Born and raised in New York City, author and political pundit, Joseph Sciuto spent his early years listening to the vivid stories told by his grandmother, a second-generation Italian-American.
He vividly remembers listening to the great stories about his grandparents, her eighteen children, and how his grandfather and uncles were responsible for building much of the impressive Manhattan skyline, including the Empire State Building. Ever since his earliest days, Joseph loved storytelling.
Sciuto spent his summers playing basketball with teams made up of the melting pot that is "The Big Apple". Joseph collected stories from his friends, an African-American NYPD detective, various Latino shooting stars from the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico and Cuba, Irish-American beat cops and other Italian-Americans.
The rich flavor of their stories about family and heritage works its way through Sciuto's writing to this day.
Sciuto holds a degree from John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan, State University of New York at Stony Brook on Long Island and certification in Film Studies from New York University. He studied psychology, film, theater, literature and English as an undergrad, and film and history as a grad student.
Joseph could not escape the allure of storytelling and began studying to become a novelist. To this day, he starts out every morning reading for an hour.
Sciuto recently completed his fourth novel, SOFIA, and writes a weekly blog, A CURIOUS VIEW, which he describes as "short profiles of famous people I have had the pleasure of meeting, stories about life-long friends and family from the Bronx and thoughts about some of my favorite artists, literary, musical and otherwise.
I do not discuss politics, unless it is in praise of such heroes as Presidents Harry S. Truman and Theodore Roosevelt."
Joseph Sciuto splits his time between Los Angeles and Kentucky where he lives with his wife, entertainment writer/former Disney studio manager, Melissa Smith, and their two very spoiled cats..
"Joseph Sciuto's love of storytelling is infectious", said one loyal reader in a recent interview. "Once you read one his works, you have to read everything he writes".
L.A. McNally, Bronx Historian
"Sciuto's writing is sublime, poetic, and the narrative moves so quickly and effortlessly. I strongly, strongly recommend his work to readers who love good fiction."
Andres G. Lopez, Ph.D, Professor of Literature, State University of New York at Morrisville
"Joseph Sciuto's accurate portrayal of the seedier side of Hollywood, his beautiful visuals and emotional character studies make his books compelling, yet easy to read. I look forward to reading his next work."
Margo Manx, Hollywood studio executive
See writing snapshots from Joseph Sciuto's A CURIOUS VIEW below.
As a historian, Joseph Sciuto studies events, ideas, institutions, and individuals of the past. He interprets his research of events that occurred during the American Revolution, the Civil War and World Wars I and II.
Sciuto examines written records and extrapolates information to offer a new look at events of the past. He relates his knowledge of these conclusions and applies those hypotheses to suggest workable theories to relate to present-day problems or situations.
Historians generally focus on a particular era and Joseph Sciuto specializes in the American Revolution, the Civil War, and WWII.
Sciuto also publishes his findings on how trends repeat themselves throughout history. Joseph's favorite area to discuss is America's Founding Fathers and Alexander Hamilton.
Joseph Sciuto holds degrees from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, State University of New York at Stony Brook, a film studies certificate from New York University and did his post-graduate work at Western Governors University and Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles.
Forty–six years ago, on a mild, sunny Valentine's Day in the Bronx, my Uncle Tony died.
And I cried and cried.
He was a bigger-than-life character, and he looked like a movie star. His hands were unusually large...like the hands of a prizefighter...and when he gripped the quart-size bottle of Rheingold beer that he had with his dinner every night, his hands covered the entire bottle.
He loved to fish and swim, and he especially liked company. He walked with a noticeable limp...a polio victim when he was just a child. He always lived with his parents (my grandparents), and his youngest sister, Rena (my aunt).
My Uncle Tony worked as a doorman at the ritzy ‘Sutton Place’ in midtown Manhattan. Occasionally, he would tell me about a famous movie star or ballplayer he had met, and how unimpressed he usually was...something I would learn first-hand years later.
He adored his mother and, as she would reprimand him from the makeshift living room where she was watching television, he always would reply, “I would never give the child any beer, Mom.”
Of course, he was lying and would give me a sip of beer, then stick a piece of garlic in my mouth from the nearby tomato sauce.
He would whisper to me, “Your grandma is the greatest woman in the world, and the only thing I ask of God is to let me die before she does.” Then, he would touch the large crucifix around his neck and kiss it softly.
Uncle Tony preached to me about the virtue of being a strong man. How a real man would never hit a woman…only a coward would do such a thing. He hated cowards, and he used to tell me over and over that the worst thing a man could be is a coward.
