The Works of G. Wayne Miller

The reviews for Burnt Cove are coming in... and they are highly favorable! Thanks to everyone. The book will publish on April 24 in hardcover, trade paperback, e- and audio editions. For news of events, bulk orders, etc., email burntcovebook@gmail.com

2026-02-16T06:22:00.000-08:00

“G. Wayne Miller never disappoints. Burnt Cove is unlike anything I’ve ever read before. A moving exploration of love and loss, regret and redemption, determination in the face of mystery, bravery in the face of monstrosity. It’s a story of family ties, family secrets, and the messy, beautiful question of what makes a family in the first place. It has enough heart and emotion to last from this world to the next, and that’s a good thing, because if you’re like me, you’ll meet these people, fall in love, and never want to say goodbye.” - Paul F. Olson, author of Alexander’s Song and many other critically acclaimed books

“A beautifully written book with so much mysterious atmosphere that asks the question: is it better not to know family secrets? Quite possibly G. Wayne Miller’s best book.” - Mark Slade, Twisted Pulp and other popular publications and podcasts.

Acclaimed writer Barry Cronin, author most recently of The Potty Mouth Kids, "six strange and disturbing tales of the macabre." He writes: "From the creative mind of one of New England’s most talented storytellers, prolific author G. Wayne Miller serves up his latest literary treasure. Burnt Cove is the compelling story of a remarkable family; a riveting tale filled with captivating characters, enchanting dialogue, tragedy and triumph, and a story line overflowing with more unexpected twists and turns than a backwoods, New England country road! But be forewarned! Once you open onto that first page, you are going to find it near impossible to put down. But try not to read it too quickly! Burnt Cove is a tale meant to be savored! An eminently satisfying book from start to finish, Burnt Cove qualifies as a must read!"

Esteemed poet and author of Tales of the Sea, Cynthia Elder, writes: “Find yourself a comfortable chair because you won't want to leave it until you've finished G. Wayne Miller's new novel, Burnt Cove. Miller delivers a story within a story, an unexpected and twisted tale that plumbs the depths of his characters and the chambers where their secrets lie. Set in the iconic coastal towns of Maine, he pulls you in with local knowledge and period references that will make you laugh, cry and remember. Burnt Cove reveals our dark side without being maudlin and upends traditional notions of right and wrong with the flick of a pen. A fast-paced read that resonates long after the last page.”

The fifth blurb for Burnt Cove is in, from groundbreaking horror master P.J Verfall, author of Faceless and Canis Lupus Humanus, who writes: "A soft touch ghost story that asks the question, 'What if you could get more than just a chance to say goodbye'" Thanks so much, P.J!

Sixth review of Burnt Cove, from Angel R. Sánchez, author of The Real Monster and creator of The Mortal Coil series, masterpieces all. Thanks, Angel! “Set against the beautifully rendered backdrop of coastal Maine, G. Wayne Miller’s Burnt Cove is a moving reckoning with grief, identity, and the kind of loss that fractures families. Blending quiet family drama with light spiritual elements, the story carries a ghostly ache without ever turning into horror, and its sincere, deeply human core stays with you.”

Seventh review: "G. Wayne Miller’s newest, Burnt Cove, is one of the most engrossing novels I’ve read in years. A masterfully-crafted tale of family secrets, horrors, discoveries, strength, and love that will not die, filled with lessons we might not have known we were looking for but are honored to have been given. I can’t recommend it enough.” - Elizabeth Massie, author of Sineater, Welcome Back to the Night, Desper Hollow.

Eighth review: "The pages will turn and you will be mesmerized as you accompany the intrepid Jack White on his “project,” a chilling exploration of a distant past that confronts him and his loved ones in the present. Prepare for vivid scenes of romance, heartbreak, and heroism.” - Bryan Gruley, author of the award-winning Bitterfrost and Starvation Lake crime-fiction series.

Ninth review: "Wayne Miller’s Burnt Cove is a compulsively readable story about how the living complete the unfinished business of the dead. It’s a story of ghosts and artists and storytellers; of love and murder; of raging fires and the sparkling coastal waters of Maine. Burnt Cove follows one man, Jack White, as he digs ever-deeper into the past, in an effort to make sense of the world and his place in it. Along the way we witness one literal exhumation and countless other – figurative – exhumations of secrets, love affairs, and artistic masterpieces. In the book, Miller deftly interweaves the stories of memorable characters, and jumps across generations, to deliver a dazzling story of family, fate, and American life." -- Phil Eil, freelance journalist and author of Prescription for Pain: How a Once-Promising Doctor Became the “Pill Mill Killer.”

An interview in my study conducted by my son, G. Calvin Miller, on Feb. 3, 2008. Watch it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Chz7VR0Wsw

2025-12-26T07:07:00.000-08:00

Calvin: When did you decide that you wanted to become a writer? What do you think, growing up, influenced your decision to become a writer? Me: My mother used to sit me down, and I actually enjoyed this despite my other feelings about my mother, which we won't get into here. You can read the book. She used to sit me down, and we'd start through the dictionary, starting at A and go right through, and I don't think we ever finished, but I remember aardvark was the first word, and abalone was the second. But reading and writing were very important in my household, so that's where it came from. Calvin: Did you plan out how you were going to become a writer, or was it sort of a play -by -ear thing? Me; It was not planned out. It was serendipity, which is, I guess, another way of saying play by ear. It just kind of happened. But again, I always liked writing, so it wasn't a question of like I woke up one day and went, ooh, I think I like writing. Calvin: What was your first writing piece to ever be published? Me: It was a story about a blizzard in 1978, which was published in my very small hometown newspaper, the Wakefield Daily Item. And I was living in Boston at that time. And I wrote sort of an essay about what it was like being in Boston at that time, and it was a horrible piece of crap. I didn't start off. But they liked it, so. Actually, I did at the time. I read it now, as I have actually in the last few years, and it's like loaded with cliches. Calvin: You just answered three of my questions. Me: Well, there you go. We're moving right through this. The lead of that story was the plane sat at Logan like wounded dinosaurs. I remember that. It's like you can't get much worse than that. Calvin: How do you know what a wounded dinosaur looks like? Me: I have no idea. I'm just poetic. I told you it was awful. Not as bad as my high school poetry, which we won't ever get into, although I still have some of it. In one of these yearbooks, actually, I was like the poetry person. Calvin: Do you ever read your own writing for enjoyment? Me: No. Calvin: No? Me: No. Never. I mean, I'll read a newspaper piece after, but even in terms of books, no. I've never read one of my books. After the editing, obviously. Calvin: Well, then, do you believe that you're a good writer? Me: I think I'm a decent writer. I mean, I've had some success at it. You know, let other people decide. Calvin: Who do you look up to as a writer? Me: My immediate answer is Stephen King, who I've loved forever and ever since his second book. Actually, I didn't read his first. And there are a lot of non -fiction writers that I really admire, too. Jonathan Har is one of them. Richard Rhodes. Christopher Buckley. I could go on, but those are among the ones I like. Calvin: Why don't you write horror, then, if your favorite author is a horror writer? Me: My first book was a horror novel. But then I sort of got off into doing non -fiction books. But I actually wrote a horror story last summer. It wasn't bad. First one I'd written in a long time. Calvin: Do you enjoy writing non -fiction? Seems kind of boring to me. Me: I enjoy writing non -fiction. I enjoy it a lot. I probably like fiction better, but I'm not feeding you on my fiction, so let's put it that way. here's a money aspect to this. My fiction has never sold well, or at all. Some have sold it. Calvin: Have you ever started writing a book and then just decided that it wasn't worth it or it wasn't a good idea and stopped? Would you say that being a writer is easy or hard? Me: If it's your career path and you want to make money, don't go into it. You kind of don't choose it. I know that sounds groovy. Calvin: You feel you're compelled to do it. Do you honestly enjoy being a writer? Me: Yes. I can't imagine doing anything else except making films now. But that all is part of the same process. Calvin: What was your second choice if you failed becoming a writer? Me: I wanted to be a neurosurgeon. Calvin: And you chose writer? Me: I did. And here's what happened. My first week at college, I went to Harvard planning to be a neurosurgeon. My first week, I get into this upper-class creative writing course. And they let in one or two undergrads. You had to compete for it. And I got in. It was like, that was cool. And I looked at all the study it would take [in pre-med], all the science and statistics and biochemistry and stuff. I'm sure you think it's a bad career choice, given that you don't have a pony or something. Which I can't afford to buy. Do you want a pony? I don't think he wants a pony. Calvin: How do you think your life would be different if you'd never become a writer? Me: I'd be bored. I'm not bored very often. Calvin: I don't think being a neurosurgeon would be very boring. Me: Have you seen neurosurgery? Calvin: No. Me: I have. It's boring. And by the way, you have to be really good at it, or as the old saying goes, oops, there go the piano lessons. It's an old neurosurgical joke. But I have seen it several times, actually. The chief of neurosurgery at Children's Hospital and the Brigham and Women's Hospital [allowed me]. Calvin: Does the place or the atmosphere in which you write affect your writing? Like, say, writing in this room versus writing in a hospital? Me: Yes, absolutely. Yep, absolutely. I write best in this room, and I'm less productive elsewhere, especially in a newsroom where people are constantly talking. It's hard to write anything serious there, although you can write silly little -ass stuff. Calvin: What about your mood? Like, for example, how is your writing different when you're angry than when you're happy? Sometimes writing, like, can ease anger. Me: That's an interesting question. I never thought about it. Mood obviously affects the quality of what you're writing, but I've never really analyzed what mood leads to what quality of writing. Calvin: How has your writing changed throughout your life, like the style or the way in which you write? Me: I've gotten less cliched, and I've realized that I'm not a stylist. Some people are. I have a friend at the New York Times, Dan Barry, who's a great stylist. He can turn a phrase. I'm not good at that. So I realized that my strengths were sort of narrative and structure and detail. Calvin: What did you major in in college? Me: English. And other activities that we don't need to go into. English, by the way, is a great major for the other activities. It buys you time. Calvin: Do you think that your major, English, has significantly helped or altered your writing? Me: Yes. It deepened my appreciation for reading and literature and writing. Now, you can't learn how to be a good writer. Calvin: No, you can't. Me: And that's absolutely true. I think people who take writing courses and, you know, past a certain point, it's just bullsh**. The way to learn to write is to write and to read. Calvin: Have you ever tried writing poetry instead of prose? Me: Yes, in high school. I mentioned earlier, I won't embarrass myself, but it's awful. And I do respect poetry, but I certainly can't do it. Calvin: Why do you write? Me: Because you feel compelled. Because if I don't, I get antsy and weird. You do it to exorcise demons, maybe. Calvin: Well, thank you, Wayne. Me: Thank you, George Calvin. That would be my son.

Twenty-three years ago. RIP, Dad

2025-12-11T13:15:00.000-08:00

Author's Note: I wrote this 13 years ago, on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of my father's death. Like his memory, it has withstood the test of time. I have slightly updated it for today, December 11, 2025, the 23nd anniversary of his death. Read the original here.

Roger L. Miller as a boy, early 1920s.

My Dad and Airplanes

by G. Wayne Miller

I live near an airport. Depending on wind direction and other variables, planes sometimes pass directly over my house as they climb into the sky. If I’m outside, I always look up, marveling at the wonder of flight. I’ve witnessed many amazing developments -- the end of the Cold War, the advent of the digital world, for example -- but except perhaps for space travel, which of course is rooted at Kitty Hawk, none can compare.

I also always think of my father, Roger L. Miller, who died 22 years ago today.

Dad was a boy on May 20, 1927, when Charles Lindbergh took off in a single-engine plane from a field near New York City. Thirty-three-and-a-half hours later, he landed in Paris. That boy from a small Massachusetts town who became my father was astounded, like people all over the world. Lindbergh’s pioneering Atlantic crossing inspired him to get into aviation, and he wanted to do big things, maybe captain a plane or even head an airline. But the Great Depression, which forced him from college, diminished that dream. He drove a school bus to pay for trade school, where he became an airplane mechanic, which was his job as a wartime Navy enlisted man and during his entire civilian career. On this modest salary, he and my mother raised a family, sacrificing material things they surely desired.

My father was a smart and gentle man, not prone to harsh judgment, fond of a joke, a lover of newspapers and gardening and birds, chickadees especially. He was robust until a stroke in his 80s sent him to a nursing home, but I never heard him complain during those final, decrepit years. The last time I saw him conscious, he was reading his beloved Boston Globe, his old reading glasses uneven on his nose, from a hospital bed. The morning sun was shining through the window and for a moment, I held the unrealistic hope that he would make it through this latest distress. He died four days later, quietly, I am told. I was not there.

Like others who have lost loved ones, there are conversations I never had with my Dad that I probably should have. But near the end, we did say we loved each other, which was rare (he was, after all, a Yankee). I smoothed his brow and kissed him goodbye.

So on this 22nd anniversary, I have no deep regrets. But I do have two impossible wishes.

My first is that Dad could have heard my eulogy, which I began writing that morning by his hospital bed. It spoke of quiet wisdom he imparted to his children, and of the respect and affection family and others held for him. In his modest way, he would have liked to hear it, I bet, for such praise was scarce when he was alive. But that is not how the story goes. We die and leave only memories, a strictly one-way experience.

My second wish would be to tell Dad how his only son has fared in the last 22 years. I know he would have empathy for some bad times I went through and be proud that I made it. He would be happy that I found a woman I love, Yolanda, my wife now for ten years and my best friend for almost two decades: someone, like him, who loves gardening and birds. He would be pleased that my three wonderful children, Rachel, Katy and Cal, are making their way in the world; and that he now has three great-granddaughters, Bella, Liv and Viv, wonderful girls all. In his humble way, he would be honored to know how frequently I and my children remember and miss him. He would be saddened to learn that his oldest child, Mary Lynne, died this year (How many lives did my sister Mary Lynne Wright touch? How many did she heal? She enrolled in nursing school in the mid-1960s and remained in healthcare until her retirement a few years ago, so surely it is tens of thousands, if not more. She personified what Florence Nightingale, the founder of modern nursing said: “Nursing is an art: and if it is to be made an art, it requires an exclusive devotion as hard a preparation as any painter's or sculptor's work.” No one knew this better than her husband of 56 years: my brother-in-law, Walter “Duke” Wright. RIP, ML.) and his younger daughter, Lynda, died in 2015. But that is not how the story goes, either. We send thoughts to the dead, but the experience is one-way. We treasure photographs, but they do not speak.

