Fried & True (31 page)

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Authors: Fay Jacobs

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June 2006

FOR MURIEL

Last week, immediately following my New Orleans business trip, I headed to Atlanta to attend the Golden Crown Literary Society Convention—a giant celebration of lesbian fiction.

I had just arrived at my hotel room when Bonnie called to tell me that Muriel had suffered a stroke a few hours before. I was stunned. “Don't rush home,” Bonnie said. “She'd want you to keep going—for Anyda. We will keep you posted.”

I was attending the convention to accept, for Sarah Aldridge/Anyda Marchant, the Trailblazer Award from the Society. This was the second such award ever given; the first, last year, was given to 1960s lesbian pulp fiction writer Ann Bannon. It was Bannon who was to present the award posthumously to Anyda. I was looking forward to bringing the engraved trophy home to Muriel.

I knew she would love it, because it celebrated Anyda—and Muriel loved nothing more than to have people praise Anyda for her writing, intellect and love for literature. Muriel considered herself a happy witness to Anyda's career. Everyone else knew it was a joyous collaboration.

Several times a day I called home to ask how Muriel was doing. Bonnie reported that Muriel's friends were converging on the hospital. She knew they were there, but couldn't talk. I couldn't quite imagine it. But I wanted to be there.

When my cell phone rang at 10 p.m. two days later, I knew. Bonnie, sobbing and difficult to understand, told me that Muriel was gone. I was overwhelmed by the news. Alone in the hotel room all I could do was cry, but I knew I had to stay in Atlanta for the next day's ceremonies.

In the hotel ballroom, when the award was announced—and when it was noted that not only was it posthumous, but that Anyda's partner of almost 57 years died only a day before, there was an audible buzz. You could feel the sadness. And
then, as I accepted the award for them—for it was truly the two of them responsible for their publishing history, nearly 300 women gave the pair an emotional ovation. They would have loved it.

I can't say the moment was bittersweet, because Anyda and Muriel had lived long and magnificent lives, mostly sweet, nothing bitter. I guess it was just semi-sweet, since I wished they both could have been there to see how well-loved and admired they were.

I returned home, and again, had an obituary to write.

MURIEL INEZ CRAWFORD

PUBLISHER EMERITUS

APRIL 21, 1914-JUNE 7, 2006

Muriel Inez Crawford, 92, passed away Wednesday, June 7, 2006, at her South Rehoboth Beach home, surrounded by her loving circle of friends
.

Born April 21, 1914, in Washington, D.C., Crawford served as an executive secretary at the Washington law firm of Covington and Burling, followed by a position as executive secretary to the president of the Southern Railroad, now Amtrak
.

Crawford, along with her partner of 57 years, Anyda Marchant, who pre-deceased Crawford this past January, began coming to Rehoboth Beach on weekends in the early 1960s. Their house became the site of legendary Saturday evening salons, where cocktails, conversation and an amazingly diverse crowd would gather. In the winter, the cocktails and conversation would relocate to the couple's home in Pompano Beach, Fla
.

In 1972, the couple founded Naiad Press, an independent feminist publishing house, and then founded A&M Books of Rehoboth Beach in 1995. At the time of her death, Crawford was publisher emeritus with A&M Books
.

She is survived by a niece and nephew and a family of dear friends
.

The Memorial Service took place at the same church where we celebrated Anyda's life. In fact, Anyda, in her urn, was there—because the service was not so much for Muriel alone, but for the both of them, and for the end of an era in Rehoboth Beach.

The truth was, Muriel was a tag-a-long churchgoer, attending because it was so important to Anyda. As Father Max was officiating, our son Eric, the one who penned the foreword to this book exchanged a glance with me. I knew we were both thinking of Muriel watching the service from on high and thinking “Well, this is the last time I have to do this.”

Although, she really would have adored the words Father Max delivered. He spoke of Anyda and Muriel's partnership, their devotion to each other and hopes for a better world, where same sex relationships could flourish in the open.

Once again I walked to the lectern and gave a eulogy.

None of us thought we would be back here so soon, but we're not really surprised, either, are we?

