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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   Eulogies delivered at Alan's funeral

 Dr. Ashish Jha:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was about the toys that helped kids play.

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

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

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

He was supporting academics who loved research and writing papers. 

And while he valued the generation of new knowledge.

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

He wanted to see action.

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

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

And with that, he grounded us. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One final story, if I may.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alan was a great businessman and a generous philanthropist.

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

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

 He loved the people around him. He loved us.

To know Alan was to feel that love.

That twinkle in his eye.

That slight smile before he spoke.

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

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

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

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

And those memories? They truly are a blessing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-------

Al Verrecchia:

Alan and Al visiting Hasbro Children's

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

IT SEEMS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALAN & AL. AGH & AJV FOREVER.  

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

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

TIKKUN OLAM. 

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

“DO ALL THE GOOD YOU CAN,

BY ALL THE MEANS YOU CAN,

IN ALL THE WAYS YOU CAN,

IN ALL THE PLACES YOU CAN,

AT ALL THE TIMES YOU CAN,

TO ALL THE PEOPLE YOU CAN,

FOR AS LONG AS YOU EVER CAN.” 

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

 -------

Susan Block Casdin:

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

Prologue:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter One:

UNCLE Alan:

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

We when we were 6, 8 and 10.

He was a hero.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was larger than life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter 2: 

UNCLE ALAN THE BROTHER:

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

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

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

He called him the troublemaker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3: 

UNCLE ALAN IN-LAW:

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

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

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

Chapter 4:

GREAT-UNCLE ALAN:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 5: The Final Chapter

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

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

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

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

Second call: “SuSu - trying you again;

Third call: “It’s me, call me back”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We will all miss him dearly.

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

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

 

 

Additional tributes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alan in his office - Photo by G. Wayne Miller

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

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

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

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

Cabot's Neck: A supernatural novel with demons, curses and time travel

 CABOT’S NECK

 

by

G. Wayne Miller

Copyright 2025 gwaynemiller.com

WGA registration # 2286466

Chapter One

Nothing there

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

“Yes!” said her mother, Daniela Cabot.

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

“Yay!”

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

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

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

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

“Nope,” her daughter said

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

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

“He did,” Jim said.

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

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

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

“Your family was good,” Cassie said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” Cassie said. “That’s ancient.”

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

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

“Probably was a rope swing,” Cassie said.

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

“Not funny, Jim,” Daniela said.

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

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

 

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

Charles Conover

Listen to Conover's narration.

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

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

A Nearly Perfect Summer, Chapter Three

 

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

 

                                                              

 

7.4.2000

Midsummer Nights

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

 

Click photos to see enlargements.

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ruth Orthwein

 

 

 

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

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

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

Nothing ruins a dinner party like cold-shouldered disinterest.

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

Hugh D. Auchincloss III

 

 

 

Laurence and Judy

Cutler

 

 

 

Eleanor Young

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

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

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

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

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

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

tonight.

***********

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

any more clubs, to tell you the truth."

***********

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

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

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

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

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

Stymied, Ruth had to reschedule.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

work the little thermostat."

***********

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This puzzles me. Why should goodness engender criticism?

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

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

***********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soon, she was pregnant.

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