HAZEL MOON-A SHORT STORY Photo Courtesy of Altinay Dinc 0:00 / 0:00 Hazel Moon One blistering hot day in June, eleven-year-old Hazel found herself waiting on the sagging front porch of her Grammy Moon’s ramshackle rambler. She’d never met the old woman. Furthermore, she hadn’t even known she had a grandmother until the week before when Hazel’s dying mother whispered, “Your father has a momma. Living up north, Ashburn way. Be sure to remember that now.”The night after cancer stole her mother, Hazel’s drunk father skipped town. The next morning, the mailman discovered Hazel crying by the rose bushes in the yard. He drove her to Child Welfare who wasted no time tracking down Grammy Moon.Two days later, there stood Hazel, feeling equal parts numb and glum, watching as her caseworker lifted the nicked brass knocker on Grammy’s splintery red door. The woman hadn’t made it to a second knock before a tall, skinny lady with flyaway  hair burst out. “My grandbaby! I’ve been waiting for this day!”Hazel jumped a half step back, clutching a paper sack filled with all her worldly goods: three dingy white shirts, two pairs of patched denim shorts, ragged pajamas, a long plaid dress, and a hairbrush missing most of its bristles.Grammy Moon drew Hazel toward her. She kissed the top of her head then gave her a bone crushing hug. “Come in. Come on in. Let me show you your room.”Her grandmother led Hazel to the back of the house. “Your daddy stayed here.” A cotton quilt covered a twin bed.  Each square pictured an old timey cowboy riding a horse, or herding cattle, or sitting by a fire. Nothing much on the walls except a couple of black and white photos of a small boy. The child in the picture resembled her father, his prominent ears being a giveaway. Out the window, beyond scrubby bushes, she saw train tracks.That next morning, while standing in the kitchen, Hazel discovered that when the 7:00 freight train roared by, the dishes trembled in the cupboard. When Hazel looked at the shelves with alarm, Grammy launched into a history of the plates.“My brothers and sisters gave me and your grandfather those dishes as a wedding present.” Grammy Moon paused. “They saved up green stamps from the A & P. Then when they had enough, redeemed them for a whole set.” Her grandmother showed Hazel the plates: beige with green line drawings of American patriots, images of Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, and other guys with pigtails.Those first few days, Hazel held her breath, waiting for what seemed inevitable:  Grammy losing her temper or taking a swat at her or drinking herself into oblivion. Even though the inevitable never happened, Hazel kept her head low. She didn’t side-eye her grandma or back talk in any way. She also never relaxed enough to read a book in the living room or jump in any puddles just for the joy of jumping.One August evening, after dinner, Hazel sat wide-eyed in front of a three-layered red velvet birthday cake decorated with hot pink roses, lime-green leaves and thirteen blazing candles, the thirteenth added for good luck. Grammy Moon slid the cake onto the table. “Surprise! Happy birthday! Make a wish, baby.” Hazel could not muster up a wish, not even a low expectation wish, because she felt unable to imagine anything good could happen to her. Hazel’s face must have reflected that emotion because her grandmother said, “Don’t live life looking at a half-empty spoon. Live big, sweetheart. Think of it as half-full.”With great effort, Hazel did not roll her eyes. “Not a spoon, Grammy. A glass. A person sees a glass as half-full or half empty.”“You talking about glasses? My glass is overflowing. So is yours. You just don’t know it yet.”Every morning, Hazel started her day with hot cocoa and either eggs and crisp toast or oatmeal and blueberries served on the patriot plates. That September,

