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Special Olympics coach: Finding the best in every athlete and having lots of fun.

In 2014, my husband Larry spent eight days in New Jersey as the New York State triathlon coach at the Special Olympics USA National Games, an experience he stated “incredible” and “life-affirming.” As soon as he arrived home, he tried to catch up on his sleep, as he got less than five hours a night for the entire trip. How he got to this nirvana of sleep deprivation is part of Shapiro family lore.

In 1995, Larry announced at the dinner table that he had signed up our family to volunteer at the New York State Special Olympics Summer Games, which were being held at the University of Albany in early June. Our children had been involved in sports for a long time, and Larry recognized that many volunteers had made their swimming, cross-country, and track and field meets possible. He felt the four of us should pay it forward by contributing our time to the intellectually challenged athletes at the state-wide event in the track and field competition.

We enjoyed our experience enough to sign up to volunteer again the following year. While at the games, Larry was asked to help out with the Saratoga County track and field program that met April through mid-June at the Saratoga Springs High School track. Larry’s co-worker also volunteered, and the two of them drove up every Monday and Thursday from downtown Albany. After a couple of years, the two of them extended their time commitment to include helping at local Special Olympics meets.

As the years progressed, Larry took on more responsibilities. He became head coach and held additional practices for athletes who exhibited high levels of skill in an event. He started a cross-country running program, volunteered to coach for the Clifton Park bowling program, conducted coaching certification classes, and served on various Special Olympics committees. Larry knew that his involvement in Special Olympics would give him focus and purpose after he retired. It was shortly before his last day of work that he found out he had been chosen as one of the track and field coaches for the National Games in Lincoln, Nebraska, in July 2010. One of our athletes came home with silver medals in the 1500 and 3000 meter runs.

Along the way, Larry had convinced me and several friends to become track and field coaches, and we all gained much from our participation. The best part for all of us was being with the athletes at practice. Twice a week every spring, over forty athletes ranging in age from sixteen to eighty years old, several coaches, and numerous parents and group home staff would gather at six o’clock at the Saratoga High school track. The athletes ranged in age from eight to seventy-five, with their intellectual and physical challenges ranging as widely as their ages. Larry started everyone off with a team cheer: P-A-C-E-R-S! Then the activities began. On the field, some athletes threw softballs and had their distances recorded by the coaches. A group of stronger athletes worked with a coach on the turbo-javelin and the shot put. Others were practicing the standing long jump. On the track, athletes, depending on their levels and abilities, were taking part in runs, walks, and wheelchair events. The visually challenged ran twenty-five to fifty meters holding a baton strung through a 50-meter rope that was held in a straight line by cheering teammates. Practice ended with Larry gathering up the athletes for one more cheer before they went home. Two or three times a season, coaches and members of the team took part in local competitions on a Saturday morning. Whether we were at practices or at our meets, our athletes’ times and distances were secondary to just having fun. The cheers were as loud for the athlete who threw the softball two meters as they were for the athlete who came in first in the 1500-meter run.

Larry took pride in the accomplishments of every athlete and was always recruiting new team members. While helping with Special Olympics bowling during fall 2013, Larry watched an athlete decimate the pins with his powerful swing. Larry persuaded Rob to join track and field and use that strength to throw shot-put and the turbo javelin. By the end of his first season, the athlete impressed officials at the state games in Buffalo enough for Rob to be chosen to compete in the Special Olympics national meet in 2014 in New Jersey. While there, Rob not only won a gold medal in his division in the shot put but also came home with gold in the turbo jab with the longest throw of anyone in the country in the turbo javelin finals.

