Friends

Of Angels, Miracles and Open Hearts – 12/15/25

This Christmas season has found me standing still in gratitude. As I continue to heal from open-heart surgery, I cannot help but look back in awe at the generosity, compassion, and steadfast love that carried me through. I was humbled—truly overwhelmed—by the outpouring of care I received. It reminded me, powerfully and tenderly, of the goodness that lives in people: the quiet kindness of family, the unwavering presence of friends, the grace of those who showed up without being asked.
Charles Dickens captured this truth so beautifully in A Christmas Carol: “But I have always thought of Christmas as a kind, charitable time. The only time when men open their shut-up hearts and think of all people as fellow travelers to the grave and not some other race of creatures bound on other journeys.” In my own way, I have seen this to be true. I have learned that angels are everywhere, if only we care to look for them—appearing in ordinary moments, in small mercies, in the simple but profound kindness of others. Miracles, too, live quietly among us, woven into everyday acts of love.
It is easy to lose sight of this truth amid the relentless noise of an often unkind media, which so frequently paints our world as cruel, fractured, and devoid of hope. Yet I still believe in the magic of this season. I believe in its light, and I long to learn how to carry it with me throughout the year, long after the decorations are packed away.
This year, above all else, I am thankful simply to be alive. And as the new year approaches, I will endeavor—imperfectly, and with humility—to be a better sister, a better friend, a better aunt, a better cousin, a better version of myself. I know I will stumble. I know I will fail at times. But I will keep trying.
My hope for you is this: that you find the wonder and joy that still exist in this world, you hold them close, and you keep your inner light shining—even when the world feels dark. May this season be filled with peace, love, and quiet miracles.
A very blessed Christmas to all—“God bless us, every one.”

Threads of a Human Heart

As I prepare for open-heart surgery, I find myself both sobered and profoundly grateful. Reviewing my end-of-life papers has a way of bringing life into sharp focus—each choice, each joy, each person who has walked beside me. What I see, looking back, is not fear or regret, but an extraordinary abundance of blessings.

A beautiful daughter and two wonderful grandsons who fill my life with pride and laughter. Six beloved sisters—ages 72 to 84—still vibrant, still here. In all our years together, we have never allowed a quarrel to wound the bond we share. Ours is a family stitched together with old Italian traditions, music flowing through every gathering, song and laughter rising like prayer.

I have been lifted and sustained by a big, loving, extended family who have stood beside me through every chapter—including the dark ones, when cancer came close but did not claim me.

My life has been shaped and defined by the performing arts. Theater and music are not simply what I do—they are who I am. The thrill of collaboration, the quiet exchange between performer and audience, the alchemy of directing, producing, and coaching—it has all been sacred work.

And beyond the stage, I have found joy and purpose in service: in my church, in my neighborhood, in my art communities, and through years of volunteering—from AIDS Action Committee (1981–1995) to AIDS Worcester, and later at the pediatric oncology hospice with my beloved therapy dog, Ella, for ten precious years.

Who could ask for a more rewarding 40-year career in high tech—traveling the world, experiencing new cultures, learning new languages. Realizing, with every encounter, that our humanness is what binds us. How small this world truly is, and how deep the yearning runs to save each other—and this earth that continues to love us, even when we do not love her back.

So, as I face this next step, I am not afraid. My heart—literally and figuratively—has been full to overflowing. I have lived richly, loved deeply, and been loved in return. For all that I have, and all that I have done, I am profoundly grateful.

Fifty-Five: A Reunion in Real Time (10/17/29 – West Warwick Wizards ’70)

No theme this year—
no paper streamers or borrowed disco balls.
Just the quiet arrival of time,
and all of us,
on time.
More or less.

The name tags are helpful,
but unnecessary.
We know each other
in the way only a certain kind of past allows—
not the facts,
but the essence.
A smile still tilts the same.
A pause still says everything.

We orbit the same stories
with new grace—
less interested in impressing,
more intrigued by remembering.
Not every memory made it,
but the ones that did
have earned the right to be told again.

No one needs to prove a thing.
We’ve all built, lost, learned, changed—
not once,
but many times.
It turns out high school
was just the prologue
and not even the juiciest part.

