by Fay Jacobs
Meanwhile when the rain held up for an afternoon, we walked the wet beach, explored the pier, visited that enormous P-Town monument and joined a zillion other lesbians walking their canine companions up and down Commercial Street. Oh how I’d love to see the same kind of women’s week parade in Rehoboth. And there’s no reason we can’t make it happen.
In fact, Rehoboth mirrors P-Town in a lot of great ways—gay friendly small town beach resort, fabulous restaurants, adorable B&B’s, an artist’s haven, etc.
Unfortunately, we share some not-so-good things as well: quaint properties being bulldozed while condos and town-houses multiply like rabbits; skyrocketing housing prices, and both locals and young visitors being priced out. Oh, and P-Town’s biggest dance club, the historic Boatslip has been sold for, what else, condos. With our Renegade club gone we are twin cities, separated at birth.
Here in Rehoboth we should be able to ramp up our festivities and roll out an even bigger welcome mat than we do now. I’m envisioning our Spring Women’s Weekend growing into a nationally known party, bringing women, their pets, and their cash to Rehoboth each Spring.
We’d love to see you visit! You’ll probably find me walking the boardwalk, Moxie & Paddy in front, me at the rear, holding a little plastic bag. To them I’m one of the pack, not an author with a book at #341,853 on Amazon.com.
December 2005
UNHAPPY HOLIDAYS
It was Christmas morning and Bonnie and I headed over to Laurel Street for breakfast. Bonnie promised to make pancakes and Muriel would insist, once again, that I try her cheesy grits (no really, they were actually cheddar grits).
But the minute we arrived we knew something was wrong. Anyda, who is usually up giving orders to the roosters, was still in the bedroom. She started to make her way down the hall but had to lean on the doorway to the dining room on her way. Bonnie helped her to a chair.
“What’s the matter?”
Muriel piped up. “She had a terrible night. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Are you sick?” I asked. “What can we do for you?”
Anyda just stared blankly ahead, not answering.
“Do you want us to take you to the hospital,” Bonnie quietly asked. There was a too long pause.
“Maybe you’d better,” Anyda whispered in Bonnie’s ear. “But let’s have breakfast first. I don’t want to ruin Muriel’s holiday.” Oh so typical.
We hurriedly prepared pancakes, three of us ate a little, Anyda had only a mouthful or two. Then we told Muriel we were taking Anyda to the hospital.
We called a friend to stay with Muriel, helped Anyda into the car, sped to the emergency room and called ahead for a wheelchair to get Anyda into building.
There were tests, scans, questions, x-rays, moments of quiet, a lot of hand-holding. We knew that Anyda had been having stomach trouble for a while, easily attributable to age. She had also been hospitalized for a bleeding ulcer two months before, but that had cleared up nicely. Anyda continued to complain of weakness though, and was aggravated she wasn’t getting her strength back. She was furious about it. But we figured that a bleeding ulcer can take a lot out of anybody, much less someone of 94.
By afternoon, the emergency room doctor came into Anyda’s cubicle and pulled the curtain around the three of us.
To his credit, he spoke directly to Anyda instead of to us. It was probably Anyda’s commanding personality that prevented her from being treated as an invisible old lady. All the same, I knew at that moment how terribly frail and tired she was. And a little pissed off, although she would never put it that way.
“We have found a mass in your abdomen. We need to see if it’s cancer and then decide on a treatment plan.”
Startled, Anyda addressed the doctor very slowly and very clearly. “There will be no treatment. I am almost 95 years old. Why would I have treatment?”
The doctor had no answer. Anyda nodded. Case closed. Eventually she was admitted to the hospital and transferred to a room upstairs. Other friends arrived to hold the fort and we returned to Laurel Street to get Muriel and bring her to be with Anyda.
Ever concerned for others, Anyda insisted, vehemently, that we leave the hospital and carry on with our regular holiday plans—Christmas dinner in our neighborhood with a large group of friends. Anyda announced she’d be fine with Muriel by her side.