Saying goodbye to the Pacers when we moved to Florida was one of our hardest moments. (In honor of our athletes, we have named the small body of water in our backyard “Pacer Pond.) But Larry didn’t stop there. A few months after our move, Larry signed on to be an assistant coach for the 2016 Osceola County Special Olympics track and field season. By 2017, he had his own team, and Larry and I spent our Saturday morning from mid-January to mid-May with our athletes. He applied all he learned from his first fifteen years of coaching—the cheers, the participation of every athlete, and the fun. And just as he had done in Saratoga, Larry found the best in every athlete. Seeing Karissa had done okay in the 800-meter run, he stretched her to the 1500 meter, resulting in her shining at States and securing places on national teams in Seattle (2018) and Orlando (2022). Christian had participated for years in running events, but Larry recognized he was better suited to the 400- and 800-meter walk, a change that resulted in many first-place finishes for this athlete. Jo-Jo, our visually challenged athlete, got to complete when Larry set up the same rope-and-baton trick he had used in Upstate New York. At practice and at States, cheers of “Jo Jo! Jo Jo! Jo Jo!” accompanied his run. With the enthusiastic help of parents and guardians, every practice had plenty of helpers that made each practice fun and productive.

After twenty-five years of coaching, Larry is hanging up his stopwatch at the end of this season. He absolutely loves his athletes, but he is turning 78 in May. In addition, the January through May Saturday morning commitment has resulted in our missing too many of his grandchildren’s birthdays and trips to Colorado and California to see them. We both look forward to turning over the team to a younger coach who has assisted Larry this past year.

In April, the team gave Larry a beautiful team picture with the following note: “Thank you for your years of service, support, and friendship. All your athletes are better athletes and people because you didn’t just show up for them; you invested in them! Enjoy your second retirement! Love, Osceola SO Families.” We will treasure the picture and the note forever.

The Florida Special Olympics State Games were held on May 15 and 16, 2026, at the ESPN Wide World of Sports Complex in Orlando. Larry was recognized for his career with the Inspirational Coach award for Osceola County. More importantly, all our athletes made us proud in all their events.

Tikkun Olam is a Hebrew expression that means “repairing the world,” a moral principle that states every individual should leave this world better than he or she found it. I take pride in knowing that Larry’s involvement in Special Olympics has been his way of making the world better for so many athletes.

The Four Cohens

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My sister Laura Appel passed away after a short illness on Friday, August 29, 2025. I had written an earlier version of this story but am sharing a revised post in light of our family’s recent loss.

It is a hot day in late June. I wait impatiently on the front porch of our old Victorian house in our small upstate New York town. The blue sedan finally pulls into the driveway. My father climbs out from behind the wheel. As I skip down the steps and run across the yard, Dad opens the door on the passenger side. My mother holds a bundle wrapped in pink. I gaze in wonder upon a full head of black hair and an infant’s face crunched up and bright red from crying. “Meet your little sister, Roberta Jessica,” Mom said quietly.

That was my first memory. I was four years old, turning five and starting kindergarten three months later. I was thrilled to be a big sister.

I was probably the happiest member of the Cohen family that day. My sister Laura, upon hearing before her thirteenth birthday that another child was on the way, immediately weighed in. “Why didn’t you consult me first?” she demanded. When told she was not part of the decision-making process, she stated, “Well, if you think you have a built-in babysitter, you have it all wrong!”

Jay, who was nine, only wanted a brother. When Dad woke him on the morning of June 25 to tell him he had another sister, he groaned, pulled the covers over his head, and went back to sleep. I am not sure he gave the newest addition another thought.

And I am not sure how happy my parents were when they realized that they were to be a family of six. Dad barely made enough money managing a small store to support a family of five, much less another child. Mom was thirty-six, looking forward to putting her youngest in full-day kindergarten and having a life without diapers and bottles.

But from the moment Bobbie came home (“Roberta Jessica” would forevermore be saved for formal documents), I was fascinated. When my mother filled up the old bassinet with water to bathe her, I was right there beside her to help. When she needed to be pushed in the carriage, I wanted to be the one holding the handles. And when Bobbie needed casts on her legs to correct weak, turned-in muscles, it was I who watched over her in her crib, which was set up next to the twin beds in my room.

I have heard stories about older children being jealous of their siblings when they came home from the hospital. Children who resorted to tantrums. Children who wanted to know when the baby was going back to the hospital. A five-year-old who rode her bike up and down her street crying, “Does anyone want a little girl? My parents don’t love me anymore!” But I never remember being jealous. She was my little sister, my live baby doll.

