Holidays

The Work of Democracy: Labor Day

Labor Day arrives each year at the edge of summer, almost quietly. There are cookouts and parades, sales and one last long weekend before the school buses return. For many of us, it is a day of rest.
But Labor Day was never meant to be only about resting from work. It is also a day to remember the dignity of work—and the people who fought to make that dignity possible.
The history of American labor is not a tidy one. Working people organized because too many were being asked to give everything they had while receiving too little in return. They worked long hours for low wages. Children worked in dangerous factories. Immigrants and native-born workers alike were often treated as disposable. When workers demanded a voice, they were sometimes mocked, threatened, arrested, or killed.
Yet they kept organizing.
They formed unions. They marched. They struck. They stood together when standing together was costly. They insisted on a simple but profound idea: that an economy should serve human beings, not reduce human beings to units of production.
Many of the things we now regard as ordinary—the eight-hour workday, weekends, workplace protections, safer conditions, collective bargaining, and the expectation that a person who works hard should have a chance at a decent life—were not gifts handed down by benevolent institutions. They were won by ordinary people who understood the power of solidarity.
That history matters today for another reason: Democracy, too, is work.
It does not preserve itself. It requires participation, patience, courage, compromise, attention, and sometimes sacrifice. It asks us to do something that can feel increasingly difficult: to remember that our fellow citizens are not enemies simply because they disagree with us.
The labor movement understood something democracy depends upon: we are stronger when we recognize our common interests without pretending our differences do not exist.
A democracy is, in some ways, a collective bargaining agreement among millions of imperfect human beings. We negotiate how we will live together. We argue about priorities. We elect people to represent us. We change our minds. We lose elections and accept the results. We win elections and remember that victory does not give us ownership of the country. We return, again and again, to the table.
That process can be frustrating. It can be slow. It can seem hopelessly inadequate in an age that rewards outrage, speed, certainty, and division.
But slow is not the same as broken. Democracy gives us something precious: the ability to change our country without destroying it. That is worth remembering on Labor Day.
The people who built the labor movement did not wait for perfect circumstances before demanding a better future. They did not all agree with one another. They came from different backgrounds, spoke different languages, belonged to different faiths, and held different political beliefs. What united many of them was the recognition that no individual worker had much power alone—but together, ordinary people could accomplish extraordinary things.
There is a lesson there for our troubled democracy.
We sometimes speak of saving democracy as though the task belongs only to presidents, judges, journalists, legislators, or activists. It does not. Democracy ultimately belongs to people who show up.
It belongs to the person who votes even when no candidate seems perfect. To the neighbor who listens rather than caricatures. To the teacher who teaches children how government works. To the journalist who insists upon facts. To the public servant who does an unglamorous job honestly. To the worker who joins with colleagues and says, respectfully but firmly, “…we deserve a voice.”
And it belongs to all of us when we refuse to become so cynical that we stop caring.
Perhaps that is why Labor Day deserves more than a three-day weekend. It is a reminder that the freedoms we inherit were built by people who understood that rights without participation are fragile.
The labor movement asked Americans to believe in the power of collective action.
Democracy asks the same of us.
So this Labor Day, let us enjoy the barbecue, the beach, the ballgame, the quiet morning, the extra day with family. Rest is part of the meaning, too. Human beings are more than what they produce.
But let us also remember.
Remember the workers who stood in picket lines. Remember those who lost jobs because they demanded fairness. Remember those whose names never made it into history books. Remember that prosperity did not simply happen; generations of people struggled to make working life more humane.
And remember that democracy is not something we save once.
We save it in the small decisions we make every day: whether we tell the truth, whether we listen, whether we participate, whether we treat our opponents as fellow citizens, whether we defend the rights of people whose views or backgrounds differ from our own, and whether we are willing to do the unglamorous work of maintaining a country we did not build alone.
Labor Day asks us to honor work. Perhaps, in this moment, we should also honor the work ahead.
The work of remembering. The work of listening. The work of standing together. The work of democracy.