Lately, I have been poring through boxes of black-and-white prints handed down from Dad’s side of my family. I am lucky to have them, more so that they were taken in the pre-digital age -- for I can touch them, as the people captured in them surely themselves did so long ago. I can imagine what they might say, if in fact they could speak.

Some of the scenes are unfamiliar to me: sailboats on a bay, a stream in winter, a couple posing on a hill, the woman dressed in fur-trimmed coat. But I recognize the house, which my grandfather, after whom I am named (George), built with his farmer’s hands; the coal stove that still heated the kitchen when I visited as a child; the birdhouses and flower gardens, which my sweet grandmother lovingly tended. I recognize my father, my uncle and my aunts, just children then in the 1920s. I peer at Dad in these portraits (he seems always to be smiling!), and the resemblance to photos of me at that age is startling, though I suppose it should not be.

A plane will fly over my house today, I am certain. When it does, I will go outside and think of young Dad, amazed that someone had taken the controls of an airplane in America and stepped out in France. A boy with a smile, his life all ahead of him.

My dad, second from top, with two of his sisters and his brother.

Dad, near the end of his life.

2025-11-30T14:45:00.000-08:00

LIFE HAPPENED by G. WAYNE MILLER

WGA registry no. 2222611

Library of Congress Registration PAu 4-278-689

LOGLINE

During a momentous historical period – the late 1970s and early 1980s – that is eerily reminiscent of today, politics, love, drugs, murder, mystery, music, racism, mental illness and sex collide at the fictional The Daily Times, where the Pulitzer Prize-winning staff seeks to tell truths, right wrongs, and help keep democracy alive. Available for production, contact me or my screen agent: Michael Prevett, Circle Management and Production.

Horror/murder/mystery/supernatural/time travel novel Burnt Cove sold to major publisher! Updated on February 14, 2026

2025-08-23T14:22:00.000-07:00

I am excited to announce that Burnt Cove, my 22d book to see the light of day (more will surface in due time), will be published on April 24, 2026, by Austin Macauley in hardcover, paperback, audio and e- editions! This is a book a long time in the writing and to finally be here is something I only imagined… until now! This not my first novel set in Maine. See the rest of my books at http://www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm

I invite you to join the new Burnt Cove Facebook page, where I will be posting news about the novel, sponsoring book giveaways, and announcing details of the book tour. https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61580184623051

Alan Hassenfeld's obituary, as published by Sugarman Sinai Memorial Chapel. Additional tributes follow after the end.

2025-07-18T03:52:00.000-07:00

This is Alan’s obituary, as published by Sugarman Sinai MemorialChapel. Eulogies delivered at his funeral on August 20, 2025, and more tributes follow after the end.

Alan G. Hassenfeld, former Chairman and CEO of Hasbro, Inc., and a global philanthropist, passed away peacefully in his sleep on July 9, 2025, in London. He was 76.

Born November 16, 1948, into the founding family of Hasbro, Hassenfeld became CEO in 1989 following the untimely death of his brother, Stephen. Though initially reluctant to lead, he transformed the company into an industry powerhouse. Under his stewardship, Hasbro acquired Tonka Parker Kenner bringing iconic brands Play-Doh, Monopoly, and Nerf into its portfolio and elevating it to #169 on the Fortune 500.

Hassenfeld’s true legacy, however, lies in his profound humanitarian spirit. He championed corporate social responsibility, product safety, and he worked to eliminate the use of child labor in toy industry manufacturing. His compassion was most vividly expressed through philanthropy. He spearheaded the founding of Hasbro Children’s Hospital in Providence (1994), a landmark achievement funded partly by his leadership and a $2.5 million personal donation. In 2008, he established the Hassenfeld Family Initiatives, supporting countless causes focused on children, education, health, and social justice worldwide. His guiding principle was simple yet profound: "Bring sunshine where there’s darkness."

Dr. Ashish Jha of Brown University School of Public Health, home to the Hassenfeld Child Health Innovation Initiative noted that "He pushed us to make sure our work was relevant to the people of this state and constantly focused on impact, an extremely funny and warm person. Personally, I will miss his late-night phone calls railing against the injustices of the world and ask what we were doing to make things better. His passing is a huge loss to the world.”

Hassenfeld was also a civic force. He founded "Right Now!", a successful Rhode Island ethics and campaign finance reform movement. He fostered a culture of giving at Hasbro, pioneering employee volunteer programs like "Team Hasbro" and "Global Day of Joy."

Alfred J. Verrecchia, former Hasbro chairman and CEO and a longtime friend of Hassenfeld. “He devoted himself to making the world a better place. He was happiest when he was helping people. He wasn’t afraid to put his name and reputation on the line for something he believed.”

Tributes poured in from global leaders, colleagues, and beneficiaries.

Rabbi Leslie Y. Gutterman said "He gave generously and selflessly of his time, his treasure and his love.”

The Toy Association hailed his "visionary and passionate leadership" and tireless advocacy for children.

Hasbro stated his "enormous heart" remains the company's guiding force.

Alan Hassenfeld is survived by his wife, Vivien; stepchildren Karim and Leila Azar; sister Ellen Block; nieces Susan Block Casdin and Laurie Block; nephew Michael Block; grandchildren Chloe, Talullah, Kaia, and Khalil; and grand-nephews Kinsey and Blaisdell Casdin.

Funeral services will be this Sunday, July 20, 2025 at 10:00 am at Temple Beth-El, 70 Orchard Avenue, Providence, RI. Private burial to follow.

For those unable to attend services in person, you may join via livestream at https://www.temple-beth-el.org/live-streaming

In lieu of flowers, donations in Alan’s memory may be made to Hasbro Children’s Hospital – Greatest Needs Fund or The Miriam Hospital – Centennial Campaign Fund. Both can be accessed at https://giving.brownhealth.org/Hassenfeld

An irreplaceable loss to Rhode Island, the toy industry, and the world’s children, Alan Hassenfeld’s legacy of compassion, innovation, and joyful generosity will endure.

Arrangements are in the care of Sugarman-Sinai Memorial Chapel, Providence, R.I.

I visited Alan's grave on Aug. 5, 2035. We had a very nice conversation.

And not far from Alan are his ancestors, including the founder of Hasbro.

Eulogies delivered at Alan's funeral

Rabbi Leslie Gutterman:

When the son of Hiyya bar Abba died the Talmud tells us, his close friend, Rabbi Simeon bar Lakish called on the family to comfort and console them. Fearful lest his deep involvement would render him speechless, he took with him a Meturgeman, an articulate spokesman, to express what was in the hearts of loving friends and colleagues. “This is my task today but forgive me. I do not qualify as a Meturgeman. I am one of the mourners.

We are here to offer humble, grateful thanks to God for life, for the life of Alan Geoffrey Hassenfeld. Does it seem strange that many in our midst have come with gratitude in their hearts and tears in their eyes? Thankfulness and tears are a common enough combination. Life not only ends, it also begins the same way. The tears of the mother who descends into the valley of shadows to bring forth life and her gratitude for being a partner in creation. And how grateful we care for our beloved’s life and labors and love.

Alan Hassenfeld’s exemplary public career is now a familiar twice-told tale, so I won’t rehearse the fulsome details printed in newspapers around the world. The measure of his storied achievements makes our loss all the harder.

It is only right that we reflect on Alan’s life in a synagogue because he felt mandated to render more than life service to Judaism’s commands:

“Stand not idly by the blood of thy brother."

“Love they neighbor as thyself.”

“Remember the heart of the stranger.”

These are some of the teachings that became the voice of Alan’s conscience. “What does God require of thee?” asked the prophet. The answer came unerringly: “To do justice, love mercy and walk humbly. Not to intend justice or to dream of justice or to yearn for justice, but to do justice. Alan practiced what I preach. He did whatever he could to repair some of the brokenness in our world. Listen to a verse he often quoted: “Isn’t it strange that princes and kings and common people like you and me are builders for all eternity? To each of us is given a bag of tools, a piece of clay, a book of rules. And each must fashion ere life has flown, a stumbling block or a stepping stone.” Alan fashioned countless stepping stones leading to a more hopeful tomorrow including his chairmanship of The Jerusalem Foundation which helps citizens of all faiths in the Jewish homeland. Throughout his life he opened doors and lifted hands.

When on the death of Shakespeare’s viewed imagination, Lear wonders at Glouster’s ability, though blind, to see how the world goes, Glouster replies, “I see it feelingly.” Alan Hassenfeld saw life feelingly. His big heart especially went out to vulnerable children. As Alan exclaimed: “Any time we see a child not smiling, one who is going through difficulties, if we’re able to turn a grimace into a smile, that makes your heart just absolutely feel so good.” Our dear one remained a free spirit embodying the wonder of childhood.

Scientists tell us that diamonds and coal are the same substance. The difference is that coal absorbs all the sunlight delivering nothing back thus staying worthless. The diamond also absorbs sunlight but radiates it outward which is why it is precious. Here was a diamond of a human being who sparkled with warmth and wit and wisdom. Alan loved giving back in every possible way and felt enriched by responding generously when sensing a need. As Anne Frank wrote in her diary, “no one grew poor by giving.”

The Russian author Leo Tolstoy wrote a story called “Three Questions”.

Who is the most important person?

When is the most important time?

What is the most important thing to do?

Here are Tolstoy’s answers:

The most important person is the one you are with. The most important time is now.

The most important thing to do is to help.

That was Alan. I repeat the sentiment expressed at his brother’s funeral. If every person and cause that Alan Hassenfeld touched for good brought a flower to his grave, he will sleep tonight beneath a wilderness of roses.

How to repay such a man?! I tried my hardest. When Mattel threatened a takeover of Hasbro, I came up with an ingenious plan. I would buy the company and return it to Alan. I wrote from my Rabbi’s Discretionary Fund a check for six billion dollars and change. I requested that Alan wait til the following Tuesday to cash it. That proved unnecessary because the bank returned the check with an attached note: “Insufficient Funds.”

We reach out to all who mourn. Vivian and Alan came from different worlds. Together they created their own world of love and caring. Alan took Vivian’s children and grandchildren to his heart. Words fail to capture your grief, Vivie. Heartbreak begins the moment we are asked to let go and cannot. The poet W. S. Merwin said it well. “Your absence has gone through me like a thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.”

On a personal note, Dear Vivien, you were so loving to both of my wives of cherished memory. My prayer is that the same love will now return to envelop you with comfort.

Ellie, I officiated when you bid a halting and faltering farewell to your soulmate. Ronny meant everything to you. I was at the funeral of your dear father who was a leader in the RI Jewish Community and an inaugural inductee into the Toy Industry Hall of Fame. And your remarkable mother, one of the most significant leaders in the American Jewish Community in the twentieth century.

And Steven who was a marketing genius. When Steve died at the untimely age of 47, he was already a legendary giant in his industry. We can only imagine what would have been in store for him. Your precious children, Susan, Laurie and Michael were adored by their uncle. Their fierce loyalty to you is surely a balm to your bruised spirits. The hope and promise of treasured grandchildren is an aiding source of consolation. Please be tender with yourself as you seek your own path to healing.

Al Verecchia whose career at Hasbro spanned more than half a century, Dr. Ashish Jha, Dean of Brown University School of Public Health and Susie Block Casdin will reflect on the truly remarkable life we have come to honor.

Alan Hassenfeld’s Book of Life has been softly closed. But has it really? In truth, it has been placed in the library of his family’s hearts. Many times in the years ahead they will review its pages which assure us that beauty is everlasting, goodness is eternal and memory is possession. Thus will Alan Geoffrey Hassenfeld’s memory be forever sealed in the depths of our hearts.

We rise for the traditional memorial prayer.

-------

Dr. Ashish Jha:

It’s hard to put into words what Alan meant to us.

Because Alan showed us life is lived by action, not words.

Alan was a man of purpose, of generosity, and — let’s be honest — a man of just enough mischief to keep us all on our toes.

Most people know of Alan’s extraordinary legacy leading Hasbro, transforming it into a great company.

I first met Alan as a philanthropist, the driving force behind the Hassenfeld Institute at Brown University.

But to sum up Alan as a great businessman and philanthropist is to describe him accurately — and yet miss the bigger truth about who he was.

Because in all the ways Alan shaped the world, it was about much more than business success or philanthropic generosity.

The great pediatrician — and my friend — Mike Silverstein often says the job of children is to play.

That’s how kids learn, grow, and develop essential cognitive and social skills.

Whenever Alan spoke about Hasbro, it was never about the business of running a toy company.

It was about the toys that helped kids play.

That’s what delighted him about his time at Hasbro: that he and his company helped tens of millions of children play.

And Alan felt the responsibility — and at times, the burden — of ensuring every child could be healthy, safe, and able to play. That’s what drove his philanthropy.

He gave generously to Brown. By giving to a research university, he knew exactly what he was getting into.

He was supporting academics who loved research and writing papers.

And while he valued the generation of new knowledge.

I think we can all agree on one thing: Alan was not always a very patient man.

He wanted to see action.

You always knew you were in trouble when he started a sentence with:
“Asheesh — do me a favor, would you?”

I knew what was coming next:
“Just make sure this is going to make a real difference in kids’ lives — would you?”

And with that, he grounded us.

He lived life with purpose — and expected the same from all of us.

There was something else I came to deeply admire and love in Alan: his instinct to focus on the urgent.

The rest of us can get caught up in our routines and miss what’s changing around us.

But not Alan. He always stayed focused on what mattered at that moment.

When many of his friends and family got Long Covid, Alan called — and soon, we were working to understand Long Covid and how to help people get better.

More recently, when it became clear social media was harming children’s well-being, Alan pushed us to build bipartisan coalitions, understand the problem, and act.

He didn’t want academic studies that sat on shelves. He wanted us to understand social media through the eyes of children — and then do something.

One final story, if I may.

I got a lot of late-night calls from Alan.

They always started the same way — with Alan asking if my family was still speaking to me.

Not exactly a guarantee, considering I have two teenage daughters. Honestly, on some days, even I wasn’t sure.

Once I reassured him that at least one child had acknowledged my existence in the past week — he’d dive right into whatever injustice needed fixing.

One call I remember especially clearly came when I was at the White House, working for President Biden.
It was late, I was still in my West Wing office, and my phone rang.

It was Alan — and he was fired up. New data had come out showing yet another decline in kids’ mental health.

And, without missing a beat, he asked: “So… what exactly are you doing about it?”

