by Fay Jacobs
He protested that he wasn’t frightened and I shouldn’t think that gay people in Rehoboth have gotten away with anything—that there are people out there that won’t let this town be destroyed by sick homosexuals and that we should all seek therapy and try to change. You are an enemy of the United States, he repeated, and you will not win, he was very, very quietly threatening. I said I was sad that he didn’t value and learn from the diversity around him, and hung up.
We couldn’t get a *69 number as he was a “private caller.” Of course he was.
I called CAMP Rehoboth’s Executive Director Steve Elkins and told him what had happened. He was horribly upset as well, counseling that if the man called again, it might be considered stalking, and the police might be able to trace the call. Steve told me that in all the years he has been a public figure with CAMP, he has never had a phone call like that. Anonymous letters, yes, but not a call.
I’d never received anything like this either, even with my more than 20 years as an openly gay writer and gay rights advocate.
So I called the police and reported the incident. The State Trooper I spoke with was very saddened to hear the story and sympathetic, but of course, we both knew there was nothing to be done. The anonymous call itself was not any kind of a crime. Further calls might be considered harassment or stalking and the officer gave me a case number should I hear from the man again. He figured I would not.
Needless to say, the incident set me and Bonnie on edge and ruined the night. But it told me a few important things: First, like Klansmen riding around in their hoods, there are people here who have to hide while spreading their vicious hatred.
Second, some of us, myself included, might be a little too complacent about our freedoms here. It reminded me why CAMP Rehoboth was formed in the first place and why it is so important for CAMP to continue sensitivity training programs, outreach to the greater community, and efforts to make friends and stop bullying, hate-speech, hate crimes and plain old bigotry. Dances and art shows are nice, but CAMP Rehoboth is so much more than the fun stuff.
And finally, this incident, rather than make me cower and hide, makes me more determined than ever to be out, proud and working for equality. There are so many gay people, along with our straight but not narrow allies, who live here, embrace Rehoboth’s diversity, and know we are all better for it.
July 2011
IN PUBLISHING, ONE THING HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE OTHER
I was out last night and several people asked me how my publishing company was doing.
“Great!” I said. Then I thought about it. So I decided to write this column as a window into the world of small publishing.
This summer, A&M Books, landed two finalist spots for the ForeWord Reviews’ Book of the Year Awards, and my book, For Frying Out Loud won in the humor category. I’m thrilled. Not only is the award from a field of thousands of independently published books, but it was in a mainstream, and not just LGBT, category. I love that.
While I’m amazed and honored that the only two books tiny A&M published this year have both been recognized, visions of sugar plum fairies and enormous book sales are not exactly dancing in my head.
It’s like my mother’s stock answer when, as she was arguing with me, I raised what I deemed to be a valid negotiating point.
“One thing has nothing to do with the other,” she’d say. And after all these years, it seems Mom was right. One thing really has nothing to do with the other.
As A&M Books’ publisher I run a teeny tiny independent publishing house (and, as you know, it really is my house). The garage is the Rehoboth book depository, my spouse is fulfillment manager, and my Schnauzers are security.
And, as many readers also know, A&M Books has quite a history. The original owners were Anyda Marchant and Muriel Crawford (hence, A&M). Anyda wrote early lesbian fiction under the name Sarah Aldridge and the women, along with another couple, started Naiad Press in 1973. It became the largest lesbian/feminist publishing house in the world.
In 1995 Anyda and Muriel left Naiad (which is since defunct) to form A&M Books. When these two brilliant and fun women passed away in 2005 (Anyda at 95, Muriel at 93) they left me A&M Books.
All fourteen Sarah Aldridge novels were still in print and still selling, and my first book As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth Beach Memoir, was heading toward a second printing. A&M was on a roll.
However, the bank account I inherited had about $11 in it. Apparently, one thing had nothing to do with the other.
It’s six years later and we got word last spring that our two 2010 books won their respective categories for Delaware Press Association Books of the Year. The winners were my latest book and The Carousel, a wonderful contemporary novel by Stefani Deoul. The Carousel also just won an IPPY (another independent publishers award) Bronze Medal for LGBT fiction. Fabulous!