Memorial Day 2026: A Day of Remembrance and Responsibility

There are moments in a nation’s history when Memorial Day feels ceremonial — a long weekend draped in flags and familiar speeches. And then there are moments like this one, when remembrance becomes something deeper, more urgent, and more unsettling.

We are living in a time when many Americans feel the ground beneath democracy shifting. Trust in institutions has eroded. Corruption is spoken of openly. Laws appear negotiable for the powerful. Public service too often resembles performance rather than principle. And yet Memorial Day demands that we stop and ask a painful question: What exactly did those men and women die defending?

They did not die for political parties.
 They did not die for strongmen, billionaires, or ideologues.
 They did not die for cruelty disguised as patriotism.

They died believing that democracy — however imperfect — was worth preserving for people they would never meet. They died believing in the fragile but radical idea that no one is above the law, that freedom requires vigilance, and that self-government survives only when ordinary citizens refuse to surrender it.

That is why Memorial Day matters now more than ever.

To honor the fallen is not simply to place flowers on graves or lower flags to half-staff. It is to recognize that democracy is not self-sustaining. Every generation inherits it unfinished and endangered. The soldiers we commemorate understood sacrifice in its most literal form. The least we can do is demonstrate the courage of citizenship.

And courage today does not require a battlefield.

It requires attention in an age of distraction.
 Integrity in an age of propaganda.
 Moral clarity in an age of exhaustion.

If we truly want to ensure those lives were not given in vain, there are concrete things we must do:

First, defend truth.
 Read deeply. Support independent journalism. Refuse to spread misinformation even when it confirms your own beliefs. Democracies collapse when citizens can no longer distinguish fact from manipulation.

Second, participate relentlessly.
 Vote in every election — not just presidential ones. Attend local meetings. Call representatives. Hold elected officials accountable regardless of party. Democracy dies quietly when good people grow cynical and disengaged.

Third, protect the humanity of one another.
 Authoritarianism thrives by convincing citizens to fear and dehumanize each other. Speak up against cruelty, racism, political violence, and attacks on constitutional rights. Patriotism is not blind loyalty to power; it is loyalty to the principles that restrain power.

This Memorial Day, perhaps the most meaningful tribute we can offer is not a slogan or a social media post, but a renewed commitment to the unfinished American experiment itself.

Because the fallen entrusted that experiment to us.

And history will judge whether we proved worthy of the sacrifice.

 

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

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.

Cinco de Mayo: A Completely Serious and Accurate Historical Account (Not Really)

Let me begin by saying that I love any holiday that justifies eating guacamole before noon and drinking margaritas the size of birdbaths. Naturally, Cinco de Mayo is high on my list of favorite holidays—right up there with National Pancake Day and whatever Wednesday my local pub decides to call “Trivia Night.”
Like most Americans, I used to think Cinco de Mayo was Mexico’s Independence Day. I believed this confidently and loudly, usually while wearing a sombrero I got from Party City and holding a beer imported no farther than St. Louis. As it turns out, Mexico’s actual Independence Day is September 16th. Oops. Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Mexican victory over the French at the Battle of Puebla in 1862.
Now, you may ask, “Why would the French invade Mexico?” Good question. Apparently, Napoleon III was bored, couldn’t get a Netflix subscription, and decided that Mexico would look fabulous with a little European flair. But the Mexicans weren’t having it. Despite being outnumbered and outgunned, they beat back the French like a mom slapping a spatula out of your hand before the cake cools. It was a wildly impressive underdog moment—Rocky Balboa but with bayonets and mustaches.
And yet, despite this dramatic military victory, Cinco de Mayo isn’t even a big holiday in most of Mexico. In fact, most Mexicans are like, “You guys are still doing that?” while watching gringos attempt salsa dancing like caffeinated giraffes.
In the United States, however, Cinco de Mayo has become a glorious, guac-fueled celebration of Mexican culture, music, and tortilla-based architecture. It is a day when we collectively remember that tequila has consequences and that wearing a poncho to the office might raise HR questions.
Now, let’s be clear—Cinco de Mayo is not just an excuse to drink margaritas at 11 a.m. on a weekday. It’s also an excuse to eat nachos the size of a futon while pretending you know what a mariachi band is. If you’re lucky, you’ll attend a street festival where toddlers in tiny sombreros throw confetti at your feet like you’re some kind of queso-coated monarch.
And yet, despite all the fun, Cinco de Mayo offers something deeper: the opportunity to celebrate resilience, culture, and the triumph of the underdog. Also, tacos. Lots of tacos.
So this Cinco de Mayo, raise a glass (or three), learn a little history, and try not to refer to your neighbor as “amigo” just because he’s wearing sandals. And remember: the real battle is not against the French—it’s trying to eat a burrito the size of your forearm without it disintegrating into your lap.
¡Viva el guacamole! ¡Viva Cinco de Mayo! And most importantly—viva nap time afterward.