I told him I was the Covid guy, focused on getting people vaccinated and keeping schools open, but broader mental health issues weren’t really in my lane.

“Not good enough,” Alan said. “You’re in the President’s inner circle — you need to do more.”

Two weeks later, I brought it up in the Oval Office. The President agreed we weren’t doing enough and tasked his team with creating a real plan to address it.

That was Alan — having impact near and far, visible and invisible.

Alan was a great businessman and a generous philanthropist.

But Alan’s great strength was in making all of us better by forcing us to pay attention to what mattered most.

But there is one more thing that made Alan truly extraordinary.

He loved the people around him. He loved us.

To know Alan was to feel that love.

That twinkle in his eye.

That slight smile before he spoke.

The “Asheesh – do me a favor, would you?”

We weren’t doing him a favor. He was doing us a favor. By pointing out what needed to be done.

Today, as we celebrate his life, I know I will miss him enormously. We all will.

But I will carry with me the memories of Alan always pushing me to do better — disguised as favors to him, delivered with love.

And those memories? They truly are a blessing.

Alan, I know you’re listening, so I’ll say this:

You made the world richer in every way — in the joy you brought, in the impact you had, in the love you shared.

You made us laugh, you made us care more, and you never let us forget what matters.

So rest easy, my friend. You’ve done more than your fair share.

Your voice is still clear in my head. And in all our hearts.

We’ll take it from here Alan. We’ll take it from here.

-------

Al Verrecchia:

Alan and Al visiting Hasbro Children's

I FIRST MET ALAN IN 1970 WHEN HE JOINED THE COMPANY HAVING JUST GRADUATED FROM PENN. THAT WAS MORE THAN 50 YEARS AGO. THAT’S HOW LONG I’VE KNOWN HIM, AND THE VERY LAST THING I EXPECTED WAS A CALL FROM HIS ASSISTANT LORI TELLING ME HE WAS GONE.

IT SEEMS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE.

ALAN WAS A FIXTURE IN NOT ONLY MY LIFE BUT THE ENTIRETY OF THE VERRECCHIA FAMILY LIFE.

OUR PHILANTHROPY, THE RESPONSIBILITY AND DUTY MY WIFE GERRIE AND I FEEL WE HAVE TO PAY OUR GOOD FORTUNE FORWARD WAS FIRST INSPIRED BY THE IMMENSE GENEROSITY THAT ALAN’S PARENTS, MERRILL AND SYLVIA HASSENFELD, ILLUSTRATED AND EXEMPLIFIED THROUGHOUT THEIR LIVES. AND THAT ALAN CARRIED ON PROUDLY IN HIS OWN FERVENTLY UNIQUE WAY.

AS MY DAUGHTER MELISA SO PERFECTLY DESCRIBED ALAN: HE WAS THE SQUARE PEG, THE REBEL, THE DREAMER… THE WRITER, THE ROMANTIC, THE EXTRAVAGANT HASSENFELD SON. AS A KID, SHE WANTED TO BE JUST LIKE HIM! HE WAS ALWAYS WITH A SCARF AND A SMILE, BUT NEVER SOCKS, REGARDLESS OF HOW COLD IT WAS.

HE WAS ALSO ONE OF MY OLDEST FRIENDS AND CLOSEST CONFIDANTES, AND FOR MANY YEARS HE WAS MY BOSS. WE WERE THE ODDEST OF THE ODD COUPLES. BUT WE WERE ALSO THE VERY BEST TEAMMATES. AND AS THE YEARS WENT ON, WE BECAME DEAR FRIENDS. DESPITE THE DIFFERENT CUSTOMS & TRADITIONS OF OUR JEWISH AND ITALIAN UPBRINGINGS, WE BONDED OVER THE SHARED EXPERIENCE OF BEING RAISED BY STRONG, OPINIONATED MOTHERS WHO HAD THE HIGHEST, AT TIMES INSURMOUNTABLE, EXPECTATIONS OF THEIR SONS AND WHO WEREN’T SHY ABOUT REMINDING US THAT WHILE A MAN COULD HAVE MANY WIVES IN HIS LIFETIME, HE ONLY EVER HAS ONE MOTHER.

NOWADAYS, WE HEAR STORIES OF WEALTHY EXECUTIVES FLYING TO SPACE AND RENTING ISLANDS TO GET MARRIED… BUT THAT WAS NEVER THE ALAN I KNEW. ALAN AND I WORKED LONG HOURS INTO THE NIGHT DEVISING WAYS TO IMPROVE THE CITY OF PAWTUCKET, TO BUILD BETTER ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS, TO PLAN BBQS AND FAMILY EVENTS FOR OUR EMPLOYEES TO BOOST MORALE AND EVEN TO DREAM OF THE IDEA OF ONE DAY BUILDING A CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL FOR RHODE ISLAND. AND WHEN THAT DREAM BECAME A REALITY, IN LARGE PART DUE TO ALAN’S TENACIOUSNESS AND GENEROSITY, HE TOOK IT A STEP FURTHER AS HE ALWAYS DID AND ESTABLISHED A TRADITION THAT EVERY HOLIDAY SEASON, WE WOULD VISIT HASBRO CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL AND BRING TOYS AND HASBRO’S HOMEMADE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES TO ALL THE KIDS IN THE HOSPITAL. YOU SEE IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH FOR ALAN TO SIMPLY WRITE A LARGE DONATION CHECK; HE WANTED TO MEET THE PEOPLE HE WAS HELPING. HE CARED ABOUT THEIR STORIES. HE CARED ABOUT THEM AS HUMAN BEINGS. IT DID NOT TAKE LONG FOR US TO REALIZE THE IMPACT THOSE VISITS WERE HAVING ON US. RUNNING ONE OF THE BIGGEST TOY COMPANIES IN THE WORLD WAS NOTHING COMPARED TO THE CHALLENGES MANY OF THESE KIDS AND THEIR FAMILIES WERE FACING. IT REALLY PUT LIFE AND OUR BUSINESS INTO PERSPECTIVE, A PERSPECTIVE THAT WAS AN INNATE PART OF ALAN’S CHARACTER.

AS MOST OF YOU KNOW, THE TOM HANKS MOVIE “BIG” IS ABOUT AN ADULT WHO BECOMES A KID AND HELPS TO RUN A TOY COMPANY. WELL ALAN WAS OUR KID AND HE RAN OUR TOY COMPANY. HE HAD ME TO PLAY THE SERIOUS ADULT. ALAN WAS AT HIS BEST WHEN HE WAS HELPING PEOPLE, ESPECIALLY CHILDREN. HE WORKED TIRELESSLY TO MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE. WE USED TO GIVE HIM A HARD TIME ABOUT TRYING TO “SAVE THE WORLD” BUT DEEP DOWN WE ADMIRED HIS BOUNDLESS COMPASSION FOR HUMAN BEINGS, AND HIS LIMITLESS ENERGY TO DO WHATEVER HE COULD TO MAKE RHODE ISLAND AND THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE.

ALAN, YOU DID IT. RHODE ISLAND AND THE WORLD OVER ARE TRULY BETTER PLACES FOR HAVING HAD YOU TO CARE ABOUT THEM, TO CARE ABOUT US. AND WE ARE ALL BETTER FOR HAVING KNOWN YOU.

I AM NOT QUITE SURE RI HAS ANY IDEA OF ALL THAT ITS JUST LOST WITH HIS PASSING. HOWEVER, THE VERRECCHIA FAMILY FEELS IT, DEEPLY. NO ONE MORE THAN ME.

ALAN & AL. AGH & AJV FOREVER.

ALAN, MY FRIEND, MAY YOU BE ETERNALLY REUNITED WITH YOUR PARENTS AND BELOVED BROTHER, STEPHEN. MAY YOUR MEMORY BE A BLESSING, AND MAY YOUR LIFE ALWAYS BE AN EXAMPLE OF WHAT IT MEANS TO GIVE BACK, TO SHOW COMPASSION FOR OTHER HUMAN BEINGS AND TO ALWAYS LOOK AT THE WORLD THROUGH THE WONDER OF A CHILD’S EYE.

THANK YOU FOR BEING THE VERY BEST TEAMMATE A PERSON COULD EVER HOPE TO HAVE.

TIKKUN OLAM.

I WOULD LIKE TO END WITH A QUOTE BY JOHN WESLEY THAT I THINK BEST CAPTURES THE WAY IN WHICH WE CAN ALL CONTINUE TO CARRY ON ALAN’S LEGACY OF GIVING BACK.

“DO ALL THE GOOD YOU CAN,

BY ALL THE MEANS YOU CAN,

IN ALL THE WAYS YOU CAN,

IN ALL THE PLACES YOU CAN,

AT ALL THE TIMES YOU CAN,

TO ALL THE PEOPLE YOU CAN,

FOR AS LONG AS YOU EVER CAN.”

MY HEARTFELT CONDOLENCES TO VIVIEN, ELLIE AND THE WHOLE HASSENFELD FAMILY, TO OUR HASBRO FAMILY AND TO ALL THOSE WHO LOVED AND ADORED ALAN.

-------

Susan Block Casdin:

The Arc of Uncle-Alan-ness: Chapters of Impact, Told together.

Prologue:

Alan was the youngest… In case you didn’t already know that.

We shared that status - babies of our generations in a family with BIG personalities – and it solidified our unbreakable bond.

But Alan did not like being called the Baby - he preferred “LAST BORN.”

“It’s not my fault, my flight was late” he would say to his siblings when he was a child - as if that would close the 7-year gap between he, my mom and Stephen.

Or as if saying “LAST BORN” provided the handicap needed to level the playing field created by his “late arrival.”

Maybe this is what fueled his lifelong quest to level the world, to make it more accessible, better, more kind.

With us, he didn’t need that excuse, we all loved, admired and adored him.

But, still, it was so much more fun for him to use it to conjure sympathy, like when he would leave messages on my voicemail to un-answered calls that said: “you don’t love me, call me back, bye.”

I believe being the youngest shaped his personality, his quest for adventure, including his harrowing journey home this week arriving yesterday - just in time for his own funeral –

An expedition that involved ambassadors, British Lords, a U.S. Senator, even the Chief Rabbi of the U.K. Alan loved to pull out all the stops, and this case, his case, was no exception.

Chapter One:

UNCLE Alan:

For Mike, Laurie and me, “Uncle A” was the fun uncle – always sneaking us sips of wine when my parents were out of sight, showing up with pizza in hand wherever we were in the world – and letting us stay up all night to have burgers and beer.

We when we were 6, 8 and 10.

He was a hero.

In Rhode Island, the world of Nonnie & Pappy at 4 Woodland Terrace with required vegetable eating meals was offset by the sockless world of co-bachelor’s at 85 Shore Road in Bristol - where Uncle A and Uncle S ruled.

Visits to Toy Fair in New York included showroom tours that required feedback to Alan, who would then tweak prototypes before they went into production; and for the Jewish holidays in Chicago he’d arrive with toys in hand.

When he led Passovers seders in Palm Beach, he’d hide the Afikomen under a napkin in his lap so we couldn’t get it – avoiding the requisite payment of the $100 reward.

Or there was the time he hid it in Vivien’s lap, which didn’t end very well – for Alan especially.

When I was in boarding school Uncle A would show up twice a year on route to Deerfield board meetings (which was still co-ed in those days or else I would have been required to attend) – to take me for dinner with friends, where he’d regale us with stories from Hong Kong, including his infamous practical jokes that included leaving goldfish in his friends’ hotel room toilet bowls before flying back to America.

My friends used to liken him to the Tom Hanks’ character in the movie BIG - when they weren’t remarking on his uncanny resemblance to Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka.

He was larger than life.

Each fall, when he’d send a car to school to bring me to Providence for the Jewish holidays – drivers would share stories along the ride about how Alan helped his family, or put his kids through school, or helped their wife get a job.

It was uncle A who pulled us away from the darkness when Pappy died, shielded us from the press when Uncle Stephen died, sat bedside my mom when my father died and again when my grandmother, Sylvia, died.

He took me for dinners when I was a student at Penn - and walked me down the aisle with my brother at my wedding.

Uncle A kept a watchful eye over Michael while he was working and living all over the world, guided him as a mentor, co-invested in his businesses, and was a trusted confidant in all matters – even the salacious ones.

It was Uncle Alan who brought him into his extended family of friends in the Far East, where they spent so much time together, both for business and for fun.

When they traveled to Japan, Alan would stop by Mike’s hotel room in the morning to make sure he and the other junior executives didn’t miss their flights after long nights out in Tokyo.

It was Uncle Alan who helped guide Lauire when she sought her Master of Fine Arts and her graduate degree in Elementary Education; and it was Alan who pushed her to enjoy and live her life, who offered every resource he could access when she was not well.

And after he married Viv, helped create more memories by organizing meet ups in Hong Kong and London with Karim and Leila, our new extended family.

He took on the role of stepfather with the same fortitude and passion that he had shown in our family; with patience, love and understanding. Karim and Mike stood by Alan at their wedding, while Laurie and I were bridesmaids alongside Leila, Tanya and Nicole.

Chapter 2:

UNCLE ALAN THE BROTHER:

For my mom, Ellie, Alan was more than a brother, he was a life-long friend – admittedly a sometimes annoying one.

He was the brother who used to steal her diaries and hold them for ransom; the hard-to-shed blackmail artist who would hide himself in the back of her date’s cars - popping up to demand movie ticket money in exchange for leaving them alone.

But soon enough, he grew into a 16-year-old handsome groomsman for my father, who loved him like a little brother.

He called him the troublemaker.

Within the family, Alan was the self-proclaimed best Scrabble player, even though we all know the title belongs to my mom.

And Alan was not above attempting to cheat to win, putting down controversial words that might not pass the “Oxford English Dictionary test” - a key metric in our family of scrabble purists – AND later in life, Alan more liberally invoked the less rigid “Scrabble dictionary” just so he could win.

On a family trip to Portugal, he was neck and neck with my mom in a game that mike and I had long since lost. In the final round, he put down the word: “Wharfage” – which won him the game.

It was before the days of smart phones, so there was no online dictionary to check. Alan, as always, dreamed up the most convincing argument that left us speechless.

I looked up the word when we got home, it’s legit.

For my mom, Alan was a best friend, a confidant, and co-conspirator in both family heartache, and in making the world a better place.

He called her at least three times a week to check in, to seek her advice, to clear ideas by her and sometimes to seek absolution or reinforcement thorough her unconditional love for him.

