Marigrace Heyer and I met and became friends 50 years ago.

We were theater critics, reviewing shows for different newspapers.

The performing arts were very big at the time — Lakewood Musical Playhouse, Genetti Summer Theater, the Curtain Call Players, to name a few.

So we spent time together starting in 1975.

She was a woman of charm, sophistication and elegance. Tall and graceful. She was once a fashion model in New York City.

Marigrace lit up a room with her presence. And she lit up hearts with her smile. A special glow. Everyone knew it.

Coworker Amy Miller put it this way: “She was meant to be seen.”

For a while we lost touch.

I moved to Allentown to work in advertising/public relations for Hess’s. From there to a corporate PR job in Wilkes-Barre.

We didn’t reconnect until I moved home years later.

I started dabbling with a larger regional daily. Marigrace noticed my byline and sent a message.

“What are you doing back in this area? Come work with us! I’ll talk to Fred.” And she did.

Within a few short weeks I was with the Times News. For the first time, Marigrace and I were coworkers.

It was an honor to consult with her, discuss story ideas, compare notes and collaborate. She had talent to tackle any subject matter, sign of a good writer.

One time, she penned a tantalizing column about seductive Miss Pinky.

“Miss Pinky is eye-catching and has curves in all the right places,” she wrote.

You had to read further to realize Marigrace was describing a car, a custom 1930s hot rod.

Marigrace broke ground decades ago by interviewing one of the first local residents to undergo a sex-change procedure.

It was a time when other publications would have backed off from covering such a controversial topic.

We gave it a full page.

The Times News had courage to let journalists be journalists.

That philosophy allowed writers like Marigrace to sparkle.

A highlight for me were the times I worked closely with Marigrace and dynamic Pattie Mihalik.

We were a team with a touch of coal-region chemistry, three of us from Lansford, Tamaqua and Shamokin. We decided to collaborate on a series.

But would it work? Writers tend to be fiercely independent. Maybe too protective of their creativity. Too sensitive for peer review and criticism.

“For us to do this,” Pattie said, “we first need to toss our egos out the window.” All of us agreed. Then joined together.

We came up with yearly projects, casting an educational spotlight on struggles and triumphs of everyday people.

The topics were sometimes heavy, gut-wrenching. But always presented with perspective.

The eye-opening subject matter earned statewide recognition year after year.

And that attention, in one instance, provided us an unexpected episode of comic relief.

It was a warm July evening in 2001. Marigrace, Pattie and I hopped into my car for a trip to the city.

We had the opportunity to accept honors from the Philadelphia Press Association.

Of course, we wanted to look our best for the event. We dressed to the nines because the late-night dinner ceremony was hosted by a spiffy country club.

Everything went well — up to a point.

After accepting awards, we were walking through a golf course to get to the parking lot.

But as we did, an automatic sprinkler system turned on. It drenched us. We tried to run but it was futile. We were soaked.

We stood there in darkness, laughing uncontrollably. So we departed Philadelphia with soggy clothes and drooping, wet hair.

“Maybe we’re washed up writers,” I said.

We laughed and laughed all the way home.

I think we bonded in a special way that night, one of my many memories of Marigrace Heyer Parfitt.

Tonight I’ll go outside and look up. I want to search for something unexpected.

I want to stare into the night sky and disregard darkness.

Because somewhere up there a star shines bright. And I long to feel the glow.