Time Fries!: Aging Gracelessly in Rehoboth Beach: Tales from Rehoboth Beach
Autor Fay Jacobsen Limba Engleză Paperback – 10 noi 2015
Fay Jacobs is back! Again! The author of the trilogy of humorous memoirs As I Lay Frying, Fried & True and For Frying Out Loud returns with more wise and witty recollections about contemporary life in general and more specifically life in Rehoboth Beach, a small resort town on the Delaware Coast. It’s provocative, political, occasionally heartwarming, and reliably hilarious.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781612940779
ISBN-10: 1612940773
Pagini: 224
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 mm
Greutate: 0.27 kg
Editura: BYWATER BOOKS
Colecția Bywater Books
Seria Tales from Rehoboth Beach
ISBN-10: 1612940773
Pagini: 224
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 mm
Greutate: 0.27 kg
Editura: BYWATER BOOKS
Colecția Bywater Books
Seria Tales from Rehoboth Beach
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Notă biografică
A native New Yorker, Fay Jacobs spent 30 years in Washington, DC working in journalism, public relations and theater. She is the former publisher of A&M Books, a successor to the legendary Naiad Press. Her first book, As I Lay Frying – a Rehoboth Beach Memoir (2004) is in its 4th printing. A second essay collection, Fried & True – Tales from Rehoboth Beach won the 2008 National Federation of Press Women Book of the Year for Humor. Her third book, For Frying Out Loud – Rehoboth Beach Diaries won a ForeWord Reviews Humor Book of the Year, a Goldie Award, Independent Publishers Award, American Library Association Over the Rainbow award and the 2011 National Federation of Press Women Book of the Year Award. Her most recent book Time Fries: Aging Gracelessly in Rehoboth Beach won the 2013 National Federation of Press Women Book of the Year for Humor. Her latest project is a reading, Aging Gracelessly: 50 Shades of Fay, which is currently being performed at GLBT events, conferences and in theatres around the country.
Fay teaches classes in humor writing, editing and memoir and has written for The Washington Post, Baltimore Sun, The Advocate, Curve Magazine and more. She lives in Rehoboth with Bonnie, her wife of 33 years, and a Miniature Schnauzer named Windsor.
Fay teaches classes in humor writing, editing and memoir and has written for The Washington Post, Baltimore Sun, The Advocate, Curve Magazine and more. She lives in Rehoboth with Bonnie, her wife of 33 years, and a Miniature Schnauzer named Windsor.
Extras
April 2012
CAMPFIRE GIRLS
Temperanceville? Really? Have you met me?
When RV-owning friends asked us to caravan for a weekend in Temperanceville, VA, the very name Temperanceville gave me the yips. Had the historic town, associated with the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, ever lifted its prohibition policy?
Hey, I’m a fair weather camper. Take away my Cosmopolitan and it’s just rehab with mosquitoes. I called the campground asking if evil liquor would be allowed to touch our lips there. From sounds in the background, not only was it allowed, it appeared to be encouraged.
Armed with a fully stocked bar and eschewing teetotalism, we set out along the Delaware coast, heading for the Mason-Dixon line. First stop in Virginia was Dixieland Gas. If the South rises again, it will be here. I’ve never seen so many Confederate souvenirs in my life, and tempting as it was, I opted against the Picket’s Charge tote-bag and went back outside.
There, the RV was as dead as Robert E. Lee. My mate sought jumper cables as I encountered a woman admiring our rig.
She: “I’ve always wanted an RV but could never afford one.”
Me: “You can have this one.”
We got a jump but needed not one new battery, but two. Apparently, lightning had struck one night recently and destroyed the under-rig battery, which, in turn, drained the one under the hood. I guess we lucked out the strike didn’t burn down the RV and the house with it. Or did we?
Me: “Do we have replacement value insurance?”
Mate: “Yup.”
Me: “Wow, that could have funded lots of five star hotels.”
When the nasty stare ebbed I learned something. An errant battery part had melted, requiring my spouse to use the firestarter gun to heat and shrink-wrap the rubber battery cable cover like a lamb chop for the freezer. As we stood, toasting the battery compartment, my fears about detonating our second largest asset were not calmed by the sight, next door, of the Miracle Tabernacle Church and Pawn Shop.
Eventually we hit Temperanceville, where the beautiful campground faced Pocomoke Sound, and we situated our traveling condos to make a private courtyard for folding tables and chairs, Schnauzer dog beds, and iPod speakers. I love camping.
