Obituary
Trailblazing Maine lawmaker Lois Galgay Reckitt dies at 78
State representative co-founded HRC Fund, fought for domestic violence survivors
After spending many happy summers at Goose Rocks Beach in Maine, Lois Galgay told her mother when she was 7 that she wanted to move to Maine. Her mother suggested she wait until she grew up.
She waited, but she did end up in Maine in her 20s and became the fiercest advocate for woman and children the state has ever seen, her decades-long advocacy ending only with her death from cancer Oct. 30, 2023, at the age of 78. Maine recognized her achievements by inducting her into the Maine Women’s Hall of Fame and the Deborah Morton Society, and by giving her awards for her seminal work on domestic violence. The judicial system, the state bar association and the police chiefs’ association all honored her.
But she also was a leader on the national stage. The headline in Ms. Magazine after her death read: “Rest in Power: Lois Galgay Reckitt, Trailblazing Feminist Activist.”
Eleanor Smeal, an activist since the 1970s who was once called one of the most influential women in America, wrote these words in the magazine: “Lois Reckitt has not only been an inspirational leader for women and girls in Maine, but also nationwide. Lois was a champion for the Equal Rights Amendment both for the United States Constitution and the Maine Constitution. She was a leader in the National Organization for Women and a national leader in the fight to end violence against women and girls. I had the good fortune to work with her closely when I was president of the National Organization for Women, and she was the executive vice president. She worked for women’s rights until the time of her death and was very proud that she had just passed historic legislation in Maine to end sex trafficking.”
Reckitt was on NOW’s national board for 15 years and from 1984 to 1988 was executive vice president. She was elected to the position, and pursued the work with a vengeance, working 60 to 70 hours a week. She also served for eight years on the national board of the Human Rights Campaign Fund, a political action group she cofounded and replicated in Maine. She was a member of the National Coalition to End Domestic Violence for many years.
She is listed in “Feminists Who changed America ’63-’75.”
Reckitt grew up in Massachusetts, an only child and the daughter of parents who both were polio survivors. She came to Maine by following her husband, who was stationed in the Coast Guard in South Portland. She said she had no clue she was a lesbian at that time. That truth came to her during two marriages, and in due time she came out and became a champion for gay rights.
She was preceded in death by her father, George A. Galway of Winthrop, Mass., and her mother, Marjorie Lewis Wright of South Portland.
She is survived by Lyn Kjenstad Carter, her loving partner/wife of 20 years; stepdaughter, Barbara M. Carter-Eide, son-in-law, Pala Carter-Eide, stepdaughter, Crystal L. Hartford; five grandchildren; and many cousins in the Galway and Wright families.
She was not only a national leader on domestic violence — she was a true leader in Maine. She founded Family Crisis Shelter, which became Family Crisis Services, now Through These Doors, and headed it for more than three decades, taking time out for her work in Washington, D.C. When she returned to Maine, she was exhausted and said she would do nothing but sleep for six months. But she resumed her work, heading an agency with a $1.4 million budget, a staff of 30, three outreach offices and a battered women’s shelter. At the forefront of efforts to stop domestic abuse and help its victims, she lobbied for stronger laws and more aggressive enforcement of them. She raised public awareness of the magnitude of domestic abuse while lobbying successfully for anti-stalking legislation, a domestic violence homicide review panel and gun control measures for abusers.
She worked not just to pass laws but to help police, prosecutors and judges better understand domestic violence and the harm it caused. “Her approach rested on her belief that people want to do what is right and just, and that most people will respond better to a victim’s needs if that person has knowledge of the dynamics of domestic violence,” said retired Judge Michael Cantara, a longtime friend.
Reckitt led many groups, but sometimes had to create them first. Maine’s NOW chapter, the Maine Right to Choose, the Maine Coalition for Human Rights and the Matlovich Society for Gay Rights and AIDS Awareness were among the organizations that were created, in whole or in part, by her. Forty-five years ago, she and eight others, including now-Gov. Janet Mills, founded the Maine Women’s Lobby. Destia Hohman Sprague, current Women’s Lobby executive director, said Reckitt “set such a profound example of what it is like to work on an issue, to follow your heart and to work on an issue in every possible way. She never gave up working as an activist and then a policy maker, and I just admire that so much.”