In the mid 1940s when Gertrude Stein, one half of one of the world's most famous female couples passed away, her partner, Alice B. Toklas referred to her future as “soldiering on alone.”

When Anyda Marchant died in January, Muriel Crawford accepted her assignment to stay on alone with grace and a certain courageous calm. But it was clear that she was unenthused and tired. She tried to keep the mischievous sparkle in her eye for her friends, but it was an effort
.

Right after Anyda's passing, Bonnie and I were talking about the following Saturday night's salon at the house. “I guess we won't have it anymore,” Muriel said, “Everybody was just coming to see Anyda.”

“Absolutely NOT, we assured her, “they came to see you both, and now we will come for Dewars and conversation with you.”

And we did. And there were many, many visitors. So many,
in fact, that when Muriel was temporarily hospitalized a month before her passing, her hospital roommate could not believe the amount of calls and visitors and circle of loved ones. “She must be somebody important,” said the roommate
.

And she was—with her playful nature, stubborn independence and loving generosity. She touched so many lives in such a positive way
.

Both the impish Muriel and the imposing Anyda will live on as Rehoboth legends, literary icons and role models for lives exceptionally well lived and loved
.

And I'll always close my eyes and see Muriel's head peeking over the steering wheel of that big Lincoln. She loved to drive and until very recently, she could still be seen at the wheel, a careful but surprisingly speedy driver
.

I'll tell you a little tale out of school but I'm sure Muriel and Anyda wouldn't mind
.

One day, about three years ago, Muriel and Anyda returned from a visit to the doctor with a worrisome report. The doctor was worried about their drinking. He wasn't worried about the actual quantity consumed, but the fact that the ladies enjoyed two cocktails each evening in the living room before retiring. The doctor worried about their being able to maneuver, without incident, as they toddled off to the bedroom
.

He cautioned them to keep the ritual to one drink only
.

Surprisingly, the ladies took the news well
.

It was not until two years later, when I was sent to the bedroom to get a sweater for Muriel that I learned the truth. There, on the floor by the bed, were two cut crystal glasses and a half gallon jug of Scotch
.

Yes, they only had one drink each night in the living room
.

When I reported my discovery to the ladies, Anyda pretended not to hear me and Muriel's eyes got that well-known twinkle as she cackled and giggled like a teenager
.

At 5 p.m. tonight, wherever you are, let's raise a toast to Miss Muriel
.

July 2006

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

FLIPPING THE BIRD

I live in Animal House.

Our dog groomer left town a while ago and Bonnie began clipping our pups herself. Quicker than you can say buzz cut our dogs were exceedingly naked and shorn like sheep at a Marine induction center. For the first ten days after the shearing they had to wear newborn onesie outfits to stop the shivering.

But since then my spouse has gotten much better at this grooming thing, perfecting the Schnauzer cut—feathered legs, clipped mustache, square beard, shaved sides and long eyebrows. Our boys could model for Canine Klein.

Soon, friends with Schnauzers started to drop off their pooches at the house for haircuts. Occasionally, brave friends with other breeds asked Bonnie to prune their pets too, and it's amazing how fast Bonnie could turn almost any breed into faux Schnauzers. The AKC will soon be registering the Schnorkie, Schmaltese and Schmutt.

Last weekend was particularly busy here at Schnauzerhaven. We had human and canine houseguests, non-stop events and the usual summer craziness. On Friday morning, we saw a weird shadowy thing bouncing off the walls in the sunroom and our dogs plastered against the sliding glass door like Garfield on car window suction cups.

One of our houseguests investigated. “Oh my, it's a bird, it's stuck in here,” she said, at which point she started trying to shoo the panicked creature out the door. Startled, the bird dive bombed her head and there she was, barricaded in the sun-room channeling Tippi Hedren in
The Birds
.

I knew better than to inject myself into the pursuit, so I summoned my spouse. She entered our new aviary and started to chase the creature, too, which prompted the question “how
many lesbians does it take to….” It was all very Keystone Kops, with the bird and its pursuers flying all over the place.

Finally, Bonnie coaxed the interloper onto her outstretched arm and escorted the bird outside. The dogs, crestfallen, couldn't believe their bad luck.

