On the way back home to New York City, the car sputtered and broke down.
My buddy’s friend got out and began kicking the car and pounding it with his fists, screaming, “I paid a fortune for this piece of crap!” He was flipping out.
“He’s howling at the moon,” Merlin said calmly, as we watched him from the back seat.
We looked at each other and just knew it was time to find our own way.
“We’re on a deserted road,” I told Merlin. It was before cell phones. “What’s our best move?”
She took a good grip of my hand, opened the car door, and pulled me out her side of the car.
Just as I stepped out, before I could so much as look for any help, a Checker Cab appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The cabby’s passenger-side window was open and the driver said, “Get in.”
As we pulled away, I was stunned, my heart pounding. Merlin looked completely serene, her eyes closed, as if she knew all along we would be just fine.
Still, no one was more blown away by what was happening in her life than Merlin. She truly didn’t expect or want the spotlight. She worked tirelessly for so many years to help millions of women see themselves as empowered, autonomous, and equal. But she didn’t dress like, look like, or want to be someone famous. Sure, it’s special to be the messenger of the Goddess, but it’s also tremendously demanding, though it was a role she gladly accepted.
Around 1991 or 1992, she became exhausted from her monumental efforts, including her travels to exotic places and her teaching, lecturing, and workshops. It wasn’t something we talked about, but the movement—the things she wanted to happen—were happening even beyond her wildest dreams. The Goddess in her many forms had taken on a life of her own. The phone was ringing frequently, but Merlin decided to just turn the ringer off and let her answering machine pick up. At the end of the day, she would return the calls she selected. She kept in touch with her closest associates, but she began to withdraw from public life.
One day, I was with my best friend Jerry, who I hung out with for many years. This was a fellow who would jokingly say, “Lenny, what is she doing with a guy like you?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Well, it isn’t for money. It can’t be your looks, that’s for sure, and certainly not your mind.”
“She’s changing me,” I’d say. “It’s serendipity.” Sometimes, even I wondered.
“What’s it like to live with Merlin?”
“I’m living with Wonder Woman, but she never goes back to her secret identity.”
One time, Jerry walked into a Barnes & Noble bookstore and found Merlin’s books all over a promotional table. When he arrived at our place, he was very excited and asked us to go see the display at the store. Merlin didn’t need to. We didn’t go.
Another time, When God Was a Woman was being read over WBAI, the New York City public radio station. They were presenting a chapter at a time. They were on, let’s say, chapter five. John Lennon called the station and asked Linda Perry, the program director, for a signed copy of the book. Merlin got the message and signed a copy “To Yoko and John.” That book was then delivered to them by Linda. A housekeeper for the two told Merlin—when Merlin met her, coincidentally, many years later—that John and Yoko kept Merlin’s book by their bedside and read passages to each other.
Merlin could have delivered the book to them herself. They wanted to meet her. She wasn’t star-struck. I would have given anything to meet them. She declined.
By 1994, I was ready to change my lifestyle so Merlin and I could spend more time together. It was a mutual thing. We were both more and more content to just share our days. I prepared my playing cards and gambling collectibles to be sold at auction.
Just five years after Merlin told me to follow my passion, I had such an extensive collection of playing cards and gambling memorabilia that I was given a show at the prestigious OK Harris art gallery on West Broadway in Manhattan. The show, in 1981, led to a long feature article by Rita Reif, “Antiques: Take a Gamble on Playing Cards,” in the New York Times (Sunday, July 5, 1981). After reading the Times, a man called to offer a nineteenth-century Faro gambling box with six hundred ivory chips previously used in the Narragansett Casino in Rhode Island. Merlin was with me when I paid $400 for it, and in my 1994 auction it sold for $23,100. I had another exhibition at OK Harris in 2001, entitled “The Art of the Billfold,” another collecting passion I pursued. Merlin set me free, inspired me. It was a joy for me, and she was the willing witness and instigator of any and every success I ever had.
But it was time to make some readjustments. Noel Barrett, who later would appear on Antiques Roadshow, arranged my auction on May 20, 1994. Merlin had encouraged me to write Gambling Collectibles: A Sure Winner, a year earlier. I gave her all the information, which she put into great order as she wrote. We spent eleven months together daily, with her working on a subject that really wasn’t of primary interest to her. That was a true act of love—having her amazing abilities directed toward a project I wanted to do. I mailed the book on a Monday, and Merlin told me, “Now you can relax. It will take a while to hear.”
Wednesday, that same week, I got a call from Schiffer Publishing, the folks I wanted to publish my book. They accepted it immediately. When it was published, the dedication read:
To Merlin,
who always helps to make my dreams come true,
and to my mother,
for teaching me the difference between right and wrong.
I continued to assemble small, specialized collections of wallets, rulers, billiard memorabilia, matchbox holders, calendars, Dixie lids, and items in other areas where I became, once again, a leading collector and dealer. My credibility was all the more enhanced by the gift of the book Merlin had constructed for me. The release of Gambling Collectibles coincided nicely with the auction, generating more interest in the collection. When the auction itself took place, it raised enough for us so that we could retire even more comfortably.
Merlin told me, “I’m a collector, too.”
