Mable Lee (Felder) Jones

In Loving Memory of Mable Lee Felder Jones

Mable Lee Felder Jones was born under a June sun in Mississippi—on the 16th, in 1939. The world was a harder place back then, especially for a young Black girl born to a fifteen-year-old mother, Ella Mae Conerly, and a father, Leo Felder, she would never get to know. But even in her first breaths, Mable had something rare in her—grit stitched with grace.

Before she could even say “mama,” Mable was on the move, part of the Great Migration that carried families north in search of better. Chicago would become her backdrop, its steel and sky swallowing the cotton fields of Mississippi. At not even a year old, she appeared in the 1940 census, a baby in the arms of her grandfather Leo Conerly, nestled in a household full of shifting hope.

But childhood was not easy. By the 1950 census, Mable’s name sat in the records of a foster home. Her mother had been deemed unfit to raise her, though she went on to have many more children. Mable tried to be a thread between them all, weaving connections where none was offered. But time, distance, and silence frayed those ties. She lost contact with most of her siblings—but she never stopped wondering about them.

She aged out of the system without adoption, but not without purpose. Mable threw herself into the world headfirst, working tirelessly. There was no cushion, no safety net—just her will. She became a caretaker by trade and by nature.

One of the children she cared for, a tiny baby named Alex, became something more—a lifelong bond. She nannied him from just six days old, watched him grow into a boy, then a man. Through decades, their bond held strong. Mable gave what she’d never been given: a constant. She also formed a deep connection with Alex's sister, Jhanna, who loved her dearly.

And behind that bond was Evy—Alex and Jhanna’s mother—who first hired Mable as a nanny, but quickly became much more. Evy was a steadfast friend, helping Mable whenever possible, their relationship blossoming over the years into something lasting and true.

Mable made the journey from Elizabeth, New Jersey to Millburn everyday—walking and catching the train—rain, snow, or sun. Miles passed beneath her tired feet, but she never once complained. Her love showed up early and stayed late.

Her own son, John Cook Jr., was the brightest light in her life—and her deepest sorrow. He passed away at just 21, and that wound never closed. She carried it quietly, like so much else.

Mable was married three times in her life. First, in 1958, to John Henry Cook. Then in 1964, to Homer Lee Jones. And finally, in her golden years, to George Harris in 2011—a joyful chapter before he passed three years later. Their wedding was filled with love and laughter, with her dear friend Nadine by her side as maid of honor.

With George came more than love—he brought connection. His sister, Mary Annette Mitchell, and her husband Vince became not just in-laws, but chosen family. Mable and Mary Annette spoke almost every single day. In those daily phone calls was the kind of friendship that time only strengthens.

And then there was Bettie Mangum—her ride-or-die best friend for years. Through joys and losses, they stood side by side. Kristen, her devoted roommate and caregiver, was Mable’s rock in her final years. And she was cherished by many more, including Mattie and Tamika, Nadine’s daughters, who brought light into Mable’s later life.

Mable survived not one, but two house fires—losing everything she owned, but never her faith. She carried herself with dignity through trials that would have broken others.

She was an avid lover of jazz, rhythm and blues, and soul—music that mirrored her own soul: rich, deep, unshakable. On hard days, she’d hum or sing softly, and in that sound, there was resilience. She was tough, no doubt. But she was also tender in the ways that matter most—through loyalty, music, laughter, and the quiet kind of love that doesn’t ask for thanks.

Mable didn’t live a life of ease, but she lived a life of meaning. She worked hard, loved harder, and stood tall through storms.

She passed away the morning of July 4th, 2025—Independence Day. Fitting, in a way, because Mable’s life was one long, defiant declaration of independence: from the wounds of the past, from the limits the world tried to place on her, from silence and erasure.

And now, her story lives on—in Alex, Jhanna, and Evy; in Mary Annette and Vince; in Bettie, Kristen, Nadine, Mattie, Tamika, the Felder family, and all those who remember her laughter, her music, her strength, her sacrifice.

Mable Lee Felder Jones was never just a name in a census. She was the whole damn story.