The first Monday of every month we tell the story of a community member who has passed away, celebrating individuals whose lives made an impact on their family and neighbors. If you have suggestions about community members who should be highlighted in this series, send an email to our station mailbox.

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Roslyn Garfield
reported by Sean Corcoran
Decemeber 10, 2012

 

 

Roslyn Garfield

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She can be described in many ways, but Roslyn Garfield was a small town attorney, in one of the smallest of towns. To her credit, she was more interested in helping struggling artists and entangled whales than she was in taking big, pay-day cases from Boston-based developers.

Garfield spent many of her 91 years serving on government and civic boards. It was a political career that began on the Planning Board in the 1960s, the first woman to be appointed to a decision-making committee in the town's history. Years later in the 1980s, she became known as Madam Speaker, elected from the floor of Town Meeting as its moderator.  

Friends describe Garfield as private and compassionate. They use words such as community member, teacher and friend. A pioneer, savvy and silly with strong opinions and a fierce competitiveness. Roselyn Garfield, they say, was sincere and compassionate, and she made time for everyone.

You can hear the rest of this story by clicking on the Listen button above.




Gloria Sargent Smith
reported by Sean Corcoran
November 5, 2012

 

Gloria votes	Gloria Sargent Smith

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89-year-old Gloria Sargent Smith of Yarmouthport, died at sunrise on October 5, surrounded by half-read books, works of art, family members and pets.

Her illness was short; just a few weeks. And while she was sick, there were things she wanted: She wanted water with no ice; and she wanted the radio close by so she could hear the news of the day. She wanted to live long enough to see the first presidential debate. And she wanted to fill out and sign her absentee ballot.

"This is a picture I took of her while she was signing the ballot in the hospital," said her youngest son, Michael. "She wanted it recorded. She always wanted to know her obituary; she wanted to know what was going to be said about her at her service, so I had already prewritten some things. It looked like she was not going to make it out so, just in case, still hoping -- and I went in and I read her, her obit and I asked her if she wanted me to put in the political stuff? 'Oh yes, yes! You must put that in, and the last line has to be, 'please get out and vote.'"

The obituary Smith approved reads that she was born in Boston in 1923, and she was raised both in Winchester and along the Bass River in Yarmouth, where as a girl she sailed a Cape Cod Knockabout called the Waterwitch. She was a 'firebrand,' it says. A 'feminist and fierce advocate for women and social justice.'

"My mother was always outspoken. And particularly when it had to do with women’s or human rights," says her oldest son, Jeffrey. "And I think she learned that in the company of women when she went to Quaker school, to have her own voice and that she did, as you’d noticed, her bumper stickers are abundant on the back of her car. You always knew where she stood, and she stood often at town meetings and any part of town government if she thought, always she was thinking about the underdog, the unequal and that was always what she stood for."

Most everyone called her "Glo," even her children. The grandchildren and great-grandchildren called her 'Nana Glo'. She was the family matriarch, an opinionated but polite advisor to family and friends. Her daughter-in-law Cyndee says Smith was fond of saying, 'My advice is free. It doesn't matter if you take it. I have it to give.'

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Beth Schwarzman
reported by Sean Corcoran
October 1, 2012

 

Beth Schwarzman

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People who were not born on the Cape and Islands but somehow or other come to live here, are often called "washashores." But Beth Schwarzman didn't call herself that. She moved here from California with her young family, but she was no washashore.

"We moved here from San Francisco. But we came here for the first time by sailboat," said Gary Schwarzman, Beth's husband. "Beth liked to say she's not a washashore on Cape Cod. She distinctly remembers rowing ashore. Which we did in Woods Hole in the late 70s, at the conclusion of a trip down the bottom half of North America, down the west coast, through the canal and up the East Coast of the US with our two daughters, who were small at the time."

In a way, Beth Schwarzman arrived in typical fashion -- for her. She's remembered as a professional geologist, a naturalist, a writer and educator. But she also was an adventurer. She filled her life with journeys across oceans and hikes over mountains. She was as comfortable sleeping under a starry sky, or inside a flimsy tent, as she was in her own bed.