Chapter 3:

UNCLE ALAN IN-LAW:

For Alex, Alan was an advisor, a sounding board, a fellow Brown crusader; and an ally who stood with him against the strong women in the family when needed.

Whereas for Alan, Alex was a patsy to bring on fishing excursions, where no matter what happened ALAN brought home the superior catch; for Alex, Alan was the sage Old Man and The Sea, with fishing rod in hand, pipe in mouth, happy on his dinghy, and always happy to give advice - solicited or not…

During the incredible wedding brunch that he and Viv hosted for us, complete with Thai wedding flowers and food cooked in authentic tandoori ovens; it was Uncle A and Alex who collaborated with my bridesmaids to get my brother’s “wedding date” out the back door of the house, while his then girlfriend was walking in the front. This while he was hosting 150 guests that morning.

Chapter 4:

GREAT-UNCLE ALAN:

As a great-uncle, the distance of a grandparent allowed Alan to be AN even more uninhibited and patriarchal version of himself. Master fishing teacher, and naughty behavior influencer.

He shared third generation “last born” status with Blaze - offering him special therapy sessions when needed on the topic, and would boost him on his shoulders in the pool during our summer visits to Bristol to make him look and feel bigger next to his older brother.

When we visited them, Viv pulled out all the stops to create maximum fun, especially for Alan - who would don the Thanos Gauntlet on his forearm to lay down the law… but not really. That was not his strong suit.

Whether we visited before or after the boys came home from Camp Androscoggin – a legacy they shared with great Uncle-Alan and Uncle Michael; our visits always included dinner at the Lobster Pot and a hunk of Nestle Toll House Pie.

Covid ironically created a unique set of new memories. Lockdowns meant Alan and Viv were stuck in America, and we started new traditions for our time together –

Those including “dress up nights” with silly Hawaiian shirts and plastic leis; Mexican lunches where Alan would place a ridiculously small sombrero on top of his head; and, our favorite: moments when Vivien would hurl Alan’s not-so-smokeless pipe into the Narragansett Bay and say: “That one’s for Charlie the Tuna.”

Each dinner began with Alan asking a “question of the night”, a ritual he shared with our cousins - Karim and Allie, and Leila and the grandkids on their summer trips.

One such question was: “If you could go back and do anything you wanted with your life, or have accomplished anything, what would it be?”

For Alan, of course, it was to have won Wimbledon.

The memories created by Alan and Viv during those times together in the last five years are an irreplaceable gift to us.

In the past year, Alan became a trusted advisor and always available consigliere to Kinsey at Brown, including fielding late night phone calls – the only calls he would pick up after 10pm, besides Viv’s.

In Providence, they enjoyed weekly lunches that included Alan’s mid-day Aperol Spritz next to a burger with no bun at Bellini; OR shared chicken dumplings at Parkside Grille, their not-so-secret hide out.

Alan loved having Kinsey here, loved being with his friends. It gave him yet another opportunity to be with young people, to tell stories, give advice and offer guidance. His favorite pastime.

And then there are Lori and Alison, his assistants and dear friends, who said: “he was more than a boss, he was just the best guy.”

Chapter 5: The Final Chapter

I will miss Alan’s sometimes daily phone calls just wanting to say hi - and ask me what was up - even though he was usually unprepared for the full answer.

When I’d finally stop talking, he would say: “What else?” – followed quickly by “Good – LUUUK – try us in Boston (or Bristol) over the weekend.”

Or when he couldn’t reach me, the escalating daily messages:

First call: “Susu, try me in the office”;

Second call: “SuSu - trying you again;

Third call: “It’s me, call me back”

Final call: “You’re hopeless.” - Then he’d call Alex to track me down.

I will miss being in meetings with him where he would introduce himself by saying: “I’m Alan, I work for my sister Ellie and my niece, Susie”; and later have the last word, which came with an impassioned speech that began with “Do me a favor,” … and closed with the sheepish question: “I mean, am I wrong?”.

I will miss watching him play scrabble on his iPad, while smoking his pipe, drinking an iced-coffee and watching tennis or CNN - all at the same time.

Alan’s world - and life - spanned continents and included friends, family, mentors, and relationships across generations and around the world, from Hong Kong to Beruit - to Delhi, to Jerusalem.

Like his favorite character Mr. Potato Head - whom Alan often likened himself to - he was so much to so many people - a man of many pieces and parts with a layered life he kept neatly in a trunk - with outfits that he would pull out for just the right occasion.

I will always marvel at how he managed to do it all, to balance his family, staying in constant touch with his friends, while also excelling in his professional life and philanthropic endeavors.

I will always remember Alan in the way his friend and fellow Lifespan Board member Melisa Verrecchia described him:

“The rebel, the dreamer… the writer, the romantic, the extravagant Hassenfeld son. Always with a scarf, and a smile but never ever with socks, regardless of how cold it was.”

Last Wednesday we lost someone near and dear to us, Alan shared his life and his light with the world at every step of the way.

We will all miss him dearly.

I will always remember Alan as the compassionate child who never grew up, whose presence and mind thought in way:

“Going to see Alan was like going to see the Wizard of Oz …I learned so many things from him, not the least of which was how to throw koosh balls from an airplane… in a war zone…”

Additional tributes

“Alan had a life-long commitment to making things better for children, whom he called ‘our most important natural resource,’ ” said Elizabeth Burke Bryant, Professor of the Practice, Brown School of Public Health/Hassenfeld Child Health Innovation Institute, and former executive director of Rhode Island KIDS COUNT. “His sense of urgency - that all kids deserve a high quality education, access to health care, and opportunities to discover their talents and reach their full potential -- never wavered, When an opportunity arose to make a difference for kids, he leapt into action, such as when he joined with others to successfully advocate for the Children's Health Insurance Program to be reauthorized by Congress so coverage wouldn't lapse. He said then that ‘children cannot Wait’, which sums up his purpose and his passion for the children of Rhode Island, the nation, and the world.”

Alan with Mr. Potato Head - Photo by G. Wayne Miller

“Alan was a pillar of the local and world community,” said Neil Steinberg, former head of the Rhode Island Foundation and former chair of the Rhode Island Life Science Hub. “His empathy, commitment, and generosity leave an amazing legacy! He also epitomized the slogan “every boy loves a Hasbro toy.”

May Liang, president of the China Toy and Juvenile Products Association, was another who paid tribute to Hassenfeld, saying: “Alan was a great industry leader with global vision, pioneering spirit and unwavering dedication. I can strongly feel he always had passion with the toy industry. Alan's pass away is not only a loss of toy industry [but] also a loss of advisor and friend for myself.”

“Alan's life and legacy was marked by a deep and profound dedication to bringing smiles and hope to the world's children,” said Kathrin Belliveau, Chief Policy for The Toy Association, the industry organization. “As CEO and a business leader, he pioneered the idea of corporate social responsibility, rooted in a deep and unwavering belief that businesses must operate responsibly from producing products of the highest quality and safety for children to ensuring supply chains were upholding human rights and eradicating child labor and forced labor.”

“Alan's passion, heart, and visionary leadership have left a lasting mark on the toy world and beyond,” said Dan Klingensmith, G.I. Joe historian, archivist and author. “I’ll never forget the experience of having Alan speak at our VIP event during HASCON. His warmth, humor, and love for G.I. Joe came through in every story he shared, leaving everyone in the room inspired. Beyond the toys, Alan’s work with Hasbro Children’s Hospital shows just how deeply he cared about making a difference. He was more than a business leader—he was a true example of kindness, generosity, and heart."

“This is not about me, it is about Alan,” said Karen McKay Davis, president of Hasbro’s Children’s Fund during Hassenfeld’s tenure. “So many things keep coming to mind, we were one of the first companies to launch an employee volunteer program, giving employees 4 hours a month of paid time off to volunteer with children. We did this with Alan under Colin Powell and America's Promise. Team Hasbro went on to be one of the most successful corporate volunteer programs with over 95% of our employees engaged in the community. It led to Global Day of Joy where employees worldwide would volunteer together in their communities, bringing joy to children in need. It created an amazing culture. All because Alan believed in the power of service and a true culture of giving.”

The Toy Association stated: “As the former CEO and Chairman of Hasbro, Inc., Alan was a visionary and passionate leader in the toy industry. He was the past chairperson of The Toy Association, chairperson of the Toy Industry Hall of Fame committee, and himself a distinguished Toy Association Hall of Fame inductee. Alan’s impact was far-reaching and global, extending beyond his role at Hasbro. From his tireless work championing ethical sourcing to his unwavering advocacy for children’s rights and philanthropy during times of crisis and profound need, his legacy will continue to inspire us all for generations to come.”

Alan in his office - Photo by G. Wayne Miller

Hasbro issued this statement: “Today, the entire Hasbro community is mourning the loss of Alan Hassenfeld—our beloved former Chairman and CEO, a cherished mentor, and dear friend. Alan's enormous heart was, and will remain, the guiding force behind Hasbro - compassionate, imaginative, and dedicated to bringing a smile to the face of every child around the world. His tireless advocacy for philanthropy, children's welfare, and the toy industry created a legacy that will inspire us always. While we grieve deeply, we also celebrate Alan's remarkable life and the incredible impact he made. Our deepest condolences go out to his family, friends, and everyone who had the privilege of knowing and loving him.”

Said Hassenfeld biographer G. Wayne Miller: “RIP Alan, philanthropist, benefactor and corporate leader during his many years as chairman and CEO of Hasbro. He was a uniquely great man and dear friend of more than 30 years who cared deeply for others and did all he could to improve lives in Rhode Island and across the country and globe.”

Motif magazine, August 1 issue

During a public forum in 2018, Hassenfeld was asked about the guiding principle behind his philanthropy.

“That’s easy,” he said. “Any time any of us sees a child who’s not smiling, who’s going through problems—if we're able to turn that grimace into a smile, that makes your heart just absolutely feel so good. What makes me happiest is trying to be creative in philanthropy and trying to make sure that we're making a difference because too often I think we give but we don't think necessarily what the end goal is going to be. And so for me, the end goal is how do we bring sunshine where there’s darkness.”

Cabot's Neck: A supernatural novel with demons, curses and time travel. In progress. CABOT’S NECK by G. Wayne Miller Copyright 2026 gwaynemiller.com WGA registration # 2286466 Registered with the U.S. Copyright Office: Reg.# TXu 2-531-789

2025-05-31T15:01:00.000-07:00

Updated on April 1, 2026. 39,000 words and counting!

CABOT’S NECK

G. Wayne Miller

WGA registration # 2286466

Chapter One

Nothing there

“I love this beach!” seven-year-old Cassie Cabot said. “Mom and Dad, can we come back here tomorrow?”

“Yes!” said her mother, Daniela Cabot.

“And every day until vacation’s over!” said her father, Jim Cabot.

“Yay!”

It was the summer of 2027 and the Cabots, who lived in Boston, had rented a house in Ipswich, Massachusetts, to celebrate good fortune: Daniela, one of the world’s top video game designers, had just completed her latest game; Jim, an expert in AI, had recently been promoted from visiting lecturer to assistant professor at MIT; and Cassandra, who liked being called Cassie, would start second grade at summer’s end after acing first.

Cassie packed the seashells she’d collected into her backpack, her parents gathered the blanket and cooler, and they started toward their car down the long, narrow, tree-covered path that was the only land access to the beach.

“Dad, can you tell me again how this peninsula got its name?” Cassie said. She was precocious, but she never flaunted her intelligence.

“You never tire of that story, do you,” Daniela said.

“Nope,” her daughter said

“Cabot’s Neck was named by one of my ancestors, Joseph Cabot, son of John Cabot, who came to America from England in 1700,” Jim said. “Joseph was born in Salem and he became wealthy enough to buy this land, which later Cabots donated to Ipswich for public use.”

“But he made his money in a bad way,” Cassie said.

“He did,” Jim said.

“In the rum and slave trades,” Daniela said.

“For which Cabots born later made reparations,” Cassie said. “Tell me again: what are reparations?”

“Amends for terrible things done in the past,” Jim said. “My family later apologized and paid a lot of money to descendants of slaves. But money of course cannot undo the damage.”

“Your family was good,” Cassie said.

“Some members, anyway,” Jim said. “Now enough history. Let’s gather our stuff and get out of here. Hotdogs for dinner and S’mores for dessert.”

“Yay!” Cassie said. She ran ahead of her parents and stopped by an old oak tree.

When Daniela and Jim reached her, she was rubbing her hand along the tree trunk.

“How old do you think it is?” she said.

“It probably was here when Joseph Cabot bought this land,” Jim said.

“Wow,” Cassie said. “That’s ancient.”

“That lower limb has a rope tied around it,” Daniela said.

It was a small, weathered strand that had been cut near the knot.

“Probably was a rope swing,” Cassie said.

“Or an ancient gallows,” Jim joked. “Maybe they marched witches in from Salem to hang them.”

“Not funny, Jim,” Daniela said.

“I wasn’t joking,” Jim said. “There were witches galore back then, or so the Puritans believed. Let me show you the latest story I found. It’s fascinating.”

"Sweetie," the audio version. By Charles Conover, distinguished voiceover artist and audio narrator.

2025-05-15T14:37:00.000-07:00

"Sweetie" was originally published in 1990, and reprinted in Vapors, The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction, Vol 2.

Charles Conover

Listen to Conover's narration.

A story I wrote during my first month as a journalist. I was a staff writer at the long-gone North Adams (Mass.) The Transcript.

2025-02-25T14:41:00.000-08:00

And read about my first day at The Transcript! Click here.

A Nearly Perfect Summer, Chapter Three

2025-02-15T11:04:00.000-08:00

The recent death of Beryl Gillespie Slocum Powell, a wonderful woman I had the honor of calling a friend, prompts me to post this chapter from one of my favorite Providence Journal series. It also became the basis for one of my documentary films, Behind the Hedgerow. This installment of the series was published on July 4, 2000.

7.4.2000

Midsummer Nights

Eileen Slocum talks with G. Wayne Miller about conflicts created this season by too many parties, not enough time.

To listen, you'll need the RealPlayer plug-in

It's eight o'clock on Saturday night, July 10, and women in evening gowns and men in tuxedos are streaming into Eileen Slocum's Bellevue Avenue residence. Eileen greets her guests in the front hall and introduces them to her granddaughter, her granddaughter's fiancé, and the fiancé's mother. I proceed down the receiving line and on through the drawing room onto the crowded south terrace, where I order champagne.