Building a fire is outside my skill set so I fiddled while my companions tried to get Rome to burn. Across the way, a camouflage-wearing, beer-bellied Yeti look-alike pulled out a propane torch and whoooosh, instantly lit his campfire. Also his eyebrows. Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
Those folks were all finished barbecuing supper and themselves by the time our fire started to crackle. Fortunately, we’d already cooked our Kosher hot dogs on the electric griddle and beans in the electric crock pot. I love camping.
It does say something about our fluid commitment to renewable energy and recycling that we scrupulously separated all our beer bottles, but used disposable plastic liners in the crock pot. Well, it did save our personal energy.
There was an amazing full moon, as we sat around the fire, martinis in hand, anti-saloon league drop-outs telling stories of childhoods spent on the farm eating rhubarb pie, shucking fresh-picked corn and wringing the necks of chickens. Well, the other three did. Best I could offer was ordering chicken broth with matzo balls and wanting to wring the neck of the waiter who put his thumb in the soup.
Camper friend: “What kind of music is this?”
Me: “Hello, Dolly! .”
Camper Friend: “I don’t believe this.”
Me: “I love camping.”
We also discussed our comprehensive RV departure lists, always meticulously checked before heading out on a trip. Extra fuses, check; emergency food and drink, check; unhooking the rig from garage electric so we don’t drag the three-bedroom rancher with us, check.
At which point my cell phone rang (if a cell phone rings in the forest and there’s no one to hear it, are there still overage charges?). It was my neighbor telling me we’d left our garage door wide open. So much for checklists.
The night was still young but we were not, so pretty soon bed beckoned. Besides, there’s only so much fresh air with a hint of Deep Woods Off I can take. The next thing I know it’s dawn and my spouse comes back from a dog walk covered head to toe in thick brown mud, a veritable human sludgesicle. Seems that a squatting Schnauzer had the acrobatic fortitude to poop on the steep side of a hill by a drainage ditch.
A conscientious citizen, my mate bent to retrieve the specimen, lost her footing and, like a car crash dummy in a Kia, suffered a rollover into the ditch. And apparently, climbing back out required gymnastics, if not crampons and ropes. We saw forensic evidence of the struggle when we went to view the scene of the slime.
Camper friend: “Wow, it looks like a college football game was played in there.”
Camper friend 2: “I can see body parts sculpted into the muck.”
Me: “Yeah, fossilized forms like at the La Brea tar pits…”
We hosed off the accident victim (memo to self: add extra shoes and pants to checklist), spent a day at Chincoteague visiting the beautiful beach and wild ponies, had a fried seafood lunch along the ocean, then stopped for dessert. One of the homemade ice-cream choices was actually Chocolate Marsh Mud. We deferred to Rocky Road.
Then came a second glorious evening around the crackling campfire, chowing down on microwaved linguini and clam sauce, sipping white wine. I do not believe there is a Girl Scout badge offered for the making of this meal.
After dining, we offered dueling tales (thankfully, not dueling banjos) of farm animals and Broadway legends, along with copious anti-temperance league activities. And while the league may have succeeded in enacting Prohibition in the early 20th century, the term temperance originated to mean moderation in the indulgence of all the appetites. I know it was aimed at the first degenerates to sit around a camp fire making chocolate and marshmallow S’Mores.
Back at home, after a weekend of intemperate eating and drinking, it was tough to face the bathroom scale. Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
CAMPFIRE GIRLS
Temperanceville? Really? Have you met me?
When RV-owning friends asked us to caravan for a weekend in Temperanceville, VA, the very name Temperanceville gave me the yips. Had the historic town, associated with the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, ever lifted its prohibition policy?
Hey, I’m a fair weather camper. Take away my Cosmopolitan and it’s just rehab with mosquitoes. I called the campground asking if evil liquor would be allowed to touch our lips there. From sounds in the background, not only was it allowed, it appeared to be encouraged.
Armed with a fully stocked bar and eschewing teetotalism, we set out along the Delaware coast, heading for the Mason-Dixon line. First stop in Virginia was Dixieland Gas. If the South rises again, it will be here. I’ve never seen so many Confederate souvenirs in my life, and tempting as it was, I opted against the Picket’s Charge tote-bag and went back outside.
There, the RV was as dead as Robert E. Lee. My mate sought jumper cables as I encountered a woman admiring our rig.
She: “I’ve always wanted an RV but could never afford one.”