This isn’t a ceremony,
and it’s not nostalgia.
It’s something better:
a rare moment of agreement
that what we shared still matters,
even if we all remember it
a little differently.

There is elegance in showing up.
There is wit in not pretending.
There is something quietly spectacular
about being in a room
with people who once knew
the earliest versions of you—
and decided to come back anyway.

Here’s to that.
To us.
To now.

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.

 

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.

The Quiet Slide: Losing Democracy to Fascism

It doesn’t happen all at once.

We imagine the end of democracy as a great rupture—boots stomping, books burning, a single broadcast replacing the cacophony of free voices. But in truth, the decline is quieter. It is a slow erosion of norms and a steady dulling of public outrage. It is a normalization of cruelty, a reshaping of language, a rerouting of empathy. And perhaps most dangerously, it is a weary public turning its face away—tired, overworked, and convinced that nothing can really change.

Democracy, for all its flaws, is a radical idea: that the many can govern themselves with fairness, with shared power, with the rights of even the smallest voices protected. Fascism, in contrast, offers a dark kind of simplicity—one leader, one story, one enemy. It promises certainty, belonging, and safety in exchange for submission, exclusion, and obedience. And when a people are frightened, when they feel unseen or forgotten or betrayed, that bargain begins to look appealing.

We are living in such a moment. The warning signs are not subtle anymore. We see them in the demonization of the press, in the dehumanization of immigrants, in the rewriting of history, in the celebration of violence, and in the quiet compromises made by those who should know better. We see it in the way truth becomes negotiable, institutions are undermined, and compassion is reframed as weakness.

But still—many people do not feel alarmed. That, too, is part of the danger.

Authoritarianism rarely begins with a coup. It begins with fatigue. With confusion. With people laughing off what they should fear. It begins when civic engagement feels like an act of futility, and when politics becomes another form of entertainment, not a shared responsibility. It begins when neighbors stop talking, when trust fades, and when cynicism becomes easier than hope.

History offers too many examples. Germany. Italy. Chile. Hungary. The patterns are hauntingly familiar. And yet, what we often forget is that resistance, too, is possible. Democracy, even in its fragility, can endure. But only if we choose to see each other—not as enemies, but as fellow citizens, fallible and frightened and full of potential.

What might save us is not another policy or politician, though those matter. It is a reawakening of empathy. A radical recommitment to community. A refusal to abandon the idea that truth exists and that it matters. We must remember what it means to belong to each other.

Fascism feeds on isolation. Democracy breathes through connection.

So we must listen harder. Speak with more care. Call out cruelty. Defend the vulnerable. Vote like our lives depend on it—because for many, they do. And we must do it not just for ourselves, but for the ones who come after us, for whom history is not yet written.

We are not helpless. Not yet. But we must not wait any longer to act as if we are responsible.

Fading Away

When I was first diagnosed with cancer and was told that my time to live may be limited, I expected to feel despair or perhaps a kind of numbness, but instead, a deep sense of urgency flooded over me.

I wasn’t afraid of dying, but of what I had left to do, what I wanted to leave behind, and disheartened by the thought of being forgotten.

To me, being forgotten is dying twice.

Recently, an acquaintance of mine and an integral member of our local theater community suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Tony was renowned throughout Southern New England as a teacher, theatrical director, actor and reviewer to hundreds of artists, theaters and supporters of the arts.

For 47 years, he was a beloved fixture in our lives with a quick wit, an ever-present ear to listen and a distinctive, spontaneous laugh familiar to those who knew him.

Between the local TV news reports, countless social media posts and conversations with friends about Tony, it’s clear to me that our friend and colleague will sustain a long and much-loved legacy.

Tony’s passing alerted me of how being born inevitably launches our life clock. Time’s never on our side. That feeling caught me off guard, once again. The thought of slipping away from the memory of those I hold dear filled me with sorrow.

I’m not writing about a life void of achievement or accolades, travel and enrichment. I’ve been blessed to have experienced these. But I often contemplate if I’ve had a quiet impact on others.

Did I show kindness or love? How did I make people feel? The legacy we leave is in the small moments: the shared laughter, the comforting words, the strength we offer in times of need—all are more important to me than any award, plaque or trip to an exotic place.

I love my only child, Lauren, my six sisters, their kids and one very special niece, Trish. I hope they’ll remember the small, intimate moments that made up our lives—the ones often overlooked, but never forgotten by those who experience them.

