Student Scribes: Tie My Arm Behind My Back

July 31, 2015 | by Iain Sunday

The only interruption to the sweet sound of silence that Craig loved so much was the steady clicking of his keyboard.

His laptop occupied the center of the desk in the corner of the room, away from all distractions in the simple apartment: three rooms, all he needed. The main room, his bedroom, housed a twin-sized bed opposite the clean, sleek desk where he spent most of his time. One dresser completed the room, his clothes fitting into four drawers. The kitchen contained an oven, never warm, a mini-fridge and his microwave for heating late night take-out. His bathroom, if the closet-sized extension could be call “room,” crammed a sink, shower, and toilet, into the dollhouse-like space.

Tonight, like every other night, Craig worked, preparing for tomorrow’s meeting. His brain raced as fast as his fingers clicked. Spreadsheets, expansions, marketing, all of the business insider information he had gathered throughout his years with Benison and Sons. Eight years of long nights, missed parties and no girlfriends were all going to be worth it.

Mr. Benison’s eldest son, John, left the business one week ago, apparently too good for the oil pipe and accessories game. Mr. Benison could have called tomorrow’s meeting a luau, but everybody really knew it was an open audition for John’s job. And Craig felt certain that job had his name on it—eight years of ass-kissing and hard work made him the rightful heir to the vice president position.

Who else would be worthy—Cathy? If the vice president’s job consisted of staring out the door and eating a doughnut, then yes, Cathy deserved the job. Ken Benison posed the only real threat as the youngest of the Benison kids. If work ethic passed down genetically, Ken would be adopted. Benison and Son, Craig thought, should be called Benison and Craig.

He finished his last bullet point, picked out his black wool suit, and set his alarm to seven. As he got into bed, he couldn’t help but feel proud; years of hard work to be realized tomorrow. He closed his eyes, growing sleepy, recalling the late nights working in his studio, all the times he blew off his friends, the girls he didn’t call. Craig fell asleep, his smile turning to a frown.

The alarm broke up Craig’s sleep. His eyes opened and he struggled to clear his morning daze. At 7 a.m., Craig rolled over and motioned for the top of the clock, a simple action he performed every morning, except this morning.

Craig’s blurry vision cleared from the shock of his alarm blaring. Like a mule, he kicked his sheets off, exposing the reality of this new day: He had no arms. Terrified, he examined himself up and down. His shoulder, smooth, rounded off at the end, from there…nothing. He swung his body back and forth, side to side, praying his arms would somehow pop out. The beeping of the alarm clock seemed to bounce off every wall of the tiny apartment until Craig couldn’t take it anymore. He shot out of bed like a rocket, using only his legs and abdominals. Confused, terrified, pissed off, he slammed his head against the clock with the rage of a man who woke up with no arms. His eyes rolled behind his eyelids, as he fell to the ground along with the clock, out cold.

Craig’s eyes fluttered open, a swollen black eye preventing him from seeing clearly. Finally focused, his eyes met the clock on the floor next to him. 8:20 a.m. Forty minutes until his meeting started.

He rolled over to his door like a child down a hill. No way would he miss this meeting. Pressing his face to the door, he inched his way to his knees as he broke down the situation in his head. If he got ready in five minutes, caught a cab, he could get there in 20. He’d give himself 10 extra minutes, accounting for his current state. Only 30 minutes, and a whole extra 10 minutes to prepare at the office! Focusing all his weight on his knees, he jumped up and landed on his feet. He fancied himself an escaping James Bond, a severely handicapped James Bond.

Staring at his clothes hanging on his door, Craig quickly realized five minutes wasn’t going to be enough time to get ready. He nudged the suit with his head until it fell to the floor. Like a dog, he dug his head into the suit trying to wiggle his way in. Not working. The suit moved around his body like a worm. The clock read 8:30 a.m.

Craig examined his armless body, standing tall in his boxers. Screw it.

