But it was a turning point. Writers are people who process emotions into words, attempting to capture, evoke, and recreate those feelings. So if I had to pick a moment at which I began to shift from someone who just typed to someone who was actually writing something worth reading, I would pick the aftercrash of 1969.
The 1969 Worldcon was held at another Hotel of Usher, this one in St. Louis. Seeing Anne again reminded me of how much fun was still available in the world. Anne seemed to move in a cloud of white light. She glowed. She sparkled with fun and generosity. She made everyone around her feel loved.
After the convention, we kept in touch by letter, by phone call (very expensive long-distance phone calls), and finally, she invited me to visit her in New York for Thanksgiving with the McCaffrey-Johnson clan. It was an old-fashioned holiday, and the emotional nourishment was far more lasting than the physical.
In 1970, just as Anne was realizing she had to get out of New York, I was beginning to realize that I had to get out of Los Angeles. I was talking with Anne almost every week now. I don’t know if she knew it because there was a lot I wasn’t saying, but it was those long conversations that provided the emotional lifeline back toward sanity. Anne was going through her own stuff too, having recently divorced her husband, and was now working her way through her own emotional upheavals of relocating to Ireland with two of her three children in tow. So for a while, we may have been two of the walking wounded, holding each other up. Eventually, Anne invited me to join her and her family in Dublin—it would be good for me, and it would be good for her to have another friend to talk to, someone who understood writing. Thus began my migration, first to New York for six months (where I finished two novels) and from there to Ireland with a bit of change in my pocket.
Anne picked me up at the airport, and it was like coming home to family. On the way back to her digs, she said, “Let’s pick up some takeout from the Chinese restaurant.” We walked into a fairly nondescript building, and one of the most beautiful Chinese women I’d ever seen in my life smiled at us and said, in perfect brogue, “Top of the evenin’ to yeh! May I take yer arder?” It was the single most perfect moment of culture shock in my entire life.
I should also say this about Chinese food in Ireland—if they can’t get the right ingredients, they substitute. Usually a potato. ’Nuff said about that. I leave the rest to your imagination. (That may have changed since 1970, though.)
A couple of days after I moved into the McCaffrey manse, one of Anne’s local friends—Michael O’Shea—offered to take me and Anne’s eldest son, Alec, out drinking. Michael O’Shea outweighed me by at least fifty or sixty pounds, but I kept up with him all day long, drink for drink. Michael’s plan had been to “take the piss out of the American.” It didn’t work. Knowing a smidge of biology, I also put away two or three glasses of water for every glass of whiskey. So when we got back to Anne’s, I went upstairs to type a letter. Still pretty buzzed, I had to slow down to sixty words a minute. Apparently, my being able to sit and type, despite putting away so much whiskey, was enough to impress him that I was a force unto myself. (And yes, I admit, the hangover the next day was pretty horrendous. I haven’t done any real drinking since then.)
I stayed with the McCaffrey clan for only a couple of weeks before finding a flat of my own in Dún Laoghaire (pronounced dun laary), a small village nearby where James Joyce had lived. It’s the site of James Joyce Tower. There’s also a statue of the man. I suppose that should have been inspiring, but James Joyce was not known for his science fiction.
Shortly after settling in, I called Anne to inform her, “You have to come and meet my landlady. She’s Lessa.” Indeed, this feisty, no-nonsense, wiry little woman could have beamed in directly from Pern. (Actually, she was from England.) Jan was Lessa in looks and personality and that quality that western writers would call “gumption.” Anne met Jan and was immediately taken with her. It was the start of a lifelong friendship. Being in the same room with them was joyous. Standing between them was dangerous.
Ireland was the rest I needed, but it wasn’t conducive to my writing. I’d finished two novels in New York City, but had made no real progress on anything while parked in Dún Laoghaire. About the time I realized I was seeking out Dublin’s permanent floating John Wayne film festival, I knew my time in Ireland was ending.