As we left the house for an afternoon downtown and ladies happy hour Moxie and Paddy stayed home enjoying their last hours of solitude. The following day we would be taking in two more Schnauzers for doggy day care.

Yes, we sometimes provide daily or overnight lodging for non-shedding breeds. Not only are we getting a reputation for having a canine safe house, but sometimes I think somebody posted us on Doggie
Hotels.com
. We do offer five biscuit lodging with amenities like spa service and, if Bonnie or I put our java mugs down to get dressed or visit the library, there's in-room coffee. Fortunately they do not need high speed internet access or a complimentary
USA Today
.

Unfortunately, we'd forgotten to inform our human guests about the two additional dogs that would be checking in on Saturday morning. They awoke to a terrible thunderstorm and a pack of howling animals. Discovering that the two household Schnauzers had, in the night, multiplied, our friends considered giving up martinis.

I assured everyone that the double vision was not alcohol induced and we set about preparing breakfast. We'd just popped the champagne cork for the Mimosas when the phone rang. “Is Bonnie there?”

It seems that a dog visiting friends down the street had gone under their deck and was refusing to come out. Driving rain continued unabated and it was worrisome. “They need a dog whisperer,” I said.

So Bonnie threw on her raincoat and headed for this new animal emergency. Sure enough, a friend's Beagle (If Bonnie clipped it, would it be a Schneagle?) was entrenched in mud under the deck. I bet Bonnie wished she'd kept that bird as bait. Unable to succeed through her powers of persuasion, she
resorted to crawling, on her belly, under the deck for the rescue. Three gay men stood watching, squirming at the thought of the muddy and perhaps varmint filled mess Bonnie was willing to crawl in.

With her mission accomplished, our drenched and mud-caked animal rescue expert arrived home to learn that our two visiting Schnauzers would not be picked up until late that night, having requested, yes, a late checkout. So it was back to cooking breakfast.

And in our house, cooking is a problem for many reasons, one of which is the obvious fact that we rarely do it. But perhaps the real reason is that our dogs are terrified when we cook. How's that for a culinary reference?

Once, back in their puppyhood, I was broiling chicken wings and the tips started to blacken and sizzle, as they will do, setting off the smoke alarm. Well, you'd think Zambelli had detonated firecrackers up those Schnauzers' butts. The dogs fled to the back of the bedroom closet, holed up there, shaking, for two hours. Now I'm sure the sound of the smoke detector hurt their sensitive ears, but I also think they were being little canine drama queens. Regardless, I tried never to let that happen again.

But from that moment on, every time we'd turn on the oven, stove or microwave, my dogs trembled, drooled and hyperventilated from post-traumatic stress syndrome. They carry on like that if we prepare anything from a turkey dinner to a pop tart.

We tried behavior modification techniques, luring the dogs toward the stove by offering them a taste of whatever was in or on the offending kitchen appliance. This worked pretty well, as they no longer ran from the room. They'd just hang around drooling and panting until we gave them a taste of our chicken or fish.

I actually think we were beginning to make progress putting their childhood smoke detector abuse behind them when it happened again. Negligently tended pork chops. The damn smoke detector went off, our dogs had flashbacks and have not
trusted us in the kitchen since.

So we were cooking scrambled eggs and my houseguests asked, “What's the matter with the dogs? They're shaking.”

“We're cooking,” I said.

Face it, it's not encouraging for guests invited for a meal to see your dogs hiding under the coffee table in terror because you are cooking.

I was explaining the genesis of their mental illness to our wary guests when the phone rang. It was friends asking if we'd mind watching their little darling the next day. Later, we got yet another booking.

So here it is Monday night, I'm finishing up this column, and the door bell rings. It's the parents of the Schnorkie, coming to fetch their best friend. That left one Schmaltese with a late checkout, a Schnauzer with a salon appointment for Tuesday and us, eating carry-in food so we don't upset the pack by cooking. Now we're wondering if we should re-carpet or just surrender and tile the living room. Later this week we have another overnight boarder, setting up a three-dog night.

We live in a kennel. We love it. Bring on the Schnocker Spaniels.

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