Fried & True (21 page)

July 2005

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

THE COSTUMES, THE SCENERY, THE BUG SPRAY, THE PROPS…

I knew my foray into golf had gotten out of hand when somebody called me a jock. Quick, phone
The New York Times
.

It had nothing to do with my actual golf skill, but that my golfing buddies didn't know enough to come in out of the rain.

We're on the course and it starts to drizzle, then rain, then pour. I expected CNN's Anderson Cooper to arrive to broadcast while being blown horizontal.

Several players gave up at drizzle and almost everybody was in the bar by rain. It was considerably into pour by the time I could drag my soggy butt off the course. That's what I get for playing with three serious golfers.

Meanwhile, this reporter cannot reveal her anonymous source despite the threat of jail, but I can divulge that the lounge conversation went like this:

Bonnie: “Oh my God, she's going to kill me.”

League Member: “Why?”

Bonnie: “I told her to leave her raincoat in the car.”

Another League Member: “You mean Fay Jacobs is still out there?”

Third league Member: “I know she is. Her tee shot bounced off the roof of our cart as we drove by.”

For the record, I was aiming in the other direction. But it did serve them right for rushing back to the clubhouse at drizzle.

So I drip into the bar, wringing wet, and somebody says, “I can't believe you stayed out there so long. What a jock!”

I may not be getting better at golf, but I'm having my Outward Bound.

Along with precipitation, golf offers intimacy with pestilence. Last week I was attacked by a swarm of horse flies the
size of Sea Biscuit. My teammates sprang into action and spritzed me with Skin-so-Soft and a shot of Deep Woods Off. Now there's a nice fragrance.

On the next hole I was informed that the previous week somebody had spied an electrical line wrapped around an adjacent tree. Wisely, they drove me past the site before revealing that the utility cable turned out to be a reptile. Oy, I was on an aversion therapy tour. Next week I'm expecting a plague of frogs.

At least I'm doing well in the accessory department. My fuzzy Schnauzer club head covers arrived. Call me if you ever need doggy hand puppets. Every once in a while their beards get top heavy on the clubs and a faux Schnauzer topples onto the fairway. I'm going to have to start offering a reward for their return.

And I have to say, the costumes are cool. Imagine my surprise on my maiden golf outing when I was given a glove monogrammed with a giant FJ. “You shouldn't have…” They didn't. Turns out that FootJoy manufactures golf stuff and everything I wear can have my initials on it. Cool. I now have FJ shoes, sox, and a ball marker. I'm looking for an FJ fly swatter.

Today, I came home and found a visor with a big FJ on the front hanging on my doorknob with a little note: “Got this for you. Has your name written all over it.”

Okay, eventually I have to tell you how I'm doing at the actual game of golf. Here's a clue. One week my quartet included a woman actively undergoing chemotherapy, a woman with arthritis who has had at least 18 joints replaced, and a woman with a prosthetic leg. They all played better than me.

Okay, to be fair, all three gals are experienced, superior players despite their challenges, but it does make one consider the point of continuing in the sport.

Although, golf is great exercise—especially for me. If four of us tee off, three golfers then jump in the carts to ride a hundred yards or more to their golf balls. Me, I trudge the fifty feet
to my ball and whack at it again. I rarely hit it far enough to even use the cart (my first off-road vehicle) and generally wind up walking most of the course. Yes, the exercise is going well indeed.

So I forge on. One day my companion sank a putt and I congratulated her on her birdie.

“Hey, you're getting the terms down!” she said.

“Language I get, it's sports where I suck.”

At my next lesson, my mentor made me change my stance, my grip, my swing, everything but my underpants. This was necessary because, how shall I delicately put this? My tits were in the way. We gals with large bingo bongos need to stand further from the ball so we don't interrupt our swing by whacking ourselves in the hooters.

I made the adjustment, stood further from the ball, took a good swing, missed my boobs, and sent the ball far enough to lose it in the wheat field next to the course. I'd need a hay baler and combine to find it.

But they tell me the shot was good, despite it costing me a stroke. Better to cost one than have one, I say.

In fact, this whole sports thing may have the desired effect of relieving my stress and giving me a hobby. I could turn into a jock yet. Stop snickering. Do you know any lipstick lezzies who would spurn White Diamonds or Chanel in favor of Deep Woods Off? Me, neither.

August 2005

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

GAY SLEEPAWAY

“Have you got a column ready for me?” my editor had the audacity to ask, one hour before the CAMP Rehoboth Follies started. Like I've had time to write anything.

And it was an especially risky question because he knew I could retaliate by tattling that when he asked, he was wearing a pink tutu.

Honestly, living in Rehoboth is like being at adult sleepaway camp. And I use the word adult loosely. If you've ever been to camp or heard tales of counselors, bunks, color war or dining hall etiquette, you may relate.