I went back to New York, wrote another book and a half, returned to Los Angeles, and began the process of learning how to be a real writer—one who rolls with the punches and keeps on writing. But those days of sanctuary that Anne McCaffrey provided were the lifeline, the much-needed opportunity to discover the emotional resilience that passes for maturity.
So I say that Anne McCaffrey saved my life.
It’s a debt I can’t pay back. But it is a debt I will pay forward.
Thank you, Anne. I love you, I miss you. I’ll hoist a jar in your honor tonight. (And a couple of glasses of water too.)
DAVID GERROLD is the Hugo and Nebula Award-winning author of The Martian Child. His other books include When HARLIE Was One, The Man Who Folded Himself, Jumping Off the Planet, and the War Against the Chtorr series. He also wrote that episode of that TV series and a bunch of other stuff.
It’s the twinkling eyes and the hint of a devilish grin that let you know that there’s a lot more to Bob Neilson than one might first guess. He loves a good argument as much as the next Irishman, will drink whenever there’s something in front of him, and, like far too many of us, was once a smoker.
He’s immensely practical but still willing to take a dare—which is exactly what he did many years ago when his wife, Stacey, suggested they should open a bead store. They did, and Yellow Brick Road is still thriving nearly three decades later.
In many respects, Bob is my mirror image—if I’d be born in Ireland instead of merely a late arrival. He loves science fiction, has been active in fandom, and was one of the founders of Albedo One, an award-winning science fiction magazine.
He was best man at my wedding, just as his wife was matron of honor at my sister’s wedding.
I asked Bob to write for this tribute because he knew Anne McCaffrey both as a fan and as an Irishman, a rare combination. Of course, if I haven’t made it clear already, Bob is a rare man!
Bookends
ROBERT NEILSON
IN 1972 MY future wife, Stacey, entered Newpark Comprehensive School in South County Dublin where she met, and became friends with, Todd “McCaffrey” Johnson. Thus began a thirty-nine-year friendship that happily involved Anne McCaffrey and my family and me. Like everyone who knew Annie even slightly, Stacey’s memories mostly revolve around the strength of character, friendliness, and generosity of a woman who had an immense impact on everyone she met.
The McCaffrey house, no matter which of the four over their years in Ireland, was always a safe haven, and Annie was always more than willing to take on the many waifs and strays—both animal and human—that found their way to her doorstep. Although Stacey couldn’t be considered a stray, she found herself hanging out at Todd’s house, where Annie provided endless coffee and toast for hungry teenagers. At the time, finances were tight in the McCaffrey household, but the hospitality was a tap that was never turned off.
There was a peculiar soundtrack to life in the McCaffrey household back then, as Stacey remembers it—the clatter of typewriter keys. She recollects one day when an excited Annie took delivery of a new typewriter—an IBM Selectric, the famous “golfball” model. Annie was always capable of taking enjoyment out of the simplest of things.
In 1981, I gate-crashed Stacey’s twenty-first birthday party. Todd wasn’t in Ireland at the time—he was in Germany serving with the US army—but it wasn’t long until I was invited down to Dragonhold to meet her good friend Todd, who was back on leave. As a science fiction fan, I knew who Todd’s mother (the Hugo and Nebula award-winning author) was and consequently was a little awed at visiting her house. The person I met was not Anne McCaffrey, famous writer, but Todd’s mu
m, who offered coffee and other refreshments and turned a blind eye while we smoked grass, played endless games of yahtzee or liar’s dice, and laughed like drains.
Over the following years, I spent quite a lot of time at the two Dragonholds. I still clearly remember driving along the hedge-lined lane to the first one; that was house number three—the first outside the immediate Dublin suburbs, the first one she owned, and, I guess, her definitive commitment to Ireland. Naturally I was filled with trepidation at the possibility of meeting a “world-famous author.” The house itself was a medium-sized bungalow, nothing special (if the context could be ignored), though it had stables out in the back. Now that was impressive—ordinary people simply didn’t have stables behind the house. But then, while Annie may have been many things, ordinary was never one of them.