PODCAST-HOW TO PICK UP A CHICKEN Photo Courtesy of Sahand Balabi 0:00 / 0:00 Picking Up a Chicken  Picking up a live chicken requires a certain amount of intestinal fortitude, intestinal fortitude that everyone in my family lacks.And yet that doesn’t mean some of us aren’t good with animals. My son Ian is a stellar pet sitter, great with dogs, cats, and Beta fish. He’s especially skilled at caring for ant farms and hermit crabs.  Practically a genius. But chickens?  You can count on him to water and feed them. And, with a plastic bag wrapped around his hand, he’ll even pick up their poopy, feather-covered eggs. However, he draws the line at ever actually touching a live chicken, which can be a bit of a handicap when he’s chicken sitting.           One spring evening, we were about to sit down to dinner when my normally unflappable son came rushing into the kitchen.  Ian said, “The neighbor’s hens are loose and I can’t get them back in the coop.”Let me mention that we do not live in a chicken-friendly part of town.  Danger lurks behind every corner.  Our first fatality occurred when a free range-ish chicken crossed the road.  Only she didn’t quite make it across before encountering a large motor vehicle.  Close on the heels of that poultry tragedy, a fox snatched another neighbor’s chicken. Later in the spring, an owl swooped into my neighbor’s yard and carried away most of his flock, one by bloody one.   So, you can imagine my son’s anxiety when he couldn’t manage to usher his chicken charges into safety for the night.             Undaunted by lack of my agricultural expertise, I decided I’d march over, grab those chickens, and stick them in the coop.  I’d managed three boys’ worth of yucky diapers.  Surely, I could force myself to touch a chicken, for pity’s sake.  How hard could it be?Very hard.  For one thing, those little beasts don’t stay still. For another, they sport sharp beaks and toenails. I instantly conceded defeat.A few minutes later, my husband, Bruce, came over with an ancient droopy net on the end of an eight-foot-long handle. My guess is that the contraption had been used to trap baby pterodactyls during the Dinosaur Age.   Bruce had no hope of cornering a skittish chicken since he could barely walk while maneuvering the unwieldy pole.So, I resorted to what any 21st century woman would do, I sat down in the middle of the yard, took out my smart phone and googled “How to pick up a chick.”  In retrospect, I should have googled “How to pick up a chicken,” but I was in a hurry.  The search yielded information, some of it R-rated and none of it helpful.Next, I decided to make use of my smart phone to actually make a call—my Lifeline call, so to speak.  I dialed up my friend, a local chicken-owner.  His son answered saying his dad was off in Florida.  Hmmm…I wondered if the man was taking a break from the strain of his chicken responsibilities.  In desperation, I asked the son, “How do you pick up a chicken?”The boy sounded incredulous but managed to stay respectful.  “With your hands.”Well, not my hands.  And from the looks of it, not Ian’s or Bruce’s hands either.  The two of them still were chasing the chickens in ever-widening circles.Just as Ian was about to pitch a tent and set up guard for the night, a thought struck him, an inspiration arriving directly from his dim memory of the Hansel and Gretel story.  He decided to drop bits of feed from the edge of the yard in a straight line toward the coop.  One by one, those hens followed the food trail into their abode. A few days later, when we described the incident to the owner of the chickens (leaving out 95% of the incriminating details), she told us that all we had to do was wait. If you gave them time, those chickens always wandered back to the coop on their own.  Who knew?

