He was Italian. She was Irish. Their home in Yonkers was often a refuge for me during the 1980s, my early years in America, as I grappled awkwardly with immigrant life. Hospitable to a fault, Pasquale “Pat” and Bella Barbuto knew how to make guests feel at ease. Whether you were from Dublin, like me, or Tehran, like my friend Hossein, close or distant family from New York, New Jersey or Donegal, Pat and Bella always had room for one more at their table.

Bella was the cousin of my then boss, Fr Bartley MacPhaidin at Stonehill College in Easton, Massachusetts. She and Pat took me under their wing. Driving down Interstate 95 to New York, I used to relish the prospect of sinking into the warmth of their welcome on Thanksgiving, Easter or Independence Day.