Easter 2025

In this season of renewal and remembrance, we are reminded of two timeless stories—stories that stretch across centuries and traditions, but speak to one truth: that liberation is born of courage, faith, and relentless hope.

Passover tells of a people rising from bondage, defying a brutal empire with nothing but faith and determination. Easter proclaims that even in the face of betrayal, injustice, and death, life and truth cannot be buried for long. In both, we find the fierce reminder that darkness does not have the final word.

Today, we stand in a moment that tests our endurance. The weight of this administration’s policies and rhetoric may feel heavy. It may tempt us to retreat, to grow numb, to give in. But we are not alone—and we are not without power.

This season calls us not only to reflect, but to rise. To be the voices in the wilderness. The hands that reach for justice. The stubborn hearts that refuse to accept cruelty as normal. Like those before us, we persist not because it is easy—but because it is right.

So stand. Speak. Refuse to be silenced. Whether you light candles or lift hallelujahs, let your courage burn bright enough to show others the way. We are descendants of exodus and resurrection. Resistance is in our bones.

Freedom is not a distant promise—it is a daily choice. And we will choose it. Again and again.

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.

Bye-Bye, Miss American Pie

I used to love the Fourth of July. As a kid, the holiday always marked the middle of summer vacation. And a reminder that some of the hottest, swimming-est days were still ahead and to get a move on if everything I wanted to do would be completed before Labor Day.

Independence Day meant that 40 – 50 (or more) aunts, uncles and cousins, from my mother’s side of the family, would descend upon our house and one-acre back yard for a huge feast and celebration. Although lots of cooking and barbequing happened during the day, it was over several days of food preparation for most of the women in the family.

The Fourth of July started early in the morning with most of the cousins and the uncles heading down to the beach, clamming/quahogging to gather bushel baskets filled with shellfish for the clam bake. The older cousins and my sisters either stayed and cooked or did the heavy lifting chores to prepare the picnic tables and seating.

THE CLAMMING KIT: 1 bathing suit, 1 towel, 1 bushel basket, 1 inflated inner tube and a piece of rope about 20 – 30 feet long. I can still see the bushel baskets stuck firmly in inner tubes and the inner tubes tied with a long rope around each uncle’s waist.

The baskets floated on top of water in the tubes so the diggers’ hands were unencumbered and the rope kept the baskets from floating away with the tide. The cousins were separated into groups and were assigned an uncle, and his corresponding inner tube/basket. Each uncle had their special spot for digging.

We would stand with our uncles, feeling the ocean floor with our feet and toes to identify a bed of shellfish. Once it was clear that we hit pay dirt, we would dive underwater and start digging through the sand with our hands, snatching shellfish, bringing them to the surface and placing them in the bushel basket. “Don’t throw them – you’ll break the shells,” or “Hey! Nona moves faster than you, let’s speed it up.”

Quahogs, cherry stones, little necks, mussels, they all made it into the baskets (sorting was for later); sometimes our hands were overflowing with crustaceans. Squeals could be heard, reflecting off the water announcing a treasure trove with uncles shouting to each other, taking credit for the team of cousins they cleverly assigned to themselves, filling their baskets faster than the others.