PODCAST-MOVIE REVIEW-THE LAST REPAIR SHOP 0:00 / 0:00 Last Repair Shop                    The Last Repair Shop is an award-winning documentary. The film tells the story of four amazing individuals in the Los Angeles school district who repair musical instruments then put them into the hands of students who otherwise would not have the opportunity to play.                  These children find a safe haven in music. They find a new way to express themselves. Some of them even end up with successful careers in music.                  The film is moving. Each of the adults who dedicate their lives to repairing instruments gave touching testimonies about how much their work means to them. I was brought to tears listening to students who spoke about how access to a free instrument and good training changed their lives.                  The co-directors who brought this documentary into being are Kris Bowers and Ben Proudfoot. Bowers graduated from the Los Angeles Unified School District where he learned how to play piano. He went on to graduate from Juilliard, then launch his career as a musician and film composer. Proudfoot graduated from the University of Southern California’s School of Cinematic Arts. Forbes 30 under 30 recognized Proudfoot for his leadership and innovation in the creation of documentaries.                  The cinematography in this movie is lovely: gorgeous shots of musical instruments and the talented children who play them. The movie ends with the students and teachers playing a beautiful concert together.  The Last Repair Shop is a gem of a movie and well worth watching. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST

PODCAST-MAISON MAGIQUE Photo Courtesy of  M.J. Tangonan 0:00 / 0:00 Maison Magique  MAISON MAGIQUE was published in Streetlight in April 2024.            I have a five-year-old grandchild who lives in Paris. Recently, she informed me that when she plays tag at her schoolyard, to avoid becoming “it,” all she must do is scurry to a yellow drum, touch it, and yell, “Maison Magique!” Those two words keep her safe.            “Nothing bad can happen to you in maison magique, Deb-deb.” She calls me “Deb-deb” to get around the parental edict, “You may not call an adult by her first name.”My grandchild’s voice is reassuring because she believes what she asserts. Listening to her, I longed for both her confidence and the presence of maison magique in my life.            I grew up in a nine-apartment tenement in a factory town. I lived in a sea of concrete and asphalt, but even at a young age, yearned for lush forests and fields. Our building stood across from Smalley Elementary. On a hillside behind the school, a few trees and bushes struggled to thrive. The hilly patch divided the school from Hartford Avenue below, a rough place where petty crime often occurred.            I took every opportunity to spend time in that slim swath of green. A weeping willow tree grew mid hill. If you parted the branches, you could slip under a shaded canopy. In that safe space, I’d lie back and dream big dreams.      One summer afternoon, when I was eight, just as I planned to sneak off to my retreat, an aunt pushed her two-year-old son in my direction. “Take him to the swings.”      Instead of going to the swings, I dragged the hefty cousin to my sanctuary. After we arrived, he fell asleep in the cool beneath the willow. I drifted off but awakened to sounds of someone crashing through bushes and shouting. The person’s garbled words made no sense. When I parted the willow branches, I saw an unshaven man stumbling up the hill, brown bottle in one hand and something metallic and shiny in the other.      He called out, “Hey girlie!” then lurched in my direction.      I begged my cousin to run but he wouldn’t budge. I lifted the child and staggered up the hill.  The man kept falling then righting himself, all the while working his way toward us. My cousin’s shoe snagged in a bush. When I tugged hard, his foot came loose, minus the shoe. I looked back to see the man standing only a few feet from us, so I took off, leaving the shoe behind.      The man tumbled again, which gave us time to get onto the playground. I ran back to the apartments. When I said I’d been chased, I was told to return and find the shoe. I stood my ground and refused.***      These days, I weep when I read about the conflicts in Ukraine and the Middle East, about the endless mass shootings, and the predictions that our democracy is going to devolve into a dictatorship. When I feel overwhelmed by personal and global events, I wish I could find safety simply by touching a yellow drum and yelling, “Maison magique!” But I have no drum and even the embrace of my weeping willow did not keep me safe.      Our world is a dangerous place. When I consider current happenings and what might lie ahead, I often feel afraid, not just for myself but for future generations. However, living in a joyless state of fear is untenable. I agree with a line from a Wendell Berry poem that advises, “Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.”      My goal is to be alert to moments of joy and live at peace in the middle of chaos. Finding peace is not one and done. The pursuit of peace is an intentional leaning toward whatever light I can discover in each day.            When I take the time to shut out the noise, I find myself resonating with the optimism of my grandchild,

