Remembering Judy

by Candas Jane Dorsey

Judith Merril is dead.

Since Saturday morning, when I heard the news, I have been feeling the shock of loss. The absolute of death is unassailable, and leaves the living confused and existentially lonely.

Judy Merril is -- was -- a good friend of mine. I'd stay with her (despite the cigarette smoke!) in her tiny apartment sometimes, and we'd eat take-out Indian food and talk late at night about life, love, sex, art, intention. Sex and writing come from the same sources, we agreed, and so sometimes we told stories about our lovers, and sometimes heaped love on our stories.

Judy was also a colleague, mentor, role model and all those other personae: how tangled relationships become between the private and the public. We met after she included a story of mine in the first Tesseracts anthology, but what few know is that it was me, in my innocence and admiration, who suggested to Gerry Truscott that Press Porcepic, who later founded the Tesseract imprint for Canadian SF, approach Judy to edit their SF anthology. I didn't know that Judy hadn't edited an anthology for almost twenty years; I only knew about the many she had edited, many of which I had read in childhood and teen years as my father and I shared in reading as many of the library's SF books as we could carry home on Saturdays.

After the anthology came out, I found Judy in Halifax: I was at a Periodical Writers Association of Canada annual general meeting and she was at a Writers Union of Canada annual general meeting down the hall. I sought her out during the evening socials. She was dancing at the time. How appropriate.

When Elisabeth Vonarburg, Judy and I met in Toronto at the Harbourfront launch of Tesseracts the first, the first order of business, once the official programme was over, was a place to dance. Despite Toronto's boasts of cosmopolitanism, in 1986 they rolled the sidewalks up at 11:30 on a Saturday night: worse than my prairie hometown. Judy wasn't fazed, though: she took us to the home of friends who lived in an upstairs suite of one of those converted-to-businesses mansions on Yonge or Jarvis Streets, where despite the sleepy protests of the live-in finches we danced to reggae and blues far into the night.

Judy lived in the Epitome Apartments then. It's pronounced Eppih-tome to rhyme with home, and it's a building only a block from the new Toronto Public Library building which now houses the collection founded on Judy's collection of first editions, and now bearing Judy's name. But this is now: then, Judy lived on a shoestring budget in two crowded, vivid rooms furnished with eclectic ingenuity and full of creative energy. It was a short walk down the yellow-streetlit alley, past the Cecil Street community centre and over to the Kam Jug Yuen for the best Chinese food on the Spadina strip. Judy knew how to eat.

Judy had an appetite for life -- not just food, but all the other passions from which her writing and her joie de vivre sprang -- which never deserted her, even late in life when she was riding a cart to save her knees, recovering from a triple bypass heart surgery, and having cataracts removed. But that was later too, years later, after the Epi-tome home and the winters in Jamaica were only memories, and she lived with great joy and much more comfort in the wonderful Performing Arts Lodge on The Esplanade. When we first met, she was still dancing.

Still dancing. She was always dancing -- in her heart, if not with her feet. Dammit, I really miss her.

Let's see now. I was storytelling about 1986. Next, Judy organised the first SFCanada professional speculative writers workshop, on the Milford model she'd instigated in Milford, PA, decades before. She invited eight of us to Peterborough, Ontario, where we lived in two college residences, cooked nightly co-op meals, and turned each other's stories into shreddies. But we did so too tamely for Judy. "I really like this," someone would begin, "but...I'm having a little trouble on the second page. The characters, well, I'm sorry to say, they don't really work for me, the plot's, well, a little muddy, and, um, there are some other problems..." Finally, after the eighth 'I really like this, but...' Judy -- by then a proud Canadian for just over two decades -- exploded: "You Canadians are too fucking polite!" She was probably right, but we just couldn't help ourselves. Still, the first person to say, 'I really didn't like this...' got a round of applause. After the workshop I stayed with Judy for a couple of days, and she introduced me to the essential Toronto experience: Honest Ed's discount store. And we talked about sex and who was having some with whom. And about writing. And we probably went out to hear blues music, or to dance.

Many years later, in one of those peak experiences which anchor memory, Judy and I ate sushi with Ursula and Charles Le Guin in a Yorkville Japanese restaurant and discussed Canadian politeness: Ursula and Judy came from different American traditions, but both could relate under what circumstances it was impolite to be too polite -- something a nice white prairie crocus found hard to imagine. But I was quite willing to be instructed, and, in fact, trips to the United States have been much easier for me since then. Judy never stopped being exactly who she was, but she had a brilliant gift for respecting who others were, and building bridges of communication from one place of mind to another

The Merril Library was called the Spaced Out Library then. Judy had an office there for her lifetime, and it too was crowded with the documentation of a full life. There, she worked on her writing. When I first knew her she was still working on the giant novel which obsessed her for years. I remember when she gave up writing fiction. "It's the first time since I was nineteen that I haven't felt guilty," she told me, grinning. But she never gave up writing. Writing had propelled her life. Recently, Judy had been working on the memoirs of that full, delicious, sometimes tremendously difficult life: not, she insisted, an autobiography but memoirs, that much more literary, literate and non-linear term. Judy was never linear.

The memoirs, what I have read of them, were superb. Were thoughtful, beautifully written, heartbreakingly evocative; honest, true and fine. Not for her the sad litany of make-up secrets and date-book reconstructions into which many autobiographical writings decline: Judy's writing was the strongest, most vigorous, most delicate, most beautiful writing of her life: allusive, recursive, pellucid yet darkly layered. I hope it is published, complete or not: it would be the best memento mori that Judy could have.

I had written this much of my memorial to Judy when I answered the telephone to hear that my father had just died. I had already written about how he and I read SF together. Soon after I met Judy, my father and Judy met, in my home in Edmonton. At the dinner I threw for them all, Judy and my parents didn't get along, to put it mildly, despite Judy being closer to my parents' age than mine. The spirits which made each of them beloved to me did not endear them to each other. They both missed essentials in each other that I was able to see, to my good fortune.

In the few days since my father died I have experienced the terrible straitjacket of bureaucracy that keeps us from collapsing under the weight of loss. Now I not only feel for Judy's family but feel with them that terribly personal loss of source, of original parent, and the terrible necessity to put aside that loss to do the necessary housekeeping tasks death requires. In the last few days I have been overwhelmed with tasks, and unable to write more about Judy's career and achievements or about the things Judy had shared with me about her community, her home and family. Yet still, despite the overwhelming loss of my father, I am also remembering to feel keenly the loss of Judy, my friend. I am doubly in mourning.

I wish I could be in Toronto on Saturday September 20th to mourn her with other good friends; I will definitely be there on what would have been her seventy-fifth birthday, January 21, 1998, to celebrate her with all of her family and community.

© 1997 Candas Jane Dorsey

Memorials

Donations to the James Tiptree, Jr. Award in memory of Judith Merril may be sent to:

SF3/Tiptree
2825 Union St
Madison, WI 53704