Sometimes, in my dreams I can see the underwater image of my uncle’s bare legs and feet, his hunting toes digging into the sand searching for a bed of shellfish. His ballooned swimsuit with the rope tied around his generous waist; everything veiled in a sea screen of blue, green and yellow with streams of morning light flickering between everything that moved. Watching seaweed dance on the seafloor. The underwater sound of my own heart pounding in my ears, air bubbles immersing from my mouth, voices sounding far away from above, muffled with excitement and instruction; a result of that strange, silent, ambient ocean pressure against my ears.

We never left until all of the baskets were full or nearly full. The baskets were pulled to shore, lifted into the trunks of cars or backs of pick-up trucks and off we went home. We smelled of salt and sea-air, and other than changing from our bathing suits to shorts or summer dresses. I don’t recall any of us ever taking a shower for the rest of the day! Maybe we got “hosed down” at home; that memory escapes me. But I do remember the taste of salt on my lips and how the salt made my skin feel tight and a little itchy for the rest of the day. It was a wonderful morning. My cousins, my uncles and the ocean.

At home, my mother and aunts prepared an Italian feast including desserts. And as we arrived in the driveway, we could hear them talking (Italians don’t talk, they communicate in high decibel levels), singing, laughing, clanking pots and clicking plates. Picnic tables were set up around the yard and table clothes were being tied to each one. Older cousins toted kegs of beer on their shoulders and placed them in ice that had been chipped from blocks.

Cousin Tony (pianist) and his brother Carl (bassist), set up their instruments in a cemented area that abutted the base of the house – level enough for additional musicians and their instruments. We had music for most of the day into the night.

There was a wide, half-moon driveway that went around the entire back of the house, that separated the cemented area from the grassy backyard. The rule was that you could park your vehicle on either side of the house or on the street, but parking was restricted from the driveway directly behind the house. That area was reserved as the dance floor; which my older sisters and cousins took advantage of as soon as dusk dissolved into evening and the spotlights were turned on. My mother’s family was a glorious, musical one — but that is for another story.

The Fourth of July included games for the kids, lots to eat; two uncles sat most of the day in the corner of the yard shucking cherry stones in a basket filled with chipped ice for anyone who ate them raw. There was a giant pot of clam chowder (clear) which my father made. Kegs of beer and a fireworks display at the end of the day that did not disappoint. One Fourth of July display was epic.

Each year, the firework display was provided by, maintained, produced and orchestrated by a next door neighbor. We shall call this person, Ronnie Shavey; in order to protect the guilty.

Now, in RI, most fireworks that people want to see or fire off are illegal. But, like most illegal things in RI, our good friend Ronnie, probably “knew someone.” Jeez, back in those days, we ALL knew SOMEONE.

Ronnie would come to the celebration fairly early, as he had to set up the display. He was meticulous about the timing of each firework how the display was presented. There were all kinds of fancy illuminations; pinwheels, fire-flowers, Roman candles, sparklers, rockets, boxes (yes, plural) loaded with F1, F2 and F3 fireworks. Some were, perhaps, just short of a Class 4 – however it is not for me to know the veracity of in his stash.

And, I must add that while this was the guy that conducted the display annually, and we allowed him, it is important for me to that Ronnie had an intellect rivaled only by garden tools.

Picture 9:00 PM on a beautiful July evening. People have had plenty to eat and drink. Everyone is selecting their place to observe the fireworks. The music has stopped and with grand anticipation, we hold our breath for the first firework to light the sky. And, as usual, the presentation is just as promised with the obligatory “oohh’s” and “aahh’s” rising from the crowd when appropriate – everyone is having a terrific time.

Now, to this day, no one seems to know exactly how it happened, but a lit rocket inadvertently was fired into one of the five-side-by-side boxes of fireworks. With a resounding thud, the box tumbled over, causing a chain reaction that set fireworks shooting in all directions. In an instant, colorful rockets, pinwheels and fountains were flying into the night sky.