PODCAST-THE DAY THE VIRGIN MARY APPEARED ON MY CAFETERIA WALL Photo Courtesy of Gaetano Cessati 0:00 / 0:00 The Day the Virgin Mary Appeared on My Cafeteria Wall The Day the Virgin Mary Appeared on My Cafeteria Wall was first published in the Blue Ridge Anthology:  Poetry and Prose of Central Virginia Writers, 2010. THE DAY THE VIRGIN MARY APPEARED ON MY CAFETERIA WALL The Year of Our Lord 1964             So, there were these two kids--twins--Donnie and Donna Donnatto.  Can you believe that?  Actually, he was called Little Donnie because his father was known as Big Donnie.  Somebody told me their mother was named LaDonna, but I don't know that for sure.            Anyway, one day me and Donna and Little Donnie are sitting in our assigned seats at a green Formica table in our junior high cafeteria.  The song "It's A Small World After All....." is playing over the P.A. system for the second time in twenty minutes.  Mostly, the teachers pick different kinds of music to torture us with, but every once in a while, some student sneaks into the office and slips his own record onto the player.  This, of course, is a federal offence, punishable by washing off lunch tables for a week.            Donna, who is a pee-pure Catholic, says to me, "You wanna see a miracle?"            The brother Donnie chimes in.  "Don't show her for free.  Make her pay sumfin.  You hadda pay."            While Donna talks, I'm sitting there picking apart my warm bologna sandwich, trying to separate the wilted lettuce from the soggy bread.  I get meat in my lunch once a week, on Fridays.  Of course, Catholics aren’t supposed to eat meat on Fridays.  Sending bologna in on Fridays is Ma's way of thumbing her nose at the Catholic Church.  She still moans about them nuns cracking rulers on her knuckles.  My mother, I'll have to admit, she is not all sweetness and light, especially when it comes to the Church.  This week the bologna looks green and smells like wet boots.            "I'll trade you this here sandwich."  I offer.  Better Donna should get ptomaine poisoning than me.            Donna says "No way.  It ain’t a natural bologna color.  Besides, it’s Friday.  I’m not gonna risk hell for nasty sangwidge meat."              But Donnie, who could eat three times his weight in a day and doesn’t care a bit about the torments of hell because he ain’t capable of thinking that far ahead, he says, "Yeah.  I'll take it.  Show her the miracle."            Well, Donna pulls out her ratty old alligator purse, a hand-me-down from her ratty old grandmother in St. Petersburg, Florida.  She unsnaps the latch, the latch being a real baby alligator's head with one glass green eye missing.  Dramatically, she pulls out a beige card with lots of blue splotches on it.            "That is the miracle?  Gimme my sandwich back."  I reach across the table to Donnie.Of course, by this time Little Donnie has already eaten most of the sandwich using his revolting method which I have to look at every school day of my miserable life.            Donnie, he folds his sandwich in two, squishes it hard, so's it's flattened.  Then, he chomps off one whole half and shoves it into his mouth with the pinkie of his sandwich-holding hand.  Next, he swallows, swallows hard.            You can watch the blob go down his long hairy throat like a fat mouse sliding through the belly of a skinny snake.  Then, the creep finishes off the second half in one slow gulp.            Donnie says to me, "You serious?  You want your sangwidge back?"  He opens his mouth and sticks his finger down as far as it will go.            I tell Donna, "Okay. Okay. Show me your crummy miracle.  Make it quick.  We got five minutes before fourth period."            Too cool to be rushed, Donna tells me a big story about how she bought this card off a foreign priest for twenty-five cents.  She says,

DAMSEL-MOVIE REVIEW 0:00 &#47; 0:00 Damsel Movie Review Damsel is a girl-power fairy tale that will make you think twice about ever entering into an arranged marriage. The movie opens as Elodie (played by Milly Bobby Brown from Stranger Things) is promised to Prince Henry by her father, Lord Bayford. The arrangement is purely financial. Prince Henry’s kingdom is flourishing. Lord Bayford rules over a poor village that is on the verge of extinction.Robin Wright plays Queen Isabelle, mother of Prince Henry. She is the wicked ruler of that affluent kingdom. Robin Wright is an actress who has not aged a nanosecond. She does a great job of portraying the worst mother-in-law in the history of Hollywood. She forces Lord Bayard into an appalling agreement: in order obtain the resources to save his village, he must hand over Elodie in marriage, which wouldn’t have been so bad if the royal mother-in-law’s post-wedding plans didn’t happen to be horrific.After hearing the terms of the deal, Lord Bayford becomes distraught, but not distraught enough to return the money. Elodie’s nice stepmother, Lady Bayford (played by Angela Bassett) recognizes bad mischief is afoot. She begs Lord Bayford to spare Elodie and break the agreement, but he refuses.            