by Fay Jacobs
We got home just in time to continue the over-indulgence on Rehoboth’s much heralded Memorial Day weekend.
As I sat under an umbrella at the girl’s beach, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of lesbians, I couldn’t help thinking, probably for the zillionth time in the 18 years I’ve been enjoying that beach, about my good fortune.
If, when I was going through the teeth gnashing and angst of coming out, some 35 years before, somebody had told me I would someday be on a beach, with a great group of friends, surrounded by this many other lesbians, I would have told them they were effing crazy. But here we were. Not only does it get better, but it gets freakin’ fantastic.
And I was thrilled to see the staggering number of young lesbians, poised to carry on Rehoboth’s reputation as Gayberry RFD (even though they don’t know the reference!) for generations to come.
A second weekend event found us at a block party amid a terrific crowd of folks, gay, straight, young, not-so-young, all enjoying the perfect weather and picnic buffet. One family had a keg in the backyard. Now I missed a lot of keggers back in the day, during my angst-riddled college years. As I pumped the keg’s plunger and helped fill many a cup for my friends and myself, I saw the irony. Collecting Social Security and being at a keg party seemed perfectly compatible.
It was at the last event of the weekend where this It Gets Better tale peaked. Bon and I attended a big party at the home of women we’ve known casually, but not well. One of the hostesses caught me and Bon on our way out the door and told me the most amazing tale.
Her homophobic dad was forced by circumstances to come to live with her and her partner. It was tense and uncomfortable. But, in a chance encounter, one day, her dad found one of my books on the back of the porcelain horse in the, ahem, library, (which, I have always said is the perfect place for them, short chapters and all) and he began to read. He laughed a little, read a story or two about the consequences of homophobia, and then laughed a little again. After finishing the book, he had some questions, and his attitude about gays began to change for the better. He got better.
Now I don’t know if I deserve all the credit the hostess bestowed, because I’m sure these delightful gals, in a loving and committed relationship, showed Dad the best of marriage equality for themselves. But the story made me proud that my long ago choice to write honestly, in the first person, telling about the fun as well as the frustrations of gay life in Rehoboth may have actually done some good. Hearing that I make people laugh is fun. Hearing that I make them understand, is extraordinary.
So if you know any tweens, teens, or young adults grappling with coming out or coming to terms with gender issues, or whatever else they may be grappling with on the continuum of GLBTQ whatever, tell them I said, “It gets better. And after that, it gets even better than better.”
June 2012
PADDY, 13, COVER BOY
Paddy Jacobs-Quesenberry, 13, passed away on Thursday, May 31, 2012 from complications of diabetes. Born on St. Patrick’s Day 1999, he spent his career working as a cover model for A&M Books of Rehoboth. His photograph appeared on the covers of As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth Beach Memoir, Fried & True—Tales from Rehoboth Beach, and For Frying Out Loud—Rehoboth Beach Diaries all by Rehoboth Beach writer Fay Jacobs.
Paddy is survived by his family, including Fay and Bonnie, his older brother Moxie, Aunt Gwen and 39 feline cousins, and best friends Mitzi Hooker and Chanel Sneider-Cohen.
• • •
When I wrote my column about Schnauzerhaven Assisted Living a short time ago, I had no idea this news would follow so soon. As I have many Letters readers who didn’t get this news personally, I feel a responsibility to let you know, in this space, of Paddy’s passing.
Also, it’s a chance to reiterate my view of story-telling. As I have said before, I inherited a gift from my father. It was his vision that no event is so terrible if you can tell a funny story about it. In fact, laughter is the very best medicine.
So I have to relate that following our terrible trip to the vet on that sad Thursday night, Bonnie and I were a mess. But she had a previously planned trip out of town and I told her to go. I assured her Moxie and I would be fine.
As I sat in my living room on Friday, Moxie could not settle down. He went from room to room in the house, looking for Paddy. While it was breaking my heart, I realized he hadn’t seen Bonnie since Thursday night either. My God, he probably thinks I killed them both.
Between laughing and crying, I got through the night.