In contrast, the A&M bank account is shamefully over-drawn. Once again, one thing has nothing to do with the other. Well, in this case, it might have. I overdrew the account with the check for the Awards ceremony.
Bank fees aside, I’m having a great ride. My first book is in its third printing, having sold about 6,000 copies. Books two and three are doing well. But there are staggering costs of small, small publishing.
No matter the freight, I don’t mind shipping books to independent bookstores. I’m happy they are surviving. But Amazon is another story. It’s bad enough to pay a couple of bucks each to print the books, but add priority rate postage and Amazon’s diabolical habit of ordering one book each for four different warehouses, and it’s appalling. Oh, I forgot the $1.14 for the padded envelope. I’m lucky I’m not writing from a padded cell. Amazon stats up, net worth down. One thing has nothing, etc.
So here I sit, two cars turning into rust buckets on the driveway and a garage stacked with towering pallets of books. I’m drowning in sell sheets, backorders, and bubble wrap. My den is my distribution center, with books four feet high and purchase orders, packing tape, and the ubiquitous bubble wrap filling every available crevasse. In the clutter I can easily lose a Schnauzer. Those Clean House reality show people would take one look and burst into tears.
So, all these awards and good reviews are a great reward. I love that Facebook, blogs, and web pages are lit up with colleagues from other, bigger independent publishers congratulating me along with their own nominated authors.
Equally lit up are the little flashing parenthesis around the numbers on my online bank statement, noting the A&M Books account deficit. Yes, yes, it seems that one thing may have something to do with the other after all.
So how’s the book biz coming? I’m having a blast and sometimes all this fun costs more money than the press makes. But what the hell. It’s like the classic circus sanitation worker who follows the elephants with a shovel. “Why do you do this dirty work,” he’s asked. You know the answer: “What? And give up show biz?”
For me, it’s “What, and give up the book biz?” I’m committed to keep shoveling.
Looky here. I just got a purchase order from Amazon for a whopping seven books to be sent to four separate warehouse destinations. I’m going to have a martini now. One thing has absolutely nothing to do with the other.
July 2011
DON’T HASSLE ME, I’M LOCAL
Can I bitch?
I was driving on Rehoboth Avenue yesterday when the car in front of me screeched to a stop, punched his flashers and sat behind a car with its trunk flung open. Clearly a visitor. Now you and I, but obviously not the fellow in the double parked car, know that an open trunk is a sign of, well, an open trunk. And it often bears no relation to whether people are packing up to leave the parking space.
So the light is green, but nobody can go because this yutz is waiting in case a space opens up this millennium. Finally, after stowing strollers that look like steam rollers, kites, boogey boards, coolers and a little league team, car number one tries to pull out, but car number two is camped behind it with nowhere to go because c
ars me through ten are grid-locked. Amid the sonata for horns, everybody misses their dinner reservation. Sometimes I wonder if vacationers leave their brains and manners back home with the cat.
I love the Saturday Night Fights. People drive around, see a vacant parking space and drop off the frailest person in the car to stand in the spot until the vehicle can come back around the block to claim it. Naturally, in the interim, six football players in a steroid rage drive up in a Humvee, leaving grandma to defend her position. Trust me, chivalry is as dead as Richard Nixon.
I actually witnessed somebody almost run over a tween saving a spot for Daddy’s Caddy. It’s like Armageddon out there, with Category 6 screaming matches. Mind you, these are the same people who jog up and down the boardwalk and run 10ks. God forbid they’d have to walk a block and a half to buy taffy.
Our traffic circle on the way in and out of town is another crime scene. The circle actually works pretty well for anybody who reads the sign “Yield to traffic in circle.” What part of IN CIRCLE don’t they understand?
Cars race to the circle and play chicken with drivers coming around from their left, like a round of bumper cars. If drivers entering the circle do yield, they often don’t know when to come out of their coma. Here’s a tip. If there’s room for two Budweiser trucks and a team of Clydesdales between you and the car coming around the circle, move it.