Aeriel Frazer Eweson has accepted the invitation of her old friend Eileen, and I spot her sitting under the canopy. We chat for a few minutes and then I move along to a lovely older couple I met recently at Bailey's Beach. This older woman's daughter once was an actress, and we are discussing the difficulties of making it in Hollywood when a middle-

Click photos to see enlargements.

aged man I've not met joins us. He acts pleasantly tipsy -- animated and eager for an audience. Hearing us discuss Hollywood, he feels compelled to confide that his mother, who would be in her 90s

Loraine McMurrey, whose son will marry Eileen Slocum's granddaughter later in the summer, at one time dated Ted Turner and is known in Houston for her lavish parties.

Ruth Orthwein

if alive, once told him that she had slept with both Douglas Fairbanks Sr. and Douglas Fairbanks Jr. We all laugh, nervously.

At nine o'clock, word ripples through the crowd that it's time to be seated. My wife and I recheck our place cards and confirm that we are indeed at different tables.

Eileen personally determines the seating at all her dinner parties, sometimes laboring hours to get it just right -- and always observing the rule that spouses should never dine together, for spouses presumably know each other intimately and much of the adventure of a dinner party derives from new partners. Still, a good hostess must never be too presumptuous, and thus while Eileen endeavors to place a fresh face on one side of every guest, she also strives for a familiar (albeit unrelated) face on the other. "I try to put one they know very well on one side in case they haven't approved of my choice on the other side," Eileen explains.

Nothing ruins a dinner party like cold-shouldered disinterest.

Parting company with my wife, I find my table in the main dining room, one of three rooms pressed into service for tonight's nearly 100 guests. I know neither of

Hugh D. Auchincloss III

Laurence and Judy

Cutler

Eleanor Young

the women to my left and right -- but I recognize the man across from me: former Rhode Island Gov. Bruce Sundlun, a friend of Eileen's.

Sundlun is absorbed with the ladies next to him, and so, as uniformed waitresses with Irish accents serve a cold cream soup and a waiter offers red or white wine, I introduce myself to the middle-aged woman on my left. Her name is Maureen Donnell and she arrived in Newport relatively recently, although she has long been a fixture in Palm Beach and Ohio, home of Marathon Oil Company, source of her husband's considerable wealth. Maureen is a terribly attractive woman, as Eileen would say -- a formidable conversationalist and hostess as well. Where other outsiders have floundered, Maureen has prospered not only because of her money but because she entertains so well.

To my other side is Louise Grosvenor, an equally attractive woman of about Maureen's age whose family and husband's family have much deeper roots in Newport and also ties to New York. Like Maureen, Louise is endowed with charm and wit, and before my wine glass requires refilling, I am deeply engaged in three- way conversation. For the three of us, at least, Eileen has created a bit of chemistry, which of course is why she labors so on her guest list and seating.

Coming from the world of journalism, where the art of small talk is uncelebrated, I am surprised at how smoothly the evening progresses. My new companions listen raptly to stories of my journey so far through their shuttered world, and I in turn entice them to share something of themselves. I find myself laughing when appropriate and serving up witticisms that draw laughter in return. I make a mental note to write letters thanking Maureen and Louise for the pleasure of their company -- and soon enough, the tenderloin of beef with roasted vegetables has been served and eaten, our wine glasses have been refreshed several times, and we are admiring the peach chiffon.

Coffee has been served when we hear the tinkle of myriad spoons on glass. Someone is proposing a toast -- the stepfather of Eileen's granddaughter Sophie Trevor, in fact. The stepfather is followed by Sophie's mother, artist Marguerite Slocum Quinn, whom friends call Margy. Now comes Sophie's fiancé, Louis Girard, who wells up describing how he fell for his bride-to-be virtually the moment he set eyes on her, during a Texas debutante party. And now comes Louis's mother, Loraine McMurrey, whose family's fortune was made in gas and oil: tall, blond, and perfectly proportioned for the décolleté outfits she fancies, Loraine counts Ted Turner among her ex-suitors. She certainly knows how to host a party: her awe-inspiring extravaganzas rated a glowing tribute in the 1990 tell- all, Texas Big Rich. Loraine looks around this room filled with authentic New England blue bloods and jokes about these Texans "steppin' up," what with her son marrying so well. Laughter fills Eileen's house.

The final toast belongs to Eileen, who presides over the head table, as befits the matriarch. Standing, her glass uplifted, Eileen pays tribute to loved ones, singling out family and three old friends: Aeriel, Jane Pope Ridgway and Betty Brooke Blake, whom friends still call Betty Boop. Former Glamour Girls all, and all here

tonight.

***********

Unbreakable commitments have kept several friends from joining Eileen at her resplendent black-tie dinner party.

Candy Van Alen would have come but for tonight's International Tennis Hall of Fame enshrinement dinner honoring John McEnroe. The dinner is the crowning event of Tennis Week, a sentimental favorite of Candy's by virtue of her late husband, Jimmy Van Alen, whose long support of the game earned him a bronze statue outside the hall of fame's entrance. Among Candy's houseguests this week are noted sportswriter and broadcaster Bud Collins and his wife. In a brief telephone conversation, Candy (who has just returned from an overseas visit to her friend Princess Tassilo von und zu "Titi" Furstenberg, a noted Picasso collector), reports feeling somewhat "swamped" by the demands of Tennis Week -- the many matches and parties, not to mention the presence of houseguests, who, no matter how welcome, require the ongoing attention of staff and hostess.

And Dodo Hamilton and Oatsie Charles might have attended Eileen's party -- but this weekend, the busiest so far of the young summer, finds them at the Newport Flower Show dinner. Last night was the show's Preview Cocktail Party, held at Rosecliff and open to the public. I attended.

Events such as this that allow the masses to mingle with the more socially advantaged are enormously popular in Newport, and a line of expectant commoners who paid $125 apiece extends into the mansion. I enter, stopping briefly to exchange pleasantries with Dodo, dressed all in yellow and receiving guests in her official capacity as show chairman. Then I walk through Rosecliff to the lawn out back, crammed with display booths and tents sheltering champagne bars and tables with all manner of hors d'oeuvres.

I chat with Oatsie, then Bettie Bearden Pardee, co-chairman of the flower show's Artistic Entries committee whose new French country-style house on Bellevue

Bettie Pardee, above, television personality and columnist for Bon Appetit, recently built a French country-style house on Bellevue Avenue. Below is Ruth Orthwein, who had planned to throw a roaring '20s birthday party for her daughter on July 10, but canceled when the date became overbooked with other parties, most importantly, Eileen Slocum's black-tie dinner.

Avenue is nearly finished. Judging took place earlier today, and Dodo takes the podium to announce this year's winners. I recognize the names of only two: Bettie,

who took second place in an artistic category, "Dinner at 8," circa 1980, a functional dinner tableau for 6 guests ; and Dodo herself, who won the Green Animals Topiary Award and the Preservation Society of Newport County Award. Hard work reaps rewards.

Dodo and Bettie are surrounded by admirers, and so I drift back to one of the tents, where I run into Laurence and Judy Cutler.

In Newport only a few months, the Cutlers are causing a bit of a stir. They have bought Vernon Court, one of the grand old Bellevue Avenue mansions, and they are refurbishing it with the intention of opening a museum for their extensive collection of art by famous American illustrators, such as Norman Rockwell and Maxfield Parrish. Judy, a Manhattan art dealer who counts George Lucas and Steven Spielberg among her clients, and Laurence, an architect, businessman, and former Harvard professor, expected Newport would welcome them -- and the community at large has. But citing fears of increased traffic and the presence of a "commercial" enterprise in a largely residential neighborhood, a small group of Bellevue Avenue neighbors disapproves -- and has hired lawyers to try to stop the Cutlers. Among the opponents are Bettie Pardee and her husband, Jonathan, whose new house is a block from Vernon Court.

I have met the Cutlers, and found them to be intelligent, funny, and determined to have their nonprofit museum -- which, they claim, would attract only small numbers of well-heeled patrons. Self-made people who have amassed a collection worth many millions, the Cutlers would seem an attractive if unobtrusive addition to Bellevue Avenue, home to Preservation Society mansions that draw hundreds of thousands of tourists every year, far more than the Cutlers desire. And yet in my travels I hear an undercurrent of suspicion regarding these ambitious newcomers. What's the real purpose of this nonprofit corporation of theirs? What are their true intentions -- a museum or something intolerable, a commercial bed and breakfast or hotel?

The Cutlers bring me up to speed on the legal battle, which so far is going against them (but which they ultimately will win). This only energizes Laurence, who is perplexed by the fuss.

"I still don't understand it," he tells me later. "I had these guests from overseas -- three different couples from three different countries -- and all said if it was a collection of such import in their countries, the head of state would be demanding it be in the national capital." Adept in the public arena, Laurence has won the strong editorial endorsements of the local and statewide daily newspapers.

I wonder if his penchant for publicity lies at the bottom of things: Laurence disdains the rule of only three newspaper appearances per lifetime. Perhaps it's his stubborn resolve, or his self-made status, which qualifies him as new money, or maybe it's his seeming indifference to such distinctions as membership at Bailey's.

"The food's terrible," Laurence says. "I belong to a lot of clubs and I don't need

any more clubs, to tell you the truth."

***********

By this point in the summer, someone is hosting a lunch, cocktail party or dinner virtually every day. Although it might seem some master scheduler determines the calendar after carefully assessing everyone's desires and needs, in truth, dates are grabbed on a catch-as-catch-can basis.

And the choicest dates, such as July 10 this year, go very early, as Ruth Orthwein, ex-wife of brewery heir James Busch Orthwein, must surely know.

"I love to give roaring '20s parties," says Ruth. This spring, for example, she decided to give one at the Clambake Club for her daughter's 40th birthday.

"I thought, 'We'll put this all together. It's July 10, it's my birthday and her birthday's the eighth -- we'll just do it, no problem.' There was so much going on,

as you know, that week that I could not have a party. And I started a couple of months ahead."

Stymied, Ruth had to reschedule.

"I had to cancel the orchestra, I had to cancel the Clambake Club -- I said, 'I'm so sorry, but I won't be able to get a soul.' It's insane."

After the date and the guest list, food is the paramount consideration for anyone planning to host a lunch or dinner. Large gatherings usually require an outside

Louis Gerard, above, heir to Texas gas and oil money, fell in love with his bride-to-be, Sophie Trevor, at a Texas debutante party.

Below, his fiancée is the focus of attention throughout the summer.

chef, even for those with a cook on staff -- few cooks, no matter how talented, can single-handedly feed 100 or more in style. And like the choicest dates, the best outside chefs are booked well ahead.

Eileen Slocum prefers Newport's Michael Dupre, the man behind her July 10 black-tie dinner.

"He's just simply wonderful," Eileen says. "I feel he must have made a fortune because many people have Michael booked up two or three months in advance -- I mean, practically from where they are in winter they will call him up and ask him if he will save the night before the Fourth of July or something. He makes the most beautiful desserts anybody has ever seen."

While some leave the menu to a secretary or professional party planner, Eileen entrusts it to no one. Even in daily living, Eileen's maid cooks -- but Eileen sets the menu and buys the ingredients herself, "every single loaf of bread that comes into the house." When I ask why, she says: "Because it's the most important part of my house. I don't want the shelves to get clogged up with things like corn starch that I feel shouldn't be in menus."

For her black-tie dinner, Eileen had to take into account her tastes, Michael Dupre's strengths, and the enormous Vulcan stove in her massive kitchen where the meal was actually cooked.

"I usually start by saying, 'Michael, I do have in mind rare roast beef and corn pudding for this dinner. How does that suit you?' And I have to suit him because the stove is 120 years old... They have to be very good chefs who know how to

work the little thermostat."

***********

Just about everyone except Judy and Laurence Cutler is invited to Jonathan and Bettie Pardee's housewarming four days after Eileen's black-tie dinner. I turn off Bellevue and proceed up the Pardees' long, curved drive, leave my car with a valet, and step into more than 5,000 square feet of new splendor. Only the finest fabrics, tiles, wood, stone, stucco and slate have gone into this house, built over the course of two years on one of the last available lots (almost three acres) in this enclave of high-society Newport.

I meet Jonathan, a venture capitalist, only today -- but I have already lunched with Bettie, who (with Jonathan and another couple) owns an 800-acre game reserve in Georgia. Born in Arkansas and raised in Beverly Hills, Bettie is multi-talented -

- a floral designer, television personality, contributing editor for Bon Appetit, and author of books, including Great Entertaining: 1001 Party Tips and Timesavers (Pardee Guide), described by her publisher like this: "Writing in a breezy, accessible style, seasoned partygiver Bettie Pardee incorporates tips, shortcuts, and timesavers for anyone who

Loraine McMurrey, center, has been the houseguest of Eileen Slocum, right, for much of the summer as her son and Eileen's granddaughter will be wed in September. At left is Loraine's niece.

wants to entertain more confidently." I envision Bettie as Newport's own Martha Stewart: attractive and blond, a gifted conversationalist, she is decades younger than Eileen Slocum but every bit the hostess.

Although finishing touches remain on the Pardees' French country house, they decided to host a housewarming without waiting; they wanted their party on July 14, Bastille Day, when France celebrates its independence from the monarchy.

Even Bettie's invitations struck the French motif: long and narrow like a loaf of French bread, they arrived in an envelope labeled "French 'Bred' " and urged guests to wear "festive blue, white and red," the colors of France's flag. Feeling less adventuresome, I stick to the basic Newport blazer, button-down shirt, slacks, and loafers, sans socks.

Inside the house, guests circulate through the first-floor salon, sunroom and library, and on into Bettie's pantries and kitchen (where, for today at least, caterers and not the lady of the house hold court). In the backyard, bartenders serve drinks, servers bustle with trays of hors d'oeuvres, and a four-piece band plays. Bettie and Jonathan are too busy mixing with their more than 200 guests for extended repartee, so I talk with Helen and John Winslow, Eileen Slocum, and Hugh D. Auchincloss III, son of one of Newport's oldest families. Bespectacled and fond of tweed, Auchincloss, 71, brings to mind a favorite uncle.

Auchincloss is a rarity in this world: like his friend Eileen, an outspoken Republican, he does not scorn the public eye. Yusha, as he's known, ran unsuccessfully for state Senate several years ago as an independent, and he has just announced his candidacy for Newport City Council ("A vote for Hugh is a vote for you.") Educated at Groton and Yale, a Middle East diplomat and then a New York management consultant before retiring, Yusha has been a board member or trustee of many nonprofit organizations, including Save the Bay, the Naval War College Foundation, and the Boys & Girls Clubs of Newport County.

