BACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 61. Planning for the Little Inauguration, and The Journal from 1961 Sarah compiled is sold at a flea market, now endangering the "Kennedy's twins" secret.

(Another "missing" SECRET book, with serious ramifications for MM): <https://www.upi.com/Archives/1982/08/03/A-red-diary-belonging-to-Marilyn-Monroe-who-died/4106397195200/>

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

The planning of the inauguration was a huge undertaking, with no less than fifteen different section-heads, hundreds of participants, and numerous groups planning for their own individual events. Parties with the President-Elect stretched for a week on each side of the main event, and proved demanding for both Jackson and John Little, their wives, parents and friends, as well as the massive security system developed to protect the new chief executive and his people. The fifty- million-dollar budget for the inauguration and its concurrent events, a fortune in most peoples’ estimation, was stretched to the limit to accommodate all the expenditures. President-Elect Little had tried his best to step in and curtail the costs, the huge scope and security risks, but to no avail. So, right off the bat, President Little was made painfully aware of just how much he could control the actual operation of the Office of the Presidency. If he couldn’t even model the inauguration process to reflect his own values of thrift and practicality, he had to wonder about the rest. What chance would he have of making important changes to the lives of everyday Americans, for those who weren’t invited to the auspicious Washington, DC event? He had wanted ‘the people’ to be part of the party, but his advisors had put up one obstacle after another, explaining why the event and its subsequent parties needed to be exclusive, limited to just fat cats and their wives and hangers-on. He was just one man against an outdated system of Washington bureaucracy, with its fingers in more pies than one could count. Like many Presidents before him, Mr. Little had been given a reality check about the real power of the office.

After his mother’s third mention of her journal into which she'd written so many thoughts during the Kennedy years, Jackson suddenly remembered he had moved the book to his storage locker in Chicago along with other items at the time of his relocation to D.C. It was an easy name to remember; SS Storage, short for ‘South Side’ Storage, so he called information, got the number, and punched it in.

A young woman answered. “SS. How can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m trying to track down my storage unit...probably signed up for it in 2010. Name is Little.”

“OK, we’ll see what we've got here,” she answered, “if you can just give me a few minutes. Would you like to stay on line while I search, or should I call you back?”

“Yes, I'll stay on. Thanks.” Jackson figured it might throw the conversation into another category if she learned the return number was at the White House. For a few minutes he could hear the faint sound of typing and paper shuffling, so he remained positive that things would work out. But when the woman returned to the phone she spoke with an apologetic tone.

“Mr. Little? Sorry I took so long, but our records show that your locker was terminated for lack of payment. Sorry.”

“Oh, Jesus! Can I just make a full back payment now and bring it up to current?”

“The problem is...the contents have already been sold for those costs. The unit was cleaned out months ago. Awful sorry again, sir.”

Somehow, between the political campaigning and the three moves his family had made, he or Cissy had missed the storage bill, probably regarded it as another unwanted credit card offer or something. At any rate, Journal #1 was now floating around somewhere in the Chicago area. This would not be welcome news for his mother.

As the pressure of inauguration week increased, mother Sarah worked with her daughter-in-law, Cissy, to organize the new household, determine menus, and bring some calm to the ever-changing lives of her grandchildren. After an exhaustive day at the White House, Sarah fell into Rudy’s arms back at the Sheraton.

“Only two days to go,” was his attempt at being positive about all the extra workload. “Nothing lasts forever, and this is certainly one of those situations!”

“Good try, sweetheart,” said Sarah, giving her husband a kiss on his cheek. Then she remembered.“But we need to make a bigger effort to reclaim that journal of mine. I'm still worried about it in some storage locker.”

As soon as she brought up that topic, she saw Rudy's expression change perceptively. “What?" she immediately exclaimed. “Is there something I should know?” He knew he’d get nowhere trying to sugar-coat the news. So he cut right to the bad news.

“When I asked Jackson about it two days ago he said he’d called the storage locker and found that all the contents had been sold for fees. I’m sorry that...” Rudy’s voice trailed off as Sarah’s hands went directly to her face.

“Jackson's campaign and all the traveling and changing addresses contributed to his missing the payments and not getting the termination notice. Don't know what we can do now. Really sorry honey.”