The wind rushed up Craig’s legs as he ran out of his building, his boxers billowing with each step. People stared, but he didn’t care. Men in suits dotted the busy street, raising their hands, hailing cabs. One by one, cabs stopped, the businessmen disappearing into them. Craig looked down at his semi-naked body. He twitched his shoulder blade, attempting to call a cab. It was like a mute person trying to scream. He looked down at where his arm would be…no watch. Idiot! He had to do something quick.

“Stop! Stop, please god stop!” Craig ran out in the middle of the street. Like a madman, he jumped up and down shouting, facing a cab speeding toward him like a bullet. It stopped in front of him. The driver ran out of the car and opened up the door.

“Quick. Quick get in! Buckle up.”

Buckle up? They stared at each other.

“Okay, let’s go to the hospital!” The cab driver pushed the pedal down.

“No, thank you though. Can you just take me to Benison and Sons please?”

“You have no arms! You need the hospital.”

Craig tuned out the cab driver’s speech, and looked at the cab’s clock. 8:55 a.m. He was cutting it close. Not only was he cutting it close, he forgot his briefcase, but he knew his presentation like the back of his hand, if he had one.

They pulled up to Benison and Sons. “Are you sure I can’t take you to the hospital?” the driver asked as he opened the door. “You have no arms!”

Craig scurried out the door. He wanted to pay him, but he didn’t have his wallet or pants or arms to pull out his wallet from his pants. He left the cab driver there, scratching his head.

As he ran into the office, he passed Cathy munching a doughnut.

“You are late,” she said.

“You are eating a doughnut!” Craig rushed to the elevator. Shit. He slammed his head against the elevator button, recessed into the panel.

“Cathy can you hit this button for me?”

“I’m eating a doughnut, my hands are tied,” Cathy said, powder sugar spitting out.

She’s mocking me. Doesn’t she know how serious it is to not have arms, out of the blue? How dare she make fun of it.

Craig rushed to the spiraling marble stairs, his brain running through all his material. Expansions, numbers, logistics, the job was his. He got to the door to find it closed. He rammed it with his entire body.

Ken sat next to his dad. “Craig!” Mr. Benison said, rising from his position at the head of the table. Craig fell through the wooden door, looking up at the large conference room.

“I’m sorry Mr. Benison. I know I’m late. I have my report ready though. I’ll show you I’m the right choice for the promotion!”

Mr. Benison laughed. “Craig, it’s called Benison and Son, not Benison and Craig.”

The whole conference room lit up with laughter. Craig stood, eyes spinning, eyeing all of them.

“Also, where are your arms? Where are your clothes?”

Craig walked out, head bowed in defeat. The cool morning’s chill went through his exposed body like an arm is supposed to go through its socket. He headed towards the hospital, not caring who stared at him. Spreadsheets, analytics, PowerPoints no longer monopolized his thoughts—only the fact that he had no arms. Then it really hit him: He had no arms. Craig sprinted through the streets, healthier than he had ever felt in his life.

Iain Sunday is a junior at CASA Charter School.

Exit: Stage Left: Theatre Harrisburg’s long-time executive director retires.

July 31, 2015 | by Lori M. Myers

Sam Kuba has probably clocked more stage time than anyone at Theatre Harrisburg in recent years.

As the lights dim and actors wait in the wings for the show’s start, he treads onto the boards with that comforting smile and easy-going manner. No script, just the one mantra he knows by heart: “Theater Harrisburg: Where community takes center stage. Now sit back, relax and enjoy the show.”

“While I can’t take credit for creating that slogan, I, with the guidance of our marketing committee, have tried to make it our primary message and central to the public’s perception of us,” Kuba said. “We are reinforcing the fact that the performers who appear on our stage and the many individuals who work backstage are all our local friends and neighbors. Our volunteers are the foundation of this organization.”