Bonnie’s back now, and we’re adjusting. Moxie is feeling a bit more secure and we’ve been taking him to friends’ homes for play dates. Paddy lives on, his face gracing the covers of thousands of books at Proud, Browseabout, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, etc., but mostly in great big stacks in my garage. In his memory, buy a book…see, I can shamelessly turn everything into a marketing opportunity.
As for his super model career, photographer Murray Archibald always had less trouble posing Paddy than me. Unlike me, Paddy never whined that he’d rather the photos didn’t highlight his thighs, never squinted unattractively into the camera and didn’t come up with a dozen shots with his eyes closed. And goodness knows, he was not picky about which photos would make good cover shots.
So the smiles continue. Bonnie and I giggle that our kitchen floor no longer looks like Lake Superior. Paddy, it can now be told, had a drinking problem. He couldn’t take a sip of water without sticking his entire beard in the bowl, then dripping all over the floor. Then wiping his disgusting beard on the sofa. We smile, remember, and feel hopeful for the longevity of our new couch.
Finally, this column would not be complete without a nod to the incredible compassion and wonderful care of Dr. Sarah Curtis at Rehoboth Animal Hospital. The whole office is amazingly friendly and efficient. Cannot recommend them enough.
Oh, and I know Paddy would want me to say, “In lieu of flowers, donations to Delaware ASPCA, please.” Just kidding. No response required. But we do have to go on kidding. It is the best medicine of all.
June 2012
LAPPING THE TRACK ON EIGHT WHEELS AND A PRAYER
There could not have been two New York City episodes further separated in style and substance than the two I experienced a couple of weeks ago. That they both involved my idol Angela Lansbury is by turns odd and exhilarating.
First, for the sublime: I went to see the revival of Gore Vidal’s The Best Man, a brilliant political drama taking place in the 1960s that is as relevant today as it was then. Scary. The smallest star role was Angela’s as a flag-waving Southern political committee woman. She was, of course, charming, funny, and perfect. But the show’s big attractions were James Earl Jones, John Larroquette, Eric McCormack and Candice Bergen, so how could the show have been anything but brilliant and electric? It was a theatre-lover’s grand slam.
Then we moved from sublime to ridiculous: The Gotham Girls Roller Derby.
When I was told to wear closed toe shoes if I was going to sit in the front row for the grudge match between the Manhattan Mayhem and the Brooklyn Bombshells, I should have known better. Holy rollers!
The match took place in the gym at Hunter College in Manhattan, where hundreds and hundreds of fans piled in to watch their favorite teams skate it out. The all-women teams had both male and female cheerleaders, and the crowd was nothing if not freakily diverse. Young, old, gay, straight, cheering, and screaming for their favorite skaters.
The athletes, a combo of gay and straight it seemed, dressed in hottie outfits of scanty panties or bike shorts and long tees over black three-quarter tights, plus knee pads, elbow pads and helmets, transported themselves not on roller blades but on the old-fashioned four-wheel models. Pumping their arms, sometimes their chests, and flying around the track like lightning, it was a sight to behold…and to duck for cover from.
From the program: “The objectives of roller derby are relatively simple. Each team fields a single point scoring skater (“Jammer”) whose objec
t is to lap as many opposing skaters as they can. The remaining skaters who aren’t scoring points work both on offense and defense at the same time—to block the opposing Jammer and to clear a path for their own Jammer. Well-played roller derby requires agility, strength, speed, control, peripheral vision, communication, and teamwork.”
Also cursing, screaming, bleeding. I haven’t seen such aggressive women since 1978 at the Phase One bar on 8th Street in DC. And the tattoos! There hasn’t been so much ink since John Hancock wrote on parchment.
Every time the gals started a round (a jam), they’d whiz by so fast, first you’d get windburn, then be whipped silly by a tailwind. Round and round they’d skate, uttering taunts, maneuvering bodies, sly elbowing (Foul!) with order trying to be kept by a cadre of striped-shirted referees, mostly male. The penalty box was always, always full.
When somebody went down, lots of folks went down, with wheels spinning, women cursing, and fans cheering. It was less a blood sport than ice hockey, but not by much. The platoon of refs kept everybody pretty much in line.
