Farewell to an Inspiration: Sister Mary Vertucci

Annamaria on Monday

A woman who was a great inspiration to many has passed a few days ago. 

 Here is how the people who worked with her describe her: 

With both heavy hearts and deep gratitude, we share with you the passing of our beloved Founder and Director, Sr. Mary Vertucci, MM, on April 30, 2026.

Sr. Mary was more than a leader—she was a guiding light, a mentor, and a steadfast advocate for the dignity and potential of every young woman. For over five decades in Tanzania, she devoted her life to ensuring that girls, especially from pastoralist and hunter-gatherer communities, could access education and discover their own worth.

Through her vision, the Emusoi Centre became a place of hope—where young women are nurtured, empowered, and given the opportunity to build a brighter future. Her legacy is alive in every life she touched and in every dream she helped make possible.

Decades ago, a brief article in the Alumna News of the College of St. Elizabeth, our shared Alma mater, introduced me to her work. We had not know each other in school; she arrived there the fall after I graduated.  I got in touch with her then because I have cousins named Vertucci.  Little did I know that, though we did not share genes, she would change my life in significant ways.

Mary's work in Tanzania awakened me to the importance of her goals.  Before long, I had the great pleasure and privilege to visit her in Arusha.  There at the base of Kilimanjaro, I saw first hand the importance and urgency of her efforts, but also of how much joy Mary and her fellow missionary sisters took in their work.  Visiting there then and afterwords aways also filled me with joy.

Some readers of MIE may remember my story of the Italian who carved his name on a rock in Tanzania.  Sister Mary was the one who made it possible for me and my friend Nicoletta see that monument in person. 

Mary's work lives on in Emusoi in Tanzania and also in the generations and the progeny of Sister Mary's students.  As they go our into the world, her efforts and devotion continue to improve their lives and the lives of those around them.  The Emusoi girls become role models and champions for all the people of Tanzania and beyond.  

If you would like to contribute to the continuance of Mary's work, you can do so here.

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  Remembering Sr. Mary Vertucci: A Legacy of Faith, Education and Empowerment

  Every girl saved from a life of misery, who has instead a chance to develop and make something of herself may then go on to inspire others. You can help them along.

Birds of Feather

Sara Johnson, 1st Sunday

 

‘Chirp-chirp-chirp. Cackle. Wheeze. Squawk.’ This is the opening line of Chapter 12 in Molten Mud Murder, my first Alexa Glock forensic mystery. Alexa muffles the dawn cacophony by burrowing under her pillow.

I heard a similar sequence of calls, followed by a chortle, chirp and a throat-clearing aaggggh the first morning my husband and I spent at Cooper’s Beach on the North Island of New Zealand. Unlike Alexa, I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. I was unable to find which bird sounded like a broken cuckoo clock and later asked the neighbor.

“That’s a tūī, luv,” he said. We stared up into the tall pōhutukawa tree. This time I spotted the glossy blue-green bird. It had a funny white pom pom at its throat. “Going after the nectar. They can be really scrappy bullies.” Then he crooned a folk song he remembered from primary school.

“When the Tūī sits in the Kowhai tree
and the sun tips the mountain tops with gold
when the Rata blooms in the forest glade,
and the hills glow with sunny tints untold.
I love to roam through bush and fern
and hear the Bellbird sing
and feel the touch of the wind on my face
while the joy in my heart does ring.”

                                'Tui in Flame Tree' by Jane Galloway

I heard this amazing vocalist (the bird, not the nice neighbor) in many places over the next nine months. The widespread and endemic tūī can mimic human words. One legend proclaims the Māori kept them in cages and trained them to give welcome speeches. Tūī have the ability to sing two different notes simultaneously and discordantly. (Ouch!) The adorable white tufts under their chin are specialized feathers called a poi and are used to attract mates.

Other birds show up in Molten Mud Murder, which is set in the Rotorua area on the North Island. Alexa and recurring character Detective Inspector Bruce Horne share their first meal together at Alexa’s tiny rental cottage on the banks of the Kaituna River. (The final photo in today’s post is my husband and I rafting on the exuberant Kaituna!) They sit on the porch eating carrot cake (don’t get me started on the to-die-for carrot cake in New Zealand cafes) discussing the night sky of the Southern Hemisphere, which is unfamiliar to American Alexa. A high-pitched screech makes her drop her fork.