State leaders lauded her on her passing, calling her a trailblazer, a feminist icon, a hero, a modern pioneer and “a truly remarkable person.”
“Lois never stopped trying to make our state better for everyone,” said Mills, who went to her home to swear her in for her last legislative term. “She was a dear friend, and I will miss her deeply.”
Reckitt knew her work would take endurance, a requirement that may have tested her mettle, but she never gave up. She introduced an Equal Rights Amendment in the Maine Legislature three times and was rebuffed every time. She helped create the coalition that put forward the first gay rights bill in Maine. She and other activists thought it would take 10 years to pass a law. It took 25. She could find only two sponsors. One was Gerald Talbot, the first black man elected to the Maine Legislature. To learn more about gay rights, Talbot went a bookstore to get a book. “They wouldn’t take the money out of his hand because they thought he was gay,” Reckitt recalled. The incident showed the difficulty they were up against. Reckitt provided the lead testimony on the bill, but even though no one spoke against it, it failed.
She came out at this time, but minimally. She decided to stay closeted until the first campaign was over and came out afterwards at the farmhouse of a straight friend in Newcastle. Gay rights were in her playbook from that moment on. Working with a gay man who was dying of AIDS, she founded a group that provided a safe space for gays and lesbians to gather, a way of lessening their isolation. It began with six or seven people and soon mushroomed to be as many as 150, some driving hours to get there. She would be a pallbearer at the man’s funeral.
Despite the intensity of her work to fix things that were broken, she wasn’t a rabble rouser — she tended to work behind the scenes — but she was arrested twice, once while protesting apartheid at the South African embassy in Washington. She jumped into the national fray again when the national gay rights movement went to Washington to protest Reagan’s inadequate response to the AIDS crisis. In an oral history interview, she was clearly dismayed that Reagan had never spoken the word AIDS. “Reagan was such a ditz,” she said.
Outside the White House, she protested in the prosaic way it was done in those days: sitting down and refusing to move. Sixty-seven people were arrested. She was the first, “not because I was particularly outrageous or anything” but because of the way the protest was set up, she said in her oral history interview. She claimed to have “the odd distinction of being the first women in the U.S. arrested by police using those Playtex rubber gloves,” which they used to “reach down my pants to see if I was carrying who knows what.”
She had widespread interests, including her Irish ancestry. She knitted, quilted and did needlepoint, traveled extensively, taught swimming and biology, played basketball in college. Most importantly, she loved the Boston Red Sox and Celtics.
In seeming contradiction to her life’s work, she received college degrees from Brandeis University in biology and from Boston University in marine biology and biological oceanography. But she said her scientific education taught her how to approach things in life.
“She loved the sea, and she loved that she lived only steps from the beach,” said longtime friend Lee Umphrey. “She liked to say her legislative district was on the ocean side of South Portland.”
She once said the three loves of her life were the women’s rights movement, the lesbian rights movement and the movement to end violence women. “I have lived an interesting life,” she said.
“Lois came of age when the civil rights movement, the environmental protection movement, the anti-Vietnam movement, the anti-apartheid movement, and the equality for women movement were front and center,” said Cantara, the retired judge. “She chose to become a lifelong engaged citizen who advocated for the poor, the marginalized, the forgotten, the dismissed. She took her legislative duties very seriously. She was working on legislative matters up to two days before she died.”
She even participated in a national conference from her hospital bed, one that focused on her pioneering Maine work to end sexual exploitation. In appreciation, the National Center on Sexual Exploitation gave her the Dignity Defense Award. “To the very end, Lois was in the saddle championing equality,” Umphrey said. “She gave it her all until the end.”
But in her 1999 oral history interview, she wondered what her life would add up to. “One of the things I’ve been concerned about my life is to not have my life disappear,” she said. “I figure somebody will remember sometime that I set foot on the planet. I’ve done a lot of good stuff. I know that, and I figure I’m only half done.”
A celebration of her life took place on Nov. 12, at the Maine Irish Heritage Center in Portland. Reckitt had been on the center’s board and its treasurer.
