No Matter the Denomination or Dignitary, it's Only Money.

By Fred Bruning

June 7, 2026

The President wants to put his image on a $250 bill as a means of celebrating the nation’s semiquincentennial and, you know, if that soothes him, settles the nerves, makes him less inclined to replace the Washington Monument with a casino shaped like a Big Mac, I say, sure, whatever, knock yourself out, sir, really, enjoy.

Ordinarily, national figures exercise sufficient patience to offer death as qualification for such an honor, but, hey, why not, it’s only money.

Do people say that anymore, “it’s only money?”

Sounds Depression-era to me.

Once my wife, Wink, and I found a little journal in my mother’s apartment – she had died at 91 a few years earlier – that gave us a glimpse of those difficult days and the grit demanded to make it work, somehow survive.

“Don’t know if we’ll get paid this week, but on we go,” Mom wrote in one entry.

“Went dancing past three in the morning,” said another. “Back up for work. Good to let the worries go for a while.”

Dancing to 3 a.m.?

A few times, I saw my parents dance and they did OK.

This would have been during one of their Couples Club meetings at our house, third floor 619 69^th Street, Brooklyn, when friends came by to sip whiskey sours and gather around the upright piano while Mom played, “Dear Old Girl,” and Uncle Harry plunked the banjo, and, hastened by highballs, there would be tears,“Dear old girl, the robins sing above you,” she’s gone, poor thing, what happened?

Then the mood would change, Uncle Harry playing a little ragtime tune and Mom and Dad might Lindy around the living room – no easy trick, given its spare dimensions – and there would be me behind the curtain separating my bedroom from theirs, watching adults at ease, so this is what happens when you grow up, is it worth the effort?

Those evenings were in the late 40s, the worst was over and lovely, ordinary folks, were singing “Down by the Old Mill Stream,” and “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” and cutting the rug, until, finally came, “Dear Old Girl,” and a trickle of whiskey sour tears.

But it had been a tough, mighty tough, ten years for everyone, working class people, especially, like Mom, Winnie, and my father, Fred, dreams went awry, no big break was coming their way.

It was going to be the third floor, 619, one bedroom (mine; theirs was a small parlor, repurposed, upright piano cramping space even more), and there would be no home on Shore Road overlooking the Narrows or cruise to Bermuda, or trip to Nova Scotia, none of that, but, complaints? Never.

On the rare occasions we headed out to dinner, Joe’s Restaurant, Fulton Street, Winnie and Fred spent easily, admirably, courageously, given their iffy economic station.

“Show me the damages,” Dad would say to our favorite waiter, Louie, at meal’s end.

“Yessir,” Louie would say with a slight bow.

“Steep,” Dad would say, kidding.

“Only money,” Mom would say.

“Only money,” Fred would agree, reaching for his wallet, peeling off fives and tens – Amex Platinum would have amazed them -- big tip, for sure.

This is what I think about when I hear a $250 bill bearing the presence of the U.S. chief executive could be in the works for the big American anniversary.

Who to honor?

Other candidates deserve a look.

A Jackie Robinson $250 might be good. Rodgers and Hammerstein, absolutely, “Oklahoma!,” “Carousel,” “South Pacific.” Fats Domino, no question. Ella Fitzgerald, hands down. J.D. Salinger because, “Catcher in the Rye,” knocked cold a kid who didn’t read. (Guess who?) George Carlin gets a look, funny guy, wise, city cat, could play a mean, “Cherry Pie,” on the piano. FDR deserves a place in the mix, how can we forget, and, if you ask me, Eleanor, too.

But you probably can guess who gets top vote.

Sure, good old Winnie and Fred, solid citizens, keeping faith, getting by, dancing past three, hell or high water, puttin’ on the ritz.

Previous Invisible Ink posts at: https://fredbruning.substack.com/archive