He told me wonderful stories about the old Bronx when he was growing up... how he would hit long homeruns in the park where they played, and then he would have my Uncle Sonny run the bases for him.
My parents, my brothers and I lived directly above my grandparents in an old apartment building. I was always down in my grandparent’s place, and I used to sit with my Uncle Tony every night when he got home from work, which was usually around eight o’clock.
My grandma always had dinner waiting for him. He was off on Mondays and Sundays, and those were the really great days because I could spend more time with him.
He promised me that he would teach me how to fish and swim like a champion. “I was just a year away” as he used to put it.
On a Monday afternoon as I rushed home from school to have lunch, my Uncle Tony had a massive stroke.
Three days later on St. Valentine’s Day, he passed away.
Today, whenever I visit the Bronx, I always go to the cemetery to visit my uncle’s grave. The tears still come as I look down at his name, engraved on the tombstone directly below the name of my grandmother.
And I always think of an old saying from the Bible, “In death, they were not parted.”
Once upon a time, in a world that at times seems as distant to me as the ancient city of Babylon, there stood a restaurant called “The West Hollywood Palm.”
It was on the border of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills in the county of Los Angeles.
Before it went through drastic transformations after the death of its General Manager, it was famous for its great food, outstanding service (despite what jealous critics might write), its clientele, and its décor.
“It was like a high class speakeasy,” as one of our loyal customers, Herb Lazarus, once described the place to me.
It was rumored that more Hollywood deals were signed in The Palm Restaurant than any of the major studios in town.
It was not only the Hollywood elite that frequented the restaurant, but gangsters, high-class prostitutes, politicians, military contractors, famous ballplayers and the Archbishop of Los Angeles…
…and Lucifer…on many occasions… disguised brilliantly as some of the most respected people in the world.
The front four tables, #1, 2, 39, and 40, were usually reserved for our most loyal customers.
At lunchtime, that usually meant big Hollywood players like Richard Zanuck, Mike Ovitz, Tom Mankiewicz, Alan Horn, and less-famous but equally-important players like Van and Rose who owned an insurance company that insured many of the major films in production.
At night, those four tables were reserved for a more diverse clientele like well-known gangsters, gamblers, famous actors and actresses, and comedians who were friends of the restaurant since its beginning in New York City.
One of those comedians was the late Don Rickles, who usually came in with his wife, Barbara.
The last time I had the pleasure to serve Mr. Rickles was over ten years ago on a busy Saturday night on table 39.
Like always, he was amazingly polite, remembered my name throughout dinner, and looked at his wife as though he was falling in love with her for the first time.
He occasionally reverted to the comedian that the world outside knew, and when my friend Tommy asked him if he was going to attend Frank Sinatra’s 75th birthday celebration.
Rickles responded, “And what, hear the man sing ‘My Way’ for the millionth time. Enough, already! Enough!”
Then, he took Tommy by the hand and invited Tommy and his wife to his Las Vegas Show. Tommy accepted, and as Tommy sat in the audience, Mr. Rickles pointed him out to the audience, then went on to insult him in the way only Don Rickles could do. |
Tommy was flattered.
Mr. Rickles left me a forty per cent tip that night, shook my hand, and as he was making his way to the front door, he noticed a waiter, Johnny, who happened to be quite short.
The funnyman went into a tirade about Johnny’s height and everyone at the bar started laughing hysterically. He hugged Johnny, looked around, and asked the bar customers, “And what are you clowns laughing at?” The “clowns” laughed harder.
Mr. Rickles took his wife’s hand and walked outside. I was outside talking to another customer as Mr. Rickles and his wife waited for the valet.
A young, aspiring comedian approached Mr. Rickles and asked him several questions.
He listened as one might listen to the President of the United States, answered the young comedian’s questions, touched his cheek gently, then took his hand and held it between both his hands.
“You’re going to be great kid. Just don’t ever give up,” Rickles assured the young man.
Don Rickles was a great comedian. Off stage, he was as good a man as I have ever met at the famous Palm Restaurant.
Once again, he is in the company of the Rat Pack, suffering through countless renditions of ‘My Way’ by Mr. Sinatra…and loving every moment of it.
Don Rickles was nicknamed ‘Mr. Warmth’ for his onstage put-downs.
But in the world that really matters, he really was an exceptionally warm, generous, compassionate and loving man who the rising ‘stars’ of today would be smart to emulate.
