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To The Ones Who Make The Room Glow

Volunteer Appreciation Celebration – The Arctic Playhouse – July 18, 2025 

You arrive before the music, before the first note is coaxed 
from the keys, before the hush of anticipation settles in the air.
You are already there—with table lights warmed just right,
with places set like quiet invitations, with the kind of presence
that makes strangers feel like they’ve come home. 

You do not ask for applause, yet you shape the stage in ways no  
spotlight could ever capture. The ambiance breathes because of you—
soft and certain, like a memory we didn’t know we were missing
until we stepped through the door. 

Your welcome is not loud, but it is unwavering. It lives in every
poured glass, every offered chair, every thoughtful gesture that
says: “You matter here. We see you. Stay awhile.”

And so, when the music begins—when voices rise and hearts
unfold in songs and stories—know this: what the audience hears
is only part of the performance. The rest of it—the warmth,
the ease, the joy that lingers like candlelight—is your inspiration.

Finally, when the night closes—when sound of the The Rainbow 
Connection begins and you all join in, binding every heart in 
the room with its quiet truth—it is your kindness that makes
the moment feel less like an ending and more like a promise.
A promise we’ll find each other again, under these lights,
held by this music, in the intimacy you so effortlessly create. 

You are the ones who give more than time. You give care.
You give soul. You give The Cabaret Club the magic of being
more than a room. Thank you for making this place not just
somewhere we come to listen, but somewhere we come to
feel known.

Ode to the Stage Manager, Vicki Yates – The Arctic Playhouse, West Warwick, RI

She enters the theater before it can yawn,
 With coffee in hand and the ghost light still on.
 While actors are stretching or lost in a line,
 She’s taping the stage with a grid so divine.

She wrangles the chaos with headset and charm,
 Says, “Places!” and suddenly—calm.
 She knows every line, every glitch, every cue,
 And the prop you forgot way back in Act 2.

She speaks fluent panic, and patience as well,
 Can call cues in blackout or handle a yell.
 If the set starts to crumble or someone forgets,
 She patches it up with dry wit and no sweat.

Her script is a journal, a map, a memoir,
 With scribbles and notes like theatrical war.
 She’s the first one to laugh, the last one to leave,
 The magician who ensures the audience believes.

No spotlight will catch her, with no curtain bow,
 But everyone knows she’s the queen of the now.
 For the cast and the crew, she’s the heart and the glue,
 And the show goes on nightly thanks to what she can do.

For the Hands That Sing

On the 65th Birthday of Jim Rice –  Beloved Friend and Maestro 7/11/25

Today, the keys pause for a moment— mid-phrase, mid-feeling—
to tip their hats to the hands that guide them. Today, the
spotlight bends not toward center stage, but to the soul in
the shadows, who lifts every note like a prayer.

You, Jim, the quiet architect of song, the steady breath
beneath the singer’s storm, have given your heart to
hundreds of voices— and in return, we give you ours.

At Club Café, where laughter lingers in chords, and in
The Cabaret Club, at The Arctic Playhouse where warmth
meets your artistic wisdom, you are the spine of every
ballad, the unseen pulse of every encore.

We have watched your fingers teach courage, watched them
sculpt self-doubt into composure. You have accompanied more
than melodies—you have accompanied us, through tears and triumph,
with grace that never asks to be named.

Kindness is your key signature, generosity your tempo. And in a
world too often off-pitch, your presence keeps us in tune.

So on this day—your day, Jim— we celebrate not just your talent,
but your spirit, which plays in us long after the final note fades.

Happy Birthday, Dear Friend. You are the heartbeat of every 
performance. You are the thread that weaves the music into magic.

 

When Silence Screams: The Hubris and Apathy of a Broken Leadership

In the aftermath of the tragic shootings that claimed the lives of members of the Hortman and Hoffman families, what should have been a solemn moment of collective grief and unity was instead met with a telling void—no statement, no gesture, no condolences from the White House. Not even the minimal decency of recognizing innocent lives lost. In place of empathy, there was deflection. From the GOP, we witnessed what has become a familiar routine: politicized finger-pointing and bad-faith rhetoric that serve only to deepen divides and avoid responsibility.

This absence of compassion, this gross indifference, is not just morally staggering—it’s emblematic of the rot that has metastasized in our political leadership. Under Donald Trump’s influence, cruelty has not only become policy—it has become performance. Hubris has eclipsed humility, and political gain has all but extinguished our national conscience. The failure to even pretend to care speaks volumes about how desensitized and broken this administration is, and how far we’ve drifted from any recognizable moral compass.