Yusha's public prominence nettles some in Newport who take refuge in their monied anonymity, but Yusha has long bloodlines and the courage of conviction and thus cannot be dismissed. Believing in civic-mindedness, he admires Bettie Pardee, a board member of the Boys & Girls Clubs whose vigorous promotion of her cause has been pooh-poohed in certain drawing rooms.

This puzzles me. Why should goodness engender criticism?

"You have to understand the mentality of the more insecure sort of hostesses in this town," Yusha says. "They think it's pushy."

But virtue in this case was rewarded: when the Pardees' candidacy for membership in Bailey's encountered inside resistance, Yusha (a former Bailey's governor and son of the club's ninth president) came to the rescue, helping win acceptance for the Pardees. And so he is pleased at the wonderful turnout at their Bastille Day housewarming -- and the notable presence of Bailey's president and his wife, the Winslows. Bettie and Jonathan have arrived.

***********

Of the many people I have met this summer, no one tells a story surpassing Yusha's. Since spring, I have visited him several times in his house on the periphery of Hammersmith Farm; we sit in his study, which features a fireplace, an abundance of books, and cozy old furniture -- and many framed letters and

photographs of his stepsister, Jackie Kennedy Onassis, and her first husband, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Jackie and JFK held their wedding reception at Hammersmith after marrying in a Newport church; later, as president, Kennedy used the estate as a summer White House.

During my visits, Yusha tells me about his own father, a lawyer, banker, statesman and son of an old Newport family; and of his mother, the exotic Maya de Chrapovitsky, who was raised in luxury in turn-of-the-century Czarist Russia. "She was a daredevil," Yusha says. "Adventuresome. Typical sort of Russian excitable person. Very emotional." Maya gave Yusha his nickname, supposedly a Russianization of "Hugh."

Maya almost died when Yusha was a baby. "She got out of this small plane and ran around the front of it to congratulate the pilot," Yusha says. "She was just going around underneath the wing when the propeller started sputtering again. It kind of hit her head, but she fortunately had a jewel -- the old Russians, they had big jewels all over the place -- on her hat. The propeller hit the jewel so it went into her head but didn't go through." But Maya was forever changed -- moody and more excitable still. A few years later, Yusha's parents divorced, and his father

wed Nina Gore, mother of novelist Gore Vidal. That marriage ended, too, after less than six years.

Raised by a French governess, the boy Yusha cherished his visits to Hammersmith's main house, a shingled, nine-bedroom cottage set on some 95 acres of gardens and fields overlooking the scenic mouth of Narragansett Bay. Built by Yusha's great uncle during 1887 and 1888, Hammersmith was owned by Yusha's grandmother, who passed it on to Yusha's dad when she died, in 1942.

That was the year Dad married his third wife, Janet Bouvier, mother of Jackie.

Yusha and his new stepsister drew close almost immediately, and they remained dear friends until Jackie died, in 1994. On one of my visits, Yusha takes me to Hammersmith's main house, which is across a field from his smaller residence (and which is now owned by investment banker Peter D. Kiernan III). Yusha leads me through history, his own and a piece of America's: the bedroom where his father was born; the dining room where a young president ate with his wife and two children, Caroline and John-John; the simply furnished third-floor bedroom where Jackie slept when she and Yusha were young teens; and Yusha's own room, adjacent to Jackie's.

"When she became part of the family," says Yusha, as we stand in the teenaged Jackie's room, "and my stepmother moved up here in the summer of 1943, everything got moved around. I moved up from the room downstairs. Since I was the eldest in the family, I had the first pick of the rooms.. Jackie was the second

oldest so she got the second-best room, which is this room -- with its view of the Bay at sunset. She was always the room next to me."

Long after they left childhood behind -- after Jackie died -- Yusha sat by his fire, sipped Scotch whiskey, took pen in hand, and let his memory run free. He was

writing an article about his famous stepsister for Groton School Quarterly, and he called on letters he'd saved from their youthful correspondence.

"Her letters are a portrait of a sparkling, bright, amusing, talented, and mischievous teenage girl," Yusha wrote in that article. "They are perceptive, touching, original and caring. Some special qualities of hers that come out in these early letters and were especially evident at the close of her too short life, are her courage, sense of duty, selflessness, and patriotic spirit. No matter how much pain she might feel -- from a fall off her horse, a wisdom tooth operation (her decision was to have all removed together) -- she wanted those around her to feel comfortable."

***********

Still ahead on the summer calendar is Coaching Weekend, a high-society pageant held but once every three years -- and of course Eileen's granddaughter's wedding. I have much to look forward to.

But the past still beckons, and so one lazy afternoon I call on Betty Blake -- forever Betty Boop -- at her estate, Indian Spring, which is near Dodo Hamilton's place and around the corner (as corners go in this part of Newport) from Candy Van Alen's Avalon.

Patron of the arts, Christian Scientist, and teetotaler, Boop possesses an easy humor. She married five times, losing one husband through early death from alcoholism, and the others through divorce. Still attractive, like all the surviving former Glamour Girls I've encountered, she walks stiffly and is hard of hearing but neither condition saps her vital essence; one need spend but a few minutes in her company to confirm this is one of those vibrant young women in that photograph on the wall at Bailey's, more than half a century ago. She has, however, no plans for husband number six.

"You couldn't pay me to ever get married again," she says. "But then of course I have been married enough!"

Boop was raised on the Philadelphia Main Line by a father whose wealth came from steel and a mother previously married to William E. Carter, whose loathsome conduct during the sinking of the Titanic fueled a national scandal and earned him a lifetime of ridicule -- and a nickname, Titanic Bill. Even today, old-timers remember the infamous Titanic Bill, alone and more likely than not inebriated, staring out at the ocean off Bailey's Beach.

"When the iceberg hit," Boop tells me, "they knew the boat was going down. So Mr. Carter went down to the stateroom and said to my mother, 'Lucille, the boat is sinking. Get the children up and get the children into a lifeboat.' " And then Titanic Bill disappeared, perhaps to check on his precious dogs and horses, or the motor car he'd had custom-built for him in Europe -- or, more likely, to find a lifeboat before the ship went down.

Leaving his wife and two young children to their fate, he made his way on deck. Given the universal rule of women and children first, the scandal mongers believed that Titanic Bill must have dressed in women's clothing to secure his seat in a lifeboat. But according to Boop's mother, who managed to survive with her daughter and son (Boop's step-siblings), Titanic Bill escaped in his own clothes.

Still, the women's clothing story stuck -- and regardless of what he'd worn, Bill had proved himself the worst sort of coward.

One can only imagine how Boop's mother greeted her husband when they were reunited on shore, but the net result was divorce. "I mean," says Boop, "I don't think you leave a woman to drown, with your two children -- they were his children. That's pretty low. I mean, you wouldn't do that. Nobody would."

***********

I steer Boop toward Eleanor Young, fellow Glamour Girl. "She was very beautiful," Boop says. "Long, long dark hair."

Like all of the Glamour Girls, Eleanor appealed to men -- and men desired her. And like her friends, Eleanor aspired not to college or career but to romance and marriage, so after a year in a Paris finishing school she returned to Newport for her debut, in 1936. The teenaged Eleanor dated, but failing to find the right match in Newport, New York, or Palm Beach, she embarked on a nearly year-long world cruise. And voilà -- in the summer of 1938, Eleanor met a wealthy Englishman in France.

"He has been so far a confirmed bachelor but I am hoping that he may weaken," Eleanor wrote to her parents. Less than three weeks later, the Englishman indeed weakened, and Eleanor accepted his proposal of marriage. Alas, he was insincere: Eleanor returned to America, planning her wedding, but the Englishman failed to join her. "The so and so hasn't even written me," Eleanor wrote to her mother when almost a month passed without word.

But Eleanor did not lack for suitors. Twenty years old, she had become a society- page fixture -- regularly photographed outside Bailey's in Newport, and inside such ritzy establishments as New York's Waldorf-Astoria hotel. Friends called her Cookie, a '30s' term for a vixen.

"She's a 'Glamour Girl' who is still surprised by it all, the only child of doting parents [whose] every wish is fulfilled in an Aladdin-like manner," one newspaper declared in November 1938. "Won't get her to take 'showers,' but when she bathes in the tub, Cleopatra in all her glory wasn't more luxurious . . . expects to be waited on and has a personal maid to attend to her comfort."

And this is when the no-good Robert Ogden Bacon Jr. arrived on scene.

Son of a steamship company executive who lived in New York's Plaza Hotel and

rented a summer place in Newport, Bunty Bacon bore a passing resemblance to a later movie star, Christopher Reeve. But Bunty was more than tall, tanned, and ruggedly handsome -- he knew how to charm the ladies. "Very, very sexy," Betty Boop tells me, "a very sexy and attractive man. And that's all he had." Bunty was divorced from one of Eileen Slocum's friends when Cookie fell for him, shortly before Christmas of 1938.

Robert and Anita Young strongly disapproved of their only child's choice: Bunty had a young child from his first wife, another child he'd fathered with her had died under mysterious circumstances, and he drank to excess.

"Really bad news," says Boop. But Eleanor wanted him.

After vacationing with Bunty in Jamaica, she secretly married him, on April 5, 1939, in Warrenton, Va.

Soon, she was pregnant.

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An Island in Winter: A story written a long time ago

2025-02-12T12:46:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Antonia Noori Farnaz, esteemed Providence Journal reporter who brought this to my attention. She wrote wonderfully today about another island, Prudence, in winter.

An island in winter, a people apart Story by G. Wayne Miller in The Providence Journal, March 6, 1983

ICE SKIMS PONDS no larger than big-city puddles. Buildings are shuttered and boarded tight. The sounds are surf, cries of angry ocean birds, wind. And everywhere, in the snowless thickets and fields, in the sky and on the sea, along the towering southern bluffs, the predominant shades are browns and yellows and greys.

The road north to Sandy Point, where white settlers waded ashore 322 years ago, twists and winds up over rolling hills and back down into lonely hollows. The road is cold and bare, empty of people on bicycles or in cars. To the west, Great Salt Pond is one big mirror, a lusterless reflector of sky, unbroken by boats or bathers.

These are the broad brush strokes of Block Island on an overcast winter afternoon - a bleak, Victorian composition faithfully lifted from one of Thomas Hardy's best brooding landscapes. The summer visitors are all gone now, gone back home to far-away work and school and business. Now it is an islander's island, 12 lonely miles out to sea.

Tending North Light many years ago

"A PLACE where you can find yourself," says Barbara Brown, school secretary.

"A time to settle down," says Gladys Steadman, who is spending her 93rd winter on the island. A season of harsh, austere beauty, more Ireland or Wales than Rhode Island.

At night, and in day, the chilled wind whistles and moans as it comes sneaking inside, uninvited, through cracks around windows and loosely fitting doors. For a moment, the moon winks through the clouds, and then it is gone, leaving only the sweep of Southeast Light against the starless black of the evening sky.

On Water Street, the great turn-of-the-century waterfront hotels are all closed now, their breezy August charms locked and frozen. Inside boarded shops, an army of silent mopeds waits. The Empire Theatre's next screening is in June. "Sorry, we're closed," reads the small orange-on-black sign on Barone's Restaurant.

Only at ferry time, once daily at quarter past noon, and three times on Fridays, will Water Street barely - just barely - awaken from its winter slumber. Then, two or three dozen souls will gather to unload freight, or greet returning friends and relatives from the mainland, which almost everybody here on the rock calls "America." In half an hour, everyone will be gone again.

BACK A BLOCK from the sea, on Chapel Street, one of the island's year-round residents is having coffee at the Number One Cafe. He's Kevin Jones, licensed refrigeration specialist, owner of the island's two laundries, longtime Cable TV Committeeman. He's lived on the island so long that they've named a sandwich for him at McAloon's Saloon, a popular watering hole.

"In order to be here in the winter," Jones says, "you have to be a person basically happy with yourself. Otherwise, you couldn't make it. You're living in a very small community. You can't be a person who requires going to the movies all the time, all those other mainland things."

"It's really easy-going, low-key," says Howell T. Conant Jr., publisher of the island's only year-round newspaper. "There are no rules and regulations. There's no traffic. There's no noise. You can take a walk on the beach and not see a soul. You walk into a restaurant, and they're all your friends. You don't lock the doors or take the keys out of the car."

No one has an exact figure, and there have been several babies born since the last official census, but the year-round population of New Shoreham, R.I., is thought by most islanders to fall somewhere between 600 and 700 people, of which 80 are schoolchildren, and even more are retirees.

"On a busy summer weekend, when we have a harbor full of boats, when we have ferries operating and planes landing, we probably get up around 7,000, 8,000 people," says Police Chief Paul Riker, one of two year-round cops.

Riker has a summertime force of six, with at least one officer on headquarters duty 24 hours a day, seven days a week. In July, about the peak of the tourist season, his department responded to 353 calls. In January, it was two dozen. These days, when the chief pulls the graveyard shift, as he often does, he sleeps at home with the phone by his bed. It almost never rings.

ALMOST ANYTHING you can count on the island is like that - abysmally low in winter, astronomically high in summer. A crazy roller-coaster life, a peaks-and-valleys kind of existence that never lets up, never evens out year after year, for those who have chosen to sink their roots into Block Island's sandy soil.

With the cold weather come the closings and the reduced hours, the layoffs and shutoffs, the rollbacks and cutbacks. These are winter facts on the island: A single operating hotel, the 1661 House. One bank, Fleet National, hours, Tuesdays and Fridays, 9 to 1. A hardware store, John Rose & Co., open an hour a day, noon to 1.

These are more winter facts: One grocery store, the Seaside Market. One doctor. One state nurse. No pharmacy, no department store, no dentist, no baker, no barber, no hairdresser, no cobbler. In winter, these mean mainland trips. And this grim winter fact: unemployment averaging 27 percent, up 20 or more points from summer.

FOR THOSE workers without work, winter is a constant struggle, a touch-and-go battle against boredom and cabin fever - sometimes fought, and sometimes lost, inside the four bars that stay open year-round. Often, it is summer savings or unemployment compensation or pick-up work, never high-paying, never guaranteed, that help the unlucky and unable to scrape by.

Cheryl Shea, 19, was jobless much of the winter, until she was hired to cook meals for a group of phone company workers who spent several weeks on the island doing major maintenance. Still, for her and her boyfriend, who is trying like crazy to get an auto repair shop off the ground, winter times are tough times, tough finacially and emotionally.