If there were any difficulties between us, it was probably because everyone who met Bobbie immediately fell in love with her. She was always smiling, always happy, always easygoing. This was in stark contrast to me — moody, anxious, and often fearful. Little Miss Sunshine could charm her way into everyone’s heart, a direct contrast to my Little Miss Worrywart personality.

And Bobbie was beautiful. I was chubby, with thick glasses that covered my only good feature, my blue eyes. On the other hand, Bobbie had black hair, high coloring, freckles sprinkled across her nose, and eyes that rivaled Elizabeth Taylor.

As we grew up, Bobbie and I continued to be inseparable. She was always part of my parties, my sleepovers, my bike rides. In every one of the few pictures we have of our childhood, Bobbie is always front and center, her smile lighting up the world. Years later, when I asked my mother what it was like to have a baby at thirty-six years old, she said, “I didn’t raise her. You did!”

The four Cohen children were fortunate indeed. Whereas some of our friends had strained or non-existent relationships with their siblings and/or their spouses, we all remained close—maybe even closer when we realized that life could change on a dime. When Bobbie called to share the news that she had breast cancer, our first thoughts were, “This can’t be happening to our little sister.” But it was her “Little Miss Sunshine” attitude that got her through surgery, radiation, chemo, and her recovery. When Laura had a stroke a few years later, she often referred to Bobbie’s spirit during her cancer ordeal and was determined to be as strong. She was.

And now one of us is gone. Laura, 83, had just completed a fabulous cruise to the British Isles with my brother Jay, his wife, Leslie, and a friend. Unfortunately, two days after she returned, she was hospitalized in Upstate New York with breathing problems. Doctors were trying to determine the exact cause of her symptoms when she took a turn for the worse. Diagnosis: a rare form of pneumonia. Grim news followed: Laura was on a ventilator in the intensive care unit. We had two days of optimism when she was taken off the ventilator. She was looking forward to her life after hospitalization and rehab: a highly anticipated move to San Diego, California, to be closer to her children and grandchildren. But her 83-year-old body failed. She passed away on Friday, August 29.

We three surviving siblings and our spouses, her children and grandchildren, and her many other relatives, and her friends will miss her terribly. As I told my 10-year-old granddaughter, who hated to see me so sad, we mourn because we experienced the privilege of loving our sister and being loved by her.

One of my parents’ favorite pictures of the four Cohen kids was taken just before Laura graduated high school. We are sitting on a couch in our house in Keeseville—Jay on the arm, followed by Laura, Marilyn, and Bobbie. In a home with few family pictures, that particular one graced my parents’ living room for the rest of their lives. We siblings all kidded my parents and each other, wondering, “Is this the best we ever looked?”

The evening after my mother’s funeral, we pulled out that picture. Bobbie’s husband Emil posed us all on my family room couch with the four of us trying hard to duplicate our fifty-plus-years-ago expressions. Then we took a more serious one, without the silly grins.

After that day, we continued the tradition. Each time we were together, whether it is at a bat mitzvah or a weekend reunion, we would line up—Jay, Laura, Marilyn, and Bobbie—snap a picture, and were grateful that the “Four Cohen Kids” were happy, healthy, and together again.

Sadly, the tradition will no longer continue. Rather than four siblings, there will be three shown and one residing in our hearts. So, I will share one word of advice: please give extra hugs to those you cherish and tell them you love them every time you speak to them. EVERY TIME. Life can turn on a dime. It did for us.

May Laura’s memory be a blessing and inspiration.

Heritage writer has a blog to appease her “inner geek”

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This article was published in the Orlando Heritage Florida Jewish News on February 23, 2024. Thanks to Christine Sousa, Editor, for all her support!

This March, Marilyn Shapiro celebrated a milestone in her writing career: the tenth anniversary of her blog, There Goes My Heart.

Wait! You don’t know she has a blog? And if you knew, you have never typed www.theregoesmyheart.me into your browser? Well, you don’t know what you have been missing!

In 2014, with only about 10 stories published in the Capital Region, New York’s The Jewish World, Shapiro decided that she needed a blog as another way to share her stories and to appease her inner geek. After researching a few options, she chose WordPress, “a web content management systems that was user friendly for even newbies like me,” she shared.