***

When collectible dealer, John Holcomb, purchased the contents of SS unit #14 he hadn't expected to find a Van Gogh painting or anything, but he had hoped that he could at least recoup his $300 investment. He had backed up his 1982 Chevy Silverado pickup truck against the cement compartment and within twenty minutes had loaded half the contents as high as the plywood sides would allow.

On the final load he had stacked numerous boxes, one of which contained a journal from the 1960's, filled with newspaper clippings intermixed with ink pen comments – mostly a tribute to JFK. Since his income was dependent on making money off discarded junk, he would drag it and the rest – furniture and other household items – to a local flea market he attended each Saturday near the El at 47th Street in Chicago. Even if his items didn’t sell he'd have a chance to check out everyone else’s things, maybe even make a valuable purchase himself, for pennies on the dollar.

In the days approaching the sale, he checked out the contents of the locker. He pulled out the journal again and leafed through the pages. He wasn’t too impressed with what he found. Not worth much, he thought. It would have been salable, he figured, if it had contained actual glossy photos from that last-century era. But no go, just some notes and fading newsprint.

When Saturday rolled around, Holcomb arose at 4:30 AM, trying hard not to wake his wife Rosy. He got dressed, ate a piece of toast, threw together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and exited. In the driveway, the tarp-covered pickup awaited, loaded to the gills with boxes and furniture. A turn of the key brought the big 454 Chevy engine to a roar. Since it idled with a high, noisy rev, he immediately shifted into Drive and released the emergency brake, easing the vehicle forward out of the driveway and into the silent street. He didn’t want his wife to complain later that he had woken her and half the neighborhood.

At the flea market, the early summer light was beginning to partially illuminate overcast Lake Michigan. After taking a quick stroll around the other early-bird booths, Holcomb began dismantling his mound of recycled junk, off-loading boxes and chairs, removing two small bedside cabinets, a larger dresser and some kitchen items. Finally, the Little journal was pulled out from its box with other ephemera and placed atop a dresser. He figured it could go for $5-$10 if he talked it up correctly. Within minutes of mounting his display, a fellow antique dealer, flashlight in hand, descended on the junk pile. He quickly spotted the old-looking journal, grabbed it, rolled it over in his hands and peered at the contents.

“How much for this?” he asked bluntly, thinking it could go on Ebay, as something to sell under “Scrapbooks.”

Holcomb sized up the scruffy man, pegging him as a collector-and-picker. “Ten bucks now. Will ask more for it later, probably,” was his curt answer.

The buyer looked again at the contents, read some of Sarah Little’s careful penmanship in praise for President Kennedy, scanned her words about her sons, flipped through other pages to appraise the clippings – a good history lesson at best, he thought – and tried to surmise the resale value. “Can only do $5 on this. No real primary material inside.”

“How about $7?” responded Holcomb, trying to get the cash flow going. Sometimes an early sale, however small, was like siphoning gas. One spurt into the tank and more would follow.

“OK, I’ll go that.” The man pulled out a ten-spot from his bankroll and waited for change.

***

When Sarah again questioned son Jackson about her journal at the following Saturday's brunch, he apologized profusely, coming clean about his screw-up and loss of his locker’s contents. After hearing the final word on the Journal, Sarah ate her meal in relative silence, trying, but failing, to hide her dark mood. Jackson and his wife had no idea to what extent that simple journal could wreak havoc on their family or the Little administration.

In days that followed, Sarah and Rudy decided to be proactive. What steps could they take, they asked themselves, to retrieve the lost item? Rudy brought up the idea of a newspaper ad, saying something like ‘Looking For Kennedy Memorabilia,’ stating ‘Top Dollar Paid!’ as an added incentive. He also suggested that they do a daily check of Ebay or craigslist, just in case it ended up there. Maybe we’ll get lucky, Rudy voiced to his over-burdened wife.

Their first ad went online three days later, on the free Washington, D.C. craigslist:

WANTED: Old journals about the JFK YEARS. TOP DOLLAR PAID for scrapbooks from the early 1960s, with newspaper clippings covering President Kennedy's time in office. Please contact Rudy at (202) 392-4469.

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