And Kuba is deep-down and without-a-doubt sincere about that. The end of this month marks his retirement as the theater’s executive director, a title he’s had from 1996 to 2002 and then again from 2007 until now. He’s seen a lot, heard a lot, changed a lot.

That Thrill

Ironically, Kuba, a Harrisburg native, was more into playing music when he grew up.

He attended Camp Curtin Junior High and then William Penn High School, where he was a member of the final graduating class in 1971. Private piano lessons expanded his artistic horizons, and he won some musical competitions along the way, but recognized that he didn’t have enough real musical talent to perform at the level he wished. Instead, he chose to get involved in the arts in various management capacities.

After working for the state awhile, he got hired as the Harrisburg Symphony Orchestra’s first general manager and later became director of the Department of General Services’ Public Events Office, where he oversaw the operations of the Forum and activities in and around the state Capitol rotunda. In 1989, Kuba became general manager of the Youngstown (Ohio) Symphony before taking a position at his alma mater, Susquehanna University. In 1996, he returned to central Pennsylvania as executive director of Harrisburg Community Theatre, later renamed Theatre Harrisburg.

“Interestingly enough, my very first exposure to live theatre of any kind was when a family friend gave us tickets to a production of ‘Kiss Me, Kate’ right here at Harrisburg Community Theatre in 1963,” Kuba recalled. “I was in fifth grade. I remember my mother calling some folks involved in theater to make sure it was an appropriate show for a 10-year-old.”

That first time proved magical for Kuba who had never experienced anything to compare to the sights and sounds of actors and orchestra, dance and spectacle.

“Even now, when the curtain goes up on one of our productions, I wonder whether there is someone in the audience who is attending live theater for the first time and having that same thrill,” he said.

After being executive director the first time around, Kuba admits he was burned out from the high stress of overseeing a theater and its personality types on a 24-7 basis. He’d had enough and needed a change, which he found when he began working for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. There, he found a cause and people doing exceptional and highly focused work on finding a cure for a horrific disease. He learned fundraising, but he found out something else—that a large segment of the community was not aware of the area’s cultural treasures.

“That was a real wake-up call for me,” Kuba said. “I believe being so closely involved with the arts for so long had created a bit of tunnel vision, and it’s a lesson I haven’t forgotten.”

Kuba just couldn’t stay away and repeated his stint as executive director at Theatre Harrisburg in 2007 until now. His time away prepared him both intellectually and emotionally, gave him a fresh perspective, a readiness for new challenges.

Enjoy the Show

During both tenures, Kuba was at the helm when Theatre Harrisburg transitioned to become the first resident company at Whitaker Center.

He was also there when the decision was made to present some of its season of shows back at its Hurlock Street home, now called the Jay & Nancy Krevsky Production Center, and there again when the theater decided to not replace the full-time artistic director position when Thomas Hostetter retired after 28 years. Since then, the theater has had guest directors, including Hostetter.

The upcoming 2015-16 season, Theatre Harrisburg’s 90th, will not only feel Kuba’s absence, but the title he’d held for so long will change from executive director to executive and artistic director, giving the theater its first formal artistic director since Hostetter’s retirement. As of this writing, that position had not yet been filled.

“I think it’s an excellent decision,” Kuba said. “I do know that many exceptionally qualified candidates nationwide have applied for the position, so I am both confident and optimistic about the future of Theatre Harrisburg.”

After August, Kuba’s first order of business will be to clean house—literally—where “three generations of stuff have accumulated,” he said. After that, perhaps some daytrips, riding the Friday afternoon train to hear the Philadelphia Orchestra and reading his many unread books.

Of course, he only lives a half-block away from Theatre Harrisburg, “where community takes center stage.” But now after all these years, it’s Kuba who can truly sit back, relax and enjoy the show.

For more information about Theatre Harrisburg, visit www.theatreharrisburg.com.

Student Scribes: Success Is the Best Revenge

July 31, 2015 | by Gabrielle Vincent

“I was always the nerdy kid. Braces, acne, glasses, the whole nine yards.”