Spoiler alert: if you enjoy being surprised by a film, don’t watch the movie trailer. Weirdly, the trailer reveals and thereby greatly reduces the shock factor of the grim event that occurs at the beginning of the film. Without revealing too much, I’ll just say that Milly Bobby Brown spends a good chunk of the movie in a cave, alternately being chased by a fire-breathing dragon and then later, chasing the fire-breathing dragon. By the end of the movie, it’s clear that Elodie’s motto is “Vengeance is mine.”            In theory, this is an action movie. However, the action did not move quickly enough for me. The film lingers too long on scenes of Elodie scaling great heights in the cave and scenes of her dodging the dastardly dragon. Even though the shots of the cave are beautiful, especially the close ups of the crystals and magic glowworms, I’d have preferred that the film move at a quicker pace.            I enjoyed the acting, especially Robin Wright, Angela Bassett, and Milly Bobby Brown. The dialogue was clever and fun, especially the scenes with Elodie’s family and also the scenes with Elodie and Prince Henry. The dragon moved well and created havoc in a convincing way.  The dragon also spoke but she delivered her lines in a hushed and flat tone. Maybe the director was going for creepy, but I needed a little more verve in the voice to be as scared as I wanted to be.            This movie might be too frightening for young children, unless you want to use it to discourage the kiddos from playing with fire. The fire scenes are graphic. Many humans and small creatures burn to a crisp.I think older children and middle school kids would be entertained by the girl-power aspect of the movie. After she discovers that her little sister is in danger, Elodie transforms into Avenger mode. Bad stuff goes down for everyone who has crossed her including the dragon and those pesky in-laws. Even though I wished for pacing that moved more briskly, I found the movie entertaining and probably a good pick for a family movie night with the middle school crowd.    (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her <a href="https://deborahprum.

PODCAST MY BRIEF LIFE OF CRIME Photo Courtesy of Drew Taylor 0:00 &#47; 0:00 My Brief Life in Crime Jean De La Bruyere says, “If poverty is the mother of all crimes, lack of intelligence is their father.” This was true in my case.My first brush with crime happened when I was eight years old. At the time, we lived across from my school, Smalley Elementary. Weekdays, as my classmates passed by our apartment building, they littered with abandon, dropping candy wrappers, chewed up gum and school papers. Each Saturday, my father paid me a nickel to pick up the mess.After school one day, a boy named Sammy and I were commiserating about our lack of funds to buy candy. I had very little money and he had none. We cooked up a plan to remedy the situation. Back then, you’d get a nickel for every empty soda bottle you returned to the store. We knew that people stored their return bottles in wooden crates by their porch door. We figured we’d steal the bottles and redeem them ourselves.One afternoon, Sammy and I ran from porch to porch, grabbing empty bottles from tenements on our block. In no time, we collected about twenty. As we loaded them into Sammy’s wagon, visions of Squirrel Nut Zippers and Hot Tamales danced in our heads.We hauled the loot to the corner grocery store, a tiny place run by an Armenian couple named Joseph and Mary. They immediately became suspicious. These grocers knew their customers would never willingly hand over valuable bottles to a pair of ragamuffins.Neither Mary nor Joseph spoke English well. However, on a phone call to my mother, they managed to convey the gist of our nefarious deed. My parents made us return the bottles to their rightful owners, which we did, although without much accuracy.Later, my mother tried to scare me into good behavior by reading me the Adam and Eve story. However, I did not grasp the relevance of that Bible story to Sammy and me. Our get-rich-quick scheme involved no apple, no serpent, and no tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Plus, unlike Adam and Eve, Sammy and I remained fully clothed at all times.One year later, my second brush with crime involved a direct encounter with a law enforcement officer. Our family was vacationing in upstate New York. We visited the Catskill Game Farm, Fort Ticonderoga, and a shoe factory.Midway through our shoe factory tour, the overwhelming smell of dye nauseated me. I lost my breakfast in a humiliatingly public way. As our family rushed out, the tour guide handed me a consolation prize, a tall spool of heavy string.