Conversely, some fool is IN the circle but sees a car approaching and stops to let it in. Like lemmings, every car downtown now floods the circle and the goofball who stopped can cancel his hotel reservation because he’ll still be sitting there by morning. Chivalry is as dead as Herbert Hoover.
Of course, our visiting pedestrians can disrupt traffic brilliantly as well. Throngs of aggressive jaywalkers, pushing fleets of baby strollers leap into the streets whenever they feel like it, making the screech of tires as ubiquitous a summer sound as chirping sea gulls. Yesterday I saw a man holding a pizza box with the lid up, eating a slice as he tried to cross the road. Do you want a seeing eye dog with that pepperoni?
And what’s with the befuddled curb huggers, forgetting that green means go and red means stay. Nightly, they do the “should I stay or should I go?” dance on the corner, with their choice bearing no relation to traffic signals. It’s like whack-a-mole in the street, only nobody gets a stuffed bear.
Down here, on the sand behavior is even worse. I see people arriving in moving vans, setting up the Kennedy compound, with pop-up shelters, portable gazebos (with mesh ventilating panels) beach cabanas, collapsible tables and industrial sized coolers. I love the ad for the cabana with a zippered door, offering “to keep out the sun and the sand.” If I wanted to keep out the sun and sand I’d be on a bar stool on Baltimore Avenue.
And then these homesteaders plop their village directly in front me, not five feet from my chair. Seriously people. 15-feet of sand is the demilitarized zone.
Have you seen the new 8-foot umbrellas that could shelter half of Haiti? One good gust and the things will be in Portugal. Oh, that’s right, they come with anvils on the bottom to anchor them. And don’t forget the laptop and video games. It’s the beach, people, bring a towel, a hat and a book (preferably, mine).
And these same imbeciles have no concept that at some point, given that the moon revolves around the earth, the tide will come in. They always look so shocked and expect us to move back, or worse, welcome them into our family. Am I rude not to want strangers’ butts scooting onto my towel?
And what’s with those footballs that make noise? Tossing a pig skin I can understand, but one that whistles Dixie is just annoying.
And while time flies when you are having fun, sand flies when your kids run in flip flops around my head. Leaving the beach? Check which way the wind is blowing. I know you want to shake out your towel, but I don’t need a complimentary dermabrasion. Well, maybe I do, but that should be my decision.
Look, I want you to enjoy your Hip Hop and Country Billy music, but stick it in your ear. Personally, I’d rather hear show tunes but you wouldn’t want me to subject your posse to Les Miz, would you? And of course, do not feed the sea gulls. When you go home we’re left with gulls dive bombing us like we’re Tippi Hedren in The Birds.
And finally, the reason dogs are not allowed on our boardwalk during the summer (they are allowed in areas of the beach at the state park and for that I am grateful), is directly related to the lady with a fluffy poodle who read the No Dogs on Boardwalk sign and sashays onto the boardwalk anyway. A police officer sees her, and she says “I’ll just hold her.” He tries to be nice, smiles and looks the other way.
Then the woman puts Fifi down to make a Great Dane-sized deposit on the boards, leaving without picking it up. Chivalry is as dead as Rin Tin Tin.
Okay, I know my town owes a world of gratitude to our wonderful visitors, but look, it’s 104 degrees out and I’m grumpy. I will now drag my little beach chair down to the water and try to cool off. Ahhhhh. There, there, I’m better now. Thanks for indulging me. And come to the beach. I know you’ll behave.
July 2011
STAYCATION
If global warming is not happening, I’m Nanook of the North. It’s a 100-degree day in July and I am homeless. Not that I’m sleeping in a cardboard box in front of Walmart, but technically, for the week, I have no home.
For a combination of good reasons, my July vacation was moved to August, after I rented my house out for the July dates. So here I am, on a day with a 110 degree misery index, dehydration warnings, and Route One pavement-buckling, sitting in my RV encamped at the Steamboat Landing RV Park just a few miles from my occupied home.