We are watching, in real time, the normalization of violence—not merely as a societal ill, but as a partisan tool. When the lives of American citizens are reduced to narrative pawns in a culture war, when leaders refuse to grieve with their people because it doesn’t serve their agenda, we lose more than just lives. We lose a piece of our shared humanity. And when silence is all that comes from the top, it becomes deafeningly clear: the message is that some lives are unworthy of acknowledgment, depending on whose grief is politically convenient.

What kind of country have we become when our government cannot deliver even the most basic human response—sympathy? How is it possible that in the face of senseless violence, our leaders offer not unity, but opportunism? It is grossly, dangerously unacceptable.

This isn’t just a failure of leadership. It is a deliberate choice—a choice to divide, to deflect, and to harden the national heart. That choice diminishes us all.

I am deeply saddened—though no longer surprised—that this country has once again reached an all-time low. Under this administration, “lowest” has become a consistent signature, an evolving standard by which tragedy is not mourned but manipulated. We must not accept this as normal. We must not allow apathy to replace accountability, or arrogance to replace empathy. Because if we do, the silence will only grow louder, and the violence more routine.

We are better than this. We must demand better than this.

To Fathers — Just As They Are

To Fathers — Just as They Are

On this Father’s Day, we celebrate not only the fathers who stood tall with unwavering strength, but also those who stumbled, struggled, and tried in their own imperfect ways. Fatherhood is not a role marked by flawlessness—it is a deeply human journey, often layered with silence, pride, and quiet love.

Some fathers show their love in embraces and bedtime stories. Others reveal it in fixed cars, paid bills, or in the long hours they worked without complaint. Some may not have always known how to say the right words, or how to be emotionally present, but still hoped to be seen for the person behind the silence.

We honor the fathers who were gentle, who listened, and who offered protection like a shelter in a storm. And we also honor those who were broken in their own ways, who loved imperfectly but loved nonetheless. Their humanity does not diminish their worth—it invites understanding, forgiveness, and a deeper kind of love.

To all fathers, present and absent, praised and misunderstood—you have shaped our stories in ways we are still learning to understand. And today, we thank you. Not for being perfect, but for being real. For showing up however you could. For being part of the complicated, beautiful fabric of who we are.

Happy Father’s Day. – Ida Zecco 6/15/25

Pride Month

Pride Month was not born of a need to celebrate being gay, but the right for our sisters and brothers to exist without persecution. It is a vital celebration of visibility, resilience, and the ongoing fight for LGBTQ+ rights. It honors the courage of those who have challenged discrimination, from the Stonewall uprising to present-day advocacy, reminding us that equality is neither inevitable nor complete. Pride Month is a statement: that every person deserves to live openly, authentically, and without fear. In recognizing Pride, we affirm the dignity of LGBTQ+ individuals and renew our collective commitment to justice, inclusion, and love.

For Esther Bernstein – A Beautiful Soul

Today, we celebrate a woman that shined, to honor a woman whose presence was a quiet miracle in each of our lives. She was not simply kind—she lived kindness. It wasn’t a virtue she chose, but rather one that chose her, something she carried effortlessly, like breath or light.

She treated everyone she met with genuine respect—whether stranger or friend, whether their path was smooth or troubled. There was something in the way she looked at people, in the way she listened, that reminded you that you mattered. You always felt seen, and more than that, you felt safe.

Her generosity was never showy. It was a warm and constant hand on your shoulder in times of doubt, a call when you least expected it but needed it most, a presence that felt like home. She gave without condition, with a grace that asked nothing in return.

Music was her companion, her sanctuary, and her celebration. She loved musicians not just for the sounds they created, but for the courage it took to bare their souls through melody. She found beauty in every note and joy in the ones who played them. She didn’t just listen to music—she felt it, and through that love, she helped others feel it too.

But perhaps the most extraordinary thing about her was the way she radiated. Not with grand gestures or loud declarations, but from something deep inside—a quiet glow that reached us all. She was a healing force in this world. A balm. A light in dark corners. A friend who reminded us who we are when we’d forgotten.

Her absence leaves an ache, yes. But more than that, her life leaves a legacy. One of compassion, joy, and quiet strength. She taught us how to care better, listen deeper, and live more generously.

She was a friend to all, and her spirit will echo in the laughter she sparked, the music she adored, and the love she gave so freely.

We miss her deeply. But we carry her always.

Why Memorial Day Still Matters

Every year, as the last Monday in May approaches, Americans gather in parks, around grills, and beside headstones. For some, it’s the unofficial start of summer; for others, it’s a day of solemn remembrance. But behind the barbecues and parades, Memorial Day holds a sacred place in our national conscience—a day not just of memory, but of meaning. It remains as vital today as it was when first observed in the aftermath of the Civil War.

