PATRICIA E. MORAN, ASH, BSI
Remembering Patience Moran (BSI: Patience Moran)
by Evelyn A. Herzog
The Adventuresses of Sherlock Holmes have lost not just a founding member but the symbol of their wit and intrepidity. Pat Moran died on 12 March 1996, at age 48, after many years of medical adventures (as she termed them) resulting from juvenile-onset diabetes.
She was one of a bevy of irrepressible college girls in the late 60s who became friends over cola, cookies, and the Canon (not John Shaw’s famous recipe, to be sure, but the best that could be managed in the circumstances). Under the influence of the ensuing contact high, the group progressed from reading and researching the Canon to composing their own contributions to the Writings upon the Writings, corresponding with newfound kindred spirits, planning Sherlockian escapades (especially including the infamous picket of the B.S.I. in January, 1968), and generally turning themselves into a Sherlockian society which has prospered for three decades.
As the Adventuresses made the transition in the 70s from an inactive post-college group to an asylum (in all senses) for Sherlockian women, Pat shouldered more than her share of burdens: she hosted events (such as the “Quick, Watson, the Needle!” display of Canonically-inspired handworks); she conceived ASH’s logo (a magnifying glass casting as its shadow the women’s symbol); she encouraged novices to the cult; she underwrote projects for the chronically hand-to-mouth group; she mediated differences of philosophy among the members; she was always available on short notice to give a toast, hand out songsheets, write an article, fold flyers and stuff envelopes, lead the singing, give a talk, and generally make a fool of herself in public (one of the prime qualifications of the true ASH); for the last several years she also served as editor of The Serpentine Muse.
Pat’s years of membership in the Baker Street Irregulars were necessarily shorter, but she was proud to be one of the women given that honor and, as far as her health permitted, she provided the B.S.I. with her skills and humor. A frequent attendee at Sherlockian events around the country, Pat was a longtime member of local scion societies The Priory Scholars and The Montague Street Lodgers and a spirited participant in smaller clubs such as The Strangers’ Room and The Isle of Uffa Chowder and Marching Society. No one could surpass her as a raconteur of pawky everyday events (cat stories her specialty). Her quiet sparkle and her loving heart won her friends and well-wishers around the world.
Over the years her friends were appalled by the medical hardships Pat suffered and impressed by the courage and style with which she overcame them. Any visit with her at home or in the hospital invariably turned into a kind of giddy salon, with Pat the easy and self-effacing moderator. Intending to cheer her up, we were the ones who came away brighter. Now we must manage without her, hoping that we have learned her methods.
Some comments from M.E. Rich at the ASH Spring Dinner 2006:
The playwright Lillian Hellman wrote that “ you really only care what a few people think. Only they…will stand behind your chair, for good or bad, forever.” Pat Moran has been gone for a decade now, but she will always stand behind me. Her friendship, generosity, and compassion were cherished by many of us. But not everyone knows how deliciously snide she was, how quick with a quip, how her chortle was The Definitive Chortle. She had a kind of Roz Russell breeziness, with her trademark “Hiya kid” and snappy banter.
In college, we reveled in episodes of Star Trek and fortuitously dubbed her “Bones” after the acerbic Dr. Leonard McCoy, a name—and attitude—she savored. Pat earned her Master’s degree at the New School. Eventually she too moved to Boston, married, divorced, and then came back home to us in New York. Bones had great style and a glorious smile, infectious and buoyant. And here’s the unbelievable truth: we were friends for thirty years, from coeds to cohorts, and not one harsh word ever passed between us. Oh, we disagreed and we disapproved, but we never argued, and that’s a heartfelt testimony to her loyalty, patience, and equanimity.
While holding the silver bird aloft. We have photos, too, of the Uffan trip to the BBC to appear in an odd tribute to Holmes. I think we each got twenty quid and blew it on an Indian meal and a room party in our upscale Mayfair hotel.
Pat’s grin is a feature of many photos and many memories. I’ll say it again—she had a fabulous smile. Her worsening diabetes had to have brought her pain and apprehension, but you’d never have guessed that; she fought her illness until the day she received her dual kidney-pancreas transplant at NYU. She never faltered, despite the steroidal chipmunk cheeks, despite the increasing strain on her system, despite the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center—she descended eighty-six flights of stairs that February day. And she won through. With an irony that Bones herself would have appreciated, she died of an aneurysm that struck her without warning, completely unforeseen. Pat never knew what hit her and, for that, we are grateful beyond measure.