`           Back in the car, to cheer myself up, I tied the string to my white stocking. Then I sailed my sock out the car window, kite-style, as we cruised down the highway. I felt exhilarated.From the front seat, my parents didn’t notice my attempt at self-entertainment. But later, my parents did notice the flashing red light and the blaring siren coming from a police car behind us.“License and registration,” the cop said.My father knew he hadn’t been speeding. “What’s the problem?”“Littering.” The cop scribbled out a ticket.When I realized what had happened, I yelled, “No. Not littering. See? I still have my sock.”  I managed to persuade the policeman that we technically didn’t litter because the sock had never landed. We did not get a ticket. Tragically, I did not get to keep the string.Sophocles says, “All people make mistakes, but a good person yields when she knows her course is wrong.” At nine, I pivoted. I shunned my life of crime. No more recycling scams and no more faux littering. However, these days when life gets rough and I need to cheer myself, I’m tempted to fly a sock-kite out my car window to see if I can experience that youthful exhilaration once again. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum's fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review,

This essay won first prize in the Golden Nib for non-fiction and just appeared in the 2023 edition of The Golden Nib, an anthology of the work of Virginia writers. 0:00 &#47; 0:00 Love Is Blind-ish             Last winter, we bought a car that came with many safety features, including a blind spot monitor. Unfortunately, the monitor did not prevent someone who borrowed the car from backing into a Mercedes Benz. I’m not upset about the mishap.I have great affection for the borrower of my car which caused me to frame how I viewed the accident. I decided that the driver had been facing a Bermuda Triangle of extenuating circumstances: a drainage gulley, an impossibly narrow road, and of course, the Benz in a blind spot that our new detector did not detect. Fortunately, the Benz owner had a great attitude. She said, “Accidents happen. That’s why we have insurance.”The collision disabled many of our car’s safety features, including the blind spot monitor. Because of supply chain issues, a dearth of repair persons at the dealership, and blah blah blah, we’ve had to wait seven months for the car to be fixed.So, up until recently, whenever I started my car, a message flashed on the dashboard, “BLIND SPOT MONITOR UNAVAILABLE.” Those words sent a quiver of anxiety through my soul. My mind filled with possibilities of myriad annoying and/or lethal automotive and personal situations for which I now lacked warning.Physiologically speaking, blind spots are a fact of life for us humans. A blind spot is an area within your vision that you cannot see, an area where your view is obstructed. Our eyes possess two blind spots at the entry point of each optic nerve, places where there are no light sensitive cells. The absence of light sensitive cells means that the brain receives no messages from those two areas. We don’t notice these blind spots because our minds fill up the blank areas with information it creates apart from reality.German neuroscientist, Benedikt Ehinger, wondered if we subconsciously know that our filled-in vision is less trustworthy than real vision. He devised a study to test this question. Even when given evidence that shows the opposite, the study found that subjects trusted the information invented by their brain more than what they clearly saw in the outside world.            Ehinger observed that this information fits in with what we know about cognitive biases. He says, “When people hold strong beliefs, they are likely to ignore any evidence to the contrary.” Years ago, when my oldest two boys were toddlers, I believed I was the paragon of parental parity. I recognized that one of my boys tended to pitch a fit to get his way, whereas his brother tended to go with the flow. Regardless, I knew I loved my five-year-old and three-year-old equally. Moreover, I felt convinced that I treated them equally. But one day, my friend, Margaret, gently told me that I often placated the fit-pitching boy to the detriment of his go-with-the-flow brother.“Thank you for your observation,” was what my mouth said while my mind protested, “You’re dead wrong.”Not long after, my father filmed the two boys and me as we banged on rhythm instruments while singing two thousand verses of She’ll Be Coming Around That Dang Mountain. At one point, the fit-pitching child declared that he wanted to switch instruments with the go-with-the-flow boy. Determined to make it to the end of the song without interruption, I grabbed the instrument from my easy-going child and handed it to the demanding child. As fit-pitching boy and I bellowed the last verses of the song, my other son looked bereft, which, of course, I didn’t notice at the time. Later, when I saw the clip, I faced visual evidence of my blind spot, me responding to one child in a way that harmed the other. Soon after, we visited a family therapist who made some great suggestions for how to change the dynamic.