Rest in Peace, Mr. Warmth.
In the more than two decades that I worked at the West Hollywood Palm Restaurant, I saw millions of people come and go through the front door.
The vast majority were customers, many of whom became lifelong friends and with whom I have kept in contact to this very day.
The rest were employees with whom I worked over twenty years.
Together, we witnessed our original dreams vaporize like the early morning haze that hangs over southern California until the sun erases all traces of its gloom.
Of all the millions of people, celebrities and tourists, the famous and the infamous, Angelenos, New York "transplants," and those from the far-flung corners of the planet with whom I came in contact, many made lasting impressions...some for the better and some for the worse.
In 1994, John Burns, a longtime waiter at the restaurant before becoming a real estate mogul, recommended a young lady to our General Manager who was looking to hire our first hostess ever.
She was hired shortly after she interviewed. Her name was Linda, and if you were to put her in a picture with twenty other people, she might very well be the last person you notice.
She was about 5’4’’ and her legs were as skinny as those of a chicken. She had light reddish hair that came down to her shoulders, which she parted on the side. Her teeth were small and very crooked, but her face was quite appealing, and she had a slim but beautiful shape.
She was the type of girl you were certain that if you introduced her to your parents, they would immediately approve and start making wedding preparations.
Linda was a “hugger,” and she had a delightful and sunny disposition. It was no surprise that so many customers and employees fell in love with her.
She had a troubled past with drugs and alcohol, but by the time she started working at The Palm, she had been sober and clean for a couple of years. She quickly moved up from hostess to the accountant position (taking the place of our wonderful and charming Jenevieve who went on to bigger and better things).
Like Jenevieve, Linda never went to our General Manager with a problem concerning a waiter, busboy, kitchen crew, or bartender. If she could solve the problem with a discreet one-on-one, that is the way she always went.
In a strange way, I don’t think many of us deserved the kindness and compassion of Jenevieve and Linda. They were a godsend!
At Christmas time, Linda gave every employee at the Palm a Christmas card with a short note and two one-dollar bills. It was her way of telling us how much she appreciated all of us.
She was making less money than all the other employees at the restaurant, except for the janitor and dishwasher.
I have never spent the money, and the cards are among my most cherished.
In the summer of 1995, the restaurant shut down for a week and had some much needed renovation done to it.
Linda supervised the renovation, and during that week, she started going out with the contractor who was from Boston. It was like a fairy tale and after a little while they got married and moved to Boston.
Before moving, we threw her a surprise going away party in which every employee and many customers showed up. She cried and hugged everyone.
I kept in touch with her and every month or so, we exchanged letters. She was so happy and her happiness was like a beautiful drug to me.
Life caught up with both of us, and a long time went by without any communication. Then one day, an assistant manager told me she had talked to Linda who was working at the Boston Palm, and Linda said to tell me "hi."
The manager said she sounded drunk and high at eleven in the morning. A couple of days later we got word that she was fired.
It’s no secret, that addicts have relapses, and I was sure she would bounce back. She had a loving husband who refused to give up on her.
A few months later she had been diagnosed with an inoperative brain tumor that had been eating away at her motor skills for well over a year.
She had been neither drunk nor high. She was dying.
Linda died two days after we found out the news about the tumor, and the morning haze over Los Angeles never burned away that day.
And her kindness and generosity, like Jenevieve’s, was never replaced.
Occasionally, a TV personality will enter your household, such as Rod Serling, Johnny Carson, Jay Leno or Charles Osgood , and become a permanent guest for many years.
They usually possess an "everyman’ personality." Despite their position in life, they seem to know their audiences in a way that a family member knows his brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles.
It is that special person whom we welcome into our households for a short time, five days a week, over a long time, who becomes part of our extended family.
But when they stop showing up, it is like losing an essential part of yourself.
Robert Osborne, who passed away yesterday, was just that person.
Mr. Osborne was the host of Turner Classic Movies for twenty-three years. His insights into old movie classics, like "All About Eve" and "The Maltese Falcon" were like a history lesson that all Americans would benefit from knowing and viewing.
He helped in the preservation of many old classics that otherwise would have degenerated in uncared for vaults...forever lost…a crime against culture and art that no civilization can afford.
Osborne's tidbits about legendary actresses like Bette Davis and Olivia de Havilland were priceless and never mean-spirited.
Robert Osborne celebrated the genius of filmmakers who did not rely on expensive salaries or special effects, opting instead for superb storytelling, directing, and acting.