In lieu of flowers, donations are suggested to:
Through These Doors at
737-234-6464; OR
The Maine Irish Heritage Center,
34 Gray St.,
Portland, Maine, 04112-7588
207-780-0118
Obituary
Beloved D.C. ‘Old Catholic’ Bishop Charles Braun dies at 86
Gay church leader offered spiritual support to LGBTQ community
The Rt. Rev. Charles “Charlie” Braun, who served since 2001 as Bishop of the D.C.-based Inclusive Catholic Diocese of the Chesapeake Bay and as founding minister at the affiliated LGBTQ supportive St. John’s Inclusive Catholic Community of D.C., passed away Aug. 3 at the age of 86.
Write-ups about Braun’s life and legacy as a progressive religious leader report that the Inclusive Catholic Diocese of the Chesapeake Bay and St. John’s Inclusive Catholic Community are part of the “Old Catholic” movement, which is a partial break-away church from the Roman Catholic Church.
“St. John’s parish was founded with and continues with the special calling to reach those who had been hurt by other church denominations,” a statement on the St. John’s website says.
“St. John’s welcomes all without exception, with particular care for members of the LGBTQIA+ community who have suffered abuse and rejection elsewhere, offering them contemporary scriptural and theological guidance grounded in an ancient faith tradition made to work in the 21st century,” the website statement says.
It notes that until the time of his passing, Braun, among other things, performed the St. John’s Inclusive Catholic Community’s weekly Sunday mass at its headquarters location at 3417 14th St., N.W. in the city’s Columbia Heights neighborhood. The location is in a converted townhouse owned and operated by the LGBTQ supportive Dandelion Collective, which provides support for the local LGBTQ community.
Rev. Stephen F. Scott, the current pastor at the D.C. St. John’s Catholic Community, said Braun is a native of Bucks County, Pa., and studied to become a priest at D.C.’s Catholic University’s Marist House seminary, where he was ordained as a Roman Catholic priest in the 1960s.
Scott told the Washington Blade that Braun was then assigned as a parish priest at St. Michael’s Catholic Church in Wheeling, W.Va. The St. John’s Catholic Community website write-up says Braun directed that church’s choir “and formed friendships that lasted lifetimes.”
The website write-up continues, “Bishop Charlie left the Roman Catholic priesthood but never left ministry. He found a new spiritual home in the Old Catholic movement, where he was consecrated a bishop and became a beloved unapologetic voice for its theology and tradition.”
It says he began his service as Bishop of the D.C.-based Inclusive Catholic Diocese of the Chesapeake Bay in October 2001 and later founded the St. John’s Inclusive Catholic Community, both of which he led until the time of his passing.
“In Washington, D.C. Bishop Charlie became especially well known and cherished within the LGBTQ+ community, offering compassionate pastoral presence, ordaining and mentoring candidates for ministry, and reminding all who knew him that ministry does not end when circumstances change – it simply takes new forms,” the website statement says.
Rev. Scott confirmed reports by people in the LGBTQ community who knew Braun and who told the Blade the man they knew as Bishop Charlie visited LGBTQ supportive bars and restaurants in D.C., including the Dupont Circle area, to perform religious services and offer spiritual support for LGBTQ people.
“Charlie spoke so much about the importance of loving and welcoming, especially gays, lesbians, transgender Catholics and Christians and meeting them where they were,” Scott said. “So not expecting people to come to a full-on church building, he would go in his evenings and enjoy a drink or have a meal, whether it was Dupont Italian Kitchen, Floriana, or any of the neighborhood gathering places in the queer community,” Scott told the Blade.
“If there was a couple that would come to talk to him and wanted to get married, he would arrange with the couple to have the ceremony at their venue of choice,” according to Scott. “He would have weddings, confirmations, baptisms at those locations because that’s where the community felt comfortable.”
A Mass of Christian Burial was held for Bishop Charles ‘Charlie’ Braun on Saturday, Aug. 22, at the LGBTQ supportive Lutheran Church of the Reformation located in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. Scott said the church was selected because it offered a larger space for the service than the St. John’s Inclusive Catholic Community location in Columbia Heights.
Actor Tim Curry died at his home in Los Angeles on Tuesday.
