Ann Gillian Sheldon

Ann Gillian Sheldon unexpectedly died from natural causes in the early morning of August 31st, just one month after a joyous lobster roll lunch in celebration of her 86th birthday, overflowing with balloons, glittery streamers, friends, family, and her favorite cake, Bambosh, baked by her beloved thirteen-year-old granddaughter Ellie.

Ann was born on July 31st, 1938 in Belfast, Northern Ireland where her father, Lt. Col. Joseph Waters, O.B.E. was stationed at the time. She spent her childhood in Royal Tunbridge Wells and the village of Frant in Sussex, England with her mother Patience D’Arcy Waters (Crofton) and beloved older sister Prudence while their father served overseas and stormed Sword beach on D-Day.

Ann attended various Catholic girl schools from an early age with her sister despite being Protestant. But even as an outsider – the defining theme of her life - Annie, as she was known by her family, always had a sparkle in her eyes, and made many friends. Among other naughty exploits at the schools, Ann had great fun drawing chalk crosses on the desk chairs of her nun teachers which caused howls of laughter when they stood and turned to the chalkboard. Ann was sternly punished and inevitably expelled for her antics from several of the schools, but her rebellious spirit and humor were never muted.

As a young teen, Ann worked on the line at a biscuit factory for pocket money. She eventually saved enough to buy a pet tortoise who she named Paul. Paul lived in a box beneath the ancient beech tree in her parent’s garden at Down Cottage in Frant. Ann loved Paul. She talked to him and oiled his shell and she brought him table scraps for food until one day, Paul disappeared. Decades later, while visiting her parents with her son Valentine, out of the tall grass at the edge of the garden came Paul, making a b-line straight for her. In her frequent telling’s of the story, Ann felt Paul came looking for her because he recognized her voice from all those years ago.

In the late 1950's Ann became an au pair for an Italian family and moved to Rome, Italy. She eventually moved on to a secretarial role for the playwright Tennessee Williams. In 1961 Ann met her future husband of 60 years, Peter L. Sheldon, in a chance encounter: Ann was put in charge of showing the apartment she and her roommates were vacating, and Peter, originally from Manhattan, New York but recently relocated to Rome to study art, came to view it. They were married soon after and remained in Rome in that very apartment for several years.

Eventually the young couple landed in the US and lived in Pittsburgh after Peter secured a teaching position at Carnegie Institute of Technology. During this time, Ann had various secretarial jobs including for the United Nations. In 1966 while still in Pittsburgh, Ann's daughter, Clare (Manz), was born. The young family had a short stint in Toronto before permanently settling in Maine. First, on Kettle Cove in Casco where Peter owned a very old, very rustic trapper’s cabin equipped with a kitchenette and an outhouse set deep in the woods; and finally, moving in 1972, three years after her son Valentine’s birth, to the centuries old Smith Farm on White's Bridge Road in Standish that Ann humorously renamed Toad Hall.

Ann admired America profoundly and referred to it as “God’s Country”. In the 1980's she became a US citizen but never told her parents for fear of breaking their hearts. She remained very close to her mother throughout her life, maintaining a continuous correspondence of letters, cards, books and packages of newspaper clippings until her passing in the 1990’s. And every year in late November Ann sent her parents her famous dried fruit, brandy soaked Christmas cakes via sea mail because they were so heavy and dense. Remarkably, or more likely because of her unrelenting stubbornness, Ann retained her beautiful British accent. She was always visibly pleased that people immediately picked up on it when they met her and she would say, "How extraordinary!?!" It was a deep well of pride for her.

By the age of five, Ann was capable of reading the newspaper. She became the best-read person you could possibly meet. Her literary travels were varied and far reaching. She was an unapologetic critic of a trite or saccharine laced plot line and was drawn to esoteric stories of misfits and unsung heroes. She had a deep love of poetry which she read to her children at bedtime when they were young. And in her middle years, she spent much of her time writing her own poetry that she would recite while cleaning up after family dinners. They were romantic epics, layered with melancholy.

Ann had many other interests. She was an avid rose gardener and was a member of the Rose Society for many years. She was a tremendous seamstress and knitter. She made detailed Halloween costumes and a good deal of her children's clothes including beautiful dresses with intricate smocking. She always had a knitting project going. In the evenings you could find her sitting on her side of the sofa, a cat curled on her lap, her nightly “pick me up” – a very dry gin martini in a Dixie cup - on her side table, chain-smoking extra-long Saratoga menthol cigarettes while counting stitches. She loved music and became an accomplished pianist. She learned to play tennis with her teenage children, taking weekly lessons alongside them. And she took up studying mathematics at the University of Southern Maine for a number of years, ultimately conquering calculus.

Never one to sit idly, Ann somehow fit in volunteer work between shuttling her children to their activities and being solely responsible for feeding the family and keeping a tidy home. She volunteered at Pineland Hospital and took every opportunity to volunteer at her children’s schools, and at the local library. She co-led her daughter’s Girl Scouts troop. Ann spent decades volunteering at Meals on Wheels delivering meals to shut-ins and the elderly in the community. She often signed up for Christmas Eve deliveries. And despite a strongly held aversion to religion, most likely due to her experiences as a child, Ann became very involved with the United Church of Christ at North Gorham where she made many good friends and became an active Deacon.

Due to Ann’s fair complexion, blue eyes and enviable curly golden locks, which she inherited from her mother, she vehemently disliked warm sunny days. She much preferred drizzling rain and cool weather. She loved Winter most and adored the snow-covered wide-open landscapes of the hinterland of her adopted state of Maine. She loved all animals, but especially Marco her Alsatian who she brought from Rome, her two Dalmatians, Duchess and Duke and her semi-wild cats, Circe and Precious. She loved sparkly, glittery things and filled holiday and birthday cards she sent friends and family with glitter dust and shiny, sparkling stars. Ann loved animatronic stuffies that danced and sang. Her sizable collection was scattered throughout her home, so one was always in easy reach. And she loved, and dined almost exclusively on, rich foods: pâté; foie gras; steak tartar; brie and gorgonzola; berries in a soup of heavy cream with spoonfuls of sugar; vegetables drowning in blue cheese dressing. And practically anything was but a mere vessel for a thick layer of mayonnaise or butter, or both. Chocolate, in any form was never refused. Miraculously, and in utter spite of her obstinate contempt for physical exercise, she maintained her slender figure. But of course, because that was Ann!

Ann's last four years were a testament to her indomitable strength and resilience. She fell and broke her hip in the summer of 2020 during the height of the pandemic and went to live with her son and his family in Falmouth, Maine to recover. When her husband died six months later, she stayed on with her son's family. Most days she had Fox News streaming on the television in the living room, frequently overlayed with Paul Robeson or Johnny Cash singing from her iPad precariously balanced on her bouncing knees. She came to call herself "The Chip Lady" for her naughty lunch habit of feeding the two family dogs every single potato chip on her plate. She spent her afternoons with a strong cup of tea, playing cards with her grandchildren, helping them with their homework and doing puzzles. Evenings were spent sitting by the fire watching her favorite British shows with the family. Ann called her sister every Sunday and had hours long conversations. She entertained friends with long lunches, catching up on the going’s on in her old neighborhood and church. And she developed deep connections to her daughter in-law’s family who visited from Ohio often, and at times would stay with her when her son’s family traveled.

Eventually, Ann had an episode that required her to move to an assisted living facility. And just like Ann, she made many deep friendships with her fellow residents and staff. At Falmouth by the Sea she forged a strong bond with dear Tess, who brought her books from the library and got her involved with knitting scarfs and hats for the Seamen’s Church Institute’s Christmas at Sea program which helped pass the time and gave Ann purpose. Last year she followed dear Tess to Bay Square in Yarmouth, Maine along with her dear friend Helen, where she learned to play Rummikub with a new expanded group of friends - Rosemary, Tamara and Joanne – most afternoons. Her devoted son visited most days or called, and Ann’s signature farewell of “Bye for now”, was the subtle confession of her eternal optimism.

Ann is survived by her son Valentine D’Arcy Sheldon, his wife Michelle (Sinreich) and their two daughters Eleanor and Gwendolyn; her daughter Clare Manz, residing in Massachusetts with her husband Rusty and their daughter Audrey; her beloved sister Prudence D’Arcy Waugh residing in Royal Richmond, England and her two children Harriet Frazier Smith and her family in Eastbourne, England and Jamie Waugh of London, England.

The family is overwhelmed with gratitude for all the wonderful care and love Ann received in her final years from so many lovely people. Ann was particularly fond of Lynn, Kelly, Thy, Monique and Hannah who provided not only loving care but true friendship.

Bye for now our dear, sweet Ann.