LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMP Out: Fay's Rehoboth Journal - So When Does It Slow Down Around Here, Anyway? |
by Fay Jacobs |
Okay, I'm going to answer the big question. The one all our friends back in Maryland ask; the one folks who just weekend here ask; the one thing people mulling a move to Rehoboth really want to know: "What do you do at the beach all winter?" Do???? Why do I have a feeling they picture us camped on the sand, swaddled in goose down, waiting for Thrasher's to re-open? "Aren't you bored?" they ask. Bored? People cautioned us that things would slow down here in the winter. Really?? When? I'm busier than a lesbian at a barn raising. Okay, it's true. There are many fewer activities here than say, Washington, DC, but in Rehoboth, we do them all. Back there, I always meant to go to the film festivals, fundraisers, museums, concerts and work for the food bank, but somehow I never made it. Here, you can see 12 independent films, do a Breast Cancer benefit, read names on World AIDS Day, buy holiday crafts at the Art League, sing karaoke, have 50 cent tacos at Arenas, and still have time for the laundry. Of course, this year we had to get ready for our era's War of the Worlds humiliation: Y2K. Our parents may have mistaken Orson Wells' radio script for a Martian attack, but we're the ones up to our butts in flashlight batteries and water jugs. Future generations will guffaw. But wasn't it great having an excuse to lay in a stash of Snickers? Well, we're still here. Our computers didn't turn into two-slot toasters and nobody blew anything up. Well, no terrorists, anyway. Of course, with the world-wide pyrotechnics displays, maybe we missed it. Do you think there's a coven of hapless terrorists holed up in some fourth world country, pissed that nobody noticed their explosion at the Eiffel Tower? I hope so. Always up for a party, I set the alarm for 4:45 a.m. on December 31 so we could start toasting with the folks down under on Millennium Island. Groggy from sleep, Bonnie stared at the TV as native people danced the hula to welcome the next century. "Hmmfat people with short arms. Fay, I think we've found your clan." And you thought she was so nice. Only my own dawn-induced comaand her claiming the Snickers defensesaved her. By late afternoon, we had celebrated New Year's Eve nine times, making Peter Jennings my first male New Year's Eve date since 1978. Back in our own time zone, my clever friends rented a bus for the big night and arranged a multi-house progressive pig-out. We hopped aboard after the first stop, completing the crew of about two dozen women and my adopted son, the playwright. (He'll either write a hilarious show about Keanu Reeves trapped on a runaway bus with a gang of menopausal lesbians alternately opening and shutting the windows or wind up on a psychiatrist's couch talking about it.) So, the hooting, hollering, hot flashing All-Girl (almost) Magical Mystery Tour careened through Rehoboth, tooting horns, spinning noisemakers and resting assured that if the world came to an end at midnight Eastern Standard Time, we'd all be together. Heck, since the roly-poly natives made it to the 21st Century without incident some fifteen hours before, all that was left for us to do was eat, drink and be gay. Piece of cake. And a piece of everything else ever cooked, baked, shaken or stirred. From their strategic position on the beachokay, so there were some of us swaddled in goose downthe bus brigade rang in the New Year, made sure the ocean was Y2K compliant, and headed to Chez Bonnie and Fay for an "I-Survived-the-20th-Century" breakfast. Bagels and Piper Heidseik ain't half bad. But once we crossed over to the next millennium, life did not slow down. There were CAMP meetings, pottery classes and cocktail parties, locals nights at the movies, and so many cheap eats at Rehoboth restaurants I'm surprised the Super G food store didn't fold. A winter highlight was the surprise wedding shower for Cloud 9's John Berdini. Now if 20/20 or The Washington Post really wanted to check out Rehoboth's gay-straight alliance, this was the event to cover. Where else but here would a bevy of gay guys host a wedding shower for a straight manright down to making him wear one of those ridiculous hats made out of the bows from all the gifts. Of course, this particular hat was ab fab, with most of the other guests lining up to model the thing. As gift wrap littered the floor, a call came for assistance. "Can we get a trash bag? There's lots of trash here." "You're telling me!" cried the crowd... I understand that planners passed on a traditional bachelor party for fear of having to hire a female stripper when they really wanted the Chippendales. But they did pull off a well-executed toaster caper. By the time John unwrapped the third extra-wide appliancenow, now, I'm talking about a toastermischief was suspected, and by the seventh toaster, pandemonium ensued. Later in the week, the FBI probably found itself investigating the rash of toaster returns. Hey John, best of luck to you and Justinethe only thing I don't understand is why nobody crocheted you a toaster cozy. Meanwhile, this was mid-January and things still hadn't slowed down. With temperatures spiking near 70, the boardwalk was as crowded as September. Even when the thermometer did take a dive, life didn't stop spinning. Bonnie and I took the opportunity to stay indoors, paint, arrange the closets and install a new doorbell. Don't tell the ASPCA, but with the dogs' Pavlovian need to bark every time somebody comes to the door, we wreaked revenge on them, testing the bell incessantly and turning them into exhausted little lunatics. One night, as we sat watching the tube, even I wondered if the dreaded slowdown had finally befallen us. "Are we old fogies, staying home in front of the fireplace and WBOC-TV? Would we be at the Kennedy Center or Nordstrom's or Dupont Circle?" "Fay, it's eleven degrees out." So it was. And in typical Sussex County fashion, the weathercaster was saying, "Snow is on the way. Stay tuned for winter storm information. Some areas of the peninsula may get up to..an inch!" That's the beach for you. But truth to tell, I figured on more down time myself. By now I was sure I'd have four columns in the computer and several of my history project articles on my editor's desk. No such luck. In fact, as deadline for this column approached, Bonnie told me that I'd squandered my whole Letters break. Hey, I couldn't help it. Things were just hopping. In fact, things have been so busy, I looked out the window this morning and cheered. Snow was falling and there must have been, well, nigh on to three-quarters of an inch of the stuff on the driveway behind my four-wheel drive Subaru Outback. Whoopee! Snowed in. And there's still a stash of Y2K Snickers. I just love the beach. Author's note: Serves me right for trying to get this done before deadline...now it's the following Tuesday and we're up to our butts in ice and snowand we really are snowed in! I had to use the Y2K battery stash for my flashlight when our electric cut off...and those Snickers are goners!!!!! But even an ice storm at the beach is better than a good day anywhere.....hey, no it's not. I may love it here, but I'm not that nuts. Pass the ice scraper..... Fay Jacobs' CAMPOut, the 1998 winner of the Vice Versa Award for "Best First Person Column," is a regular feature of Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. Fay Jacobs is a member of the board of directors of CAMP Rehoboth. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 10, No. 1, Feb. 4, 2000. |