I think the best part for me, was the roster. The skaters boasted names like Ann Phetermean, Bitch Cassidy, Megahurz, Raggedy Animal, and such for the Mayhem. The Bombshells had Amesto-Maim, Bonita AppleBomb, Violet Knockout, Ann Frankenstein, and, as a writer familiar with the printing biz, my favorite, Em Dash.
These powerfully built, strong, independent women obviously had a blast doing derby in big, bad New York and it was a hoot to watch.
Luckily, no personal podiatry was required as a result of my sitting right at the action. Each time the jammers and their entourage flew by, often within an inch or two of my shoes, I’d scrunch my feet back and pray. When a pile-up of sweaty, butch gals landed at my feet I didn’t know, as they sort of say, whether to sit or go blind.
But when I came knees to knees with one particular skidding skater, my night was complete. Right there, practically in my lap, was Angela Slamsbury.
As the sign I saw on my way out of the city said, “If You Can Make It Here…You Really Should.” From gritty political drama to death-defying roller derby, I was a great big part of it, New York, New York.
June 2012
EXERCISE, MY WAY
It’s time to act our age at the beach. And since we’re all responsible adults, we should just haul our bones to the beach, waddle onto the sand, relax quietly under an umbrella, stay away from junk food and go home early.
Really? I have come up with a new summer workout regimen. It’s kind of a cross between slothery and enjoying what the beach has to offer. As Goldilocks would say, not too tough, not too easy, just right.
Walk & Reduce – I get an all-day parking pass for the neighborhoods, where feeding the hungry parking meters is not required. That way I am shedding calories by walking the few blocks to Rehoboth’s commercial district and boardwalk. True, sprints to feed the ravenous meters are slimming, but fines for memory lapses only exercise my mouth and middle finger.
Bench Press – Since the backs on the historic white boardwalk benches flip from front to back, I can rest my glutes and watch the ocean for a while, then press the back of the bench and scoot it the other way. That’s when I get to stare at the eternally amusing humanity. As my late father once said as I wheeled him down the boardwalk to enjoy the night air and the tourists, “If this is America, we’re in trouble.” Okay, the boardwalk at night is a little like the crowd at a state fair or Renaissance Faire, but what the heck. If I get up and down enough for food, drink, or to get a better view of something outrageous I have just witnessed, I can achieve my requisite squats.
Crunches – Oh, where to start? Caramel popcorn is the crunchiest, but beach fries come in second. On days I’m up to it I compete in the pizza, taffy, funnel cake triathlon. While I know stretching is key, I avoid holding a French fry aloft to the swooping gulls. Those beastly birds can hover and discharge simultaneously, requiring lunges just to duck and cover.
Balance – As in checkbook. Love exercising the debit card with retail therapy. In this arena I have real stamina. Sadly, I can easily spend 5K in 5K. But if I’m picky I can really stretch those dollars along with the hamstrings.
Cardio Workout – I’m off to Skee-Ball at the arcade, where just the right effort is required to win prize tickets but steer clear of rotator cuff issues. It’s best to avoid hyperextension, meaning you have to bend down and rip the prize tickets off after every game, lest they extend to where other, more hyper players can steal them. The key is flexibility—be happy with the souvenir kazoo or the backscratcher.
Going for the Burn – With all this exercise it’s time to relax, but I can still go for the burn on a blanket on the sand. This is a good place to do curls, as in curling up with a good book. Of course, actual burning is unwise, so I apply sunscreen, SPF 146 epoxy. Then I practice my resting heart rate.
Body Building – Using a plastic pail and shovel, I do aerobic sand sculpting, building shark and starfish bodies. Burying the occasional human in the sand is fun and is low impact as long as the person is willing to be buried.
Cool Down – Where else but in the ocean? I usually need a spotter for this activity to remind me to take off my expensive glasses first. This cool down phase can be exhilarating, but be warned, I have seen it turn into a 100-meter dash at a jellyfish sighting.