I hope my daughter will remember the way I made chocolate chip pancakes in the morning for her and her friends. How I used to sing or play the piano when I thought no one was listening, just to fill the house with something beautiful. And how I always tried to be present, even when life was hectic.

In order to remember, I’m focused on creating my blog—not of goodbyes, but of memories. I pen stories of my youth, the moments that shaped me, and the quiet wisdom I’ve gathered from others. I write about love, about loss, and about the beauty of fleeting moments.

I’m not writing for an audience, but for the people who will remain—my family, friends, loved ones. I want to ensure the lessons learned and the love given to me and the love I gave to others isn’t forgotten.

What I leave behind is not simply a memory—it’s the essence of who I am woven into the fabric of those I love and those who love me.

There is a kind of immortality, quiet and humble yet infinitely powerful, in writing it down.

I believe the true measure of a life is in the ripples we create, in the change we inspire, and in the love we leave behind.

The good we do lives on, long after we’re gone, passed from one person to the next like a flame that never fades.

Even in death, there’s a profound beauty in knowing that our light, however small, will continue to shine in the hearts of others.

Poetry is not my forte. However, in the wake of Tony’s death, this one wrote itself. Flowing out of my pen without effort. Thank you, Tony, for the inspiration.

Fading Away

In the quiet hush of evening’s glow,
I feel the softest winds below—
A breath, a sigh, as shadows creep,
Whispering secrets that the heart must keep.
The world will turn, as it must do,
While I dissolve like morning dew,
A fading echo, a fleeting sound,
A thread of light no longer bound.
I’ll leave no mark, nor trace, nor scar,
But in the sky, I’ll be a star—
A shimmer soft, too far to hold,
Yet burning bright as I grow cold.
No tears will fall, no voice will rise,
Just quiet skies and silken sighs.
And when the earth forgets my name,
I’ll be the wind, untamed, untame.
In every leaf, in every breeze,
In every moment that you seize,
I’ll linger still, though far away,
In echoes of a distant day.
For life, like love, is meant to flow—
And fading is the way we grow.
So, I’ll vanish, soft, serene,
A fleeting shadow, yet unseen.

Before Video Games

I often wonder if passing on these stories from one generation to the next may warp the illusion our younger generation has of my six sisters and me. Ah, well, truth be told, you can’t change the past; and I wouldn’t want to. As you read further, a heads up: don’t try any of this at home. We were poor kids with nothing to lose while also trying to have some fun.

Most of the cousins on my mother’s side and the neighborhood from which we grew was mostly made up of first or second generation Western Europeans who had the same economic status as we did – poor. Meaning that parents were primarily mill workers, laborers or worked for the State. Kids did not have lots of toys. If you had a bike that was a big deal – and that bike was often shared among family members and neighborhood kids taking turns. First dibs was the only form of reservations.

We went to our neighborhood playground in Crompton where we played baseball, Knock-Hockey, jacks, marbles, constructed stuff out of popsicle sticks, made potholders from little, square metal looms, braided gimp ropes, smoked “punk-sticks” (you’ll have to research that), bought penny candy if we had a coin or two, set off rolls of exploding caps with any rock we could find or just hung around with friends sitting on top of the monkey-bars.

We played games like Simon Says, Red Rover, Kick the Can, Hide and Seek. The teenage kids played with the younger kids. No one was bullied. Everyone just had fun. There were some negotiable situations when the older kids would up the stakes for the losers in a game. They would bargain comic books, or baseball bats, favorite gloves, etc. Not to keep, just to use for a couple of games or a specific duration of time – conditions were agreed upon by both parties.

Roller skating was a common, neighborhood past-time. Certainly not the elegant roller blades or shoe skates that we have today. Skates were metal, usually stainless steel foot/base plates with two wheeled axles front and back. When those wheels metal wheels hit the concrete and you were cruising through the neighborhood – WOW! They made some noise!

Each skate had a raised heel support that housed the foot and secured the ankle to the skate by leather straps and brass buckles. You would slip your foot onto the skate and press your foot against the heel stop and use your skate key to adjust the length of the skate (found underneath). Then, with the buckled straps you would secure your ankles in place. Once the length was right, you would have to use your skate key to adjust the metal toe grips on both sides of the skate until they were tight enough around your shoe to stay on.