Me: “You can have this one.”
We got a jump but needed not one new battery, but two. Apparently, lightning had struck one night recently and destroyed the under-rig battery, which, in turn, drained the one under the hood. I guess we lucked out the strike didn’t burn down the RV and the house with it. Or did we?
Me: “Do we have replacement value insurance?”
Mate: “Yup.”
Me: “Wow, that could have funded lots of five star hotels.”
When the nasty stare ebbed I learned something. An errant battery part had melted, requiring my spouse to use the firestarter gun to heat and shrink-wrap the rubber battery cable cover like a lamb chop for the freezer. As we stood, toasting the battery compartment, my fears about detonating our second largest asset were not calmed by the sight, next door, of the Miracle Tabernacle Church and Pawn Shop.
Eventually we hit Temperanceville, where the beautiful campground faced Pocomoke Sound, and we situated our traveling condos to make a private courtyard for folding tables and chairs, Schnauzer dog beds, and iPod speakers. I love camping.
Building a fire is outside my skill set so I fiddled while my companions tried to get Rome to burn. Across the way, a camouflage-wearing, beer-bellied Yeti look-alike pulled out a propane torch and whoooosh, instantly lit his campfire. Also his eyebrows. Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
Those folks were all finished barbecuing supper and themselves by the time our fire started to crackle. Fortunately, we’d already cooked our Kosher hot dogs on the electric griddle and beans in the electric crock pot. I love camping.
It does say something about our fluid commitment to renewable energy and recycling that we scrupulously separated all our beer bottles, but used disposable plastic liners in the crock pot. Well, it did save our personal energy.
There was an amazing full moon, as we sat around the fire, martinis in hand, anti-saloon league drop-outs telling stories of childhoods spent on the farm eating rhubarb pie, shucking fresh-picked corn and wringing the necks of chickens. Well, the other three did. Best I could offer was ordering chicken broth with matzo balls and wanting to wring the neck of the waiter who put his thumb in the soup.
Camper friend: “What kind of music is this?”
Me: “Hello, Dolly! .”
Camper Friend: “I don’t believe this.”
Me: “I love camping.”
We also discussed our comprehensive RV departure lists, always meticulously checked before heading out on a trip. Extra fuses, check; emergency food and drink, check; unhooking the rig from garage electric so we don’t drag the three-bedroom rancher with us, check.
At which point my cell phone rang (if a cell phone rings in the forest and there’s no one to hear it, are there still overage charges?). It was my neighbor telling me we’d left our garage door wide open. So much for checklists.
The night was still young but we were not, so pretty soon bed beckoned. Besides, there’s only so much fresh air with a hint of Deep Woods Off I can take. The next thing I know it’s dawn and my spouse comes back from a dog walk covered head to toe in thick brown mud, a veritable human sludgesicle. Seems that a squatting Schnauzer had the acrobatic fortitude to poop on the steep side of a hill by a drainage ditch.
A conscientious citizen, my mate bent to retrieve the specimen, lost her footing and, like a car crash dummy in a Kia, suffered a rollover into the ditch. And apparently, climbing back out required gymnastics, if not crampons and ropes. We saw forensic evidence of the struggle when we went to view the scene of the slime.
Camper friend: “Wow, it looks like a college football game was played in there.”
Camper friend 2: “I can see body parts sculpted into the muck.”
Me: “Yeah, fossilized forms like at the La Brea tar pits…”
We hosed off the accident victim (memo to self: add extra shoes and pants to checklist), spent a day at Chincoteague visiting the beautiful beach and wild ponies, had a fried seafood lunch along the ocean, then stopped for dessert. One of the homemade ice-cream choices was actually Chocolate Marsh Mud. We deferred to Rocky Road.
Then came a second glorious evening around the crackling campfire, chowing down on microwaved linguini and clam sauce, sipping white wine. I do not believe there is a Girl Scout badge offered for the making of this meal.
After dining, we offered dueling tales (thankfully, not dueling banjos) of farm animals and Broadway legends, along with copious anti-temperance league activities. And while the league may have succeeded in enacting Prohibition in the early 20th century, the term temperance originated to mean moderation in the indulgence of all the appetites. I know it was aimed at the first degenerates to sit around a camp fire making chocolate and marshmallow S’Mores.
Back at home, after a weekend of intemperate eating and drinking, it was tough to face the bathroom scale. Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.
Descriere
A smart, funny, and poignant look at where we've been, where we're going, and how we live our lives.