“Really?” I asked her. “What do you collect?”
“Wisdom and knowledge.”
“So how did you wind up with me?” I mused.
“You were chosen,” she informed me.
I was fifty-three and Merlin was sixty-three. For quite a while, I had known that I wanted to believe and think like Merlin. I worshipped her. She had sculpted me into everything I wanted to be. I needed her energy to succeed, and she gave it to me generously, naturally, fully. All that made it so much easier for us to make our transition.
Starting in 1994, Merlin and I settled into a lifestyle where we did everything together. We were frugal, but we treated ourselves to what we loved. We’d return to Phoenicia or take little side trips to museums or antique events in different cities, to places where Merlin and I could enjoy ourselves. We even went to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. Oddly, she rarely asked to go to feminist or Goddess-related events. She loved dance and was more inclined to go to dance festivals—African dance, Celtic dance, all types of dance. We showed up at a square dance one time and, believe it or not, she actually was able to call the dance. Even after being together for twenty years, I never knew she could do such a thing. She couldn’t sing a note, but she knew the steps and they let her call an entire number. Those types of surprises happened all the time.
We even went to a Mets game—the only baseball game she ever attended. There is actually a short story that goes with that occasion. At the Vandam Diner, where we almost always ate, there was a fellow I saw frequently. I learned he was once the mascot, Mr. Met. He lost his job because he was a drinker. We invited him over to sit with us, and he and Merlin became friends. Merlin encouraged him, raised his self-esteem, told him not to blame himself. Eventually, he told her she made him feel so much better that he stopped drinking. In gratitude, he took us to
the game. It was just one more example of how Merlin was able to empower men and women alike.
Sometimes, I think back to my childhood idols: cowboys, war heroes, and even Elvis Presley, who may have left the building, but his mystique certainly lives on. He was the quintessential entertainer. Merlin was more than that for me and for a world of others. She was an “igniter.”
I only saw Merlin speak once at a professional event, at a Manhattan high school assembly hall. I sat and listened to her entire lecture. There she was, dressed as always in her later years in her black tights and black skirt. She was wearing a shirt she had made herself, a black velvet one that exposed her shoulders, loosely fitting over her still impressive figure.
Her hair, by then, was pure white but still combed long below her shoulders, draped down to the middle of her back. She never went to a beauty parlor until she was seventy and then only for the pleasure of having her hair shampooed and conditioned. She did love long-hanging earrings, one of the few luxuries she indulged in—that, and two thin gold chains she loved, which I proudly had bought her. But she was never vain. If anything, it was as if she was hiding her beauty. Sometimes it seemed as though she wanted to be completely incognito, but I felt very privileged to be with, see, and experience her startling beauty every day. I never got tired of watching her sensual dancer’s body.
She spoke with quiet confidence and with a slightly British accent she had acquired in the several years she lived in London before I met her. It wasn’t like she was pretending. It was just an interesting, unexpected way of speaking that she had. And I was mesmerized, as usual.
Merlin never cursed. She was never obscene, though she could joke, and Merlin never raised her voice to me.
This is very significant, not just because I was brought up the way “men” were supposed to be—assertive over a passive woman—but because it was the best way for a teacher to teach. Growth, in a relationship, isn’t coerced. Merlin never, ever spoke negatively about anything I cared about. Everything I wanted to do, she calmly encouraged me to pursue.
“I like the way you look and dress,” she’d tell me. “I trust you, Lenny. You know exactly what you are doing.”
“You are the only woman for me,” I’d tell her, though she knew that about me. Earlier in the relationship, however, Merlin would point out that I was “looking at other women.” But let’s face it, back then, I was still inclined to look at other women.
We were sitting on a bench in front of our apartment, in the middle of a conversation, when she simply stood up and walked into our apartment.
I immediately knew what happened, because I had done this before. We were at the point where, if this wasn’t corrected, Merlin would leave me. A woman had walked by in a short skirt and my eyes had wandered to her and followed her down the street. Guilty as charged. I went into the house.
“Merlin, I know what happened. I’m sorry. It’s inbred. I know that isn’t a real excuse, but I’m working on it.”
“Work a little harder,” she said. And that was it. I got the message. I stopped, though I’m sorry to say, the hardest thing for a man to do is to stop leering.
Merlin didn’t scream at me. She made what I needed to know clear. I loved her all the more and learned all the more effectively because of her gentle way. I became steadfastly faithful, and life could not have been any better. And because Merlin was so unique, I knew I was never going to look at another woman. It was more than being scared. I was cured. The leering lesson was a vaccine, and that’s how vaccines work—they enter your system and build your strength and immunity. I shouldn’t even have to say it, and yet I am ever so happy to state that straying from Merlin never occurred to me. She became my one and only.
The changes I made were either the easiest things I could do and/or they were extremely beneficial for me. It appeared to me that Merlin was always right. She certainly always said the right words to me. When she spoke, she said what I wanted to hear. Imagine living with someone who was always right. For that matter, she was never late. She just had it all together.
