By Maryanne Putz Kain ’79, ’07P
Life in 1977 was undeniably simpler. As undergraduate Friars, our primary concerns were keeping up with our classes and navigating the occasional social challenges of college life. Without the constant presence of social media, there were no endless streams of notifications or curated images to distract us or chip away at our self-esteem. We lived in the moment, unburdened by the pressures of maintaining an online persona, leaving us with more time to focus on personal growth and face-to-face relationships. We arranged meetings without the aid of our cell phones, and somehow managed to develop strong and lasting relationships with our classmates
December 12, 1977, dawned with a biting chill that wrapped Providence, Rhode Island, in its icy embrace. It was a day steeped in the bittersweet ambiance of endings and beginnings, as the semester closed its final chapter and we, eager yet apprehensive students, found ourselves engulfed in the quiet chaos of “reading period.” Our minds were preoccupied with the weight of impending final exams, while the warmth of Christmas break beckoned us with promises of joy and respite. Little did we know that beneath the serene façade of that winter day lay the seeds of a transformation poised to sweep through our young lives, forever altering the very essence of who we were.
As the day progressed students scurried to Phillips Memorial Library to stake out comfortable cubicles which would serve to isolate them from the distraction of spotting friends and wasting time on idle conversation. Others stayed in rooms or ventured to dorm lounges, avoiding the December chill. Raymond Hall Cafeteria hummed with low, half-hearted conversations, occasionally punctuated with nervous laughter and frenetic glances at highlighted notebook pages. Overhead, tinny Christmas muzak drifted through the speakers. “Jingle Bell Rock” played on an endless loop, clashing awkwardly with the bleak mood of sleep-deprived students.
Outside, the frigid night air provided a stark contrast to the warm, overstimulated haze of the dining hall. Students returning from marathon study sessions in the library shuffled across the quad, bundled in down jackets and scarves, their breath curling in the cold. The weight of exams still lingered on their faces until, suddenly, the first snowball sailed through the air.
A startled yelp turned into laughter as another followed, then another. Books and notebooks hit the ground, and for a brief, glorious moment, stress was replaced with pure, childlike joy. Friends ducked behind trees, hastily forming snowballs with frozen fingers, dodging and diving as white streaks soared under the glow of lamplight. The air filled with playful shouts and the crunch of boots against fresh snow.
For a few minutes, the pressure of finals week melted away, buried beneath layers of soft powder and shared laughter. Then, panting and grinning, they dusted off their snow-covered coats, gathered their things, and trudged back inside, rosy-cheeked, slightly damp, but momentarily lighter, as if the weight of exams had been shaken off with the snow.
Exhausted and shivering, the students finally made it back to their dorms, peeling off damp coats and collapsing onto their beds. The weight of finals pressed down once more, but for now, sleep came fast and heavy, until the sharp, jarring wail of the fire alarm in Aquinas Hall shattered the silence.
At first, no one moved. In the haze of exhaustion, the sound felt distant, unreal. But then came the acrid sting of smoke seeping under doors, and panic took hold. On the fourth floor, thick, choking clouds rolled through the corridors, curling up the walls like grasping fingers. Sleep-drunk students stumbled into the hallway, coughing, eyes wide with confusion and fear. Some shouted groggy questions. “Is this real?” But there were no answers, only the distant pounding of feet on the stairwell.
Barefoot and barely awake, they pushed through the smoke-filled corridors, navigating by the flickering glow of emergency lights. Someone banged on doors, yelling for stragglers to get out. The stairwells became a chaotic mess of half-dressed students, blankets clutched around shoulders, some shielding their faces with T-shirts in a desperate attempt to breathe.
Outside, the December air hit like a slap. Students huddled together on the frozen lawn, watching in stunned silence as smoke poured from the upper windows. Somewhere in the distance, the wail of approaching sirens cut through the night. Finals, stress — everything else — forgotten, as they stood helplessly in the glow of the growing inferno.
From a distance, we stood helpless, watching as flames licked at the windows of Aquinas Hall, black smoke curling into the cold December sky. The wail of sirens had given way to the urgent shouts of firefighters, their figures moving with practiced precision against the glow of the inferno. Ladders stretched skyward, reaching for those still trapped above. One by one, girls were carried down, their faces pale, their bodies draped in soot-streaked nightgowns. Some clung to their rescuers, trembling; others hung limp in their arms.
Then I saw her. I watched as my classmate, perhaps not one of my best friends, but a friend nonetheless, was carried down the ladder, limp and motionless, like an oversized rag doll. We had shared classes, grumbled about the workload, and often sat together at daily Mass. She was friendly without being overbearing, a petite blonde cheerleader who defied the saccharine stereotype, kind, hardworking, and full of quiet warmth. But now, in the arms of the firefighter who had risked everything to save her, she looked impossibly small. Her body, so full of life just hours before, now seemed weightless, her limbs slack, her face obscured by smoke and shadow. My breath caught, my stomach hollowed. Something inside me already knew. I wanted to call out, to will her awake, but the awful stillness in her form told me it was too late.
She and nine others lost their lives as a result of the horrific fire that early December morning. We were paralyzed by shock, trapped in a haze of fear and disbelief. The switchboards were overwhelmed with calls from frantic parents who had learned of the tragedy on the morning news, desperate for any word of their children. Hours passed before we could finally reach our own families, assuring them we were safe and that, in the days to come, we would be returning home, though forever changed.
The gray residue that engulfed our campus mirrored the somber air that settled over us. The usual apprehension over looming exams had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming uncertainty about what lay ahead. And yet, because we were who we were, we gathered, still clad in pajamas, wrapped in blankets, in Alumni Hall for Mass. The altar was crowded with our resident Dominican friars, their faces etched with the horror and weight of our immeasurable loss.
I cannot say I remember every word of Father Heath’s homily, but I will never forget his message: Life is full of Aquinas fires. He acknowledged our sorrow, our grief that felt too vast to bear, but he reminded us that if this were the worst tragedy we would ever face, we would be fortunate. We would mourn our classmates, carrying their memory with us always, but through faith, God’s infinite grace, the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and the resilience within us, life would go on, even though, on that fateful day, it felt impossible to believe.
As the years pass, I have come to understand the truth in his words. Life is filled with Aquinas fires, moments of devastation that threaten to consume us. But our true measure is found in how we extinguish them, how we rise from the ashes, and how we carry forward with love, faith, and the unwavering strength of the human spirit and divine Providence.
Maryanne Putz Kain ’79, ’07P of Shark River Hills, New Jersey, teaches world languages at Trinity Hall. She is the mother of four, including Meghan Kain ’07, and the niece of Rev. Edward Hyacinth Putz, O.P. ’44, a professor of philosophy and German at the college.