He recorded the history of movies and, like an archeologist, he and the staff at TCM preserved and enlightened a new generation of filmmakers, while rekindling the hopes and dreams and memories of older viewers whose first memories were of movies starring Humphrey Bogart, Clark Cable, James Cagney, Lauren Bacall, James Stewart, and Myrna Loy.
Thank you, Mr. Osborne. You are a guest whom I will miss greatly.
Sometimes, the final chapter is written before any of the major players enter.
Other times, the final chapter is written when all the pieces in the triangle meet at a ninety-degree angle and collapse onto each other.
A few days ago, the final chapter ended as the triangle collapsed on itself.
Back in 1988, I was lucky if I could find the state of Kentucky on the map. It was a place where they raised horses on beautiful manicured farms, and the place where President Abraham Lincoln was born.
Then, I met my wife and that all changed. In the winter of '88, on the day after Christmas, I flew into Lexington, Kentucky, for the first time, and unbeknown to me at the time was how much of an important role the state and its citizens would come to play in my life from then on.
My mother-in-law lived in a large white house with a backyard as big as a football field. The house was old, built in 1908, but it was probably the first house I had been in since my childhood.
It reminded me of my grandmother’s house back in the Bronx.
The whistle of steam through old radiator pipes met the winter chill. The floorboards creaked with history and the ghosts of deceased loved ones.
The lights that occasionally flickered and the sounds of a loud alarm clock were constant reminders that neither time nor place were ever meant to stand still.
At night, my wife, mother-in-law, and I usually gathered in the study after dinner and watched an old movie on TV… at least until an onslaught of visitors arrived.
On the first full night that I was there, Jack and Helen and their children and grandchildren and even more children came over. They were all amazingly gregarious and friendly, and never for a moment did I not feel like I belonged.
Jack immediately would become what I considered a very close friend. He was an outspoken critic of everything and would, without hesitation, give you the last dollar in his pocket if you asked.
He was exceptionally funny in a way that only a person who is not trying to be funny, can be the funniest person in the group.
In that way, he was like my mother-in-law, Lou. If she tried to be funny it never would have worked, but some of the lines that came out of her mouth, uncensored, left me in stitches. Until this day, I still laugh at many of her southern sayings and remarks.
The only clash was one of accents... my NYC and Lou's north Alabama. Throughout the day and night, she would ask her daughter, “What did he say?” I, in turn, would ask my wife, “What did she say?”
At the end of the night, after my wife went to sleep, we would talk about family, friends, religion, hardships and joys, and neither of us had a difficult time understanding the other.
Jack and Lou passed away a number of years ago, but I never have stopped feeling the love and kindness and generosity they showered upon me.
A couple of days ago Jack’s wife, Helen, passed away. That was the final piece of the triangle.
Helen, like Jack, was loving, kind, and beautifully compassionate. She and Jack always would harass and pester each other, but never once did anyone doubt their unbinding love for each other.
Lou often played the referee, at which she was quite good.
From the moment that Jack passed, Helen always would say how much she missed Jack, and how she couldn’t wait to reunite with him and Lou again.
A couple of days ago that reunion took place, and all the pieces of the triangle collapsed, and all the loved ones they left behind are now left with the difficult task of building their own triangles that will outlast the grave and all of time.
Over the years, while passing through many cemeteries throughout the United States, attending way too many memorials, and simply mourning the deaths of people whom I have greatly admired, I have gone back in time to two quotes by two wonderful and distinguished writers.
Rod Serling, the creator and writer of “The Twilight Zone” and real life war hero, greatly cherished friendships. In part, because of the horrific events he witnessed during World War II in the Pacific theater where he carried the lifeless bodies, and near-lifeless bodies of friends across battlefields.
He received many of medals and on his tombstone, it simply reads, “I left behind friends.”
Many people have misinterpreted the quote to mean his dead friends from the war, but in reality, he was talking about his friends who were still alive when he passed away.
I often think to myself that just before I die, I hope I say the same thing.
It is a ringing endorsement of the type of person Serling was, and the type of person I wish I could live up to.
The other quote is from Hemingway and it reads, “The only thing a person takes with him/her when they die is what they left behind.”
To an artist, it might be his/her work. To a soldier, it might be his/her heroism or comradeship. To a ballplayer, perhaps it is highlight reels.
Or to a mother or father, it might mean the greatest honor of all...being a great parent and raising productive, compassionate, and loving children.