If that rubber strip on your sneaker or the leather rim on your shoe was flimsy, that clamp would dig into the sides of your foot while skating. Skate blisters hurt.

Roller skates were useless if you didn’t have a skate key on hand to adjust them. The hexagonal loop on top was used to turn the bolt that adjusted the length of the skate and the tubular end fit on the pin that tightened the toe grips.

We all wore those keys around our necks on a string. If you were a “cool” roller skater, you had a braided, four-strand, rounded gimp rope that you made yourself at the local playground in place of a plain string.

If you lost the key, you would have to get new skates. Fatsky-chansky! Our parents would never buy a new pair if we lost the skate key. Almost all of our roller skates were passed down through two or three older siblings. Which led to the inconvenience of having to borrow a key from another skater.

Wearing those metal keys around your neck was also a risk — they were big and they were heavy. If you fell or were whizzing down a concrete or tarred surface and found yourself air bound and on your landing you were hit in the face with that key – it was like being pistol whipped by Luca Brasi.

Neighborhood kids shared baseballs, mitts and bats; footballs; basketballs (there was ONE hoop in the neighborhood.) I never knew who owned it. It stood off the side of a neighborhood street under a cleared area, surrounded on three sides by maple trees. It wasn’t in or near anyone’s yard or driveway. We all played there and everyone was respectful of each others’ space. Kids waited their turn to play.

Someone had a soccer ball (that no one used for soccer); we used it for Dodge Ball or Freeze.

We were the only family with a croquet set. How we got one, I will never know. It may be because we had the only flat, 1-acre yard in the neighborhood. Which, if playing croquet, is a good thing. I do remember there being many “bending of rules” depending on who was playing and who was winning. Thankfully, no one lost their heads.

We were comic book kids back then. Superheroes. There was always a heated debate over Marvel vs. DC comics and who were the greatest superheroes. We shared comic books until the pages fell out.

We had a crazy game of Kick the Can one day and my sister Susan, in her enthusiasm kicked the can good and hard. Against the power of her foot the can flew straight up, flipped backwards and slit her lip which required stitches. She still has the scar. In those days, you didn’t need video streaming to become a game warrior.

My sister Annie was tiny and very thin. Teams loved calling her over during Red Rover. She would literally run, leap and land on the hands or arms of the opposite team. But to no avail. She would just hang there in mid-air like a ragdoll. She was an easy opponent.

However, Annie was a great hider. Because of her size, she could squeeze almost anywhere and into the most unlikely spots. When playing Hide and Seek, the older kids would be frustrated after a long search for her; especially if it was getting dark and the time to return home was close at hand.

Annie did have a downfall in that game. Those who knew it usually used it to its full extent when necessary. You see, Annie loved bananas. So when the time of desperation arrived, the “It” person would yell, “Hey! Annie! Do you want a banana?” And inevitably my sister, in her little squeaky voice would yell back from her hiding place, “Yes!” Game over.

My sister Marie became an archer at CYO summer day camp (free camp if you belonged to a Roman Catholic Church). I don’t know who gave her the bow and arrow set.

As I mentioned, we had an acre of land and an apple tree stood in the far, northeast section of the yard.

Marie, in her teens, decided that she should test her archery skills. She asked my sister Frieda (two years younger), if she would stand up against that tree with an apple on her head – in order for her to shoot it off. Don’t get me wrong, my sisters are really bright; A-students they were. But they were as daring as they are bright.

The distance my sisters had between them, I cannot recall. I don’t believe it was the same 120 paces required for William Tell, however, it did appear to be a wide gap.

Just as my sister Marie was pulling back the string on her bow, ready to let the arrow fly my mother happened to notice both of them from the window. “Marie!” She cried. And my sister let that arrow fly and a second later, that apple was stuck to the tree with my sister Frieda narrowly escaping from beneath it.

Perhaps this is why we have a greater appreciation for Gioachino Rossini. Sure, he’s Italian, but our admiration appears to go even deeper than that.

If you faced our backyard with your back towards our house, the acre of yard stretched out in front of you. At the far end of the yard was a steep hill, maybe 40 feet at its highest point. At the top of the hill was a steel-link fence that surrounded the Emanuel Lutheran Church cemetery.