Time had a greater significance for Merlin. For starters, she liked to point out that, because the Goddess had been invisible for at least eight thousand years, we ought to add that many years to our present calendar. She published an article entitled “Repairing the Time Warp,” saying we actually lived in 9978 instead of 1978. Merlin mastered time, never rushing, always calm within her confident self.
“How many times have we ever been late?” I’d ask her.
“Never,” she’d say, indulging me.
“How about having to rush?” I’d ask, fishing for a compliment.
“We’ve never had to rush,” she’d reinforce for me.
“You’re stuck with me,” I’d say.
“We’re stuck to each other,” she’d lovingly assure me.
“Are we teammates, co-captains?” I’d ask her. I wanted to be partners with a one-woman gang.
“Always and forever.”
Oh my Goddess, what more could a fellow need to hear? I was completely open to everything else she wanted to teach me.
Most people thought we were married. We were together thirty-four years and five months. She was every bit my wife to me. I asked her if she wanted to do the ceremony. She didn’t want to. I would have been happy to get married. Imagine that—me, the guy I described at the outset, wanting, needing, hoping to marry Merlin. We truly didn’t need to. As far as I’m concerned, the Goddess not only married us, She was my best man.
Maybe it was because Merlin had tried marriage before and didn’t need to do it again. She said in a poem of hers that she was “appearing and withdrawing as the mood suited me.” As I mentioned earlier, neither of us liked social affairs—weddings, funerals, or other conventional rituals. We had a pact that we might go separately to a social function, if prevailed upon, and to spare one or the other of us having to go. So why would we expect to have some ceremony of our own? Almost all our Thanksgivings, Christmases, New Years, and other holidays were spent simply in each other’s company.
Merlin taught me what was important in so many ways. Imagine rejecting celebrity and, with that, a certain measure of wealth. She didn’t want our lifestyle to change. Instead, we lived the way we wanted. In fact, I willingly and happily accepted my role as her “consort.” That word has gained a bad reputation, but in the dictionary one finds three definitions: “A husband or wife; a companion or partner; a vessel accompanying another in travel.”
All of those work for me. I was particularly ecstatic to be an accompanying vessel.
One time, to vary our activities, we decided to drive across the country to find some charming, abandoned ghost towns. Merlin agreed, but only if we took the back roads. No charging down the interstate for her. Instead, there was Merlin with a map on her lap in some thirty-five-miles-per-hour zone. We would pick out odd locations to visit and spend whatever time we wanted there. The trip took more than three weeks, and we were thrilled with our cross-country adventure. By prior arrangement, Merlin always chose our lodgings.
She picked out some pretty strange, Bates-like, cheap motels. But you can’t believe how good a night’s sleep you can have in a little mom-and-pop motel, with a window open to hear spring peepers chirping in a nearby pond. Oh, to heck with the peepers! There was Merlin next to me with her head on my shoulder as we fell asleep.
In Kansas, we stopped for a break, and I saw a leather jacket in a thrift store. Hey, six bucks. But I didn’t buy it. We drove on, perhaps for another hundred miles, and Merlin could see I was mumbling.
“What’s up with you?” she asked.
“I saw this beautiful leather jacket I liked, but I didn’t buy it.”
“Well, don’t worry. We can get it when we drive back to New York.”
“There’s no way I will ever remember where the store is,” I complained.
“
Trust me,” she asserted. “We’ll find it. You’ll buy it.”
While driving back after weeks on the road and visiting her daughters in California, sure enough, Merlin instructed me to “turn here.”
“There’s the store you wanted,” she said. “Go buy the jacket.”
I still have that jacket in our closet. It reminds me of how Merlin was my original GPS system—the perfect voice telling me where to turn, the perfect guide giving me direction. She was my North Star. After she showed me the way, I was never lost again.
I never saw Merlin cry. Could it be? So much life and history we witnessed and shared. Merlin didn’t cry. I don’t know why. She also never complained. Why was that? She fell down in an Italian restaurant, on Prince Street, near our apartment. That was her first accident. She fell and couldn’t get up. That occurred in 1995.
In retrospect, that incident was probably the first sign of something sinister starting to overtake her. We had to call for an ambulance. She had broken her hip. It took her almost a year to recuperate. She didn’t cry. She didn’t complain.
Not long after her recovery, we were out with another couple and we hailed a cab. I got in next to the taxi driver. Merlin was stepping into the cab, and the driver actually started to drive off, partly dragging her so that she reinjured her hip. The incident had serious consequences. Not only were we not going out to speed-walk any more—something we had playfully pretended to do during our frequent walks—but all her physical activities slowed. While these circumstances were difficult, Merlin remained amazingly resilient, stoic, and optimistic.
The next fall happened in our apartment in 2000. The wires for my computer had never been tucked under the carpet or taped down. They had been there for years. She had never tripped on them before. I felt so guilty. She tripped and fell against my desk. She didn’t want to go to the hospital. Her arm and shoulder were swollen, black and blue the next day. We finally called for an ambulance. She had broken her arm and shoulder—four breaks in all. They said at the hospital that she needed surgery to fix things. Imagine, she didn’t even complain when the results of the surgery were not successful, leaving her arm partly immobilized for the rest of her life.
Merlin Stone Remembered Page 9