This is the quote I have used most, and as Father Time catches up with me, I seem to be using it more and more as friends and family and people whom I truly have admired seem to be dying at a rapid pace.
A couple of days ago, I was writing a piece about an abused woman, and in the piece, I just happened to mention Mary Tyler Moore.
The abused character, a female in her late twenties, nonchalantly remarks that all she wanted to do was grow up to be like Mary Richards in the “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” Independent and strong-willed and funny to boot.
Yesterday, upon learning of Ms. Moore’s death I felt a real pang inside, like millions and millions of other fans.
I grew up watching reruns of “The Dick Van Dyke Show” with my grandmother, and even though I was just a little boy, I am certain that my first real crush was on Laura Petrie.
A few years later, in the early seventies, I used to watch “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” with my parents and used to think that maybe someday I could marry a woman like Mary Richards.
Mary Tyler Moore was many things to many people.
She was a woman who could make a profound statement using comedy, like Chaplin and Woody Allen. She could rally a fire inside one without using vulgar and cruel comments, but by making one laugh.
Mary Tyler Moore leaves behind many memories that will live on forever from the world of TV, movies, and the theater.
And, most importantly, as the tributes come pouring in, she leaves behind many friends.
REST IN PEACE, Mary Tyler Moore.
The Catholic religion has had a profound impact on me.
As a child, I was so caught up in its web of dark magic, gloom, and its threat of damnation if one did not play by the rules, that I found myself in Blessed Sacrament Church, seven days a week, on my knees, asking God and the priest in the confessional booth for forgiveness for sins that I didn’t even commit.
The way I saw it, one couldn’t play it safe enough. The road to perdition was one road that I did not want to land on after death.
Eternal damnation, fire and brimstone were not especially appealing to me, especially at eight-years-old.
I got caught up in this insanity so badly that, one day, I lost track of time.
My lovely grandmother got so worried that she sent out an army of her children to hunt me down.
My Aunt Rosie found me in church and escorted me back to my grandmother's house.
My grandmother was naturally all-forgiving, but my Aunt Rosie was more realistic and wasn’t about to let this obsession of mine get out of hand.
Aunt Rosie took me aside and, in no uncertain words, forbade me from going to church except on Sunday to attend Mass.
God was an all-powerful force, but invisible.
My Aunt Rosie, however, was quite visible and could kick my little butt straight onto the earthly road of perdition where there was no TV and no candy.
As I matured and went off to college, I was able to differentiate between the nonsense that had penetrated the impressionable mind of a child and something closer to reality. I didn’t need a priest or nun to explain their version of my religion to me.
I could navigate the teachings of Christ and, unlike the guardians of the church, I did not see a vengeful God, but an all-forgiving God…someone who was more like my grandmother.
The hidden meanings and absurd passages that the priests and nuns used to frighten us into compliance were tossed aside, and I concentrated on the positive message that Christ preached…neatly summarized in the famous “Sermon on the Mount.”
This new approach and understanding of my religion enabled me to keep a promise that I had made to my grandmother…that I always would remain Catholic.
It is during Holy Week, the week between Palm Sunday and Easter, that the grandeur and beauty of the Christian religion are rejuvenated in me like no other time during the year.
On Good Friday, there is the crucifixion of Jesus, but more importantly, there is His plea to God the Father to forgive them “for they know not what they do.”
Easter is the celebration of Christ’s resurrection, and like the season of spring, it represents the promise of renewal in all of us.
It is a moment in time in which Christians, non-Christians, non-believers and Intellectuals should pause for a moment and acknowledge that, regardless of one’s faith or lack thereof, there is something bigger out there than you.
For people to think differently is very dangerous.
History has taught us that “egocentric individuals,” who can’t see beyond themselves, have been the cause of some of the greatest catastrophes that the world has ever witnessed.
When pondering if I have a valid point, don’t take my word for it. History’s greatest scientists including Einstein, Copernicus, Galileo, Pascal, Kepler and Newton believed in a higher power. And so do I.
In 1982, I moved to Los Angles and was surprised to see how powerful a presence the Catholic Church had in the City of Angels.
It had never dawned on me before moving there that a very large part of the population was made up of Hispanics who are overwhelmingly Catholic.
By that time in my life, I almost totally had stopped going to church, except on very rare occasions.
Most of my friends never mentioned religion. They were too busy trying to get their careers started, getting stoned and making money.
The Hollywood elite and music executives that frequented the restaurant I where I worked looked mostly upon religion as just another commodity.