The family, who were moments ago engaged as merely spectators, suddenly found themselves in the midst of an explosive battlefield. Nervous laughter mixed with screams as a shower of sparkles rained down on the crowd, eliciting both panic and astonishment.

Uncles and aunts jumped from their seats, ducking and dodging the unexpected display, their hands waving wildly as they tried to avoid the blazing rockets whizzing by them. Some of them hitting the dirt. One uncle attempted to use a grill cover as a makeshift shield, while his wife hid behind a picnic table. Another uncle who brought his trombone began to match a valve slide sound with each squeal of a rocket!

Meanwhile, the kids were in a state of glee. Their eyes widened as they chased after the sparkling fireworks, attempting to catch them like fireflies. Everyone was in some state of disbelief, hysteria and awe. It was a mini-Armageddon!

As the final fireworks fizzled out, the backyard was left in a state of disarray. The burnt grass was speckled with remnants of spent rockets, and the family members were covered in a dusting of residue.

Then there was dead silence. Even the crickets stopped. But once the shock ended and everyone was aware that we were alive and had all of our limbs, an unforgettable moment of pure hilarity rolled over us. We were crying-laughing or laughing-crying from relief.

And amidst the laughter, memories were forged, making that Fourth of July a family gathering we have cherished and reminisced about to this very day.

After my mother passed away, in 1973, my sister Marie (Bebe) took over the tradition. We no longer had the music or fireworks display, but lots of food and people – with the next generation of family in attendance.

My sister and her husband have a big, beautiful pool which was a welcomed addition to the summer fun. Everyone arrived with a dish of something and the day was filled with food, laughter and family. This was the annual summer celebration that brought us and kept us together – especially after Mom passed.

I have always admired my sister Bebe and her husband Sarkis for not letting it go – that our generation kept it going. She clearly understood the importance of how critical it was to keep the family together. Every year. A tradition.

Sadly, in the last 10 – 15 years, only one of my mother’s nine siblings remains with us. Several of my first cousins have moved or passed away. We no longer have a big Fourth of July celebration.

My older sisters are now into their 80’s. Bebe is caretaker of an ailing husband and can no longer accommodate the big crowds of yesteryear. And the tradition of gathering on the Fourth disappeared into the past.

The generation after us did not take over the yearly family gathering which is now just a memory.
Seems like everyone is just “too busy” to get together as an entire family or it just isn’t very important any more to carry that kind of family tradition. Just a sign of the times and how life changes, I guess. No matter what you try to plan, even immediate members of individual families are off doing their own thing.

Technology has had a hand in this and the recent pandemic has encouraged a separateness that before did not exist. You can’t even strike up a conversation with a stranger anymore as they are too busy glued to their stupid-phones. Or, they use the stupid-phone to avoid connecting in person.

Connecting. I worry for my grandchildren more than anything. Will they know the kind of connection to family that I have known? I doubt it.

I miss those days – those big-family-gathering days. Maybe I hold these “traditions” too dear. Maybe they weren’t as important as I remember. I do remember that those times brought the family and our extended families closer. Bonded us forever. I never felt safer or more loved during those times.

And this is not to say that there are never invites from wonderful family members or friends to gather with them and their families. Thankfully, there are several of them every year. There is always something to do or somewhere to go on the Fourth of July.

But it is the old tradition that I miss most.  Has the world changed so much for those of my generation; especially those with strong ethnic ties?  I often think that it was when my mother passed away the glue that kept the family together disappeared over time. It just evolved into something else.  What is your “else,” I wonder?

Every year, there are postings of families on Facebook, large families, from those that continue a the Fourth of July tradition. I am happy for them. They are building something that every generation who attends will never forget and will hang on to – and will need in times of aloneness and separation.

Those families are creating and maintaining their legacy. I hope I see those postings every year; that they never stop. They bring me back to a happier time and I am grateful for the memories.