Here at Camp Runamuck we swim, go boating, have cookouts, do arts and crafts, play sports, have dances and do every damn camp-like thing except wake up with reveille and gather at the flagpole in the morning. Hold it. When I go to the boardwalk, I walk right past the flagpole.

Of course, back in the day, I was cranky as hell because I was sent to a co-ed camp. Worried that I wasn't boy crazy, my parents were probably the only ones hoping their daughter would climb out the bungalow window to sneak over to the boy's bunks. Little did they know I was suffering in silence with a crush on my counselor.

So just like my tortured past, here at our adult camp, we have separate boys' and girls' waterfronts (although there's a great amount of crossover), many co-ed activities (which I now love, go figure) and that mid-summer tradition, “Sing.” For the uninitiated, Sing is a competition, where different age groups present songs and skits making fun of various counselors, activities and camp lore.

I can recall sitting up late at night with my pals, re-writing popular songs with silly lyrics to take good-natured jabs at our friends and shared experiences. Wait a minute, that was last
week when I was re-writing popular songs with silly words for the CAMP Rehoboth Follies. And we made lanyards to hang pink triangles on our costumes.

Yup, the correlation between summer camp skit night, where we'd rehearse for two days and be willing to humiliate ourselves for a laugh has amazing resonance here. Just ask Tinky Winky, a.k.a. my spouse, who was drafted for Follies.

And speaking of the Follies, I have to report that the following morning in the dining hall…er, Crystal Restaurant, the Delmarva Divas ate their bacon and eggs with their Gold Barbie, won the night before, sitting on the table. Honest.

Actually, the old fashioned mid-twentieth century generic summer camp is probably extinct. Specialized camps are all the rage now, with computer camps, dude ranch camps, fat camps (the kind where you trim the fat as opposed to what's happened to me at adult camp) and of course, drama camp. We've got that one covered in spades.

I guess our corollary to Wilderness Camp is an overnight to Western Delaware.

I just read about a Hogwarts camp where Harry Potter maniacs can make potions by mixing Alka Seltzer and Jello. I don't know about you, but I just went to a party where Jello shots were available—that would be Jello and Vodka. We waited until morning for the Alka-Seltzer.

Ahhh, all those starry nights, with boys sitting around the campfire telling scary stories and girls sitting around the campfire gossiping. I think we reverse the roles around here, but we have horror stories and gossip to beat the band. No marshmallows, though.

Hey, remember lights out when the counselors yelled, “One more sound and I'm coming in!” Now we have a noise ordinance to deal with and our bars and restaurants get pretty much the same treatment. And just as we did as kids, we try to behave, but every once in a while….

And though I've never heard of Rehoboth bunk mates short-sheeting a friend's bed, I do not put it out of the realm of
possibility. Actually, it would be a great hint to guests who overstay their welcome. As for another tradition—camp Visiting Day—instead of once a summer, we have visiting day around here weekend after weekend after weekend. I wonder if I remember the correct technique for short sheeting?

Oh, we were so bad as teen campers. As a 16-year-old counselor-in-training I would run off with my friends to smoke Newport Lights (ptooey!) clandestinely in the bathroom stalls. Do we see any parallels here?

And while we don't have an official Color War, which splits the whole camp into two teams at the end of the summer, we do have our annual Drag Volleyball (how campy is that!) with its two rival teams inviting hundreds of campers to take sides and cheer.

We've come a long way baby from Kool-Aid and lousy camp food, but we're still happy campers. That's because along with our Rehoboth camp activities we have five star restaurants, legendary happy hours, and S'Mores.

Oh Lord, Kum-Ba-Yah.

July 2005

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

HEART OF THE COMMUNITY

The CAMP Rehoboth Community Center is now a reality. After a lot of planning, public input, lesbian processing, successful fundraising, gay guy decorating, and plenty of hard work, we and the bank now own two buildings, with a beautiful courtyard between them in downtown Rehoboth Beach.

The first time I went to a community center was over 25 years ago. Peeking out of my very musty closet, I'd traveled to downtown Washington, D.C. from the ‘burbs, heading for a place called the Women's Center. I correctly suspected that the name of the place was code for Lesbian Center.

What happened there is why I am here—in Rehoboth, in my long-term relationship, and possibly here at all.

I'd been in the D.C. area for over 15 years but had never driven downtown solo. D.C. intimidated me then and does now. There are four of every damn street. Northeast this and Southwest that. And those diagonal streets, names brimming with patriotism like Constitution and Independence Avenues, form trapezoidal mazes from which the only exit is a plunge into the reflecting pool by the Capitol.

Lore has it that D.C.'s ubiquitous traffic circles were designed by inebriated City Architect Pierre L'Enfant, who kept putting his sweaty beer mug on his map plans and oops, made a ring. “We'll call this one Dupont Circle….”

