very slim and wore flowery Huckapoo shirts and platform shoes. I looked a bit like the Cher doll with Sonny’s clothes. Suddenly a woman who was smiling at me followed her eyes down my torso to my crotch and screamed with a blood-curdling scream “There’s a man in here.” Naturally I turned around to see who it was. Within seconds I was thrown out of the room bodily. Eleanor Cooper sternly came to my rescue. “What in the world were you thinking?” she said. “Don’t you know about respecting “womens’ space?” Womens’ what? I asked.
Eleanor surpressed a chuckle and informed me in a very motherly way that women are around men all the time and when they have the opportunity to be with themselves, would prefer if men respected “their space” and left them alone. I assured her that I was only there because I felt comfortable with them and explained my discomfort around men I did not know. She brought me back in and explain my situation and I apologized to the group. Over the course of the weekend, I was introduced by Eleanor to many wonderful women like Joyce Hunter & Betty Santoro. I will miss Eleanor.
Jan de Wit & Gatske de Jong © Frank H. Jump
Volendam in 1967 © Frank H. Jump
Above is a picture of my great-grandmother with her second husband in costumes of the Volendam region of North Holland. I’m guessing this was taken after the war (WWII) circa 1948. Below is myself in typical Volendamse klederdracht or traditional clothing. I found a great website that gives audio examples of all of the dialects spoken in the Netherlands [www.meertens.knaw.nl/projecten/sprekende_kaart/svg/]. To my ear the differences are vast but to the unfamiliar ear, it may all sound like Dutch to you.
This posting is the first of a number of postings from the photos my mom dragged out of her closet. Out of the closet and into the scanner!
Harold H. Jump, Willy Broekveldt Jump & Me © Frank H. Jump
Me and my babysitter Gay in front of the Ford Pavilion © Frank H. Jump
Sinclair T-Rex in front of US Royal Tires © Frank H. Jump
Pony Ride © Frank H. Jump
Hawaiian Pavilion © Frank H. Jump
© Frank H. Jump
Fairway © Frank H. Jump
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