I soon became familiar with the family and the huge cast of characters that orbited clan McCaffrey, and I sometimes wonder if there is a single one of us that is without a personal story of Annie’s generosity. I don’t think I can recall ever hearing a single mention of that generosity from Annie’s lips, always just a remark in passing from a third party, and always told as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Medical bills or simply living expenses covered for friends and even relatives of friends, people she hadn’t even met in some cases. But it was never just money; it was the care and consideration for the comfort and happiness of others that made the real difference.
Also through Todd, in the early ’80s Annie met a young fantasy author from Lisburn in Northern Ireland, Peter Smyth (who writes as Peter Morwood). Peter and his then-girlfriend visited Dragonhold, and Annie took a liking to Peter and kept a motherly eye on him. When he broke up with that girlfriend, Annie turned her hand to matchmaking—an ancient Irish tradition. We even have a matchmaking festival in Lisdoonvarna each year.
It happened that a science fiction writer of her acquaintance, one Diane Duane, had also been through a breakup, and Annie figured they would be a perfect match. And how right she was. Love blossomed at about the speed of light—maybe a little below it if you really want to be pedantic—and they were married within a year. More than twenty years later, they still seem like a pretty good match.
For all of the ’80s and half of the ’90s, I was something of a corporate suit, so occasionally Annie would call on me for an opinion on a business matter. Now I have to admit that if Annie had a sixth sense, it was no business sense. As a writer, it could be said, she didn’t need business sense. But because she was a successful writer, there were always “opportunities” cropping up. Often, they were simply a means for her to help friends and family. One such venture was the Irish Farriery Centre. You see, Annie had a friend . . . which in McCaffrey-speak is how “once upon a time” stories usually begin. And because of this friend, Annie had acquired some property. And on that property stood a (semiderelict) building. And Annie had another friend who was a farrier. And that friend had an idea for a center in Ireland to teach farriery—a badly needed facility and close to Annie’s heart through her love of horses. And the building on the property could be turned into a school for farriers. Not that there was anything school- or farriery-like about it. But Annie wanted it to be right and was prepared to get people to make it so.
A very Annie scenario that unfortunately found a very Irish ending. Who would ever have guessed that farriers had internal politics? Despite Annie’s best intentions and efforts, Irish farriers to this day still have to “cross the water” to England to study and qualify.
Annie would also occasionally call on me as a writer—even though I was merely a wannabe who ran a small SF magazine. Yet again, it was related to her generosity—Annie simply could never say no to requests from friends or acquaintances. And successful writers make lots of acquaintances in the business. So Annie got regular requests from authors or their agents or publishers to give their latest novel a blurb—who wouldn’t want Anne McCaffrey saying something nice about them on the back of their book?
The first time it happened, she asked me to read a book that she frankly “didn’t get.” Most authors would have refused to blurb it or damned it with faint praise. But Annie was sure no one would ask her to blurb a bad book, and she really wanted to say something nice. And it was an award winner. I read it and “got it” and told her how much I liked it, and she took me at my word and was relieved to be able to say those nice things.
The time that really sticks in my mind involved a galley proof of a fantasy novel from an American publisher. She said nothing, simply asked me to read the first fifty-or-so pages as she had a particular question to ask. Thank goodness she only needed me to read fifty pages. Shortly before this I had seen the film Roxanne, starring Steve Martin, and knew that Annie had enjoyed it. So in reverence to the scene where Steve lambastes a guy in a bar for wasting the opportunity to make fun of his nose by displaying a complete lack of wit, I honored the movie with my own version featuring twenty different ways of saying how bad a book could be—there were singing elves marching through the forest for fuck’s sake, and the lyrics of their songs were lovingly rendered in italic script. Annie countered with a page on which she had found, counted, and underlined more than sixty adjectives and adverbs.
Annie’s problem was not that she could not tell a bad book, but that she was looking to see if there was anything of worth in there whatsoever so that she could write the blurb. In the end, I could only persuade her to politely decline the request, which she did with some reluctance.