Along with home page and contact pages, Shapiro posted her first 10 blog posts. Leading the list was “There Goes My Heart,” her very first article that was published in August 2013. Fittingly, Shapiro chose it as the name for her blog. She was in business!

When Shapiro and her husband, Larry, moved to Florida in 2015, with over 20 articles under her belt, she met with a neighbor who taught computer classes in the Shapiro’s community. Working with her, Shapiro was able to add more bells and whistles, including a Home Page menu that provided access to her increasing list of articles. A “Follow” button encouraged readers to sign up to get my blog post delivered to their email accounts.

By 2018, with two published books to her credit, she added a “Marilyn’s Book” page. Along with a summary of her essay collections, it offered the user the ability to click directly onto the Amazon website, where one could purchase a Kindle or paperback version.

Shapiro now has four books listed: “There Goes My Heart” (2016), “Tikkun Olam: Stories of Repairing an Unkind World” (2018), “Fradel’s Story” (August 2021), and “Keep Calm and Bake Challah: How I Survived the Pandemic, Politics, Pratfalls, and Other of Life’s Problems” (2023). She even offers a preview of her fifth book, “Under the Shelter of Butterfly Wings: Stories of Jewish Sacrifice, Survival, and Strength.”

Many of Shapiro’s articles are personal: her ancestors’ lives in the shtetl before immigrating to America; her childhood in a small town in Upstate New York; meeting Larry at a Purim party, their years raising two children; their retirement years, their travels and their growing family. Some are humorous: Their love affair sealed in (a kidney) stone. Her daughter’s not-so-welcoming attitude when Shapiro volunteered to chaperone her daughter’s school trip. Receiving the moniker “Bubbe Butt Paste” after the birth of their first grandchild. And some are more profound: Larry and Marilyn’s visit to a Holocaust memorial after the Pulse tragedy in Orlando; wintering through the pandemic; reflecting on the Israeli-Gaza war during the eight days of Chanukah.

In 2017, Shapiro wrote an article about Harry Lowenstein, a Holocaust survivor (published in the Heritage, “A Holocaust survivor revisits his past,” May 19, 2023).

“Its impact on me resulted in expanding my writing to include heartfelt stories about ordinary people with extraordinary stories to tell: other Holocaust survivors, righteous gentiles, Jewish immigrants, cancer survivors, and advocates for the less fortunate. The interviews and research necessary to write the articles have expanded my knowledge on many topics, which I have hopefully passed on to my readers,” Shapiro said.

Ten years later, Shapiro’s blog continues to grow and flourish. She has approximately 220 articles, many with accompanying photos. She has 447 followers, a number that I hope will continue to grow. And thanks to hashtags such as #Jewishlife, #Holocaust, #Hanukkah, #neworleans, and even #pickleball, I get “Likes” from around the world. The page “Marilyn’s published articles from around the world” now includes those from Orlando’s Heritage Florida Jewish News, as well as websites as far away as Australia.

If you are a subscriber and are enjoying Shapiro’s blog, she would love to hear from you. You can type a note in the “Comment” section at the end of the blog, and she will respond. Shapiro also encourages readers to share her posts and even her blog address with friends and family who may enjoy them.

“And for those of you who still haven’t given my blog a try, take a look!” Shapiro added.

Shapiro’s blog is at www.theregoesmyheart.me. Usually she posts every two weeks, so you will not be overwhelmed with emails from her.

Who knew that one article in 2013 would lead to so much? For this writer and computer geek, Shapiro is having fun!

From Diaries to Blog Posts

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When I was fifteen years old, a friend and I attended a writer’s institute at the State University of New York (SUNY) at Plattsburg. That week was to change my life. It only took me fifty years to see it through to fruition.

Chris was my closest friend. She was a year behind me in school, but we were soulmates. Chris was brilliant, insightful, and understood me. We spent innumerable hours listening to Simon and Garfunkel, taking walks near our homes in Keeseville, and talking about life and our future.

In the spring of 1966, we found out that SUNY Plattsburg was holding a one-week writer’s workshop on its campus. The college was offering scholarships to local high school students. We both applied and both were accepted.