Curry has a career spanning decades that included roles on the stage and screen. With an unmistakable voice, he also leaves behind a large body of voice work in animated features and video games. Curry is perhaps best remembered by LGBTQ fans for his performances in camp classics, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” and “Clue.”
“Rocky Horror” (1975) became an underground cultural phenomenon of gender-bending joy.
To this day, fans meet at late night movie theaters dressed in costumes of their favorite characters, including as Curry’s Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Such gatherings gave permission for fans to play with gender expression, which could be particularly important for LGBTQ fans in more repressive times and places.
“… It became a gathering point for LGBTQ+ people. For punks, for goths, for anyone who felt marginalized or othered by society,” screenwriter, producer, and filmmaker Michael Varrati told the Washington Blade in September 2025 interview on “Rocky Horror”‘s lasting legacy. “When you walked through those theater doors, you belonged, and everybody accepted you, and the thing that made you feel like a freak was celebrated.”
Curry was also known for roles under heavy prosthetics, such as Pennywise the murderous clown in Stephen King’s “It,” or as the demon-horned Darkness in “Legend.” Always shining through any mask was Curry’s signature mischievous voice.
With the passing of Dolly Parton, a fellow LGBTQ icon, one can expect many tributes to Curry and Parton at drag shows and music events at LGBTQ venues in the coming nights.
Pitchers DC (2317 18th St., N.W.) will have a “Dolly + Tim Tribute” with show tunes on Sunday from 2-8 p.m. JR.’s Bar (1519 17th St., N.W.) has announced it will have a show tunes night “honoring Dolly & Tim” on Monday starting at 9 p.m.
Obituary
Music icon and dear LGBTQ friend Dolly Parton remembered
‘Queen of Country’ died on Tuesday in Nashville
I don’t want to say goodbye.
To be honest, my first impression of music icon Dolly Parton was similar to the scathing look the demur Jane Fonda gave the boss’s secretary in one of my favorite funny feminist films ever, “9 to 5.”
Fonda’s aghast up-and-down scrutiny was pure unspoken tsk tsk condescension toward this bubbly dumb-blond wigged white trash colleague — until she looked down at her own flat chest. For a moment, Fonda suggested a hint of envy, at which we laughed. I felt a sigh of relief at not having to carry around all the weight Dolly Parton’s boobs implied.
Those boobs, those big blond country-western wigs, and her seemingly irrepressible humor were as much a part of Dolly Parton’s brand as was her incomparable voice and the songs she wrote that moved generations. In 1974, I longed to love someone as much as Dolly loved the person for whom she wrote her goodbye, “I Will Always Love You.”
Surely, someone with that big a heart was bigger than the tight bodice society forced innovative go-getters like Dolly Parton to squeeze into.
In fact, Parton’s difficult backstory of childhood poverty in Sevierville, Tenn., living in a cabin with no running water and 11 siblings — and an ambition infused with a love-your-neighbor Christian upbringing — created a depth of character that used smarts, ingenuity and humor to thwart her stereotype-blinded detractors.
“Well, I graduated [high school] on a Friday night and headed out on a Saturday morning,” Parton told ABC News’s Robin Roberts in an extensive interview in advance of the 2019 CMA Awards. “As I make jokes about it with my matching luggage, those four paper bags from the same grocery store. I thought, well, I can’t be any poorer than I already am, and I’m a girl. I’ll find some boy that’ll take me to Shoney’s … I thought I’m not going to go hungry.”
Like Billie Jean King and other female professionals, Dolly Parton fought hard to get paid what she was worth.
“It’s not all about money,” she said. “I count my blessings more than I count my money, but I need to count my money, too.”
Tough times taught her how to be tough and funny. “Well, I don’t think people can live in this world without going through times like that,” Parton told Roberts. “People always look at me; they always say, ‘Oh, you just always seem to be so happy.’ I said, ‘That’s the Botox.’ No, but seriously, I’m a very sensitive person. I feel everything to the core.”
That’s what makes her famous 1977 interview with ABC’s Barbara Walters so compelling. Walters had become infamous for making her interview subjects cry after asking tough, prying, sometimes rude questions that she said her audience wanted answered.
