Music

WHAT AMERICAN IS, WHEN WE REMEMBER (Super Bowl XL – Bad Bunny)

America is not a gate.
It is a field—
wide enough for sugarcane to grow
where yard lines once pretended to be borders.
It is a song that refuses translation
because it does not ask permission to exist.
A mother tongue lifted into floodlights,
each syllable a hand reaching forward
instead of a fist held tight.
America is a child
looking up at someone who looks like him,
not because fame matters,
but because possibility does.
Because belief still survives
in the small, unguarded places.
It is a blessing spoken outward,
never hoarded.
A roll call of neighbors,
names said slowly, lovingly,
as if geography itself were a family album
creased by use,
kept close to the heart.
America is flags moving together,
cloth breathing in unison,
not competing for air.
It is color without apology.
It is history that did not arrive quietly
and never will.
America is the courage to stand joyful
while someone else calls joy a threat.
It is love so visible
that hate reveals its true size—
small, brittle, afraid of music.
It is not purity.
It is not silence.
It is not fear dressed up as tradition.
It is not the narrowing of the world
to fit a frightened man’s vocabulary.
America is a place where language becomes rhythm,
where culture is shared like food,
passed hand to hand,
where no one asks you to erase yourself
to be welcomed.
It is the understanding that belonging
is not something you win
by excluding others,
but something you deepen
by making room.
America is a homeland that says,
We are still here,
not as defiance,
but as devotion.
And when the world is watching,
America—at its best—
chooses to answer cruelty
with celebration,
division with invitation,
and hate
with a love so expansive
it cannot be shouted down.
This is the America worth handing to our children—
not wrapped,
not polished,
but alive,
singing in every language it has ever known,
standing together in the open,
unafraid of itself.

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.

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.