Horne laughs. “It’s a ruru.”

“A what what?” Alexa asks.

“Our only surviving native owl,” he said. “It’s a good one to hear. The Māori knew when they could hear a ruru that no enemy was approaching.”

Some Māori consider the ruru as a messenger between the physical world and the spiritual world. While I write, I listen to a New Zealand songwriter known for his work towards the revival of Māori culture. Hirini Melbourne’s short song entitled “Ruru,” sung in te reo Māori, is lovely and haunting. I could not find an English translation, but Melbourne introduced the song this way, “This is a song about birds...about owls. The owl is a bird that scares many Māori. The Pākehā knows this as an intelligent bird. To some Māori as well, it is the guardian of their families.”

I’ve written to my best ability when I make myself laugh or cry or feel afraid. The latter is what happened when I wrote the opening of Chapter 15 which introduces a third native New Zealand bird: There was a dead bird in the cottage, right in the entry, its wings spread in a feathered fan behind its little body, arranged just so.

Alexa knew there was no dead bird in her cottage before she left. It’s cold and stiff. Rigor mortis is maximum. Someone left it in the cottage while she ran an errand. She stiffens, like the bird, and searches the rest of the cottage. There’s a scary shower scene where she has to whip back the curtain. The police officer who later investigates the incident recognizes the bird.

Pīwakawaka,” he said. “Or tiwaiwaka. Māori have lots of different names for fantail.” He adds, “You know, in Māori culture, a fantail in the house is an omen of death.” Alexa has an uneasy night, long in tooth and full of Māori warriors and angry birds.

My husband and I met fantails on our many hikes. They are acrobatic fliers and use their fanned feathers to change direction quickly while hunting insects. They aren’t shy and sometimes approached us, ‘cheet cheet cheeting,’ landing a tree away and spreading their tail feathers. “Pick a card, any card,” they teased.

Alexa Glock uses forensics to solve crimes. In Molten Mud Murder she wonders if she can lift a fingerprint from the bird to identify the gift-giver. Her wondering is of course my wondering, and during the research for Molten Mud Murder I read a 2015 BBC science article entitlted “Fingerprints ‘breakthrough’ for wildlife crime investigators.”

From the article: A team from Dundee (University of Abertay, in Dundee, Scotland) has been able to recover fingerprints from the feathers of birds of prey, which are under threat from illegal poisoning, shooting and trapping. If the birds have been handled, the incriminating marks could help police to identify the suspect.

Alexa, whose bedtime reading alternates between romances and scientific journals, geeks out over the article. It reveals that red and green magnetic fluorescent fingerprint powder was the key. She hightails it to the lab, the fantail – dubbed Fanny – riding shotgun. After dusting the bird’s small breast, she turns off the lights and turns on the UV lamp. You’ll have to read MMM to see what wonders are revealed.

The avifauna of New Zealand is vast and enchanting. Kiwi, robins, kaka, kererū and gannets help me tell stories in subsequent books. I’ll leave you with the lyrics of another Hirini Melbourne (photo below)  song and in hopes that your May is fair and peaceful.

‘Riroriro’ by Hirini Melbourne (1949-2003)

Whakarongo ki te riroriro, riroriro, ka mahi kai māhau

Rere riroriro rere rere runga kōhanga

Huri te uru hauraki hauraki 

He tohu kuraraki

Listen to the chattering of the grey warbler, and go and plant your food garden
The grey warbler makes her nest
If the entrance faces to the north wind,  
it is a sign the summer season will be fair and peaceful

Until next month, friends, 

Sara Johnson, 1st Sunday

Can You Name the Country?

 

As bit while ago as, I was pondering what to post, an email popped onto my screen from one of my best friends.  His plane had just landed in the United States and he couldn’t wait to tell me what had happened at the airport in his country of embarkation.