A forlorn expression stretched across Barry’s face. He chatted with his therapist about the scarring high school memories that haunted his dreams every night.

“It’s hard to imagine you ever being nerdy,” the therapist smiled, checking out his physique and striking features.

Barry Evans was a real life manifestation of the nerd-who-grew-up-to-be-rich stereotype. He not only was rich and successful, but extremely handsome as well; a modern Adonis with a seven-figure income.

“Yeah, I can’t stop having these awful dreams. The one face that always haunts me is Margaret Chenowith’s. That bitch has been lingering in my dreams for years.”

Every therapy session with Barry went this way: 10 percent talking about emotion and the other 90 percent talking about Margaret, the captain of the cheer squad, and the love of Barry’s life. She had used that to her advantage. She and her friends had tormented him for liking her to the point where Barry contemplated suicide.

“Barry, you’re paying me $300 an hour for me to tell you something you already know. The root of your problems is this Margaret girl. If you can just get rid of her mentally, your mind will clear and your sleeping will improve.”

This conversation went back and forth until the hour was up, and Barry then made his way down the busy city street. He visited his favorite and trusted tailor to pick up his weekly order.

“Um sir… we no have your order,” the woman replied meekly behind the counter, her broken English barely heard over the timid clicks of the computer keyboard.

Barry’s fists clenched and a fire arose in his soul, but he maintained his cool and calm exterior.

“You must be mistaken. I paid extra for it to be ready by this time exactly and as God as my witness, my Givenchy custom suit is sitting back there in your shitty room next to a bunch of ragged, poorly sewn, Salvation Army garbage,” he said in a monotone voice, just barely above a whisper.

The girl shrank in fear.

“I’ll—go get m-manager.” She ran into the back room.

A woman walked out quickly and typed away at the computer on the cashier desk.

“Name please,” she didn’t take her eyes away from the screen.

“Barry Evans.”

The woman stopped, her mouth slightly ajar.

“Barry Evans? Did you by chance go to Crestwood High? Class of ’86?” she asked, now making direct eye contact with him.

“Yes. Listen, I don’t have time…” He analyzed her face closely. Familiar green eyes, strawberry blond hair, a worn face that seemed as though it once could’ve been considered beautiful in its youth before years of wear and tear got to it.

“M-Margaret? Margaret Chenowith?” Barry stuttered.

“Yes! My-oh-my you look different! I couldn’t even recognize you at first. How have you been… are you married?” she replied in a flirty tone, leaning slightly over the counter.

“No. You?” he said flatly, with just a hint of nervousness to his voice.

“Oh well, we should catch up a bit sometime.

“I would love to, but I have a gala to attend for work tonight. How about tomorrow night?” He faked all the confidence he could. He wrote down his number and address before she could even respond. “See you at eight.”

Barry freshened up and gazed in the mirror. I have a date with Margaret Chenowith.
He spritzed on some of his nicest and most expensive cologne and slicked his hair back. He sighed as he looked at his reflection. God you’re sexy.

The doorbell rang, and he sprinted to it only to find Margaret wearing way too much make-up and an unflatteringly small dress. The only way to describe such a horrendous sight would to think of a sausage link dipped into bright orange foundation.

“Gee Barry, I wasn’t expecting this.” She gawked as she entered his luxurious penthouse. She ran her fingertips along the expensive paintings lining the off-white walls. The smell of fresh linen floated through the air. Barry’s house was meticulous. She sat on his couch, adjusting herself on the fine leather and immediately pulled out a single cigarette from her now empty pack.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, actually, I do Margaret. One cigarette contains acetone, arsenic, methanol, cadmium. Second hand smoke can…”
“Wow Barry! Still a huge nerd, I see.” Margaret smirked and put the lone cigarette back in its cardboard home.

Barry forced a fake chuckle. “Chateau Margaux?” He offered, making his way to a dark wooden cabinet.

