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In 1937 Irving Stone wrote a novel entitled “Lust for Life”. In that work, Stone pulled together details of Vincent Van Gogh’s life from letters, interviews, and hundreds of scattered sources. Countless hours he spent tracking down leads, pondering arcane subjects, delving into the recorded remains of Van Gogh’s psyche. This work—a biographical sketch of my grandfather, Ralph Boswell Jones—has also consumed hours and days, often in the attempt to ferret out one more clue, one more detail.

Digging through the recorded remains of a person’s life can lead to frustration. No matter how assiduously one tries to solve the mysteries—for example, did Charles Jones commit suicide?—questions remain. On the other hand, biographical research can bring its own peculiar satisfaction. At bottom, such study is about unveiling a hitherto unknown or vague personality. From the onset of this research, I have sought to produce an honest and balanced portrait of an enigmatic character. Some may find this portrayal surprising or even disturbing. In fact, some characterizations may contradict long-held beliefs—either positive or negative. This stems from the fact that those who lived and worked with Boz were often treated differently from one another. He could be demeaning to one person, generous to another. This work endeavors to present both viewpoints. My aim has been biography—not invective, not eulogy.

Sources

For the ancestry and early life of Ralph Boswell Jones, my primary sources were censuses, local histories, and obituaries. For his military career, I started with brief accounts from two sources: sketches of service records from a local history and a letter from Dorothy Dorner Jones. I then filled in details from more general works. To describe the character of Ralph Boswell Jones, his family life and the places he lived, I relied heavily on questionnaires completed by his children, as well as conversations with his stepdaughter and step-grandson. For the sake of readability, I generally presented statements from these questionnaires and conversations as fact, omitting such phrases as “as Tom recalled” and “according to JoAnne”. As time allowed, I also sought written records (school transcripts, deeds, newspapers, vital records of various sorts) to provide further detail and confirmation of remembered events.

My memories

My own memories of “Boz” are sketchy. Dad, Mom (Cynthia Jones Brown, Grandfather’s youngest child), my brother and I lived in Seattle and visited Grandfather’s home in Cleveland only three or four times during my childhood. I last saw him in June of 1972, over 30 years ago. A high school friend had accompanied me on a cross-country trip in my parents' Ford Mustang, and we stopped one afternoon in Cleveland. Grandfather’s wife, Margaret, greeted us with a smile and Grandfather reclined on a sofa, saying little. Looking back, I suspect he was enduring the aftermath of a painful operation.

I always thought Grandfather Jones was rich. He resided, after all, in a very elegant home, drove a big blue Cadillac with power windows, and took us to eat at expensive restaurants with commanding views of Cleveland and Lake Erie. I remember being impressed with the elegance—the cleanness, the whiteness—of his home. The three-story residence loomed over Euclid Avenue, and appeared white everywhere. The exterior of the house was white. Inside, white tablecloth adorned the dining table; sideboards hovered over small chairs upholstered in white. The walls were white; the carpet, white; the moldings and pillows and wallpapers—all white. Even his poodle was white.

Grandfather’s house stood across the drive from his place of business, Boswell Jones Mortuary. There a chapel met you inside the door, and an elevator with accordion-like metal guards carried you up to a long room displaying caskets of every variety. On one occasion I remember Margaret,or “Granny Peg” as we called her, pointing to one casket and announcing that she had chosen that particular box for her own burial. Seemed strange to me. Death, on the other hand, was Grandfather’s business—day in, day out, for decades.

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