Knowing my friend as well as I did I couldn’t help but laugh, because I knew he was never concerned for his safety and most likely playing the other characters in his tale along until the ultimate moment of enlightenment showed them the error of their ways.  But then it hit me: if he hadn’t mentioned the name of the place where it all went down I’d never have known, because it could have happened in any number of countries—and does.  So, my question to you is, what’s your best guess on the scene of the (attempted) crime?

Here’s the story as told in the first person by a tall, fit, fifty-year-old man who looks like the quintessential American businessman, flag in the lapel and all.  The only changes I made were to references that would give away the country…in order to protect the non-innocent and make this piece a mystery (of sorts). 

Just arrived at the Charlotte airport.

It was a crazy trip. Going through [the foreign country’s] departure process they checked my briefcase and saw a lot of cash (I won the tournament and a bunch of $$$).

My [foreign language] was about as good as their English so it wasn't easy to communicate.  After going through my briefcase three times I wound up in a back room with five agents. 

They took turns going through my bag another couple of times stopping each time to finger the cash that was in a travelers checks plastic wallet. Then they asked me to count it.  I was then frisked and when they touched my cargo pants front pocket they asked what was in there. 

I told them it was my wallet.  They told me to take it out.  I did and flipped it open.  “Police!” they said [in their language] when they saw my badge.  Then they laughed, gave me back my stuff, had me sign a release that my stuff had been inspected and that I had in no way been intimidated. 

They then escorted me through the VIP line, gave me a big handshake, and wished me a great trip. 

Lucky that I'm a sworn officer of the law or at best I'd be a few dollars lighter today. 

Sent from my iPad.

Perhaps the moral to this story is that we all should make a stop at a toy store before taking off for certain parts of the globe.  But, frankly, the part of the message I found most significant was that my long time PC buddy had gone over to the other side.  Yes, Mr. Microsoft was traveling with an iPad!  Almost makes this long time Mac-man want to get a new one before leaving for Greece.  But then again, I didn’t win the tournament. 

Yiasou, ya’ll.

Jeff—Saturday

The Fashion Olympics

Sujata Massey

Moody blues at a a Taj Resort in Goa

I didn't know what to wear.

I was planning to meet my writer friend Marcia Talley for lunch at a good local restaurant. She always shows up looking splendid, usually in some classy, colorful jacket bought in a faraway boutique. I wanted to match her energy, but my mind was scattered. Then I remembered where my clothing ideas live. I only needed to open my phone, and go into my digital wardrobe app, Indyx, to look at various garments and coordinated outfits on file. And voila.I pulled myself together on a cool spring day in blue and cream. I spotted a long chiffon floral skirt with a navy ground. I could wear it with an Eileen Fisher cotton tee in sky-blue cotton, and pulled it all together with a cream-colored vintage wool jacket from Italy and my mom's diamond hoop earrings. Dressed in a flash, and no double-thinking.

Marcia and I unexpectedly sharing a dark floral moment

This is what it means to be alive in an age where glamour has trickled into practically every subconscious. It used to be that movie actresses, fashion stylists and museum curators were the only ones who took photos of garments and filed them away. But not anymore. Even though it seems as if we are in the midst of some pretty hard times, computer-assisted style and beauty seems to be everywhere. 

The current four-day period we are in--May 1-4, 2026--are what I consider the annual Fashion Olympics. The Devil Wears Prada 2 movie is releases tonight, and you better believe I'm going. On Monday, Vogue Magazine and E! will live-stream the Met Gala, a very expensive and fabulously dressed benefit party to support the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Gallery. Two events; hundreds of quality outfits.

Fashion has been around since looms were invented, but it seems only recently that things became so ubiquitous  

My theory is the escalation began with the face, during the years we were shut inside and seeing each other’s faces close up on zoom only. The pandemic is when Emmy-worthy makeup videos began lighting up YouTube. Skincare and makeup tutorials run between 30 minutes and an hour, mostly. Many of these videos are titled with the acronym GRWM.  It stands for “Get Ready With Me” and signifies a bathroom or bedroom film shoot in which the YouTuber in a robe delivers a monologue about makeup—and often, many more topics on their minds—whilst putting on her makeup. Instagram and TikTok abound with short reels that famously illustrate ‘hacks’ to make grooming and fashion easier, for both guys and girls. My favorite mini-tutorials are scarves. Clothing tutorial videos are also making a far reach. My secret obsession are the videos about scarves. I have witnessed so many permutations of scarves and pashmina shawls turned into blouses, skirts and dresses. Why am I so hesitant to actually leave the house in a scarf being not-a-scarf?

