A Note from the Author

Tonight’s play is pure fiction, based on a “true” local legend. Back in busy, bustling 1950’s Buffalo, a block and a half from my father’s tavern, there stood a barbershop. Next to the barbershop was a 20-foot-tall shrine to the Blessed Virgin Mary--a beautiful life-sized statue encased in wood, brick and glass. It’s raison d’etre?--well, legend had it that the Blessed Mother herself appeared to this barber and gave him a message for the world concerning world peace. (She was in favor of it.) Whether this miraculous materialization actually took place is still a matter of conjecture, but, regardless, there it stood, this monument to a man’s faith for us impressionable kids to gawk at and wonder about. The nuns at St. Pat’s told us not to waste our prayers or coins on the ersatz saint as the mighty Roman Catholic Church had no intention of ever sanctioning this hokey miracle. And that’s how the matter stood at the time I left the neighborhood in 1964.

Fast forward 45 years. My old neighborhood has all but disappeared. Businesses and homes have succumbed to hard times and neglect. Its denizens have fled to the suburbs, and St. Pat’s is gone. But amidst the rubble of urban blight something still stands, dare I say, “miraculously?” You guessed it, the shrine to the Blessed Mother--spared from the wrecking ball by a promise from City Hall, lovingly preserved by a handful of faithful residents, its creator long passed away.

I made a pilgrimage to my old neighborhood several of years ago. I stood before the shrine--newly Windexed, freshly flowered, its mail slot still active with donations and requests for miracles--and I thought to myself, “There’s a story here!” The real-life details of its origin were forever buried with the barber, so I needed to invent a family.

Tonight you will meet them, the Nowaks of Buffalo’s East Side circa 2010--amalgams of people I grew up with, some friends and family, and a little of myself sprinkled in. After our close interaction these last couple of years I find that I’ve fallen head over bowling shoes for the Nowaks, with all their crassness, their squabbles, their secrets and their dreams. I hope they’ll get under your skin as well. Enjoy!

Tom Dudzick

Playwright