Our House in the Cornfield 0:00 &#47; 0:00 Life on Aspinook (First published in The Blue Nib Journal.  Re-printed with permission.)            For four years, I lived in a little white Cape Cod perched atop a bluff above Johnson’s Cove on Aspinook Pond, a small body of water that spilled out of the Quinnebaug River.  You can locate the exact site on any good map of Connecticut.  I had joined VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America), a branch of the Peace Corps. I’d rented the house with John and Sheila, two other VISTA volunteers.  I worked with troubled teens, wards of the state who had been committed to a psychiatric hospital.  Most of my 17-year-old patients had behavioral not mental health problems and were warehoused at the facility as they waited to turn 18, at which time the state would deposit them on the curb. My job was to “de-institutionalize” them before that sad day. Despite my optimism, passion and hard work, no one became de-institutionalized and no one was adequately prepared for emancipation day. John and Sheila worked at a legal aid office as an attorney and paralegal, respectively, advocating for clients with benefit and housing issues. All three of us staggered home at the end of the day, exhausted from our emotionally draining jobs.The Arpins, a French-Canadian family, had owned the fruit and vegetable farm before we moved there. To get to the property, you’d have to drive through Jewett City, head down route 12 for a while, then turn onto a steep gravel road.  On either side of the narrow lane stood a ten-acre cornfield. A careless farmer rented the field. Possibly, he was drunk as he sowed the seed. Raggedy stalks leaned against each other in chaotic rows. He rarely remembered to gather his harvest. The only time the fields looked impressive was the end of the summer when the dense green wall of stalks and tassels obscured the random rows. In August, we’d pick the ears and shuck them as we ran toward the house. Then, we’d plunge the corn into boiling water for exactly six minutes. My mouth still waters at the thought of their sweet deliciousness.A quarter mile down the road sat the house, dwarfed by the huge oak and maple trees growing alongside it. In the spring, the grassy field and the steep hillside behind were awash in color: first the crocuses, then narcissus and daffodils.  Later, several rows of peonies bloomed. Too bad we never remembered soon enough that peonies needed to be supported. The first stiff breeze toppled them, scattering blossoms, a crazy quilt of color.            If you walked south from the house along the ridge above the water, you’d come across a tangle of raspberry canes. Each fall, we’d tried to prune the dead cane, but never got far, our interest waning as the thorny branches shredded our wrists and hands.            Beyond the raspberries stood huge blueberry bushes, at least fifty plants, all taller than I.  Birds stole most of the raspberries, but the blueberry bushes stayed loaded with fat berries.  We made pies, jellies, jams, cobbler, poured them on our Cheerios, once threw them in salad (yuck). When I was unemployed after my VISTA stint, I sold them from a folding table set up alongside Route 12.            Adjacent to the blueberry patch, we grew a vegetable garden. After we tilled a large rectangular area, we planted tomatoes, peppers, carrots, lettuce, green onions, beets, radishes, and marigolds. Hoping to keep insects away, we sprayed the plants with a castile soap/hot pepper mixture.  The bugs did not depart, but the pepper spray burned our eyes and made our fingers red. To keep the furry pests out, we fenced off the area with posts and chicken wire.            Chicken wire did not block entry to the local groundhog, nor to a family of star-faced moles.  We never figured out how to combat the moles.We wanted that groundhog dead, but we were squeamish about doing it ourselves. So,