Our parents took turns driving the fifteen miles each day up to the campus. We took classes in fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. Chris gravitated towards poetry. I was more interested in personal essays and fiction, similar to what I had written for many years.

Since I could remember, I had kept a diary or journal. My first was a little blue book with a lock and key where I kept my innermost thoughts. I am sure my family, especially my brother, read it while I wasn’t around. Our cat thought it was a great chew toy, as the ends were shredded with teeth marks. I doubt if I had many profound insights as a pre-teen. It must have been important to me, however, as I kept it tucked away in my night stand for decades. It finally got tossed when my husband Larry and I did “The Big Dump” in our 2015 move to Florida.

After the first diary was filled, I replaced it with a marbled composition book. Although my actual life in our small town was fairly tame, my narratives were filled will angst and passion. Directly across from my “No Trespassing!” warning on the inside cover, I wrote my first entry dated November 15, 1965. “Life can be cruel at times. It can be bitter, unhappy, and unstable. What you once enjoyed becomes boring; what you thought becomes childish and immature.” Many of the entries dealt with my poor body image. “I weigh 127. I have to weigh 115! Breakfast: 1 egg, 1 toast 1/2 orange.” (“Oh Marilyn,” my adult self says. “Why were you so hard on yourself?”)

A few pages later, the journal recorded one of my first crushes: “I met Jim on the white hills of Paleface Mountain when he was in my ski class.” His face, which I thought would “always burn brightly in my memory,” is a complete blur.

Along with the self-condemnations and the crushes were also attempts at short stories. Most of them revolved around adolescent self-discovery. A teen and her family deal with a sick grandparent. A young man finds the shadow of a mustache. A sensitive soul experiences hurt when a three-sided friendship becomes two-sided, and she becomes the outsider.

One of the longer works was a story about a girl who spends so much time on hair, make-up, and clothing for a dance she forgets the important things—like how to talk to a boy. “Maybe if I had worn the blue dress,” says the first-person narrator as she gets ready for bed after she comes home, “someone would have asked me to dance.”

This was the story I worked on during our week at the workshop. The day before it ended, I shared it with my instructor and the class. After I finished reading it aloud, there was silence follow by loud applause “Please meet our future writer,” said my instructor. “She has a great deal of talent for a fifteen-year-old.”

On the last day of the conference, all the attendees met on a beautiful green lawn on the campus. Awards were given to the adult attendees for best fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. I was given an award for best young writer.

Chris was thrilled for me, and she encouraged me to continue writing. That fall, I entered my junior year reassessing my future career goals. I had always wanted to be teacher, but this experience made me rethink that path and consider getting a degree in creative writing or journalism. My parents, however, strongly encouraged me to major in education. “Become an English teacher,” my mother told me. “You can still be involved with writing, but you will have your summers off. And when you have children, you will be off when they are on vacation.”

Feeling the pressure, I took the safer route and enrolled in the English education program at University at Albany. Chris was disappointed that I didn’t pursue creative writing. Her graduation gift to me was a large blank journal with a black cover. “For your writing,” she penned into the inside cover.

During my four years in college, I wrote innumerable essays for my coursework. For whatever reason, I never took one creative writing class the entire time. After I graduated, I taught high school for a short time. After I finished my masters in reading, I taught adult education classes, preparing people to take the exam for their GED or to have the reading, writing, and study skills needed for college. My favorite part was teaching how to write essays.

In the 1990s, I wrote a few articles for Schenectady, New York’s The Daily Gazette. It wasn’t until I retired that I started writing again. A chance meeting with the editor of the Jewish World led to the opportunity to spread my wings and write personal essays.

To my delight, Chris and I recently reconnected. We shared memories of the summer workshop, which for her provided a “long burning ember from the spark of the experience.” She journals, composes haiku, and develops resources for social workers. Meanwhile, she is thrilled that I am finally following the path we started together fifty years ago this summer.

Barbara Kingsolver, award-winning novelist, poet, and essayist, stated, “There’s no perfect time to write. There’s only now.” And now is perfect for me.