At its heart, Memorial Day is about honoring sacrifice. It’s a day to remember those who gave their lives not for glory or reward, but to protect an ideal: democracy. These men and women wore the uniform of our country and carried its burdens into battlefields both near and far. Their courage didn’t just preserve borders—it preserved freedoms: the right to vote, to speak, to worship, and to dissent.

But Memorial Day isn’t only about distant wars and fallen heroes in foreign lands. It’s also about those who have defended democracy here at home. Throughout our history, from civil rights marches to courtroom battles, Americans have stood against injustice to ensure that the promise of freedom reaches every citizen. Some of them, too, paid the ultimate price—not with rifles, but with resolve.

In a world that often feels fractured and uncertain, the sacrifices we honor on Memorial Day ground us. They remind us that democracy isn’t inherited—it’s defended. Not once, but continually, by those willing to serve and, if necessary, to fall.

So we remember—not just to mourn, but to reaffirm our commitment to the values that those we honor believed were worth dying for. Memorial Day asks us not just to look back, but to look within and ask what we’re doing to keep the flame of liberty alive.

Because freedom endures not by chance, but by choice. And remembrance is part of that choice.

The Unsung Heroes of the Theater

Theater reviews are like magic tricks: they make you look in a certain direction and applaud the obvious. “Stunning performance by the lead actor!” They gush. “A moving portrayal of grief, joy, and indigestion!” Yes, the actor cried on cue and remembered all their lines. Bravo. Meanwhile, the director—the sorcerer who stitched the show together with mood boards, unpaid overtime, acted as Mom and pychologist and spilt tears of pure aesthetic anguish—gets all the credit of a coat rack.

And the stage manager? Ha! They get less attention than the fog machine. Which, incidentally, they also had to fix, cue, and explain to the fire marshal.

Let’s break it down. The actor appears onstage, speaks words someone else wrote, moves in ways someone else blocked, wears clothes someone else designed and constructed, and gets a standing ovation. The director spent six weeks preventing the show from becoming a very expensive interpretive dance about emotional confusion and/or awkwardly performed comedic timing. They wield vision, psychology, and a truly disturbing protocol as to how to stay calm and patient when they are about to implode.  They are the puppet master—only, instead of strings, they’re manipulating egos, schedules, and a cast that insists on “finding their truth” by rewriting the blocking during tech week.

And the stage manager? Oh, you mean the caffeine-fueled deity wearing all black who knows the entire script, blocking, prop list, and cast’s food allergies by heart? The person who keeps the show running when the lead accidentally enters in Act I dressed for Act III and the fog machine won’t stop coughing like a Victorian child? The person who, by sheer willpower and a Google Sheet, ensures that this chaotic, live spectacle actually happens at the correct time, in the correct order, without someone tripping over stage furniture or face-planting into a Christmas tree?

Theater critics, I beg you: diversify your praise. If a show is brilliant, it is not solely because an actor emoted with the intensity of a method-trained avocado. It’s because a director made bold choices and a stage manager executed them with battlefield precision while also double-checking whether the fake blood had stained a borrowed costume. You do seem able to mention the director and the stage manager in volumes if the production is a flop.

Actors are the frosting. But the director is the recipe, and the stage manager is the oven. No one thanks the recipe or the oven. But without them, you just have raw eggs and good intentions.

So next time you’re moved to tears by a production, remember: Someone called that lighting cue. Someone told that actor where and when to cry (or laugh). Someone made sure the swords were “theater standard” and not, say, a real katana from one of the actor’s college “samurai phase.” Neither of those people who made those things happen are barely mentioned (if at all) in the review.

Applaud accordingly. Or at the very least, bring them snacks and wine.

Remembering My Mother on Mother’s Da



You were more than a mother. You were the steady heartbeat of our home, the gentle force that held everything together, making sure each day was full of warmth, love, and purpose. Your hands, which I remember so well, weren’t just skilled at comforting or cooking—they were magic in their own right, capable of making the world feel safe, no matter what the day had brought.


There were countless lessons you gave me, ones that weren’t always spoken, but instead woven into the fabric of everyday life. In the small acts of patience, kindness, and understanding, you taught me the true meaning of love, and how it isn’t always loud or dramatic, but often soft and enduring, much like the breeze that carries memories of you when I need them the most.


Your love is still the compass that guides me, and even though you are no longer here in the way I wish, your spirit still wraps itself around me like the comforting hug I so often seek.


I carry you in everything I do, and on this day, I honor you—my first friend, my greatest teacher, and my forever mother. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You are loved beyond words, forever and always.
 
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