People remember Beth Schwarzman as energetic and positive, committed to preserving the natural world and sharing its stories. She was fond of saying, "Every rock has a story," and if someone showed her a rock, she would tell its story.

Beth Schwarzman died last month while leading her 14th rafting trip down the Colorado River and through the Grand Canyon. Her husband Gary says Beth had a stroke and was taken to a hospital in Flagstaff. She recovered well, and was set to be discharged, when she suffered a heart attack and could not be revived.

"After her death, one of the feelings is just -- universal within our family and among her friends -- is, how will we ever find out stuff now if we can't ask beth?"

A memorial gathering is planned for Beth Schwarzman for this Sunday, Oct. 7, at 3 p.m. at Falmouth Academy.

You can hear the rest of this story by clicking on the Listen button above.




John Boyd
reported by Sean Corcoran
September 10, 2012

 

John Boyd

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When Nancy Boyd Lennon was a teenager, she used to hide when a certain young man came to visit her father, John Boyd.
 
Lennon said she and her two sisters were young and immature, and they didn't want to interact with this boy, who was something of a social outcast. He certainly wasn't one of the self-assured, athletic guys her father typically coached at the nearby high school. But this young man would ride his one-speed bicycle some 10 miles to sit with Boyd and listen to old 78 records of the Big Bands of the 30s and 40s.
 
"So this boy -- I don't think had a dad or father in his life -- so he would ride on his bike down to our house and my dad would invite him in and we would all roll our eyes, because this kid was kind of geeky," Lennon said. "And he was not among the main stream of athletic young men that my dad probably associated with himself or in high school, but he was such a kind man and as of this day, that was probably helpful to that young man."
 
As she grew older, Lennon recognized the life lesson in her dad's efforts to be a positive male role model for this boy.
 
"He knew, I think, that he was kind of taking him under his wing," Boyd said. "He was a very kind person."
 
Lennon said she knows that many people in her family embody a kind spirit to those who are in need or less fortunate because John Boyd taught them by example.
 
"I can remember," Lennon said, "driving by somebody with an old car, and I said, 'Look a that car. I can't believe it.' And my father said, 'No one wants to drive a car like that. That's sometimes what happens to people.' And that was a lesson I never forgot."
 
John Boyd was born in Newark, New Jersey. When he was young he went to live with his aunts on Long Island, where he excelled as both a student and an athlete. He believed in hard work and education, and he spent his career as a math teacher and a coach. In fact, his athleticism was probably his most memorable trait. He earned four varsity letters in high school, and after his time as a aviation navigator during World War II, when he went to college on the GI Bill, Boyd at age 32 was the starting shortstop for the Hofstra University baseball team.

You can hear the rest of this story by clicking on the Listen button above.


Daniel Gould
reported by Sean Corcoran
August 6, 2012

 

Stephanie, Daniel, and Marie Gould

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Daniel Gould built boats. He built telescopes and bicycles. He carved signs and bird decoys. And he crafted musical instruments of all kinds. But mostly he built boats in Arey's Pond boat yard near Pleasant Bay in Orleans.

"I always could count on him, and he was right by my side as if he was as much the owner of the boat yard as I was."

That's Tony Davis, the owner of Arey's Pond boat yard, where Gould was head boat builder for more than 20 years.

"Danny never put himself in front of anything," Davis said. "Whether it was family or work or having a good time. He was always making sure everyone else was onboard. And that's just the way he approached life and his daily tasks. He never wanted to be a standout. He would quietly make decisions and give people pointers on how things would be done."

Davis says he considers Gould a brother. Together they built an estimated 280 boats, beginning in the early 1990s. Davis says his Arey's Pond Boat Ride might not have lasted very long, if not for Gould.

About five years into the business, Gould got a call from the Disney company in Japan. They were looking to construct a Nantucket scene at their Tokyo theme park, and they wanted some traditional style boats. Gould and two of his friends had built a Friendship sloop, which they planned to use to fulfill Gould's dream of owning a boat charter business on Cape Cod.

"And I said, 'Danny, what do you think about shipping the friendship sloop to Tokyo?,' thinking he'd say, 'No, no.' But he said, 'Well, maybe.'"

Ultimately, Gould decided to sell the sloop to Disney-- a move that may have saved the Arey's Pond boat yard.

"(Disney) bought the Friendship sloop," Davis said. "They spent a lot of money having us customize, and then they ordered 5 more wooden boats that Danny and I built. And his willingness and decision to go with that idea really jump started this business and allowed us some cash to grow."

The call of the sea was ancestral for Daniel Gould. On Cape Cod, the historic Gould family name boasts sea captains, fishermen and rum runners.

Gould grew up in Orleans, and he graduated from Nauset High School in 1971. As a young man, he worked as a mechanic in his dad's garage. He went on to study boat building, and he eventually worked as a shipwright on the USS Constitution in Boston. In 1983 he helped build the SSS Spirit of Massachusetts -- a tall ship that cruised the world representing the Commonwealth. While working on that project at the Old Boston Navy Yard, Daniel met his future wife Marie.

"I used to try and hook him up with my best friend," she said. "And then one day I said you're crazy not to go out with this guy. Ha Ha. He was just always so quiet. He had so many things going on. I just found him fascinating."

The couple eventually moved to Cape Cod, and the home they made together in Brewster always was filled with music, colorful art and the smell of saw dust. On the kitchen wall is the painting his daughter made for his 59th birthday. The musical instruments he crafted are in the living room.

Linda Cullum grew up with Gould. And once, many years ago, he tried to give her this mountain dulcimer he made.

"He was so giving that, the day Ford became president in 1974," she said. "I got a job at Killington Mountain, and I had to start the next Monday. Anyway, Danny, I had no car, $50 to my name, and no place to live. And I asked him, can you drive me up to Killington, Vermont, so I can start this job? And he said, 'Sure!' So up we went, and we had a great time and I found a place to live and start my job. But he always said yes."

Marie Gould says that saying yes and helping others, was the way Gould wanted to live his life.

"He never could figure out a business because he would always be helping people. It's hard to turn it into a business when you're always helping people."

Gould was born on March 1, 1953, and he passed away unexpectedly just a few weeks ago, on July 10. He was 59.

The night before his heart gave out, Gould looked at the choices of instruments on his living room wall and he chose a small, concert-size ukulele. He bought it on his honeymoon in Hawaii, more than 20 years ago. Gould took it down from its place next to the guitar he made, and with his 9-year-old daughter Stephanie, he sang the century-old folk song, "Freight Train."




Rita Killory
reported by Sean Corcoran
July 2, 2012

Rita Killory

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By Sean Corcoran

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When Judge Robert Terry needed guidance – when he was on the bench at probate and family court in Barnstable, and he needed counsel – he would go to his friends’ Rita and Joe Killory's house, his neighbors in Sandwich. He wouldn’t call; he’d just go. And he’d sit in their living room and ask for their perspective.

“Of course I wouldn’t discuss names or anything like that nature," Terry said, "but especially when it related to issues related to children, I would discuss these things in depth with Rita and Joe, and get their feedback on it, so to speak, which was very helpful to me, you know?”

Throughout his career, Joe Killory led three school districts as superintendent, and he was the first executive director of the Metco Program. Rita Killory was his closest advisor.  The couple met as students at Bridgewater State Teachers College.

“To observe the two of them interacting," Terry said. "It was really a great love story. And being so supportive of each other. And being married and together for over 60 years. And also the sense that they really believed in public education. They really believed in government helping people. And they are, of course, what we refer to as the greatest generation.”

Rita’s maiden name was Kearns, she grew up in Weymouth, a child of the Great Depression. She understood that people find themselves in different places in life. And from a young age, she was taught that no one is better than anyone else. Rita’s mother was very sick and died when Rita was young, and her son David Killory said his mother sometimes spoke about a black woman named Shirley Tuttle who cared for his grandmother.

“Shirley came to help my grandmother out with some basic things at the house," David said, "and she prepared lunch one day for my grandmother and my mom and she brought it to the dining room table and then she left to eat her own lunch in the kitchen. And my grandmother, in a pretty firm voice, said, 'Where are you going? You eat your lunch with us.'

"My own mom remembered that incident. She was just a young child. She was a little frightened that her mom got so angry but later understood when her mom explained to her, taught to her about prejudice, talked to her about prejudice against all different kinds of people."

In the 1960s, Rita was involved in the Civil Rights movement. Decades later, after she moved to Sandwich, she injected herself into a debate over a proposed town bylaw that threatened to punish businesses that hired undocumented workers. Rita was old enough to remember how her own family members were greeted with signs that read, “No Irish Need Apply”.

“My mom had aunts who had to leave the area where their religion was not known so they could get teaching jobs," David said. "So this had a strong influence on my own mom and it carried over to her own life and the values she gave us and the way she lived her life.”

Before their five children were born, Rita worked as a school teacher. When the children were older, she filled her schedule by volunteering. She touched countless lives assisting in elderly homes, at the town library, the Sandwich Glass Museum, and at a consignment shop that benefitted cancer patients, to name just a few.

In 2002, Terry said the Sandwich Board of Selectmen voted to honor Rita and commend her for her community work.

“Just the volume of her volunteerism," Terry said," I don’t think could be matched by anybody else. People do volunteer, but I don’t think they volunteer for  6, 7 or 8 different jobs over the course of the week. She really did have a full-time schedule volunteering. I’ve been living in Sandwich for 40 years, and I can’t remember one other occasion when the board of selectmen honored an individual in that manner.”

Friends and family describe Rita Killory as a moral compass, a person who comforted the lonely, fought for the underdog and championed people who were different from her and her family. She died on May 15. She was 90 years old when she died, and she lived thirty of those years in the town of Sandwich. She was known for her dry, Irish humor; her love of history, and her passion for the Boston Red Sox. And, her efforts to help others whenever she could..





Edward Mooney, 88, the "Voice of the Orleans Cardinals"
reported by Sean Corcoran
May 7, 2012

 

Edward Mooney

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By Sean Corcoran

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Even if you never heard Ed Mooney zing an umpire or ask a trivia question, you've almost certainly heard his words. Remember this marketing phrase?

"It's Duncan Hines Delicious!"

Ed Mooney wrote that catchphrase. And that's his son, Ted Mooney, reciting it.

"He was working for Compton Advertising and representing a lot of food brands, he was in sales," said Mooney's oldest son, Ted Mooney. "He would try out a lot of his foods on us. I remember, we were reputedly the first kids in the United States to eat a Poptart. One of the brands that he was representing for Compton."

Mooney spent 60 successful years marketing, speaking and writing about the food industry before retiring in 1986. In retirement, he continued his way with words. Mooney sat behind the microphone at Eldredge Park in Orleans and began announcing Cardinals games for his beloved Cape Cod Baseball League.

"Ed was the one who coined the phrase: 'Where the Stars of Tomorrow Shine Tonight'," said Sue Horton, the Cardinals' former general manager. "And we used it, and the League adopted it, and it's still in use, because there's never been anything that captures it so succinctly as that. It's really a perfect saying for what this league encompasses and all the kids who play here."

For nearly 20 years, Mooney commented from the press box he dubbed the "birds nest." And while there are photographs of Mooney, neither his family nor Horton know of any audio recordings of his announcing. Team official David Mitchell, and Mooney's friend Jim Nowak, the announcer for the Brewster Whitecaps, don't have any either. No recordings, but Horton, Mitchell and Nowak remember plenty of things Mooney said.

"If we had a raffle, whoever won the raffle, Ed would holler out, "The party's at your house tonight. Ha Ha!" said Horton.

"When a player on the opposition made a great play, he'd always tip his hat to 'em and say: "Nice play out there Johnny. But don't do it again!" said Mitchell.

"Back in 1993 when Nomar Garciapara played short stop for the Orleans Cardinals. I remember Nomar one time I was over there for the White Caps, and he took a dinger, he put it over the left field fence, beat the beejezzus out o fit. And Ed went, "Hey, I wonder what he put in his Wheeties today!" said Nowak.

Friends and family remember Ed Mooney for his sincerity and dedication. His son Ted said Mooney was always on the move, but fully devoted himself to everything he was involved with, including his eight children.

"For this kind of hard-edged, veteran, entrepreneur-type, he was very touched by children," Ted Mooney said. "It was a friend of my brothers who was here I believe from Egypt on a student visa, and the visa expired and he as going to be deported. He took a day off work to spend at the courthouse, sponsoring this young man in order to stay in the United States. It's not something he talked about. I didn't even know about it. My brother told me years later."said

In 1990, Mooney published a memoir of his time as a motor pool dispatcher in World War II titled, "Too Far Back to Get Shot At." In it, he comically recounts his time in military bases and how we saw no action during the entire war. Mooney brought the same measured wit to his baseball announcing. Former Cardinals manager John Castleberry said Mooney carved out his own niche in the announcing world, with his homespun commentary that could be a bit corny, but became an endearing part of a game at Eldredge Park.

"If you knew him, he had this real dry sense of humor," Castleberry said. "I remember one game we were playing against Harwich. And Harwich at the time had a guy name Joe Magrane, who is now announcing. He was in the big leagues for a long time. And there was a second baseman named Todd Haney, who ended up playing for our championship team the next year in '86. Anyway, it was the middle of the game, about the 7th inning, and all of a sudden I hear this announcement: We'd like to congratulate Joe Magrane on his engagement to Todd Haney's sister. Well Todd Haney never had a sister. So, ha ha, guys were like, what? What's going on? Magrane was pitching and it just froze him."

Frank Poranski is one of the present-day announcers for the Cardinals. He said Mooney could be a bit intimidating, and something of a rascal, but he was a very generous and beloved man.

"Ed used to, sort of like W.C. Fields, sort of have these asides he would say, after he would announce something, and he didn't always remember to turn off the microphone," Poranski said. "So oftentimes he would say something, and it would go out over the loudspeaker, and someone would have to run up and say, Hey, Ed, turn your microphone off. Ha. Ha. And he could get away with things because he had the respect of everyone who was there after doing it for so many years."

Mooney died on April 4 at age 88. On July 20, the Cardinals, now called the Orleans Firebirds, plan to host a tribute night to Mooney and his friend the late Russ Ford, another champion of the team who also lived a life that exemplified public service and a love for baseball.

Nathan Crowell
reported by Sean Corcoran
April 2, 2012

 

Nathan Crowell

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By Sean Corcoran

(This is not a complete transcript of the radio story. The full story can be heard by clicking above.)

Nobody knows how long a life will be, but at a young age, Nathan Crowell of Sandwich and Mashpee knew his certainly would be shorter than his peers. And that knowledge affected how he lived.

"He never wanted his life to be defined by Cystic Fibrosis," says Nathan's father, Paul Crowell, who runs Crow Farm in Sandwich. "He always wanted to make sure that he was known for who he was and not for what particular ailment he might have. If it was up to him, I don't think he would have let anyone know he had it. He wanted to be him, not the sick kid."

Nathan was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis before he was even born, and very few people with the chronic lung disease reach age 30. To look at him, it's unlikely you'd know just how sick Nathan was. He was tall - well over 6 feet. His arms were tattooed, he had body piercings and he chose striking hair colors and styles. Nathan was an individual, his mother Christine Drew says, and he welcomed conversation, taking an interest in people of all ages, in a town that attracts visitors from all around the world.

"Nathan would often go out to breakfast alone," she says, "and he enjoyed doing that because he would meet strangers. He was not inclined to dress in maybe what might have been the most favorable or positive presentation. And he didn't worry about what people thought of him. Not in a bad way, but just a comfortable in his own skin."

One of Nathan's tattoos was of the Sandwich board walk, where he often spent summer days with friends, leaping from its weathered planks and into Mill Creek.

"At that point of his life," she says, "when he was 15 or 16, I would guess they were probably the happiest years of his life because he had more freedom with his peers. At that time he was healthy enough that he was keeping up with his peers, and of course summers were spent down at the board walk jumping."

Sometimes Nathan's decisions were at odds with what was best for his health. In his final years, during his late teens, Nathan developed diabetes. But he ate what he wanted, refusing to focus on his medical chart. He wouldn't test his blood sugar, telling doctors he knew how he felt and he could feel when his numbers were low and he needed insulin.

"Nathan's philosophy in life was enjoy yourself," Drew said. "Do what you can. Do what you want to do -- and sometimes that wasn't always a good relationship with his health, but Nathan felt that he didn't know what the time limit would be, and he was ver clear that he didn't want to be dictated by his health. So he did what he wanted to do and he had a good time doing it."

That attitude -- life, and living it at all costs -- affected the people closest to him.

"What I learned from him is courage and strength, and believing in who you are and who you want to be," Drew said.

If Nathan liked it, he would do it, his father says, especially when it was something others weren't' doing. Like the time he joined the field hockey team in 8th grade, when he was the only boy on the team.

"He had, what I would call a very young soul. Everything was so new and exciting to him. Most little kids are like that, but even when he grew older. When meet someone with sense of awe, when you met a person like that, it's very encouraging because it brings things into a different light."

Nathan used his time well, developing friendships and chasing dreams. But still, time was short.

"Approximately 2 years ago," his mother said, "Nathan was told that he only had a couple of months to live. And the couple of months passed, and he actually made some progress and was doing quite well. Then he and his doctor had a discussion, and Nathan was 20 at the time. And he asked him, 'Nathan, do you think that you'll live to be 21?' And Nathan said, "No." And the doctor said, I don't either."

Nathan did live to 21. He was determined to. One of his tattoos was of a lighthouse, because he saw himself as the shining tower that would weather the storm. He held fast to the goal of reaching age 21, when he would be able to go to Foxwoods Casino, and play poker, and have a legal drink.

"Nathan would suggest if things weren't looking good or feeling good that you just change the channel," his mother said. "And that was in reference to a question. I asked him. 'Are you afraid, are you sad?' And he said, 'Well, I try no to think about it.' And I said, 'How can you not think about something so significant?' And he said, 'I just change the channel.' … And when he wrote his wishes, he made it clear, he said he did not want people to feel badly. He did not want people to think, 'Oh, I wish he had done this,' or, 'I wish he had done that.' And then he wrote, 'Because I did what I wanted, and I enjoyed myself. So don't be sad."

Nathan died on February 4, not long after he visited the casino, where he spent an entire night playing cards and sharing jokes with strangers. This fall, on his birthday September 9, Nathan's family and friends will assemble at Sandwich Board Walk to the remember his life and the choices he made -- choices that defined him and inspired others.




Andrea Taddeo
reported by Sean Corcoran
March 5, 2012

 

Andrea Taddeo

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By Sean Corcoran

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Some 200 of Andrea Taddeo's friends came to the Coonamesset Inn in Falmouth last month to sing and tell stories. With their heads hung low they sang the songs Taddeo sang when she was a girl back on Long Island in the 1950s, and into her oldest years living in Falmouth, until she died at home on Feb. 11 from cancer. They sang church songs. "The Hymn of Promise" was one, about new life and resurrection. And "Take My Hand" was another.

Taddeo chose the songs, just as she selected the flowers, the speakers and the menu -- from the fish to the fruit salad. Many of the people in attendance knew Taddeo from her volunteer work at Falmouth's John Wesley United Methodist Church, where Taddeo essentially was in charge of most everything, including the church kitchen.

Rev. David Calhoun met Taddeo five years ago when he first came to John Wesley to serve as pastor.

"The former pastor told me, he said, 'We have an angel in the congregation that you need to meet.' So we walked around the church together, and guess where I found her? In the kitchen," Calhoun said. "And he introduced her as one of our angels, and of course she would have nothing to do with that. "I don't know about that. But I'm happy to meet the new pastor."
Taddeo often was the first one to greet new church members. She liked to include people in things, often by inviting them to meals. Her friends say that when people became sick, homebound or just lonely, Taddeo would step in. She would shop for them, pickup their medications, pay their bills and balance their check books -- whatever she could do to make a difference in their lives.

"Many of the things Andi did, people just do not know about," Calhoun said, "because it was her wish that she not be talked about, about the things that she did. She was the integral part of the life of our church, and she is going to be missed greatly. Wow. It's going to take time for everybody to process, but that's what this celebration's for. For us to share stories around the table."

Taddeo was friendly and filled with spirit, her friends say, but she could be bossy. A different way to say it would be: Taddeo was a good delegator, particularly in the church kitchen. She would assign people to slice oranges for the fruit salad to her specifications, and cutting sandwiches required an electric knife. People who could not follow her specific instructions were relieved of their duties.

Sharon Mulcahy of Falmouth was one of Taddeo's closest friends. Mulcahy said that when it came to church events, Taddeo always arrived with detailed instructions on what should be done and how, and when the event was over, Taddeo was always the last one to leave.

"You had to do it her way, or get lost," Mulcahy said with a  laugh. "She was so good at it. I mean, you should listen because she had it down pat. Everything went perfectly well. She never thought of herself. She didn't like to be praised at all. She didn't think she deserved it. She was so humble, she just thought she wasn't good enough. I don't know. She was just amazing."
By all accounts, Taddeo knew how to handle things, and when she saw a need, she took over. Half a lifetime ago she did the books for a patent attorney firm in New York City. She came to Cape Cod to care for her mother, and for 25 years she did financial work for Falmouth Lumber before retiring seven years ago to do more for the church.

Falmouth resident Ken Peal worked with Taddeo on the church Stewardship Committee, which Peal chaired.

"I was in charge, but most of the ideas came from her," Peal said. "A lot of the details that we had to do to get the job done, she helped with. Once again, she was a little bit behind the scenes, but she was there doing things and didn't take any credit for it. I was the chairman but using her ideas. ha. Happy to do it."
Taddeo was competent, as well as funny and disarming. Demeris Cooker of Mashpee says, she also was caring.

"Andrea was truly a saint in the sense that she did not take credit for a lot of things she did, but a lot of things no one knows about," Cooker said. "One of the one big thing she did for me, one night I had a terrible pain, and my husband was not well but he took me to the emergency room. About an hour into being there and after my MRI and knowing I needed to wait a long time, I said to him, you need to go home, you're tired. So I called andrea, she came right over, took him home, and then came back to the hospital, stayed until after midnight until my doctor came down to tell me that I was full of cancer. And I had two years of treatment after that, but what I always wonder -- why her, not me? She was just an angel, and did so many things for so many people in so many ways."
Taddeo never wanted anyone to feel lonely or unappreciated. She often greeted people with a sincere, "Hello, Sunshine!" It was her way of letting people know that they mattered.

Mabel Offonoff of Falmouth said many people claimed Taddeo as their best friend. And to Offonoff, Taddeo was an angel, right here on Earth.

"There was nobody like her. She was just my most wonderful friend," Offonoff said. "And I always knew it was going to be a wonderful day. I lived alone, and I could hear Andi on the front steps, the car would come up, and she'd say, -- "Get dressed, we're going to get breakfast." And it was always a wonderful day."
Taddeo was not a smoker, and she wasn't often around people who smoked. But she was diagnosed with lung cancer last April. When confined to her home, she asked her friends to keep an eye out at the church, and to let her know if there was anyone in need. That was her way, friends said. She didn't want praise, and she didn't want recognition. She just wanted to help.





Abel Correia
reported by Sean Corcoran
February 6, 2012

 

Abel Correia and his wife Shirley, after they were first married.

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By Sean Corcoran

(Note: This is not a full transcript of the radio story. The full story can be heard by clicking above.)

In autumn 2003, Scott Price and his son Pat of Nashville, Tennessee, found themselves driving around Hyannis in a rental car looking for good will. The trip was Scott's idea after Pat graduated from college. During the course of a year, they would travel to all 50 states and interview people about the good things in their lives.

"We were going to try to visit one state each day and cover New England," Scott Price said, "and so when we realized we didnít have time to take the ferry out to Nantucket, I said, 'Lets ride around Hyannis and see what we find.' And we happened upon the Kennedy Memorial -- but, no one there. And then we saw at the far end, a gentlemen sitting in a lawn chair with a baseball cap on. And he got up, walked over and greeted us and introduced himself. He said his name was Abel A-B-E-L, Correia. He spelled it for us. He said, 'Everybody calls me Abe'.
 

In 1947 Abel Correia joined a vaudeville adagio group, The Three Glenns, who performed in dozens of theaters from around the world. He had a remarkable physique, due to all the strength moves the group performed, and Abel later trained two Mr. Worcester body building champions.

Abe Correia was born in New Bedford, in the fall, 1920. He told his wife that as a boy he spent much of his time at the YMCA, where an instructor named Mr. Kelly, taught him gymnastics, acrobatics and strength training. He worked as a shoe-leather cutter before joining the Navy. Later in life, he spent nearly two decades greeting people at the Kennedy Memorial overlooking Lewis Bay in Hyannis.

ìHe was just delightful," Scott Price said. "And he asked, you know, "What brings you fellas up this way?" We said, well weíre, weíre working on a book. Could we interview you? And he readily agreed. And he was just so inspiring to us. Just such a delightful man who had an interesting life. One of Patís questions was which person living or dead would you most like to meet? And he said, oh Iíd most like to meet General Douglas MacArthur. Abe had served in the pacific for four years during the Second World War. He said general MacArthur was a great general and I would like to meet him. When Pat said, 'If you could begin a new career, what would you choose to do?' Abe said, 'Well, I like what Iíve done.' And he didnít say what he had done. We didnít ask him, and to this day, we still donít know what his career was but he said, 'I like what Iíve done. I feel good about it. Tomorrow will be my 83rd birthday.' And Pat said well whatís the best decision that you made in your life? He said, oh getting married to my wife Shirley."

Shirley was a dancer, a ballerina and a chorus line girl in Australia, and she met Abel in 1949.

"We met in Sydney," she said. "And we worked together for 3 months. My husband was an adagio act, the Three Glenns, and they were the star act that came from Las Vegas. And I introduced their act."

The Three Glenns were well known in America, opening for Vegas stars such as Tommy Dorse and the Big Bands, including Harry James, when a young Frank Sinatra was singing with him. The Glenn's act was not on a high-flying trapeze -- instead it was on the ground and more like dancing, with the three acrobats slowing holding themselves and each other off the floor in graceful strength positions.

"They were the first act in America -- generally acrobats, way back in the Vaudeville days, I'm talking about -- would work bare chested. But not the Glenns. They were the first act to come in and they wore full tux. The act he, when they came to Australia, they worked with Liberace. I'm not sure if you ever heard of Liberace."

Shirley Correia says her husband was recruited for the group from the New Bedford YMCA .

"When he came out of the Navy, the Glenns were looking for a top man," Shirley said, "that would do the top work in their act, so they came to the Y in New Bedford, checked him out and hired him. Then he toured America and Australia."

Six weeks after their first date, Shirley and Abel were married. Shirley's mother was not pleased. But for 10 years they lived in Australia where they raised three children before returning to Massachusetts to take their one of their sons for medical treatment.

"Our dream was to one day have the money to run a gym," she said. "That was his life. He wanted that. But that didn't work out. Because we came from a socialized medicine country, and the money we had saved up to get all these things going for my husband went in about a month at boston children's hospital. So then it was just struggle from then on."

The Correia's gave up their show business dreams to care for their children, and they moved to Worcester when Able got a job managing a gym. He trained two body builders who went on to win Mr. Worcester titles. Correia had a prize-winning physique himself. But unable to survive on his gym salary, he took a job as a custodian for many years at Blithewood Elementary School in Worcester.  Blithewood was one of the last coal-heated schools in the state, and during snowstorms, a dedicated Correia slept on a cot next to the school's furnace so he'd be nearby when it needed coal.
 

The Three Glenns were well known for their acrobatics and strength moves. The group was featured in this August 1947 installment of Strength and Health Magazine.

"He was just a nice guy," said his daughter, Chris Dube.

"He was known as honest Abe. That was our joke. He was honest and sweet and just liked everybody."

"Honest Abe," Shirley said. "How he got that was when we first moved to Worcester, there was quite a snow storm. And I needed something at a little store. So he walked in the snow, he came home and the snow was all over him, because we didn't own a car in those days. He walked in and said, 'I have to go back. They gave me a dollar too much.' I sa