“You don’t have to look like this; you’re very beautiful. You don’t have to wear the blonde wigs; you don’t have to wear the extreme clothes, right?” Walters asked the brightly dressed Parton.
Parton delivered a master class in grace and class.
“It’s certainly a choice,” Parton replied. “I don’t like to be like everybody else. I’ve often made the statement that I would never stoop so low as to be fashionable. That’s the easiest thing in the world to do.”
Chuckling yet? Parton wanted attention, then she could dazzle them with talent. “Once they got past the shock of the ridiculous way I looked, then they would see there’s parts of me to be appreciated. I’m very real where it counts … and that’s inside,” Dolly Parton told Barbara Walters. “Show business is a money-making joke, and I just always like telling jokes.”
Walters then asked Parton — the beloved star with 19 studio albums and a slew of awards won over a decade in the male-dominated music business: “Do you ever feel like you’re a joke, that people make fun of you?”
Parton was the personification of composure.
“I know they make fun of me. But actually, all these years people have thought the joke was on me, but it’s actually been on the public. I know exactly what I’m doing, and I can change it at any time. I make more jokes about myself than anybody,” Parton said.
“I am sure of myself as a person. I am sure of my talent. I’m sure of my love for life,” Parton said. “And I’m very content. I like the kind of person that I am. So I can afford to piddle around and do-diddle around with make-up and clothes and stuff. Because I am secure with myself.”
Game, set, match to Parton.
In another ABC interview in 2012, Parton expanded on that over-the-top signature style which she adopted after seeing the town tramp.
“There was this woman, we won’t call her names, but she was beautiful,” she told ABC News Nightline. “I had never seen anybody, you know, with the yellow hair all piled up and the red lipstick and the rouge and the high-heeled shoes, and I thought, ‘This is what I want to look like.’”
As the image implies, there were constant rumors that she was secretly involved with any male within inches — as well as a secret lesbian life with her oldest childhood pal, Judy Ogle. She denied the rumor — she was married to Carl Dean for 58 years. He died in March 2025.
Dolly Parton died peacefully on Tuesday, Aug. 25, 2026, at the age of 80 in Nashville after a “brief battle with cancer,” her team wrote in a statement to People.
“Our beloved Dolly Parton spent her life and career bringing joy, laughter, hope, and integrity into everything she touched. Her unmatched generosity reached the lives of countless people whom she would never meet, yet she was always there to offer a helping hand,” they wrote.
“Whether it be the hundreds of millions of books donated through her invaluable Imagination Library or funding research that helped create a lifesaving vaccine used around the world, Dolly’s unconditional love for all people was the guiding force for her lasting impact. After bravely facing a brief battle with cancer, Dolly departed her Earthly life today at the Vanderbilt-Ingram Cancer Center, surrounded by loved ones,” the statement concluded.
The music world is in mourning. And news outlets are overflowing with tributes. Few of them mention us. In fact, one note of criticism for some is a precise example of that “unconditional love for all people” her team talked about.
“The ’80s — a decade she kicked off in grand fashion with the working woman’s anthem ‘9 to 5’ — brought Parton some of her greatest mainstream success, but the climate of the times also conspired to reduce her to a punchline and a caricature: The self-made country-pop queen who had pulled herself up by her bra straps. She played along, as an act of self-preservation, but it is a consolation to know that she lived long enough for her reputation as a songwriter to rise considerably in the 21st century,” Lindsay Zoladz wrote in her “appraisal” of Dolly Parton, who “had the voice, and concerns, of an Earth Angel” for the New York Times.
Damn, bitch! Have you never even seen a Dolly Parton drag queen? There’s almost a cottage industry devoted to Dolly. And Dolly knew — and loved it! She even participated in a Dolly Parton drag contest at a gay LA bar — which she lost!
“They had a bunch of Chers and Dollys that year, so I just over-exaggerated — made my beauty mark bigger, the eyes bigger, the hair bigger, everything,” Parton laughingly told ABC News Nightline. “All these beautiful drag queens had worked for weeks and months getting their clothes. So I just got in the line, and I just walked across, and they just thought I was some little short gay guy … but I got the least applause.”