Outside my rectangular aluminum shelter, roads are melting, steam rises from the sand, and you can charbroil a hamburger on the dashboard of my car. As we lay frying, indeed.
So we decided to have a bit of a staycation, venturing outside of Rehoboth just a bit, to see if it was cooler in the hinterlands.
For me, that’s a little like going into The Forbidden Zone in Planet of the Apes. For over a decade, as I worked promoting downtown Rehoboth, I always felt a bit traitorous dining in Lewes or exploring the M-towns (Milford Millsboro Milton) which took me a decade to tell from one another in the first place. In fact, if I did grace Second Street in Lewes or Federal Street in Milton, somebody would invariably spy me and holler “Oh, I didn’t know they ever let you out of Rehoboth, he-he-he.” It was easier to stay downtown. Even having retired from my tourism work, old habits die hard.
But this week, with license to roam, I got to hot-foot it (literally, given the weather) around the area, including Lewes, its downtown, its Historical Society and the Saturday Farmer’s Market. As somebody who never saw a tomato out of cellophane until I was 30, had no idea carrots grew in the ground, and rarely made anything myself except reservations, this was a revelation. I bought a giant tomato that was actually bright red and checked out the artisan cheese, which apparently is now an art form. Van Gogh sold me the most fabulous stilton.
But by far, my favorite diversion of the Staycation was the Delaware State Fair.
On the way to Harrington, wending our way past Cricket Hollow and McCauley Pond, we passed a funeral home with a flashing sign shouting, “Save the Date!” Really??? Now I’m sure it was announcing some kind of community bus trip or something, but I sure as heck didn’t want to stick around to find out.
How can I sum up the Delaware State Fair experience? I have never seen so many t-shirts with Confederate flags, John Deere tractors or beer slogans on them in my life. A personal favorite: “On a Beer Day You Can Pee Forever.”
I’m sure fair officials strategically bring everyone in through the miracle mile of junk food, which is where we headed first, sharing a staggering array of shish-kabobs, pulled pork, corn dogs, cheese fries and other health foods. I’m surprised the Midway didn’t have an angiogram ride.
It was a good thing we ate first since after spending considerable time in the cow and swine barns, I was a vegetarian
by the time I got out. At the goat pens I learned the origins of the phrase “butting heads,” and over with the sheep I got to utter my idea of writer’s humor: “I love ewe.”
And the noise! I haven’t heard such booing since Spiderman opened on Broadway. Between the bleating and baaaahhing I thought I was at a session of Congress. I struck up a conversation with a prize-winning Nubian Goat who seemed to be calling Faaaaaay.
Outside the barns we stood to listen to The Citizens’ Hose Company of Smyrna. Here was this awesome marching band, big and brassy, pumping out patriotic songs by the tuba-full. What fun! Although, given the heat, I worried that the horn players might set their moustaches on fire. I stood by with a cold lemonade, just in case.
Over at the produce exhibit, there were home-grown, prize-winning spuds and a giant bell pepper that looked like Henry Kissinger. Cinderella and her posse could have ridden in the blue-ribbon pumpkin and I was endlessly fascinated by the array of frighteningly phallic zucchinis. Now that’s a vegetable.
Add in the Hollywood Racing Pigs, the carnies shouting “Every time a prize!” and the giraffe at the petting zoo, the Fair theme of “Come be a kid again!” worked for me.
For a while. The old gray mare, not being what she used to be, wilted pretty fast in the heat. At about Beer:30 Fair time, we headed off to our ersatz home, the rectangular aluminum estate. And by morning, as we traversed the scorched earth to the camp store for ice, it was still like walking through a blow dryer. Then we got the call. Our renters were heading home a day early and we could reclaim our territory.
With the dashboard thermometer registering 106 degrees, and weekend forecasts promising more of the same, we stopped to buy a three-ring inflatable pool for the deck. No diving.
So there I sat, up to my belly button in cold water, adult beverage in hand. Be it ever so humbling there’s no place like home. Although, I’m disappointed that we didn’t get to Laurel’s Mr. Pepper’s Pumpkin Patch & Sorghum Maze. Well, there’s always next year.