Strength Training – The evening exercise session is where I build endurance. I start with the 12-ounce Dogfish Head beer and toil my way up to the 18 ounce. I’m working on my six pack. Talk about ripped. An alternative is the antioxidant pomegranate martini. As in many exercise programs, prior carbohydrate loading may be required, giving me an upper body workout from fork lifting.
Dumbbell Time – This happens as I exit town, power-lifting my beach chair and purchases. I’ve forgotten where I parked. It’s hell getting old.
Chin-ups – The car will surface eventually. It can’t be far. And I live here. What can be better than that? Life’s a beach and I can get right back onto this treadmill again tomorrow. As they say, chin up. All of them.
July 2012
UP THE LAZY RIVER WITHOUT A PADDLE
I’ve been trying to stay cool, in every sense of the word. That’s how I wound up one day at Jungle Jim’s Waterpark in Rehoboth.
In the fourteen years since Jungle Jim’s and I have both lived in Rehoboth, we had never met before. Sure, we glanced at each other as I passed along Route One, with me wondering who on earth would stand in line on a hot summer day just to be hurled down an aluminum tube to certain drowning.
But then a friend had what she thought was a splendid idea for belatedly celebrating my 64th birthday. I wasn’t even done asking, “Are you insane?” when five of us were in bathing suits, heading for the apocalypse.
Entering the park, my companions suggested we relax first on the Lazy River. We rode on tubes, swept along a curving, meandering route by a surprisingly swift current. Along the circuit we dodged a couple of overhead waterfalls, 3-foot seas from the wave pool and intermittent unruly behavior by adjoining twelve year olds. We giggled and guffawed, completing the circuit twice. Although tempted, no pre-teens were harmed in the making of this journey.
At the exit steps, trying to get myself out of the unflatteringly spread-eagled position I’d assumed in the tube, I squiggled and scrunched, flopped into the water, and heard a loud and clear “pop” from the vicinity of my right hip.
Crap. I envisioned the headline “Woman breaks hip on Lazy River.” Wanting to find out if I could stand, I stepped backward, got caught by the current, and was swept by the rip tide, tubeless, down river. Fighting the surge and squawking like a chicken I clung to the rock wall at the edge of the lazy good for nothing river, and struggled to get back the long six feet to the steps.
As panicked companions reached for me, I bobbed like Shelly Winters being extracted from the Poseidon’s Lido Deck. Back at the steps, I learned that yes, I could still walk, albeit with a great pain in my ass, literally.
Off
we trudged to our next adventure, which in a 4-1 vote was the 5-person raft down the Stampede waterslide. Getting the five of us clowns into the Volkswagen raft created a bizarre tangle of legs and torsos, with me seated backwards, first to go down the chute. It didn’t matter. I never opened my eyes.
Our overcrowded raft shot downhill on a hideously steep slope, careening at terrifying angles along the banked sides of the tube, crashing through walls of water and speeding dangerously toward oblivion. Yes, I reasoned, this raft was made for five people, but was it made for these five people? Would we be spit out the end, carom off the bottom to be launched over the bus station onto Route One? I don’t think this is what the tourism folks had in mind with their Reach the Beach campaign.
Happily we landed in the water with no more than a thud and the humiliating prospect of untangling ourselves before a viewing public. I’m sure we were the biggest vessel to go down since Titanic. The lucky pair to dig out first voted our next activity to be the Anaconda slide, the most giant of all the giant slides. This time it was a two-person raft, for me and my spouse. I told the young person running the gig I had changed my mind and didn’t want to go down. He clearly didn’t want to hear me.
As he shoved us off, I spied the incredible roller coaster plunge we were about to take. I HATE roller coasters. My idea of a thrill ride is a BMW down Fifth Avenue. But down we plummeted, through stomach-dropping, screaming, Space Mountain corkscrew turns and then into massive, punishing walls of water. This was a roller coaster in a car wash and I was the bug on the windshield.
Then, air borne, we became Thelma and Louise. God I hated it.
Finally, the torture ended and we staggered back over to the Lazy River to decompress. This time en route I graciously ceded my position to a small child and wound up, like Niagara’s Maid of The Mist, directly under a torrential waterfall. No harm, no foul compared to the punishing Anaconda tsunami.