"Winters are hard for everybody," she says as she cleans up after breakfast. "You're lucky to get a job. Families out here, I don't know how they do it. Still, we love it in the winter. You don't see your friends in the summer ever. Everyone is trying to save something for the winter."

THOSE HOLDING cold-weather jobs either work for the state, or the town, or in the few open restaurants or bars. They go lobstering or quahogging, or do construction - especially construction. On some days, when the ever-blowing wind is at rare whisper-level, the clutter of hammers and saws can be heard against the sounds of the ocean and its restless gulls.

There are those who say that Block Island is on the verge of a development boom, and there is no doubt that plenty of new construction is planned or underway, but the big chores in winter are repairs and additions to islanders' homes, to hotels, to cottages owned by off-islanders. Most new starts come in spring and summer.

Weather this winter, unseasonably mild and virtually snowless, has been a bonanza for everyone, particularly the laborers. So says the island's corporate memory, Fred Benson, a greatly respected old man who has been a baseball coach, a fisherman, a mechanic, a broker, a notary public and a whole host of other people in his eight decades on the island.

The late Fred Benson

"What we call a real soft winter," says Benson in his office, a hole-in-the-wall affair he has plastered proudly with the snapshots and proclamations and yellowing newspaper clippings and charts that document the many accomplishments of his 87 years. "I've seen it snow three days and three nights steady. I've seen 22 inches of ice on the ponds. I've seen upwards of 30 inches of frost in the ground."

THOSE WERE winters when ice skating and hockey were the big outdoors events, but there has been little of either this year. There have been some walks on the beach, some jogging, some mainland trips for shopping or entertainment, but this winter, like most, has been mostly an indoors affair.

That means cards and parties, dinners and Bruins games on cable TV. It means town politics - in 1983, the politics of development, the pros and cons of rental mopeds. It means hanging out in bars, or evenings by the propane-gas heater or the coal stove, because there's no abundance of home-grown firewood. Mostly, it means seeing more of your neighbors.

Winter weaves a bond, Block Islanders will tell you in their more poetic moments, a certain special fraternity that can't hide behind their traditionally crusty Yankee respect for privacy.

Their word for it is family, a word that crops up again and again, even in the idlest chit-chat. "You don't see them any other time," says Jones. "In winter, you see everybody. You catch up."

"Especially in winter," says the island's only year-round clergyman, Tony Pappas, Baptist pastor of Harbor Church, "Block Island is very human and personal, a face-to-face community. That's why we've stayed here for seven years. It's a community where we can relate to others."

IN WINTER, only the daily ferry and the noon fire siren really mark the passage of time, and an islander's schedule is relaxed and casual. Clothing, too, is casual - casual and rugged. Flannel shirts, wool caps and coats, Levi's copper-riveted jeans, down vests, work boots - these are the islanders' hallmarks. Maybe every fourth man is bearded; many others have two or three days' growth.

Beneath the outward tranquility and solitude, the satisfaction with their winter lot, is the islanders' shadowy feeling that, someday, somehow, paradise could be lost. Already, it is threatened. What years ago was the traditional Memorial Day-to-Labor Day rush is now an extended tourist season, three months longer. That's three fewer months the island is the islanders'.

Still, on an overcast Block Island winter afternoon, thoughts of tourists, the economic lifeblood of the island, are far away.

Says Conant: "I wish there was a way to make this place like this all the time. Twenty more people on this island is 20 too many. I think a lot of people feel possessive because they're part of winter here. It makes them special, like they're a part of Block Island."

Twenty-three years ago. RIP, Dad.

2024-12-11T03:29:00.000-08:00

Roger L. Miller as a boy, early 1920s.

My Dad and Airplanes

by G. Wayne Miller

I also always think of my father, Roger L. Miller, who died 22 years ago today.

So on this 22nd anniversary, I have no deep regrets. But I do have two impossible wishes.

My second wish would be to tell Dad how his only son has fared in the last 22 years. I know he would have empathy for some bad times I went through and be proud that I made it. He would be happy that I found a woman I love, Yolanda, my wife now for ten years and my best friend for almost two decades: someone, like him, who loves gardening and birds. He would be pleased that my three wonderful children, Rachel, Katy and Cal, are making their way in the world; and that he now has three great-granddaughters, Bella, Liv and Viv, wonderful girls all. In his humble way, he would be honored to know how frequently I and my children remember and miss him. He would be saddened to learn that his oldest child, Mary Lynne, died this year (How many lives did my sister Mary Lynne Wright touch? How many did she heal? She enrolled in nursing school in the mid-1960s and remained in healthcare until her retirement a few years ago, so surely it is tens of thousands, if not more. She personified what Florence Nightingale, the founder of modern nursing said: “Nursing is an art: and if it is to be made an art, it requires an exclusive devotion as hard a preparation as any painter's or sculptor's work.” No one knew this better than her husband of 56 years: my brother-n-law, Walter “Duke” Wright. RIP, ML.) and his younger daughter, Lynda, died in 2015. But that is not how the story goes, either. We send thoughts to the dead, but the experience is one-way. We treasure photographs, but they do not speak.

My dad, second from top, with two of his sisters and his brother.

Dad, near the end of his life.

A transition two years ago led to Ocean State Stories...

2024-11-15T05:35:00.000-08:00

Two years ago this month, I left The Providence Journal, where I had been a staff writer for four decades, to co-found and direct OceanStateStories.org, the free non-profit, non-partisan media outlet based at Salve Regina University’s Pell Center that is devoted to in-depth reporting on issues of importance to all of Rhode Island’s many communities. Our stories are told with data, expert input, and the personal experiences of residents. We launched in February 2023.

During 2024, we continued to expand our reach, adding new publication partnerships with Rhode Island PBS/The Public’s Radio and The New Bedford Light.

We redesigned our website, making it more user-friendly and adding a drop-down feature giving our audience the option to read in Arabic, Chinese (simplified), Dutch, English, French, German, Italian, Portuguese, Russian or Spanish.

We adopted a strict set of editorial standards.

We won a Silver Award winner in the third annual Anthem Awards competition in the “Diversity, Equity & Inclusion – Public Service” category.

We remained committed to furthering the objectives of the many professional organizations to which we belong: the Society of Professional Journalists, the Online News Association, the New England First Amendment Coalition, the Alliance of Nonprofit News Outlets (ANNO), Education Writers Association, and LION Publishers: Local, Independent, Online News.

And we continued to support an outstanding and growing pool of freelance writers.

I’d like to thank our audiences, our partners, our benefactors, our Advisory Board, our great team at The Pell Center including our student interns, our web and comms team, and the many Rhode Islanders who have shared their stories – “stories that explore healthcare, education, public policy, socioeconomic and racial disparities and injustices, domestic violence, food and housing insecurities, the environment, agriculture, ageism, suicide prevention, mental health, immigration, veterans affairs, and developmental and intellectual disabilities, among others,” as we state on our site.

Here’s to 2025, another great year ahead!

Nine gallon mark in blood donation reached!

2024-11-03T06:57:00.000-08:00

I reached the nine-gallon donation mark on Nov. 1, 2024. If you can, please give blood. You could save a life!

Halloween and a major book anniversary

2024-10-31T03:32:00.000-07:00

Thirty-five years ago this autumn, just in time for Halloween, my first book, the horror novel Thunder Rise, was published. I was represented by the late Kay McCauley and her brother, the late Kirby McCauley, who at the time were the agents for Stephen King, whose work has greatly influenced my fiction.

Needless to say, publication was exciting. Thunder Rise launched my book-writing career – 21 fiction and non-fiction books as of thiswriting. Two are the second and third volumes in the Thunder Rise trilogy: Asylum and Summer Place. Several others are also horror novels.

Following the U.S. hardcover publication of Thunder Rise in 1989, a British edition was published and also a U.S. paperback. Thunder Rise today is available in audio and Kindle from Crossroad Press.

I met Kay McCauley at the 1986 World Fantasy Convention, held in Providence at the then-Biltmore Hotel. The inaugural World Fantasy Convention, in 1975, was chaired by Kay’s brother and it, too, took place in Providence, where Lovecraft and Poe lived.

When someone pointed out Kay to me, I introduced myself. I wanted to interview King for a story in The Providence Journal, where I was a staff writer, and thinking King would respond favorably to a “kindred spirit,” I told Kay I wrote horror, too (short stories in The Horror Show, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and other magazines). Kay never was able to arrange the interview, but she liked my short stories and asked if I had written any books. I had and she sold Thunder Rise to William Morrow, now a division of HarperCollins.

In the following years, Kay, who lived in New York City, became my dear friend and she represented me for several more books before semi-retiring (her only client in her final days was George R.R. Martin, of Game of Thrones fame). She died in 2020, RIP Kay. Kirby had died in 2014.

This photo of Kay is from Martin's tribute to her.

So on this Halloween, my thoughts turn to the past, and not just books but also the many years of trick-or-treating with my children and grandchildren.

My thoughts turn, too, to the present.

Happy Halloween, all!

About Thunder Rise, from the original-edition jacket:

Relentlessly gripping, this debut novel is classically responsive to the adage that fictional horror is far more vivid in daylit, familiar surroundings than in darkly dripping gothic vistas. Morgantown, an old, white clapboard and steepled town in the lovely Berkshires of western Massachusetts: America could have few settings as idyllic and inviting -- or as deadly. Up against the towering mass of Thunder Rise, the mountain behind which the sun sets every evening, Morgantown is cowering -- from a nameless, lethal and seemingly sourceless malady that threatens the populace through its most vulnerable members, the children.

Journalist Brad Gale, who has fled a broken marriage and given up a top New York job, has come to Morgantown seeker a serener life as editor of the local Daily Transcript. With him he brings five-year-old Abbie, "Apple Guy" of his eye. When the mysterious affliction strikes Morgantown's youngest inhabitants, signaled by soul-shattering nightmares of individual creatures of dread -- a bear, a wolf, a prehistoric carnivore -- and followed by an inexplicable wasting away, Brad knows it is a story to be explored in full. Then Abbie is stricken and Brad too must join in deadly battle with a force beyond rational imagining.

As more children sicken and slide toward doom, the struggles of the medical establishment seem increasingly futile. Even a trained and scoffing skeptic like Brad becomes reluctantly and belatedly drawn to listen to the beliefs and theories of Charlie Moonlight, a Quidneck Native American who speaks of the primordial demon lurking in the heart of Thunder Rise now stirring anew. At the end a battle of terror is drawn -- with the reader enlisted in as close and fateful combat as the printed page can ever afford.

“An Unbroken Pact,” one of my earliest horror stories, written for my high school newspaper:

Wolf Hill

2024-10-14T04:17:00.000-07:00

Wolf Hill: An essay from long ago.

I periodically repost some of my favorite essays. Here's one, set in autumn, my favorite season. I wrote this in October 1997, on a break from finishing my fourth book, Toy Wars: The Epic Struggle Between G.I. Joe, Barbie and the Companies That Make Them. Cal is an adult today, living in Rhode Island after five years in Japan. Rachel and Katy have children of their own. Life, like a river, keeps on flowing.

WOLF HILL

An Essay About a Boy

We avoid the woods in summer. We don't like bugs, the ticks and mosquitoes especially, and anyway, we're drawn to the beach at Wallum Lake, which is just up the road. But early October finds us eager for the first killing frost. It came this year at the customary time, when the sugar maples are at their peak and the oaks are only beginning to turn. The temperature at dawn read 29 or 30 degrees, depending on the angle the thermometer was viewed. I figured if any of my city friends asked, I'd say 29.

By late afternoon, it had warmed to almost 50. The sky was cloudless and the breeze had shifted to the south. I put on my boots and vest and helped Cal, who is almost three, on with his. Our vests have large pockets, very important for walks in the woods. We went through the backyard and onto the cart path that ascends Wolf Hill, a fanciful name in the nineties, even for a rural town like ours. Cal's first priority was equipping himself with a stick. He found one about two feet long, and another slightly larger, which he gave me. ``Little boys need big sticks,'' he observed. I wholeheartedly agreed.

Many years ago, when a farmhouse graced the top of Wolf Hill, the path could accommodate vehicles; one, a bus, ended its last journey up there and its rotting remains continue to be a source of wonderment to all who happen upon it. Every year the mountain laurel and pine claim more of the path, and this year was no exception, but there was still plenty of room -- more than sufficient, I informed Cal, for another good flying- saucer run this winter. Cal insisted on taking the lead and, unlike our last walk, in April, he refused assistance getting past deadfalls. He went under, or around, and then stopped to reveal the appropriate route to me. ``Dad, come on over here,'' he said at one point, ``that's a safe place to get by.''

We climbed, past the inevitable stone walls, still remarkably intact, if mostly overgrown. The air seemed fresher as we continued, the light through the foliage stronger, and soon enough we'd reached the peak. Only a cellar hole is left of the farmhouse, destroyed some thirty years ago in a fire of suspicious origin. Rusting machinery, barrels and bedframes are strewn about, and the woods are slowly claiming them, too. We marveled together at a sight as strange as grape vines entwined around a bedframe, and I tried explaining how a house not unlike our own had been reduced to ruin, but I don't believe I succeeded, nor did I really try. I steered Cal's attention to the only grass on Wolf Hill, a small, sunlit remnant of lawn. We picked wildflowers, the last of the season. I did not know the species. They had thirteen petals and came in two shades: lavendar and white. The frost had not touched them. Cal was more interested in mushrooms. He'd been keen on mushrooms since our last swim at Wallum Lake, when he found ones as big as my hand that had materialized overnight beneath a picnic bench. He also gathered acorns, which he proposed to feed to squirrels, a word he still had difficulty pronouncing.

From the cellar hole, we descended to the quarry. I cautioned Cal not to run, but he explained that he was not -- this was skipping. I wanted to carry him or at least hold his hand; instead, I took a breath and was silent on the matter. The quarry has not been worked since the 1800s, but if you look around town, you will see many foundations made of its imperfect granite. Our own front steps, I am sure, came from here. Water has long filled where men once labored, of course, and a century's worth of sediment covers the bottom, making it impossible to gauge true depth (although we have tried, with our sticks). When Cal is a little older, I will tell him -- as I did his sisters -- spooky stories of the goings-on here when the moon is full. For now, we concern ourselves with water. It had not rained in over a week, and the stream that empties the quarry was dry. Our April walk was during a nor'easter, and we got soaked playing in the waterfall, but it was gone now, too. Cal was worried it would never return, but I reassured him it would, with the next steady downpour.