By this time, other family-like friends had arrived and promised to take Muriel back home when she was ready. From what I understand, the pair spent about an hour together, mostly just holding hands before Muriel tired and needed to return to Laurel Street.
The situation reminded everyone of a time several years before when Muriel was hospitalized with heart trouble. Most people, including the doctors, thought she wouldn’t be coming home. The entire time she was hospitalized, and for weeks following, while Muriel was miraculously improving in a convalescent home, Anyda stayed by her side day and night, sleeping in a chair in her room, or in a stray empty bed.
When Bonnie was hospitalized several years ago, I tried to stay day and night and couldn’t do it. No matter how much I wanted to do so, it was too exhausting.
It wasn’t too exhausting for elderly, iron-willed Anyda.
And even now, in her mid-nineties she was no shrinking violet. After tests confirmed the diagnosis, she demanded she be checked out of the hospital, called Betsy to come get her and headed home. Arrangements were made.
Hospice staff set up a bed in the living room. Friends came and went. Cocktail hour went on as always. For many hours during each day, Muriel would sit in her wheel chair, by the hospital bed. Anyda kept insisting that the doctors were wrong. She was furious about being confined and took to telling visitors that they should help her get up and dressed—and if they couldn’t do that, they might as well just go home.
Although she was absolutely furious at her deteriorating condition, she continued to rule the roost, giving orders to hospice staff, requesting not just tea, but Prince of Wales tea, discussing headlines in the Washington Post (Oooh, that horrible Rumsfeld creature!) and demanding her nightly 5 p.m. cocktail.
The parade of visitors spoke to Anyda and Muriel’s vast circle of friends. And at cocktail hour Anyda would remind me not to make Muriel’s drink too strong. And Muriel would hold the glass up to the light and complain that the drink looked awfully pale.
Charlie bartended; Betsy did errands. They both spent a great deal of time by Anyda’s bedside and with Muriel, who sat in her recliner, mostly lost in thought, in the sunroom. Charlie cooked some of the ladies’ favorite things; Bonnie continued to make Muriel smile a little, and then went about changing the cat litter, feeding the critters and doing other familiar chores. We circled the wagons. Charlie and Betsy held the fort like heroes. Bonnie was at the house as much as she could be. I spent time in the living room, reading letters, old and new to Anyda, talking about book projects and keeping that brilliant mind engaged. One afternoon she said to me, “You know, you are the future of A&M Books.”
I knew. I was honored. I didn’t want it just yet.
“You know the vision, you must remember the vision.”
I knew, I would.
New Years’ Eve came and went. We put up a good front, toasting to 2006, but knew Anyda probably wouldn’t see much of it.
One day, as Anyda napped, Muriel, Bonnie, and I argued the merits of Dewars versus Johnny Walker. Although Anyda had been spending most of her time asleep and had not been engaged in our conversations for the past day or two, as we continued the comparison, she raised her head, looked at us with authority and announced “the virtue of Johnny Walker is that it can be found all over the globe.” We drank to that.
Muriel retreated into silence, reading a little, eating very little, taking her pills, and reluctantly scooting, in her wheelchair, off to the bedroom at night.
Charlie, Betsy and Bonnie took turns staying overnight so there was a family face by the bed in addition to the hired caregiver. The trio helped bathe Anyda
, give her pain medication, and get her anything she requested. After a few days, it wasn’t much more than tea. Then, not even that.
January 2006
A PASSING
After Anyda passed away, I sat down to write her obituary, attempting to convey an incredible 94 years in less than 500 words.
ANYDA MARCHANT
ATTORNEY, NOVELIST, PUBLISHER
1911-2006
Anyda Marchant, 94, retired attorney, novelist, and publisher died January 11 at her home in Rehoboth Beach, DE.
Ms. Marchant was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, moving with her family to Washington, DC at age six. After earning her undergraduate degree, followed in 1933, by her law degree from the National University of Washington, DC (now George Washington University), she was admitted to practice in Virginia and DC, and before the U.S. Court of Claims and the U. S. Supreme Court. As a law student, she served for a year as assistant to women’s rights pioneer Alice Paul, who was then doing research for an Equal Rights Amendment.
In 1940, she was appointed assistant in the Law Library of Congress in the Latin American Law section. She returned to Rio to work and then did a brief stint as a translator at the 1948 Pan American Union conference in Bogotá, Columbia. From there she went to work at a New York law firm, and then back in Washington as one of the first female attorneys for the law firm now known as Covington and Burling. After this, she was briefly with the Bureau of Domestic and Foreign Commerce of the U.S. Department of Commerce, and with a private practice representing claimants before the U. S. Court of Claims for compensation arising from military service in the Philippines during the Japanese invasion. She then moved to the legal department of the World Bank. She served the World Bank for 18 years until retiring in 1972.
That same year, Marchant and her life partner Muriel Crawford founded the Naiad Press as a vehicle for publishing Marchant’s first novel, The Latecomer, written under the pen name Sarah Aldridge. From there, Naiad became an avenue for the publication of other feminist and lesbian literature. In 1974 Naiad Press was formally incorporated in Delaware when Marchant and Crawford added Barbara Greer and Donna McBride as shareholders. Marchant served as Naiad president from its inception until the mid-1990’s. Naiad published eleven Sarah Aldridge novels and grew to be a powerhouse in feminist publishing. In 1995 Marchant and Crawford withdrew from Naiad and began their own publishing company, A&M Books in their hometown of Rehoboth Beach. A&M published the last three Sarah Aldridge novels along with the book As I Lay Frying, a Rehoboth Beach Memoir by author Fay Jacobs. Passionate about supporting feminist writers, Marchant continued her publishing and mentoring activities until very recently, highlighted by A&M’s October 2005 release of the novel Celebrating Hotchclaw by feminist literary icon Ann Allen Shockley.
Marchant is survived by Crawford, her partner of 57 years, as well as a large circle of loving friends.
An obituary or other comments about Anyda’s passing appeared in The Washington Post, The Advocate, Chicago’s Windy City Times, The Washington Blade, and many more mainstream and gay and lesbian papers, magazines and online newsletters, plus many publishing industry publications. And of course, our local Rehoboth area newspapers, noting the loss of a local legend.
Losing Anyda broke my heart.
But it was an honor to speak at her memorial service.
I met Anyda when she was 84 years young. For a decade she’s been my friend, mentor, publisher and the most demanding boss I’ve ever had. I wish I had had more time.
Anyda was born in 1911 and I can only begin to imagine the events, the innovations and the history she experienced in 94 brilliant years.
To put it in perspective, one day Anyda and I sat debating the relative power of First Lady Hillary Clinton vs. first lady Nancy Reagan. “Well,” said Anyda, “neither could hold a candle to Florence Harding.” I had to look it up—Florence was First Lady in 1921.
Anyda was the feminist’s feminist. She worked for Women’s rights pioneer Alice Paul, researching the very possibility of an Equal Rights Amendment—in 1932.
During World War II, Anyda’s supervisor at the Library of Congress was drafted and she was promoted to his job. At war’s end, she dutifully stepped aside so he could return to his position—but then, on principle, left the Library rather than take a lesser job—in 1945.
When Anyda was hired as one of the first female attorneys at a prestigious law firm, she met Muriel Crawford—beginning 57 years of devotion to each other. And this was 1948—before any public respect for, or even acknowledgement of same sex relationships. Theirs was a courageous, willful and against many odds, joyous path.
Through the years the couple shared adventures around the globe for Anyda’s job with the World Bank. They began spending time in Rehoboth Beach, buying their first home here almost a half century ago. Anyda and Muriel hosted Delaware’s first-ever National Organization of Women meeting. Anyda loved describing the women arriving at the house, as neighbors lurked, one actually hiding behind a tree, to see which Rehoboth females had the courage to show up. Rehoboth had its consciousness raised.
In 1972, Anyda retired, wrote novels and, with Muriel, founded Naiad Press—which became the most successful independent feminist publisher in the United States and the world.
Anyda wrote; Muriel transcribed. They opened their home and big front porch for cocktails and conversation with a diverse crowd of neighbors, writers, musicians, clergy, young, old, gay, straight, locals, visitors, democrats, and even Republicans.
In 1995, Anyda and Muriel started A&M Books of Rehoboth. Anyda’s 14th novel was published in 2003 when the novelist was 92. For her next project, in 2004, she published the works of a little known Rehoboth columnist. I was honored. But perhaps one of Anyda’s proudest professional moments, came with the publication of a new novel by legendary feminist author Ann Allen Shockley—just this past October. In my later years, I hope I can be half as giddy with glee as Anyda was the day the new books arrived from the printer.
The remnants of 2005 and the first 11 days of 2006 were tough. She was home in a hospital bed in the living room, but she insisted it be tilted at the perfect angle so she could see Muriel in her chair in the back sunroom and call “Yoohoo, Sweetie” and wave.
Two days before the end, I got the opportunity to read a letter to Anyda from a woman named Carol Seajay—former editor of the Feminist Bookstore News and a superstar in the publishing industry. In part, the letter read “Anyda, it was your vision of a possible world in your first lesbian novel and your vision that we could have such books, and your vision and skills that launched our first, grand lesbian publishing house—and published books that have gone out all over the world, changed countless women’s lives, giving hope and opening doors. Yours was an awesome body of work and I hope you are fiercely proud of it all.”
She was. And everyone was proud of her. And just this week—January 2006 I received an e-mail from two young women from Utah, telling me of their isolation there and asking if the Sarah Aldridge books were still available. Thanks Anyda, from them and from me.
January 2006
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
AND THE WINNER IS…
Please don’t think badly of me for the following story. It’s one of those blasphemous yarns, skirting, okay, plunging face forward into the mush of questionable taste. But it happened. And when polled, even my rabbi thought it was okay to share it. So here goes.
Over the past two weeks I attended two memorial services, a week apart. One for an acquaintance and the other for Anyda.
Prior to the services, following two weeks of terrible sadness and loss, I was sitting at this very computer, writing a eulogy for the service a week hence. I turned to the Internet to check a historical fact and was stunned by AOL’s headline: “Oscar Winner Shelley Winters Dead at 85.”
I stared at the screen, not knowing whether, as they say, to poop or go blind. “Alrighty!” I yelped, followed by a crushing sense of doom.
It’s like this. A while ago, some immortal-feeling twenty-somethings started a unique combination of gambling and drinking called The Dead Pool. Clusters of young people get together and select names of elderly celebrities. Each player antes up a set amount for the jackpot and when a celeb falls off their perch the person holding the winning name, if you can call this winning, collects.
I know, it’s a ghoul pool. Perfectly horrid.
On the other hand, in a world filled with terrorists winning elections, our own government spying on us, hateful discrimination and Bird Flu panic there’s never enough reason to celebrate, so why not take advantage of every opportunity?
Borrowing from this 20-something fad, our group of old-somethings launched the Rainbow Dead Pool Society. Some energetic New Jersey gals put it together and soon invited a slew of us to participate. In our version, we pick names, ante up, then when there’s a loss, host a party to send off the dearly departed. Costumes are encouraged. We try to make it a great celebration, respectful in every way. Unless of course, too many Bloody Marys are involved and then you never know to what sacrilegious depths we will sink.
The gang has held a royal send off for Prince Rainier, went ape at a party for Fay Wray, and held a simply delicious soiree for Julia Child, among others.
Yep, you’re getting it. After paying my dues for a while now I finally, oh, forgive me, hit the jackpot with Shelley Winters.
And that meant, in addition to receiving the funds, I’d have to use said money to throw an immediate “memorial service” for Shelley—because we had to rush to pay, along with our respects, our damn dues in case another AARP headliner suddenly kicked the bucket. The phrase “unfortunate timing” doesn’t even begin to cover it. I was hearing strains of “There’s Got to Be a Morning After,” from The Poseidon Adventure ringing in my ears. Pun intended, I was sunk.