We climbed that hill all the time, to peer at the “scary cemetery” as the hill was easy to ascend and a cemetery was always a place of mythical curiosity to us.

The hill nested some large, old trees and was littered with thick, sprawling roots, some of which protruded 2 – inches out of the ground. Getting a foothold on those roots made the climb easy.

My four oldest sisters would roll a  55-gallon lidded, metal drum or barrel up the hill. Once, at the top of the hill, they would put my sister Susan, who was about 6 or 7, into the barrel, provide her with a pillow, then close the lid shut. This had to be done by actually kicking the lid closed until it was securely in place.

They would then ask my sister Susan if she was, “Ready,” and my sister would respond, “Ready” from inside the drum. My sisters would then push the drum down the 40 foot hill.

Because the hill was so steep with those protruding roots, which made for a fast, bumpy, air-born ride for Susan until the barrel finally came to a stop in the middle of the yard. My sisters would quickly pry open the barrel, retrieve my sister and the game would continue until Susan had had enough or a responsible adult immediately stopped them.

How could kids be allowed to play such dangerous games? How could parents or neighbors be so irresponsible? Someone could get killed! Yes. But no one did, thankfully, and having to find innovative ways to play was part of our growing up.

We believed in Robin Hood, William Tell, Peter Pan, Capt. James Hook, The Lone Ranger and Tonto, Superman, Captain America and Wonder Woman. And although our heroes’ actions were daring, their deeds for a good cause. We wanted to be like them. We believed we could emulate them and there was never malice in our games.

I often wonder, “My God!, how did we live to tell it!” And although it was, in fact, dangerous to play some of our games, was it any worse than the violence children are allowed to stream into their bedrooms for hours, today? When those video games become their hero-realities and kids search out guns in their own homes to inflict harm on others? When they can no longer discern dying on screen from dying in reality?

Unlike in a video game, people don’t come back when they die. There is no reset button. Today’s protagonists are malevolent and malevolence is the norm; even cool.

I must admit that summers were the best. Looking back, I wouldn’t change anything. Except maybe the day when I realized I wasn’t a boy, and my mother told me that I could no longer ride my bike or spend time outside bare-chested. I had to wear a t-shirt “because you’re a big girl, now.” Devastating.

We rarely played inside our house or anyone’s house. Even in winter weather outside play was expected. Only in the worst rain or snow storm were we hunkered down in our houses.

Of all of our neighborhood friends, I can barely recall the interior of two houses and even then, only one room in each house.

We did not need to tell our parents where we were or where we were going. We were safe in our neighborhoods. At least, safer than kids are today.

We rode our bikes all morning, returned for lunch, then rode again. Returned for dinner and if the sun was still high, we road out again taking advantage of the summer light. We were gone all day.

When the street lights came on or the Main Street West Warwick Fire Station alarm blared out at 8:00 p.m., every kid knew what time it was. Suddenly, as if an invisible stage director were blocking the end of a scene, each actors leaving the stage and on queue, we were homeward bound.

A Christmas Carol

Ever since I could read, Charles Dickens has been my favorite author. I have read all of his works several times.

As a child, my best friend was 75 years older than I. Mrs. Scully (we never called her Bertha. However, her husband was always “Jim”) was a retired school teacher, childless, and both kind and generous to several poor families in our neighborhood, including ours. Mrs. Scully provided food on the table when there was none, rent/a mortgage when it was due, or a new washing machine or refrigerator to families in need.

She taught me how to appreciate the performing arts, poetry, prose, etc. And as a student, she was my benefactor in completing my music education. Mrs. Scully was one of three people who changed the trajectory of my life.

When I was 10, and she 85, during the holiday season, my assignment was to read Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” Mrs. Scully confessed that she never finished the novel. She could not bear that Tiny Tim dies. When I said to her, “But Mrs. Scully, Tim does NOT die,” she stared back at me wide-eyed. That week, after over 70+ years, she finished reading the novel.

Every year after that, during the Christmas season, we joyfully read that story together until the day she passed at 92 years old.

It was not until I was an adult did I realize what a miraculous gift we had given to each other. Maybe that is why I hold the works of Charles Dickens so close to my heart.