The shadows were lengthening and the temperature was edging down. An inventory of our pockets disclosed sticks, pebbles, acorns, flowers, mushrooms and a bright yellow leaf, which Cal had selected for his mom. We left the quarry and made our way back to the cart path through a stand of towering Balsam firs, unlike any other on Wolf Hill. When the girls were small, long before Cal was born, we found this place. It resembles a den, and the forest floor is softly carpeted and often dotted with toadstools -- certainly a spot, I allowed, where elves dance under the starry sky. Honest? Rachel and Katy were wide-eyed. There was only one way to know for sure, I said: Some fine summer night, we would have to camp out here, being careful to stay awake until midnight. We never did. Rachel is in high school now, and Katy, four years younger, is sneaking looks at Seventeen. Cal listened with great interest at the prospect of seeing elves. He was tired, and as I carried him home, I promised we'd camp out next summer, bugs and all. I intend to ask Rachel and Katy if they'd care to join us.

Looking back: Vox interview about Car Crazy by senior producer Phil Edwards

2024-10-11T05:04:00.000-07:00

WATCH THE VIDEO!

We all know the horseless carriage beat out the horse — but the early battles were surprisingly fierce and involved some nasty PR tactics. And as the above video shows, this marketing conflict from the early 1900s may show how a battle between self-driving cars and traditional cars could play out.

That story is one of the highlights in G. Wayne Miller’s Car Crazy: The Battle for Supremacy Between Ford and Olds and the Dawn of the Automobile Age. Miller told me that early carmakers adopted a variety of marketing techniques to sell cars that weren’t particularly cheap or reliable. That arsenal often fired shots against the horse.

And despite the car’s shortcomings, the horse really did create a lot of problems that automobiles could fix. Horse manure was a serious public health hazard; thousands of horses were maltreated (and as many died); and, of course, horses had less acceleration and braking power than the car, resulting in slowdowns and accidents.

As we look ahead to a public conversation about the merits of self-driving cars over traditionally driven ones, the horse and car battle may prove to be prescient. New technologies aren’t easily accepted — and sometimes even a superior product has to adopt fierce tactics to win.

New five-star review for "Unfit to Print: A Modern Media Satire"

2024-09-07T14:57:00.000-07:00

Five-star review for Unfit to Print: A Modern Media Satire

Reviewed by Christian Sia for Readers’ Favorite

Unfit to Print: A Modern Media Satire by G. Wayne Miller delivers a visceral critique of modern journalism. Nick Nolan, a former Pulitzer Prize-nominated journalist, fights to redeem his career when SuperGoodMedia buys the venerable Boston Daily Tribune. He has a few months left on the paper. But everything changes when he writes a column about an 8-year-old called Amber Abbott. Her mother and Nolan’s former lover claim the Virgin Mother speaks to her. His column becomes a viral sensation, and he's thrust into the spotlight. As he becomes increasingly obsessed with the clicks and attention his story generates, he's aided by an unexpected guest — none other than Benjamin Franklin — who offers his guidance and wisdom. However, as Nick's fortunes rise, so do the stakes, and he must confront the darker side of journalism and the corporate interests that are destroying the industry.

With its sharp critique, this novel is a timely and urgent warning about the future of truth-telling in the media. G. Wayne Miller's Unfit to Print is a powerful commentary on the decline of local journalism and its impact on democracy. There is a struggle to maintain the integrity and quality of local journalism in the face of declining readership and increasing competition from online media sources. There is a conflict between the old guard of journalism, represented by Nick and his colleagues, and the latest wave of online media entrepreneurs who are more interested in clicks and profits than serious reporting. Characterization is impeccable, and Nolan is a nuanced, genuinely flawed protagonist who catches readers' attention the moment they encounter him in the story. Destiny Carter, the African American business reporter at the Tribune, is another sophisticated character whose sharp wit and insight provide a much-needed perspective on the industry's challenges. The author explores themes such as the importance of local journalism, the impact of social media on democracy, and the need for quality reporting in a world where "fake news" and "alternative facts" are increasingly prevalent. This is an ingeniously plotted and cleverly written novel.

Listen to Joe Biden in 2009, after he became vice president.

2024-07-13T08:09:00.000-07:00

I interviewed Joe Biden by telephone in 2009 for An Uncommon Man: The Life and Times of Senator Claiborne Pell, the biography I was writing that was published in 2011.

Biden was 66 years old.

How much has changed since then.

Listen to the interview (takes a moment to load):

COVID theme songs? My pick: Duran Duran's Ordinary World.

2024-07-04T09:33:00.000-07:00

Originally published in The Providence Journal on July 12, 2021.

COVID-19 theme songs? Many fit as the pandemic changed since earliest days.

G. Wayne Miller

The Providence Journal

As The Journal’s health-care reporter, I have been covering COVID-19 since January 2020. Early on, I began to wonder:

If the coronavirus pandemic had a theme song, what would it be?

My choices changed as the months passed and Rhode Island and the world experienced surges, emergency orders, and a devastating toll in lives and jobs lost.

More recently, of course, Rhode Island’s high vaccination rate has helped us to a summer much better than last year's. There are reasons to believe again in ordinariness, and with that in mind, let me share my evolving nominations for theme songs, starting in March 2020, when I wrote my first #coronavirus Reporter’s Notebook, “Thoughts on living in a state of dystopia.”

In it, I referenced Stephen King, my favorite fiction author, and his 1978 post-apocalyptic novel “The Stand,” about a global pandemic. It became a popular TV mini-series in 1994, with songs including Barry McGuire’s cover of “Eve of Destruction.” King himself played guitar for the mini-series rendition of the song.

“Eve of Destruction” is my pick for the early-pandemic theme song. The Barry McGuire cover was released in 1965, during the Cold War and the debacle of Vietnam, but its sentiment captured the mood of late winter 2020.

Can't you feel the fear that I'm feeling today?

If the button is pushed, there's no running away

There'll be no one to save with the world in a grave

Take a look around you boy, it's bound to scare you, boy

By the end of spring 2020, more than 16,000 positive cases of coronavirus disease had been reported in Rhode Island (more than 2 million in the U.S.). The death toll in Rhode Island surpassed 850. Restrictions prevented relatives and friends from visiting loved ones who were dying in hospitals, and wakes and funerals were severely curtailed.

James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” fits for a theme song then, with its haunting melody and lyrics, including these:

I've seen fire and I've seen rain

I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end

I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend

But I always thought that I'd see you again

The gloom deepened when, in late July 2020, deaths surpassed 1,000.

Lana Del Rey’s “Summertime Sadness” was on my mind then — and during August and September. The song is the story of two deaths by suicide, but the lyrics speak more broadly to loss in general. They also, to me at least, capture the mental-health crises that so many have experienced, a topic I have frequently explored in my reporting.

Think I'll miss you forever

Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky

Early autumn 2020 brought hopeful developments, including the reopening of some schools, but public-health experts were warning of a possible new surge ahead (they were right). COVID continued to cause unprecedented economic suffering for many. Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends” gets my nod for this period of the pandemic.

Here comes the rain again

Falling from the stars

Drenched in my pain again

As the last month of 2020 began, vaccines were not yet available. Another terrible holiday season seemed on the horizon (it was). What better song for December 2020 than B.B. King’s “Everyday I Have the Blues”?

Everyday,

I have the blues

Ooh everyday,

Everyday,

I have the blues

The first shots of the Pfizer vaccine were administered in Rhode Island on Dec. 14, to Lifespan front-line workers. The next day, Care New England employees rolled up their sleeves. Can’t find a better song for expectations than Carrie Underwood’s “Hallelujah,” as she performed it with Legend.

Let the lonely join together, let them know their worth

Ooh, let the children know

There's a brighter day ahead (let's hold on to hope)

As last winter ended and spring 2021 arrived, the data trends in Rhode Island turned positive. Could there be a better song for the second quarter of this year than Jimmy Cliff’s “I Can See Clearly Now?”

I can see clearly now the rain is gone

I can see all obstacles in my way

Here is that rainbow I've been praying for

It's gonna be a bright (bright)

Bright (bright) sunshiny day

Which brings me to my pick for overall theme song.

First, a disclaimer: popular though they were, the band that wrote and recorded this song was not one of my favorites when they broke onto the music scene. But when Duran Duran released “Ordinary World” a few years later in 1993, I was enthralled. During the pandemic, I have listened to it again (and again) and the lyrics (and incomparable melody) have become an earworm.

No room to include them all, but consider these in judging whether “Ordinary World” best captures the sadness and hopes of the last year and a half:

Where is the life that I recognize?

Gone away

But I won't cry for yesterday

There's an ordinary world

Somehow I have to find

And as I try to make my way

To the ordinary world

I will learn to survive

Perhaps coincidentally (or not), Duran Duran was featured last week on Today. The Brits performed a new song and announced their intention to tour again next year.

In the music world, at least, that indeed would be an ordinary world.

I invite you to send your nominations for pandemic theme songs, along with a brief explanation of why. I may use them in a future #coronavirus Reporter's Notebook. Send to gwmiller@providencejournal.com, writing “COVID song” in the subject field.

"Life Happened," my latest screenplay

2024-04-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

LIFE HAPPENED by G. WAYNE MILLER

WGA registry no. 2222611

Library of Congress Registration PAu 4-278-689

LOGLINE

Twenty-one years ago today. RIP, Dad.

2023-12-11T04:21:00.000-08:00

Roger L. Miller as a boy, early 1920s

Author's Note: I wrote this 11 years ago, on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of my father's death. Like his memory, it has withstood the test of time. I have slightly updated it for today, December 11, 2023, the 21st anniversary of his death. Read the original here.

My Dad and Airplanes

by G. Wayne Miller

I also always think of my father, Roger L. Miller, who died 21 years ago today.

So on this 21st anniversary, I have no deep regrets. But I do have two impossible wishes.

My second wish would be to tell Dad how his only son has fared in the last 21 years. I know he would have empathy for some bad times I went through and be proud that I made it. He would be happy that I found a woman I love, Yolanda, my wife now for nine years and my best friend for almost two decades: someone, like him, who loves gardening and birds. He would be pleased that my three wonderful children, Rachel, Katy and Cal, are making their way in the world; and that he now has three great-granddaughters, Bella, Livvie and Viv, wonderful girls all. In his humble way, he would be honored to know how frequently I, my sister Mary Lynne and my children remember and miss him. He would be saddened to learn that my other sister, his younger daughter, Lynda, died in 2015. But that is not how the story goes, either. We send thoughts to the dead, but they send nothing back. We treasure photographs, but they do not speak.

My dad, second from top, with two of his sisters and his brother.

Dad, near the end of his life.

A discussion of "Unfit to Print" with the great John Busbee, host of Iowa's The Culture Buzz

2023-11-24T14:04:00.000-08:00

Listen to my latest appearance on John's show, where I have been a guest several times. Thanks again, John! 'Til next time.


John Busbee.

LISTEN!

What a year has brought: From Projo to Pell

2023-11-04T04:01:00.002-07:00

One year ago today, I left The Providence Journal, where I had been a staff writer since 1981. I soon transitioned into the director of OceanStateStories.org, a new non-profit media outlet based at Salve Regina University’s Pell Center, where I had been a visiting fellow for several years.

Last day at The Providence Journal: Nov. 4, 2022.

After weeks of planning with Ocean State Stories co-founder Jim Ludes, Pell Center executive director, and a great staff at Pell, we launched Ocean State Stories on Feb. 7. Since then, we have published at least one major story and one Q&A every week – 40 weeks without interruption as of this writing.

Jim Ludes, left, and me at my Pell Center desk.

We have formed partnerships with print newspapers – notably John Howell’s Warwick Beacon, Cranston Herald and Johnston SunRise – and partnerships with other online media outlets including ecoRI News, RINewsToday and East Greenwich News. We offer all of our content for free to our partners, and they in turn offer theirs for free to us.

We publish every story and Q&A in both English and Spanish. I write many of our stories, with the rest provided by a growing corps of freelance writers – some well-established and others still journalism students in college. We pay for their work and I mentor the students and other young freelancers.

To see the types of stories we write, visit our mission page.

Along the way, we have become members of the Society of Professional Journalists, the Online News Association, the New England First Amendment Coalition, the Alliance of Nonprofit News Outlets (ANNO), and LION Publishers (Local, Independent, Online News).

All of this is possible thanks to the support of generous individuals and organizations who see our model – one similar to many others across the U.S. – as a big part of the future of news in an era when many legacy newspapers have disappeared and others, barely staffed, have become ghost papers. Our gratitude to all of our supporters today and in the future.

Our plan for Year Two is to grow – stay tuned for details of that!

I also must mention another initiative based at the Pell Center: Story in the Public Square, the multiple Telly-winning national PBS TV and SiriusXM show that has just been renewed for a 12th season. It starts in January. Since beginning weekly production in January 2017 as a show seen only regionally on our flagship station, Rhode Island PBS, we now are in more than 86% of the nation’s television markets with nearly 500 weekly broadcasts nationally – and we have taped more than 300 guests, including journalists, filmmakers, editorial cartoonists, scientists, musicians, advocates, bestselling fiction and non-fiction authors, poets, academics, still photographers, physicians, public health experts, actors, and Pulitzer-Prize winners.

A shout-out to our great team at Rhode Island PBS, led by Chief Content Officer Jan Boyd and Production Manager Cherie O’Rourke!

In closing, let me express my hope that in all the work that flows from the Pell Center, we have helped advance the public good. That was the aim of the late Senator Claiborne Pell, for whom the center is named, and it’s ours, too.

One book, four signings in Newport, Providence, Barrington and West Warwick

2023-08-10T06:24:00.006-07:00

I will be speaking and signing copies of “Unfit to Print: A Modern Media Satire” on just four occasions. First will be the evening of Wednesday, October 11, at a free wine-and-cheese event at the Pell Center in Newport, R.I. Sign up here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/unfit-to-print-tickets-699816248237?aff=affiliate1

After that, I will sign at three geographically diverse independent bookstores that I support and encourage all readers to do likewise!

The bookstores and dates:

-- Thursday, October 26, 6 p.m., Books on the Square in Providence.

-- Saturday, October 28, 3 p.m., Barrington Books in Barrington.

-- Thursday, November 2, 6 p.m., the New Stillwater Books location in West Warwick.