Nothing was too much trouble for Annie, and at times when you would expect her to be focused on herself and her own needs, she always had time for others. I was reminded of this in conversation with (English SF writer) John Meaney shortly after Annie passed away. He mentioned to me how she had befriended and inspired him and how she had attempted to help his career by seating him beside Diana Tyler, her agent, at Todd’s wedding as she felt it would be a good opportunity for him to hook a top-of-the-line agent. At the same wedding I was afforded the opportunity, through the good graces of the family, to interview one of the guests, Lois McMaster Bujold, for my magazine—not usually considered to be part of the best man’s duties, but I didn’t lose the ring or embarrass Todd in my speech, so I guess they were happy enough to give me that latitude.
At Gigi’s wedding, Stacey was matron of honor, so I was alone at a distant table. But as I was a wannabe writer, guess where they seated me? Poor Diana Tyler must have thought it was a bad case of déjà vu as we discussed my novel at length. Annie and Todd (the apple didn’t fall far from the tree) had been busy again ensuring that nobody missed out.
Annie’s consideration for others reached far beyond her extended adopted family to her fans. She loved to meet her public and had endless patience and good humor to share with them. She was well-known at conventions all over the world, where she threw herself headlong into the action and was genuinely interested in everyone who was interested in her and her work. But it didn’t stop at conventions. I remember one afternoon sitting in the bay window of the kitchen in Dragonhold-Underhill, chatting with Alec, when a strange car pulled up outside.
“Fans,” Alec said, shaking his head. As her eldest, Alec always felt a need to protect his mother, often from herself. But nobody ever stopped Annie from doing precisely as she pleased. The fans, it turned out, had flown into Dublin airport from the United States, looked up Annie in the phone book—where she was proudly listed as Anne McCaffrey, Writer—and called her up, at which point Annie invited them to Dragonhold for the night. I could sympathize with Alec’s viewpoint, but you simply had to smile and shrug and say, “Typical Annie.”
Also typical of Annie was her excitement over her achievements and her ability to share her enthusiasms. I remember another day, yet again at that kitchen table, when a package arrived in the post. It contained books from Japan—author copies of her first Japanese translations. She ripped open the box excitedly and pulled them out to show everyone, with a huge grin spread across her
face and a sparkle of glee in her eyes. They were in Japanese, and they were printed back to front. These books had made her day. The accompanying royalty check hardly even got a glance.
For me that table was the center of the second Dragonhold, and although I spent a lot of time in that house while I was in business with Alec in the mid-’90s, the good times happened in the kitchen. My kids would give you an argument on that one. For them, memories of Dragonhold and Annie revolve around her pool. Almost nobody in Ireland has an indoor heated swimming pool in their house, but Annie had one. My daughters, Vickie and Danielle, learned to swim in it, and while they were kids, they loved it. They still have the fondest of memories of it almost twenty years later.
Considering how much time I spent with Annie over the years, it is odd to think that I was only ever at one science fiction convention outside Ireland where she was a guest. In 2007 I was invited to Eurocon in Copenhagen to launch a short story collection. I was proud to see my name on the poster, almost like I was a real guest, especially so as the Guest of Honor was the venerable Anne McCaffrey.
Denmark took us seriously, unlike Ireland, which treats science fiction as, at best, a slight embarrassment. The convention guests were treated to a reception by the city in a beautifully appointed municipal building as though we were real writers—in Ireland real means “literary,” though not necessarily good. At the reception, I snuck up on Annie from behind and took her by surprise. And she had one of those moments when she drew a complete blank. Her minder was no help—a fan volunteer who didn’t know me from Adam. I was a little taken aback myself. But I smiled and said, “It’s Bob.” And suddenly everything clicked into place, and she said, “Bob Neilson.” She proceeded to list the names of my wife and kids and my address and every other fact she knew about me. And we grinned and embraced and chatted for a while. The next day I bumped into her at the convention. “Bob Neilson,” she yelled across the room. “Husband of Stacey. Father to Victoria, Danielle, and Christopher. Want the pets too?” She grinned. And the same when we met on the plane to fly home. Same wicked grin, same list of names, same sense of fun.
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