The only time that religion was an “acceptable” subject was if it accelerated the ranking of a money-making feature film or hit song.
Money was a great motivator for the ever-jaded executive to hop on the next train to God.
To be fair, religious institutions across the country and the world were making a mockery of the religion that they purported to support and scamming a fortune off of fervent believers.
To quote Max von Sydow in “Hannah and Her Sisters,” the great Woody Allen film, “If Jesus came back and saw what was going on in his name, he’d never stop throwing up.”
Back in the early 1990s, the famous restaurant I worked at decided to get into the charity business. Not “charity” in the true sense…more like a one-night event that would garner more in “publicity dollars” than it would make on an ordinarily slow night.
The restaurant would recruit movie and TV stars, musicians and supermodels to serve as waiters. The glitterati and paparazzi were out in full force with the former dressed to the nines and the latter making the glitter even brighter with the flash of the cameras.
The actual waiters would trail behind as the “beautiful people” served dinner to their peers and lesser beings, but it was up to the celebrity server to take the order and deliver the food.
Each meal, which consisted of a salad, steak and lobster, and a piece of NY cheesecake for dessert, went for a mere five hundred dollars.
Tables of two, four, six, and eight sold out easily. After all, hubris is synonymous with Hollywood. and what better way to feel good about yourself than to have some pompous, overpaid entertainer serve you…that is, if “you” are the forgotten executive who made that entertainer very rich and very famous.
Naturally, things didn’t go as well as we had planned. Many celebrities, who likely worked as waiters and waitresses before becoming famous, weren’t ready to go back to their former professions…charity or no charity.
A few days before this well-publicized event, we found ourselves extraordinarily short of celebrity servers.
In our time of need, we turned to one of most big-hearted, kind and caring people in all of Hollywood.
Her name was Kathleen Mary Tucci, a top executive from NBC Universal who had the awesome ability to motivate (i.e. wrangle) high-powered talent with her charm and grace, often convincing that complying with a situation was really “their idea.”
Kathy came through for us and got us the much-needed celebrities, and the event was a major success. Thankfully, we made a lot of money for a well-deserving charity, and no celebrity server was harmed during the filming…er, event.
If one were to close his or her eyes and listen to Ms. Tucci, one could easily mistake her for a Kennedy. She is a Massachusetts native and proud of it. She is also Irish-Catholic, and she is just as proud of that.
Kathy is married to actor, Michael Tucci, and they have two lovely daughters.
She has a bigger-than-life personality, and one of the things that makes her so special is that she is true to herself…true to her Massachusetts roots (no disguising her dialect) and true to her religion. She is a faithful and supportive wife, and a loving, wonderful mother.
Italians are often portrayed in movies, TV and books as very Catholic, but in truth, the real bastions of Catholicism in the United States are in the Irish neighborhoods of New York, Boston, and Chicago.
As I am fond of telling my wife that the Irish make the Italians look like agnostics, and Kathleen Mary Tucci is proof of that.
More importantly, Kathy Tucci practices what she preaches, and she represents all that is good about my religion and is true to the message that Jesus preached.
A person's home is often an indication and reflection of the people that live in it.
When one enters the Tucci home, it is surprising how “normal” it is in comparison to other people who have enjoyed the success the Tuccis have had.
After spending a little time in their house, you realize that the home is a reflection of their personalities and mores.
It is intimate and tasteful, and while the children each have their own bedrooms, there is no great space separating any of them.
It is the perfect size home that a loving family occupies. Its members are part of an interactive and caring unit…not separated by thousands of square feet of unfamiliarity.
Kathy has been retired from NBC for about ten years. We don’t see each other as much as we once did, but she and Michael are always in our thoughts.
The woman’s generosity has no limits. When my wife’s department closed at Disney, Kathy got her a job at NBC. When my wife went through terrible back surgeries, it was Kathy who sent over bottles of Cristal and supportive little notes.
During this Holy Week that leads up to Easter, it is Kathleen Mary Tucci and her family who remind me of all the good things about the Catholic religion.
Always one to have fun, Kathy represents the joy and happiness that I eventually came to embrace in my religion…a joy that was missing for far too many years.
For that joy, and for so many ways she has brightened the world, I will be forever grateful.
As the promise of Easter approaches and the renewal it represents is in full bloom, I silently pray that more people discover the spirit of joy and giving that has always been present in the person of Kathleen Mary Sawyer Tucci.
Happy Easter to you and yours.