Storytelling

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.

Woodstock – August 16

Woodstock

We came barefoot into the fields,
the sky dripping music and rain,
our bodies pressed close in the mud,
hearts warm as the campfires
we believed could burn away
the old world.

We thought love was a weapon
that could dismantle empires,
that every guitar chord
was a law rewritten,
that every sunrise
was the first day of the new earth.

We shouted peace until our throats bled,
until the flags frayed in our hands.
We thought we would inherit
the halls of Congress,
reshape the courts,
turn power into a public trust
for everyone,
not just for a fortunate few.

But the years are long and merciless.
We have lived to see
the gap between mansion and shelter
widen until it swallows the horizon.
Social justice is a banner
faded by wind and rain,
while politics is wielded
for grift,
for empire,
for the quiet corruption
of men in robes and women in power suits
who bow only to the wealthiest one percent.

I still hear the music sometimes,
faint, behind the static.
It smells of wet grass and patchouli,
of hope before the fever broke.
We were so young.
We were so certain.
And now,
the mud has dried to dust.

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.

 

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

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.

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