So there I was, in alien territory, seeking a place to feel comfortable. That first visit to a welcoming space set me on my way.

You have to kiss lots of Toadettes before you find your princess and go to lots of inappropriate venues before you find your niche. My Women's Center visit led me first to a lesbian square dance. Hee-Haw!

I sat pasted along a wall, watching 30 or 40 women dosey-do
in Dale Evans get-ups. While it wasn't my kind of thing, I got to see women enjoying being together as couples. Actually, I noticed many women in sleeveless shirts, who had obviously shunned underarm shaving (it was, after all, the late 1970s). Then and there I determined if I was coming out of the closet I was taking my razor with me.

The next event was a lecture on Women and the Outdoors—which to me, was that distance between the car and Macy's. These gals meant spelunking and backpacking.

I didn't know what was worse—hating myself for thinking I might be a lesbian, or hating myself because I hated square dances and mountain climbing and figured those were the only lesbian options. Geez, the gay community was just one more place I wouldn't fit in. So evolved was my internal homophobia, I thought it odd, or queer if you will, that a gay group held meetings at a place called The Ethical Society. Snicker, snicker.

But after a few more weird forays—a meeting on lesbians and depression (which, based on me, was redundant), a potluck where all the women but me dressed like Johnny Cash, and an unfortunate evening spent learning to play pool, things turned around nicely.

My Women's Center connections led me to a party in D.C. hosted by a friendly woman (remember this, there will be a quiz), where I met someone who invited me to an event, where I was introduced to another woman, whose friend lived near my home in the suburbs and…suddenly there were parties and dates and friendships.

To this day, some of the women I met that fledgling year are still dear friends. Incredibly, many of them now live in Rehoboth.

And the funny thing is, as I became more comfortable with myself and my new life, I became more adventurous and outdoorsy. After meeting Bonnie and getting to love both her and her passion for boating, I became one of those formerly daunting women and the outdoors. Although, I drew the line at camping.

My second community center experience happened here.

In 1995 Bonnie and I, knowing only a handful of people in Rehoboth, came to town by boat, docked just outside Rehoboth in Dewey Beach, and planned to spend summer weekends here. In our first week, Bonnie and I were subject to the rants of a homophobic chef at a Dewey burger joint. He spewed hatred with a side of fries. I was so upset I didn't know if I wanted to remain here for the summer.

I had seen the magazine
Letters from CAMP Rehoboth
and made my way to the tiny courtyard office with a letter to the editor I'd written. Though I didn't know a soul there, I received a warm welcome and immediate help. Not only did the editor run my letter, but he contacted Dewey officials who promised to look into the situation. I don't know whether it was the bad burgers or the community action, but the offending restaurant and its owner were soon gone.

Hearing we lived on our boat and had cruised here from Chesapeake Bay, editor Steve suggested I write about the trip for Letters. Before we knew it, I was a columnist, Bonnie was donating volunteer time for something called Sundance, and we were up to our armpits (shaved, of course) in both CAMP Rehoboth and Rehoboth Beach.

Within a year we were so deep in local activities, friends and the brother and sisterhood, we bought a condo here. From there, the ties CAMP helped us make, and the torture of crawling over the Bay Bridge every weekend, caused what would have been unthinkable a short time before: we ditched our corporate, dressed-for-success lives in Maryland and ran away to the beach. My father thought we were mental cases until he visited and began to see the liberating effect of our being able to live openly and proudly in our own hometown.

Fast forward. Hundreds of people gathered for CAMP's Community Center Founders' Circle fundraiser recently, producing palpable energy, genuine excitement and spectacular generosity.

Still, there are gay people in town who wonder why we
need to build a full-service community center. Based on some image conjured by the words “community center,” they may feel disinterested; not needing a place to play checkers; having no use for meeting rooms, a library, art gallery, or
Letters
office.

To them I say, please reconsider. Whatever physical shape the building takes, it really will be “the heart of the community.” More than a place to buy tickets, run a magazine, publicize events, hold meetings and welcome people who need help or companionship, it will be the future of gay Rehoboth.

To me, it will insure that Rehoboth Beach stays a gay friendly resort and hometown for all of us, even if we never attend a single event, meeting, or envelope stuffing party there. For everyone who loves Rehoboth, gay or straight, this community center will anchor the activities and atmosphere everyone enjoys in Rehoboth.

After all, years from now, when some homophobic goof ball makes insulting comments to some young gay man or lesbian just arriving in town, we want them to be able to head to the community center and discover what a safe and heartwarming hometown this can be.

And by the way, just last month I ran into the woman whose DC home had been the site of that lesbian potluck dinner so many, many years ago on my coming out journey. She and her partner have a place here now and I watched them joyously purchase one of the paintings auctioned at the Founder's Circle Ball. I guess that's why they call it a Founder's CIRCLE. What comes around goes around, and we want to make sure the tradition continues.