Video is more effective at telling fashion and beauty stories than print ever was. I say this as a continued paper magazine subscriber, and someone who toiled in the American newspaper world before throwing it all in for a ticket to Japan. Oh, those were great days at the Baltimore Evening Sun. The surprising perk the paper gave me was the fashion beat, which included two annual trips to New York to cover the spring and fall fashion collections. Naturally, I felt like a country mouse at these events. I carried a forgettable tan leather bag o hold my reporters bookbooks, and black Prada or Chanel purses dangled from the arms of editors dressed all in black attire. It was an era when fashion journalists, top store buyers and a few socialites still had top status at the shows, and these ladies got the first three rows.

The Baltimore Evening Sun was no Dallas Morning News—that wealthy community's fashion section was legend—but it still was a bona fide publication. And it was a high fashion dream for a girl from St. Paul Minnesota, someone who unsuccessfully auditioned at age 14 for the Dayton's fashion show, to get to see the country's most important clothing collections unveiled before stores had bought them. There I was, seated at the Plaza Hotel ballroom watching the models stroll with power and insoucience, showing off the collections of Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, and Carolyne Roehm. Just--wow.

The PR heads for these design houses—the sainted souls who actually added me to the guest lists—couldn't have that my inclusion would spur hundreds of Baltimoreans to seek out their styles. Yet I came to New York, with a brilliant staff photographer, Patrick Sandor, a dear deceased friend I still think about, decades later. Patrick clicked gorgeous photos and while I took notes on the repeating style elements—the trends! Our articles flew out on the precursor to the Internet, the 'wire service',  to be reprinted by other papers across the country. Patrik and I got into those shows only because we had that kind of reach.

But what did I wear when I was in New York? This was a constant stressor. I was in my early twenties and living on a typical young reporter’s budget, with no ‘fashion closet’ like the ones Vogue and Elle reporters could access. I knew how poor my shopping-mall-purchased clothes were in comparison. If you saw the original Devil Wears Prada scene where Meryl Streep disses Anne Hathaway in her preppy cerulean sweater, you get it--although words were never spoken.

On the plus side, this was the late 1980s and early 1990s, a golden age for street style. All sorts of creative people in the fashion industry, or aiming for a place in it, were sitting around me in the deeper seating rows at the Plaza Hotel. They wore artistic, vintage, and often hand-made ensembles. Admiring them, I realized I could also attempt something different from what the Black Cashmere Mafia wore. So, the second year I traveled to the collections, I chose to wear a salwar kameez suit: a traditional two piece ensemble, with scarf, that I’d bought recently on a trip with my father to India. The tunic had exquisite applique on all the edges. The colors--pink and green and orange--were vibrant and quite an original clash. The response? People didn’t look past me, and even a few photographers said they liked what I wore. I wasn't high fashion, but felt like I occupied space in the room. 

In gowns with Anne Murphy of Malice Domestic 

In my thirties, I went through long periods of not thinking much about clothes. Life as a young mother with a book due each year felt too busy for more than sweaters and jeans. Yet for the times I left the house and playground to attend publishing and bookstore events, I dressed. I realized my closet was an untapped vault. It held half a dozen different  vintage silk haori coats collected during my years living in Japan. I also had plenty of silk tunics and dresses from Indian venues as varied as the inexpensive Fab India and the designer boutique Ritu Kumar. I often mixed these clothes with velvet or silk pants, long earrings, and twisted ropes of pearls. I l could enjoy color, pattern and ornamentation to my heart's content. Inside my house, I was a peasant; and outside, I played princess.

A beaded velvet maxi dress from Ritu Kumar

 

As my career rolled along, and just as I seemed to be getting into an individual style groove, 2023’s big style shift—Quiet Luxury—stopped me short. 

QL, as illustrated by E!

What is Quiet Luxury? First off, it's about touch. Cashmere, linen and silk. I have no argument with these fabrics; I buy them when I can. But for this particular incarnation, there was no pattern or bold colorway. Hues of choice are beige, white, and soft versions of browns and grays. Throw in blue jeans and diamond earrings, and expensive loafers, and you are there. Timeless style, with flat shoes and logo-less bags. The fashion is to look like you don’t follow fashion. I tried to resist the pressure of QL. Still, by the summer of 2023 I was hunting for vintage Bottega Veneta handbags--admiring their woven leather patterns and lack of logo. But at least the bag I bought from a second-hand seller in the Netherlands isn't beige. It's purple.

I believe it served as an necessary transition from two years of quarantine. The pandemic made us accustomed to dressing in sweats and athleisure for almost two full years. Once you’ve live with an elastic or drawstring waistband, it’s hard to say goodbye. The relaxed styles and longer tops of quiet luxury hid weight gain and were comfortable, yet the luxury element made us feel we could wear it out socially, and of course to work. Most of it was bought online, at an iconic retailer called The Row, as well as cheaper brands like Quince.  Even though we are three year’s past pandemic, the QL influences continues. Pantone’s official color of 2026 is a creamy white called Cloud Dancer. White and cream linen pants and jeans abound. And speaking of light colors and fabrics, have you seen the milkmaids? Last year, low-necked, bosom-forward dresses seemed to be a staple at riverfront cafes. I don’t think this boomlet is over yet—not with the plethora of conservatives advising women how to please men.  

"Raw Milkmaid Dress" sold by Evie Magazine

The retail business doesn't judge. Retailers require big shifts in fashion taste so they can stay profitable A less dramatic example han tradwife dresses is denim. I watched skinny jeans morph to flare jeans into mom jeans to barrel-leg jeans--over the span of ten years. I read online that 2026 is bringing jeans in cream and various earth tones (Quiet Luxury!) And to go on the feet, I'm fascinated by 'ballet sneakers' that for some reason are perforated and tied up in with ribbons rather than shoelaces.

Kenneth Cole's Annalise ballet sneaker

Now that I’m older and don't see every day as a race for survival, I slip into restaurants and museums wtih friends or alone, whenever I can. I enjoy not only the food or art, but also the interior design, and the aura of the other guests and staff. It’s like entering a specially designed world. And when we wear something that blends with the elegant atmosphere of the restaurant or nightclub, or the eclecticism of the museum or gallery, we become part of a living tableau. I might only be a small dot in on an impressionist’s canvas—but nevertheless, a speck of something that is real and combines with others to build a picture.  

My travel uniform for fall in Europe

This is why I think fashion is a form of public service. I’m not advising anyone to shop hard to fit in with other people. Dressing in a way that makes you feel like your best self is the advice I gave someone who asked what to wear at a party at my house. And this is what I need to remind myself. On days when I’m not feeling great, comfortable sweat pants seem like the only possible choice. But even if the sweats are cashmere, it doesn’t make the day better than the one where I put on real clothes and some earrings. 

You might think that caring about clothes is trivial; that it has no relevance when the world is in crisis. However, costumes and streetclothes can be strategies of resistance. 

Minnesota protest cap for sale on Etsy

Remember the frog suits worn by protestors in Seattle last year during the ICE occupation, and the Minnesotans wearing hand-knitted red knitted caps, hats reminiscent of those worn in Norway during the Nazi occupation. In Ukraine, fashion designers are offering new versions of traditional chemises and shirt called vyshyvanka for people to wear and feel beautiful, strong and proud as the war drags on. 

Ukrainian designer garments

And perhaps most significantly, women in Iran have been beaten, tortured and killed because they refused to wear the hijab and showed themselves to the community with uncovered hair, and wearing modern clothes that express themselves. 

Fashion being dangerous enough to cause execution seems all the more reason to give clothes their proper respect—and to be grateful for my ‘what should I wear’ moment, every morning, whether at home or away. 

 

Sujata will speaking about mystery writing with fellow writer Amin Ahmad at McIntrye’s Books in Fearrington Village, North Carolina at 11 a.m. on Saturday, May 9. She hasn’t yet decided what she’s wearing.