Dolly Parton lost the Dolly Parton look-alike contest in an LA gay bar! But she hasn’t lost the ineffable connection to her fans — whom she understood, felt, and fought for — including protecting “Gay Day” at Dollywood in Pigeon Forge, Tenn.
“When it first started, there were people giving us threats; I still get threats,” Parton told ABC News. “But like I said, I’m in business. I just don’t feel like I have to explain myself. I love everybody.”
That’s what I saw when Dolly Parton arrived and smiled through an onslaught of paparazzi and gay fanboys at an APLA Commitment to Life event.
Oddly though, as a reporter, my fixation was on Parton’s “date,” her gay manager Sandy Gallin, who seemed to rarely show up publicly with his supposed posse, controversially dubbed the “Velvet Gay Mafia.”
The late gay AIDS advocate Dana Miller, who was on the APLA board, wrote a piece for In Los Angeles Magazine about the Four Warriors of AIDS fundraising: David Geffen, Barry Diller, Sandy Gallin, and Jeffrey Katzenberg.
“It was the early ’90s, and we were in the second decade of AIDS with absolutely no hope in sight,” Miller wrote. “It was then I discovered the warriors, and it was amazing. Gay and straight, they were the ones who for almost a decade came together in living rooms and storefronts to provide what our government didn’t. My list of warriors is long, yet this is the tale of four particular individuals who, for years, I closely watched working behind the scenes to make a difference in the quality of life of men, women, and children they would never know.”
After Gallin died in 2017 at age 76, columnist Billy Masters wrote a tribute in the Los Angeles Blade that expanded on that theme – and included a section on Dolly Parton, with whom he formed Sandollar Productions in 1985. Sandollar Productions, with Howard Rosenman, produced the 1990 Oscar winning documentary “Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt” that raised global awareness about AIDS.
“While Gallin’s client list was vast and varied, he especially loved his divas. A special place in his heart was reserved solely for Dolly Parton. The two met after Dolly asked singer Mac Davis who should help with her career. Davis said, ‘You should talk to Sandy Gallin — he’s my manager.’ Sandy had one goal — to make Dolly a mainstream star. The first thing he did was set up a recording session for the song ‘Here You Come Again,’”Masters wrote.
“Dolly was hesitant. She said, ‘A monkey could sing this song and have a hit with it.’ She was very nervous that it would turn off the country market, which she was very loyal to.’ Gallin made a deal with her — if the song wasn’t No. 1 on the pop charts AND the country charts, he’d never get involved in her musical decisions again. Dolly took the deal — and lost,” Masters wrote. “From then on, she and Sandy were inseparable. They considered each other beyond best friends and almost soul mates. ‘My husband didn’t love to travel, and Sandy was gay, and he did,’ said Dolly.”
Dolly Parton also talked about Gallin in an interview with Apple Music Country’s Proud Radio: “Sandy and I just clicked like nobody’s business,” Parton told host Hunter Kelly. “He was like my best gay bud. … We [went to] Studio 54. We’d sit on the couch and watch all the craziness. But we were all involved in the fun of it, and it was great.”
“I really owe him so much,” Parton added.
But, contrary to what Dolly Parton sings in “9 to 5,” it’s not all taking and no giving. Dolly Parton told the KKK that she welcomes gay people to Dollywood. And in 1991, when gay men were dying of AIDS by the thousands, and some Southern Christian leaders said AIDS was God’s punishment for homosexuality, Dolly Parton wrote and sang one of the first country songs to include “gay” and Christianity: “Some are preachers, some are gay … But not a one is turned away when it’s family.”
She later got an Oscar nod for “Travelin’ Thru,” a song for the transgender film “Transamerica.”
In 2023, after her home state of Tennessee passed anti-trans and anti-drag laws, Parton said she knew how deeply it hurt LGBTQ people, including in her own family and life, to be attacked for who they are.
“I know and love them all, and I do not judge,” she said. “They cannot help that any more than I can help being Dolly Parton.”
By the end of “9 to 5,” I realized that I had been the judgmental one with stereotype-blinders. I enjoyed learning how to get bold things done while expressing yourself with authentic joy. But unfortunately the theme and song are still applicable today.
Thank you, Dolly Parton.
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