MOVIE REVIEW: BANK OF DAVE 0:00 &#47; 0:00 Bank of Dave  Bank of Dave is a true-ish story about a successful van salesman named Dave Fishwick. He’s a native of Burnley, a former mill town north of London. During the global financial crisis, Dave gave low-interest loans to his fellow townspeople, all of whom had been rejected by British banks. He donated all profits to local charities.       His efforts were so successful that Dave decided to hire a tony London law firm, asking them to help him establish a local bank, run by a commoner for the benefit of commoners. He planned to continue his practice of donating the profits to local charities. The firm accepted Dave’s case, not because they thought it was winnable, but because Dave would pay well. They sent a lawyer named Hugh to Burnley. Hugh was pessimistic about the venture and felt contemptuous toward the town’s inhabitants. Actor Joel Fry does a good job of portraying Hugh. You might recognize him as Hizdar zo Loraq from Game of Thrones.      Hugh’s pessimism regarding the task was warranted. The British Financial Regulation Board (FRB) had not approved a new bank in 150 years. Worse yet, the board was a closed club of elitists who made all the banking rules.  Hugh Bonneville, (Lord Grantham in Downtown Abby), plays Sir Charles, an influential member of the FRB. When he heard about the Bank of Dave, Sir Charles declared: “Once ordinary people start thinking they can get in on the act, the floodgates will open…. The Financial Regulation Board exists to ensure that the people’s money is entrusted to the right sort of chap.” In his view, “the right sort of chap” was a high class, affluent, person who has attended all the right schools, not a commoner like Dave.     After stubbing his toe, Hugh, the lawyer, went to a hospital where he met Alexandra, Dave’s niece. She was an ER doctor there. Hugh made a bad first impression by trying to jump the line ahead of other patients who were waiting for care. Alexandra put Hugh in his place which, somehow, caused him to be smitten by her. My guess is that there was no love interest in the real story of Dave and his bank. However, in the “true-ish” film, the relationship adds spark to the tale. Alexandra is played by Phoebe Dynevor ( who is Daphne in Bridgerton.)      Director Chris Foggin makes an interesting choice regarding the portrayal of the character Dave in the movie. Real Dave is talkative, outgoing, emotive, tells a joke a minute—a guy who gives highly entertaining interviews. Actor Rory Kinnear plays Dave as a pleasant, smart, measured man who is quick with a clever retort and will give a solid karaoke performance, but overall is not a showman. Real Dave is a hoot, but I’m glad Foggin decided to portray a more moderate version of Dave in the movie.     Although the topic of banking might seem dull, the tone of the film is exuberant and has plenty of funny scenes. With humor, timing is everything. Watch for the kitchen scene when Dave is standing by the table where Alexandra and Hugh bounce clever lines from one to the other. Their timing is spot on. All the actors form a wonderful ensemble, riffing off each other from scene to scene.     If you like the rock band, Def Leppard, this is the movie for you. So as not to spoil the plot, that’s all I’ll say.     Is this feel-good movie predictable? Yes, especially if you happen to see the YouTube interview of the real Dave Fishwick before watching the film. Predictable or not, I thoroughly enjoyed the story and felt thrilled when the plot points arranged themselves in a way that made me happy. This would be a good movie to watch at the end of a stressful day. (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum, author of many short stories, has won thirteen awards for her fiction, which has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin,