Sharon

CHET
Born in 1947 in Roxbury, Chet grew up in a tight-knit family that moved to Sharon just after World War II, when the town was still small and full of new possibilities. His parents, eager to leave a cramped triple-decker, bought the house where Chet still lives today – a home built in 1892 that once stood near an elderly neighbor who shared stories of Sharon’s older days. “We moved in in November of ’49,” he recalls, marking the start of a lifelong connection to the community. With an older sister and brother close in age, Chet jokes that they were “not Wally and Beaver” from Leave It to Beaver, but the siblings stayed close through the years.

School life in Sharon shaped much of Chet’s early years. He began in a three-room kindergarten at the New Library on School Street, then moved on to Pleasant Street School and later the Wilbur School, which became Sharon Junior High. He remembers a town growing fast: when his sister graduated in 1959, her class had about 60 students; by the time Chet graduated from Sharon High in 1966, his class had swelled to 230. “That shows how the town… quadrupled, yeah,” he says, watching neighborhoods like Sharon Heights rise where there had once been open land.

Chet followed in his father’s footsteps, commuting by train to Bentley College—first in Boston, then in Waltham—to study accounting. The Vietnam War cast a shadow over those years; a beloved cousin was killed in 1968, and Chet knew he would likely be drafted. Instead, he enlisted in the Army National Guard, completing basic training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri and serving a six-year commitment that included monthly drills and the possibility of activation. “No one was excited about Vietnam,” he says. “We were all patriotic… but it was still a big commitment.” After his service, he began a 37 ½-year career with the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, commuting from Sharon to downtown Boston by train from 1972 until his retirement in 2009.

Chet followed in his father’s footsteps, commuting by train to Bentley College—first in Boston, then in Waltham—to study accounting. The Vietnam War cast a shadow over those years; a beloved cousin was killed in 1968, and Chet knew he would likely be drafted. Instead, he enlisted in the Army National Guard, completing basic training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri and serving a six-year commitment that included monthly drills and the possibility of activation. “No one was excited about Vietnam,” he says. “We were all patriotic… but it was still a big commitment.” After his service, he began a 37 ½-year career with the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, commuting from Sharon to downtown Boston by train from 1972 until his retirement in 2009.
 

Family has always been central to Chet’s story. He became a father later in life and now has a 31-year-old daughter who teaches at Bishop Feehan High School in Attleboro. He speaks warmly of his wife, their close relationship, and the joy of watching his daughter grow into her own career in education. Music and faith have also been steady threads: raised Catholic, Chet has sung in the choir at St. John the Evangelist Church in Canton for 50 years. “I was never a soloist,” he says with a laugh, “but my daughter made me a plaque that says, ‘How can I keep from singing?’” Those long drives to their camp in Maine were often filled with song, and he’s happy to have passed that love of music on.
 

Life has brought deep losses—his father died in 1973 at 67, his mother just four years later, and close friends have passed in recent years. Through it all, he’s learned not to dwell on the hard parts, but to ask, “What can I do to make it better?”
 

“If you have a rough spot, pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and start all over again.”

 

ELLEN
Born in 1956 in Boston, Ellen grew up in Hyde Park in a cozy ranch house on a hill, surrounded by family and the dogs that were constant companions throughout her childhood. With an older brother just a few years ahead of her, she spent her early years tagging along with his friends, trading comic books and discovering her love of reading—first Archie, then Superman. School became a central part of her story: she attended Girls Latin, a rigorous all-girls exam school that required a long daily commute of two buses and a trolley, forging an identity and alumni network that remain distinct even after the school began accepting boys and changed its name.

 

Ellen’s path after high school wasn’t straightforward. Influenced by her parents, she trained as a dental hygienist and worked in the field for 30 years, though she admits she was never fully satisfied and “kept changing jobs.” Her true passion lay elsewhere: German language and culture, a subject she loved in school but didn’t pursue at the time.

 

Years later, she rekindled that interest through local German clubs, Harvard Extension, and eventually UMass Boston, where she earned a degree in German Studies, immersing herself in history and literature that stretched back to the year 900. “I said, I really want to pursue this,” she recalls, describing the moment she chose to follow her curiosity despite the challenges of commuting and balancing family life.

 

That leap led Ellen to a new calling. While at UMass Boston, she began tutoring English as a Second Language students, working with refugees and international learners from China, Vietnam, Ethiopia, and Japan. “It was great… I sort of found my calling there,” she says, describing the fulfillment of helping others find their voice in a new language. She went on to earn a master’s in German language and literature at Tufts on a full scholarship and, in her 50s, stepped into the classroom as an adjunct instructor at Mount Ida College. “Baptism by fire,” she laughs, remembering how she was handed a textbook and told to teach a first-year course with just a week’s notice. Over the next decade, she taught English, public speaking, and short story courses, discovering that what began as a personal passion had become a way to give back.

 

Family and faith anchor Ellen’s life. She raised two children in the same Sharon home where she still lives, instilling in them the values of her Jewish heritage and the importance of education. Looking back, she sees her journey—from dental hygiene to German studies to teaching—as proof that it’s never too late to redirect your life toward what truly matters. 

 

“Don’t make judgments on people. Understand both sides… learn from anybody that you can and respect everybody.”

JOANNE
Born in 1947 in Boston, Joanne grew up in a close-knit neighborhood where “our parents were friends, the kids were friends.” As the youngest among her mother’s and father’s friends, she got “kind of special treatment” and a childhood filled with jump rope, marbles, and hopscotch. Her mother, hardworking and guided by strong ethics, was the steady force at home; her father worked nights, and her only sibling, a brother 13 years older, was in the Army from the time she was five. “I was the baby,” she says.

 

School was a joy. Joanne attended Boston public schools through seventh grade, then Notre Dame Academy, where she was in the last graduating class before the school moved to Hingham. She loved history and English, and her sixth-grade teacher, Miss Burke, remains a favorite. Outside the classroom, music took center stage. She played violin for several years in the Boston Youth Symphony under Harry E. Dickson, who had been assistant conductor to Arthur Fiedler of the Pops. Free time was mostly practice, with summers spent working at Longwood Hospital, Blue Cross Blue Shield, and Jordan Marsh.

 

Though she once dreamed of becoming a lawyer, Joanne went to Stonehill College, earning a degree in sociology with a psychology minor. After graduation, she faced her first big decision: accept a lower-paying social work placement or stay with the telephone company, where she’d built a stable career. She chose the telephone company, eventually becoming a public relations manager and using her skills in critical thinking, communication, and problem-solving every day. “I loved being a PR manager,” she reflects, even though it meant a different path than she’d once imagined.

 

Joanne married later in life to someone she met at work, and in 1973 she, her mother, and her brother moved to Sharon. She never had children, but friends became her family—especially after her brother’s death and as her mother aged. “My friends were more like family,” she says, describing a circle of loyal, long-term friends who supported her through loss and change. She traveled often, believing that “every place you go, there’s something that you learn, that changes you,” and she values the ethics, patience, and awareness for others that her mother and her life experiences taught her.

 

Looking back, Joanne thinks often about how much has changed. She remembers a time of landlines, face-to-face conversations, and neighborhoods where adults looked out for each other’s kids. “You didn’t sit here with a friend and be typing. You actually talk to each other,” she says, noting that technology has made some things easier but hasn’t always helped real connection.

 

“Think. And make sure before you act… You really have to be very aware of what you’re doing and what you’re saying before you do it.”

JOE
Born in 1953 in Waterbury, Connecticut, Joe grew up as the baby brother with an older sister by four years. His family first lived in public housing that, in the 1950s, was solidly middle class; everyone around them was “like us,” with parents working in factories and local jobs. When his father became disabled due to a cardiac condition, his mother went to work, and in fifth grade the family moved into his great aunt’s house in a suburban neighborhood. “We were able to move into a, like a middle class suburban neighborhood,” he recalls, marking a shift from the projects to a quieter street where he finished grade school.

 

School wasn’t always easy. Changing schools midyear in fifth grade was “kind of traumatic,” with no formal introduction—just a new kid showing up on a Monday and finding a seat. He went on to a parochial high school, then UConn, where he met his wife, Pat, though they didn’t truly connect until they both landed their first jobs out of college. “You look familiar… didn’t we go to school together?” he laughs. The two married in 1980 and have been together since. Joe originally planned to head west for grad school at UC San Francisco or Colorado Boulder, but his father’s unexpected death changed those plans. He stayed close to home for his mother, enrolling at Boston University instead—a decision that “worked out” and set him on his life’s path.

 

Joe’s career was rooted in caring for “broken people.” Fascinated by how the human body works—and especially how it fails—he trained as a critical care clinical specialist before trading “high tech, low touch” for hands-on emergency nursing at Boston City Hospital (later Boston Medical Center). Over 40 years, he served as staff nurse, charge nurse, nurse manager, educator, clinical specialist, and nurse practitioner, eventually helping launch the hospital’s Level I trauma program and serving as its trauma program manager for 27 years. “They’re bleeding. You stop the bleeding. They’re not breathing. You open the airway,” he says, describing the fast-paced, decisive work that suited his short attention span and love of problem-solving.

 

At 26, Joe joined the Army Nurse Corps, later serving in the Reserves for 26 years. He deployed to Kosovo in 2001, spent a year in Iraq (2006–2007), and served in Haiti, Honduras, Guatemala, and Germany. “I wanted to see how I would do in a bigger pond,” he explains, describing the pull to test his skills in austere, remote environments. Pre-deployment training meant learning to be a soldier—weapons, fieldcraft, and self-reliance—as part of a combat support unit. Being away from family, especially during 12 months in Iraq, was hard, but his approach was simple: “You take it one day at a time and you just power through.”

 

Family and gratitude anchor Joe’s life. He and Pat raised two daughters and now cherish time with their grandsons. For over a decade, they’ve hosted an “early fake Thanksgiving” the weekend before the holiday, gathering family for turkey and all the fixings without the stress of a strict Thursday noon deadline. “Gratitude is the attitude,” he says, reflecting on the blessing of sitting around the table with as many loved ones as can make it.

 

“Did you help?… Did you contribute more than you took?”

LINDA
Born in 1949 in Rockford, Illinois, Linda grew up in a warm, welcoming home shaped by her Scandinavian roots. Her father was born in Norway and her mother was Swedish-American, but it was her grandparents who kept the old-country spirit alive, instilling strong family values and a love of holiday traditions. “We were always very welcoming to everyone,” she says, recalling how her house became a neighborhood hangout where kids gathered and no one was left out. With two brothers and a sister, Linda learned early that family means showing up for each other—even when life pulls them to different parts of the country.

 

School wasn’t always easy. Linda did well academically but felt a bit out of place in junior high. By ninth grade, she’d found her people—a close group of friends who stuck with her through college, even if they’ve drifted apart since. She liked school, though she never dreamed of fame or a grand career. “I don’t think the way my life ended up was my dream,” she admits, “but I don’t really know that I had a dream that was that different.”

 

In college, she started as a physics major, required to minor in math, but hit a wall in her courses. A chance conversation with an English professor from her church changed everything: “If you switch to English, I’ll make sure you graduate on time.” She did, finishing as an English major with a physics minor—a detour that set her on a surprisingly steady path.

 

That path led Linda to a small printing company, where she was hired as a “paystub artist” thanks to her eye for detail and her English major’s proofreading skills. Over 43 years, she worked her way up, eventually helping run the company through its sale to a larger firm. “I always thought I was pretty good at what I did,” she says, describing her gift for matching people to the work they did best. She liked the variety, the challenge, and the chance to grow with a small team where everyone wore many hats.

 

Family and faith have been Linda’s anchors. She and her husband raised two children—a daughter and a son—and though they’re not grandparents, they’ve built a life centered on patience, hard work, and community. Church has been a constant, and while friends have “come and gone” over the decades, they’ve always been part of her story. Linda doesn’t measure her life by grand achievements, but by something quieter and, to her, more meaningful: “We joke sometimes about the word adequate… the life I lead is adequate for me.” For her, that’s not a compromise; it’s a choice to accept what you have, be grateful, and do your best without needing to be a hero.

 

“To do the best you can to improve yourself and the world… accept life as you can and do the best you can.”

LOUISE
Born in 1928 in Milton, Massachusetts, Louise grew up in a home filled with music, movement, and strong family ties. Her mother encouraged her talents from an early age, signing her up for dance, elocution, and singing lessons. “My mother always was anxious for me to do the music… she thought that music would be my thing,” she says. “And it was. And it has. And it still is.” Louise went on to Milton High School and then Boston University’s College of Music, setting the stage for a life shaped by song.

 

Music became both her passion and her profession. After college, she taught music in Vermont and then in Massachusetts, including at Cottage Street School and East Elementary in Sharon, while her husband, Gary, taught physical education at Sharon High School. Their lives revolved around students and community—so much so that the football field at Sharon High is now named the Gary W. Hall Arena in his honor. Outside the classroom, Louise performed in choral groups and Gilbert and Sullivan productions and served as a longtime soloist at Sharon Congregational Church.

 

Louise and Gary eventually settled in Foxborough, where they raised three sons in a home she still describes with pride: “We made it out all right… and we have a nice home. So I’m a happy person.” Today, at 97, she still lives there independently, drives herself, and stays close to her four granddaughters and one great-grandson. Her Armenian heritage shaped her childhood too—she remembers family picnics, her father singing, and big batches of traditional food, even if she jokes that serious Armenian cooking “takes a long time” and she never quite mastered it.

 

Community life continues to anchor her days. Four days a week, Louise is at the Foxborough Community Center—formerly the senior center and a church—where she exercises, socializes, and joins in local programs. “They say, ‘How come you’re 97?’ I say you have to have the exercises and the social ability—those two things,” she explains. She remains active in her church in Sharon, helps organize the holiday bazaar, and happily takes charge of the bake table.

 

Life has brought deep sorrow as well as joy. Her parents’ divorce when she was about twelve was “the hardest time of my life,” she recalls, and years later she lost her beloved older sister June, a Navy officer stationed in California, to cancer after flying out to bring her home to Boston. “Those were the two hardest times of my life,” she says. Even so, Louise returns again and again to gratitude—for her mother’s support of her music, for her long marriage, and for the friends and students who have filled her life.

 

Looking at younger generations, she worries about phones, screens, and the loss of simple conversation. “Put that phone away,” she says with a laugh.

 

“Be with your friends more, do kind things for others, and keep moving—that’s how you stay going.”

MARTIN
Martin carries a family story that begins in Normandy around 1080 with a man named Rondulf, who settled in Calverhill, England. Over centuries, the Barkers became large landholders, with knights and “ladies” in the records and even a tanner who took the name Le Barker—“the Barker from Calverhill.” By the 1700s, Barkers had crossed to America, settling in Virginia, and later spreading west to Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado. Among them was the cowboy poet S. Omar Barker, the “Poet Lariat,” who signed his work with a cattle-brand-style “Lazy SOB.” For Martin, these stories aren’t just names on a page; they’re a compass for how to live.

That sense of duty shows up in his father’s life, too. A barber father vanished when he was an infant, a stepfather was killed in a coal mine, and a harsh stepfather drove him to leave home at 13. He worked in diatomaceous earth mines, later became a barber himself, and never learned the identity of his own birth father—though Martin’s brother eventually uncovered that secret. Martin saw his father’s resilience up close, and with it, a quiet insistence on dignity and respect for others.

Martin himself has lived “three lives as an artist.” He earned a PhD in music, taught at MIT, and composed for many years before working with his wife as a visual artist, specializing in paper cutting. Poetry has been a lifelong thread, one he only later realized ran through his family. He and his wife raised their children in Sharon, where they’ve lived for decades, staying close to a wide network of cousins and family reunions. Through music, art, and words, Martin has spent his life making things that matter—and teaching others to see the world more fully.

The value that shapes Martin most comes from his father. He recalls a moment at age six, when an African American farmworker gave him a box of strawberries. Using a word he’d heard around him, Martin repeated it in the car. His father pulled over and said, “I never want to hear that word come out of your mouth again… It’s demeaning. It’s putting people down.” That moment still pains him to recount, but it defined his core belief: to see people for who they are, not for labels or what they’re not.

“Care about other people. See them for what they are, not for what they’re not.”

MICHEAL
Born in Staten Island, New York, Michael grew up in a household shaped by faith and a large family. His father was an Episcopal priest, so ‘mainline Christian values’ were at the center of life. With six sisters and a brother, Michael was the oldest son and fourth child. The family moved to Milton when he was two, and he spent about 15 years there in a school system focused on college. After his sophomore year, they moved to downstate Illinois, where the last two years of high school felt more about “cars and football games” than preparation for the future.

 

As a teenager, Michael spent his free time playing music. He learned guitar and harmonica, and at a local coffee house run by a large Roman Catholic family, he started performing as a folk singer. “I learned to play, and then became a folk singer,” he recalls of the small, welcoming venue that gave kids something to do. He wasn’t a standout math student in Milton, but the rigorous schooling paid off: he ended up scoring highest in his Illinois high school on the SAT math section, a result he credits more to the quality of his earlier education than to any special talent.

 

Michael’s young adulthood was dominated by the Vietnam War era. When his college “turned in most of the male student body to the draft boards,” he lost his student deferment and faced a difficult choice. He registered as a conscientious objector and completed two years of civilian alternative service at a county hospital so his wife, Linda, could graduate. Those years of protest, uncertainty, and service shaped him deeply. “Those were turbulent times,” he says. “Those years sort of dominated things.”

 

After his service, Michael worked in carpentry, apprenticed as a cabinetmaker, and helped fix up a boarded-up house in Dorchester. Concerned about Boston’s future and schools, he and Linda moved to Sharon, where they’ve lived ever since. For about 25 years, he drove school buses and vans, navigating privatized contracts, politics, and firings in several towns. Now he drives for the council on aging, a more secure job with less corruption. Through all of it, he’s valued steady work, financial caution, and keeping perspective on what truly matters.

 

When asked what makes a good marriage work, Michael points to true love, shared values, and practical sense. He jokes about “adequate” cars—“a car needs to go forward when you want it to go forward… and stop when you want to stop”—and warns against debt, urging young people to “figure out what’s important and what isn’t.” He sees today’s polarization as the opposite of what’s needed, and worries about the world his generation is passing on. Michael’s advice to our generation is blunt and honest: understand what has happened in the last 10 years, prepare for complicated times ahead, and don’t wait for a “superhero” to fix everything.

 

“Solving problems involves people, with all the stakeholders, coming together… and working out solutions.”

 

PHILIP
Born in 1948 in Boston, Philip grew up in Dorchester before his family moved to Sharon just before his fifth birthday. To him, Sharon was “a wonderful relief” from the city—a place of trees, neighborhoods, and kids. He walked to school as a kindergartener, sold lunch tickets at East Elementary, and remembers a different time: no one worried about shootings, but everyone practiced air‑raid drills and ducked under their desks.

School had its ups and downs. Philip thrived in math and loved tracking the weather, but junior high’s tracking system (“1A, 1B, 1C…”) shook his confidence. In high school, he was known for talking too much and for his interest in stocks. At 13, with his father’s permission, he bought shares in TV companies; by graduation, a few hundred dollars had grown to about $5,000. “I was fascinated by the weather,” he says, but he was just as fascinated by the market.

The Vietnam War shadowed his teenage years. He dreaded the draft, registered late, and was pushed by the principal to get to the draft board. In college at Babson, he heard John Kenneth Galbraith predict another severe market crash “someday.” Philip graduated with a high draft lottery number, 262, and avoided service, a fact he still calls himself “very, very lucky” about.

He joined his family’s South Boston food‑distribution business, where he pushed for vacations, health insurance, and bonuses for workers. He also drew a line: “You cannot buy stolen property. I won’t do anything. I’ll quit.” He watched the company grow, then decline, and saw his father lose everything in the 1987 crash after borrowing heavily to invest. Philip, who had bought a house in Sharon and kept his own investments more conservative, ended up financially more stable than his parents—a situation he found “very uncomfortable.”

Caring for his mother from 2015 to 2020 was demanding, and her death left him wrestling with guilt. With help from neighbors, a psychologist, and his community at Temple Sinai, he slowly rebuilt. Today he stays active, watches the market carefully, and counts his blessings. Looking back, he’s proud of the people he helped—hiring “wild kids” from South Boston, teaching them to drive trucks, and seeing them build families and good lives.

“Do something that you really enjoy… and listen to your parents, too.”

RITA
Born in 1936 in London, England, Rita grew up in a close‑knit family marked by love, loss, and the upheaval of World War II. As the oldest grandchild, she was “a lot of fuss” when she was born. With a younger sister, Judith, by her side, she lived in a flat in London until bombing near the docks forced the family to move to the country. “We had to leave London because there was bombing,” she recalls. “It was a very scary time.”

 

Childhood held bright moments amid the fear. In a small town outside London, Rita loved running in fields and playing with neighbors. She remembers a mischievous episode with her sister after they both had the measles: “She decided that she was going to cut her hair… She chopped off a bit of hair.” When the war eased, the family moved again—this time to Glasgow, Scotland, where schools were strict and expression was limited. “You had to be very quiet… the teacher directed the class very much,” she says.

 

Rita thrived in a well‑known exam high school back in London, but college wasn’t in the cards. Her mother died of cancer when Rita was 13, and her grandmother didn’t see the need for girls to go on to higher education. A teacher secured her a place at a London art school, but family circumstances led her instead to work in the family business, which made beautiful wedding gowns. “I was sad, very sad about not going to art school,” she admits, remembering how she’d won second prize in a citywide children’s art competition and watched her cousin proudly point out her displayed drawing.

 

She met her husband, John, in a characteristically ordinary way: a friend asked him for a ride to give Rita back to London after a student weekend. His first answer was “No”—he had a motorcycle and no room. They married, had two daughters, and eventually moved from Canada to Massachusetts. Rita cherishes her family—two daughters, grandchildren in college—but carries a quiet regret about being far from relatives in England. “I do regret… the little things that happen… birthdays,” she says. “In a sense, it was lonely, not having any family here.” Looking back, Rita sees a world transformed. She misses the postwar optimism and focus on community, wishing people today were less self‑focused.

 

“Be more accepting of other people and other people’s ideas… There’s more than one way of looking at things.”

ROBERT
Born in 1951 in Norwalk, Connecticut, Robert grew up in a warm, welcoming home nestled in the woods. His father was a small‑town doctor and his mother a teacher, lessons in fairness and respect woven into everyday life. “We learned very quickly… how to treat people equally and fairly,” he says. With three older sisters, Robert found his rhythm in school, sports, and long days outdoors—fishing, hiking, and caring for the family dogs.
 

Academics came easily, but college brought a new challenge: learning how to study, not just ace tests. He majored in political science and French at Tufts, then earned a master’s in transportation planning at MIT. A year working in Algeria opened his eyes to a different pace of life. “Time… doesn’t figure the same way,” he recalls. “A minute can be an hour… That translates out to patience.” That patience became a cornerstone as he built a career in international trade, crossing the Atlantic hundreds of times and learning to listen across cultures.

Robert met his wife, Marjorie, on a memorable blind‑date weekend in Minneapolis. A snowstorm grounded her flight back to Chicago, and an extra night together turned into a lifetime. They raised three sons, building a marriage on compromise and shared purpose. “Patience, acceptance… always looking for the middle ground,” he says. Family remained central, and he carried forward the values he grew up with, enhancing them with his own experiences.
 

The turbulent late 1960s left a deep mark. Assassinations, unrest, and the Vietnam War “shook the foundations of this country.” A summer construction job taught Robert how to earn respect: he chose hard work over Woodstock, pouring a bridge for 72 straight hours and winning over skeptical coworkers. “You have to listen to them and earn their respect,” he says. “That’s how you get things done.”

Today, Robert’s guiding principle is to seek the “why” behind other people’s views. “The real key… is not to know what they say, but the why. What is propelling them to think that way? That’s how you build bridges.” He believes life’s meaning comes from using one’s skills and energy to make the world better—starting close to home. “It can be in the neighborhood sense. It can be in your family sense.”

He’s convinced that younger generations will lead with better judgment and care. “I have infinite trust in younger people… your generation is going to be the one that changes life on the planet better.”
 

“The real key… is not to know what they say, but the why. What is propelling them to think that way? That’s how you build bridges.”

SANDY
Born in 1940 in Boston to parents who had emigrated from Ukraine, Sandy grew up as a first-generation American in a close Jewish family. As the long-hoped-for daughter after her mother lost a little girl, she was, in her words, “the little princess,” doted on with gold jewelry and fancy socks she never really liked. 
 

Sandy went to Boston public schools and Roxbury Memorial High School and school came naturally. Confident and a bit headstrong, she started at Simmons at just 17 and overloaded herself with biology, chemistry, and then organic chemistry. “I told him I was drowning and I couldn’t pull myself up,” she remembers. When her grades slipped and she was asked to leave, she felt she had embarrassed her family and failed for the first time at something that truly mattered.
 

That low point became a turning moment. A summer of waitressing in New Hampshire gave her space to heal, supported by friends and “a guy who was really very good to [her].” With her mother’s encouragement, she met with a registrar at Boston University who urged her to start fresh instead of carrying her poor grades. Sandy did exactly that, rebuilt her academic record, and was eventually accepted to UCLA’s School of Public Health, where  she completed her Master’s in Public Health and published early papers on neck and back pain that reflected a growing interest in posture and prevention.​
 

As Supervisor of Physical Therapy for the Massachusetts Department of Public Health, Sandy helped pioneer school-based scoliosis screening by pushing the system toward early detection and prevention on a population level. She helped design the public school program, wrote clear instructional materials for school staff, and partnered with Children’s Hospital to study how earlier screening changed when and how students reached specialty care. By building systematic scoliosis screening into public schools statewide, she helped create a model that made early detection possible for children from every background.​
 

Sandy was also an early and influential voice in recognizing the link between posture and pain. Over the years she published in leading journals, taught an interdisciplinary doctoral course at Boston University’s Sargent College, and led training sessions for physical therapists launching school screening programs of their own. Her writing on adaptive housing reflected the same conviction: that thoughtful design and environments can reduce strain, support independence, and make everyday life more accessible for people with disabilities.

In 1974, she pushed through the barriers that made it difficult for single women to buy homes and secured a mortgage on a two-family house without a cosigner—no small feat in an era when lenders often insisted on a male signature. “When I finally got out of debt, I was, like, emancipated,” she recalls. One of the things she’s proudest of is how she later used that hard-won stability to buy  the matching two-family next door to help her parents move into a nearby condo without feeling “subsidized,” carefully matching their rent to the condo costs and splitting future increases. Her mother even joked, when Sandy arrived on the first of the month, “The landlady is here. She’s looking for her check.”​

“Just keep your ears open. You never know what little gem is gonna fall on you in your path—and you won’t know its value until sometime later.”

SID
Born in 1946 in Boston, Sid grew up in Newton with two sisters and parents he describes as “very decent people” who “had no prejudices whatsoever.” He attended Newton South High School, where he was part of the first true four‑year graduating class. “I was a war baby,” he says. “It was one of the most eight million kids born right after World War II.” The booming postwar town built a new high school to accommodate families like his, and Sid received what he calls “a very good education” that set the tone for his life.

 

Sid went on to major in math at Northeastern University, later returning at night to pursue a master’s degree in the same field. “I really wanted to teach,” he explains, but the numbers didn’t add up: “I was making the enormous sum of $15,000 a year in high tech, and teaching was going to pay me $6,900. And that wasn’t going to fly.”

 

Instead, he built a long career in high tech and computers while satisfying his desire to teach in other ways—most notably on the basketball court. For 20 years, he coached recreational and travel teams, including his sons’ groups and several more after that. “I was incredibly successful,” he says with a laugh, until a couple of tough seasons with “the parents from hell” finally convinced him to hang up his whistle. “When people in the basketball community found out that Sid Rosen was no longer coaching, it was like, ‘Oh, my God, you gotta be kidding me.’”

 

The 1960s left a deep mark on Sid. In college, he marched with Dr. King during the civil rights movement and watched the Vietnam War loom over his future. “I was definitely afraid,” he recalls. “If I didn’t make tuition payments, I was gonna be in the rice patties of Vietnam, which I did not want to be in.” Along the way, he took classes on other people’s religions, which broadened his horizons and helped him connect with friends “from all different walks of life.”

 

Sid’s life has also included painful chapters. He was married for 23 years before divorcing, and five years ago he suffered what he calls “a tragic loss” that “really knocked me for a loop.” Though he’s since moved to a 55‑plus community in Middleborough, Massachusetts—a change that “somewhat jumpstarted my life again”—he’s candid about the lasting impact. “I’ll never recover from this particular tragedy,” he says. Through it all, he’s learned a hard‑won lesson: “Take care of yourself… I’ve learned to take care of number one—me—first and foremost.”

 

“Get a good education. Have goals. And follow your dreams.”

WARREN
Born in 1953 in Dorchester, Massachusetts, Warren grew up in a hardworking family that valued kindness and helping others. “A lot of it was to be kind to people, and they had very high-worth ethics,” he says. As the oldest of four, he sometimes felt like the “experimental child,” held to different rules than his siblings. He found comfort with his grandparents—his mother’s mother cared for him as an infant when his father was treated for tuberculosis, and his musical grandfather inspired a lifelong love of piano and violin. When he was 10, the JFK assassination left a deep mark. “I cried the whole way home… He was kind of like my idol.”

 

School presented challenges. In seventh grade, Warren discovered he had reading and retention problems and was placed in a speed‑reading course. He later learned he’s a visual learner, a skill he still uses to keep his mind sharp. As a teenager, he started working at 14, cleaning a bowling alley at night and eventually joining a bowling team. He also discovered a passion for electronics, and spent his last two years of high school at Quincy Trade Technical School, balancing hands‑on technical training with a quiet longing for music. “There was still a part of me that wanted to go to the music side,” he says, recalling his time in the Quincy All‑City Youth Orchestra and school choirs.

 

Instead of college, Warren joined the Air National Guard, beginning a 28‑year career that took him from Worcester to Wellesley to Otis, including five years of full‑time service. He later worked 31 years for the Federal Aviation Administration in navigational aids, retiring after deployments and inspections that required dedication and grit. “You really have to be dedicated to what you’re going to do,” he says. “A lot of it is… service. For me, that meant serving the country.”

 

Warren’s life has also included difficult chapters. He faced tough times in high school and learned to stand his ground without backing down. He was married twice and raised six children—twin daughters and two sons from his first marriage, and two stepsons who “meshed very well” with his boys. As a parent, he learned to be supportive while also setting boundaries: “I don’t believe in helping… especially if the situation is their own fault and they’re not stepping up.” That belief in responsibility carries into his advice about education: “Education is probably the best thing you have to really bank on—today, more than ever.”

 

“Go with most of your gut feelings. Listen to others, but take it from incident to incident—and don’t lose sight of what you really want.”