“Oh, I didn’t know you spoke French. What does that mean?” Margaret giggled.

Barry glared at her and took two Swarovski crystal wine glasses out of the cabinet. He shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed a small pill out of one of the drawers, dropping it into the crystal before pouring the dark red wine. He carried the two wine glasses into the living room, making note of the tainted one.
Margaret picked up the glass and brought it to her lips. She paused before taking a sip. “Oh my, I shouldn’t be drinking on the first date; Momma always told me not to.” She winked and set the glass down.

Barry’s eye twitched a bit before he made a throaty and over exaggerated laugh.

“It’s pretty funny actually. I would’ve never given you a chance in high school but now look at you! What more could a girl want!” Margaret said, scooting closer to Barry and resting her hand on his thigh. She leaned into him until Barry sprung from his seat.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” He ran off into the bathroom with no other explanation.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror and splashed water on his face.

Get a hold of yourself.

He continued to stare at himself until he got an idea.

“If you can just get rid of her,” His therapist’s voice echoed in his head. “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.” “If you can just get rid of her.”

The voices mangled together and became louder and louder. His fingers trembled as he clutched the sides of the bathroom sink, his knuckles turning white from the strong grip.
Finally, something clicked. The voices stopped.
Barry adjusted his tie and re-slicked his hair.
“Took you long enough. You really know how to keep a girl waiting,” Margaret scoffed as Barry re-entered the living room.
“You know, Margaret, I’ve been waiting for the moment I could get a date with you.”

Barry sauntered into the kitchen.
“For years, I wished you would notice me.”
He went to a drawer.

“Just waiting for you to like me back.”

He grabbed a butcher knife from the drawer and hid it behind his back.
“And now I finally have you.”

He walked towards the couch.

“And you know what I realize?”

Barry crept up behind the couch.

“You aren’t worth it. You peaked in high school, and you live a miserable and mediocre life. I feel bad for you, but I’m just out of your league, Margaret. You’ve been the loser this whole time.”
Barry grabbed Margaret’s head swiftly and dragged the blade across her throat until her neck oozed with blood as red as the Chateau Margaux.

He followed his therapist’s advice: He got rid of her. After the mess was cleaned up, Barry had the best sleep of his life.

Gabrielle Vincent is a junior at CASA Charter School.

August News Digest

July 31, 2015 | by Lawrance Binda

Reed Arrested, Arraigned

Seven-term Harrisburg Mayor Stephen Reed was arrested and arraigned last month on 17 criminal charges ranging from bribery to running a criminal organization.

In all, the state charged Reed with 499 criminal counts covering actions related to the Harrisburg Parking Authority and the Harrisburg School District, as well as city government.

The counts cover alleged actions for many well-known Reed-era projects, such as the incinerator retrofit, the effort to acquire museum artifacts, the Senators baseball team and Harrisburg University.

Debt accumulated under Reed eventually resulted in a financial crisis that led the state to appoint a receiver for the city, as well as a failed attempt by City Council to declare municipal bankruptcy.

Dauphin County District Justice William C. Wenner set bail at $150,000 unsecured, meaning that Reed did not actually have to post bond. He ordered Reed to surrender his passport and restrict travel to the confines of Pennsylvania.

After the arraignment, Reed and his attorney, Henry E. Hockeimer Jr. of the Philadelphia-based firm Ballard Spahr, made statements defending the 28-year mayor. Reed blamed the criminal charges on “misperceptions and politics,” while Hockeimer said Reed “carried out his role [as mayor] with dedication and integrity.”

Afterwards, Pennsylvania Attorney General Kathleen Kane publicly released the grand jury presentment, which detailed the evidence behind the charges. The presentment alleged that thousands of “artifacts” and “curiosities” purchased with public funds were found in Reed’s home and storage areas; that Reed diverted money from city borrowings for other purposes; and that he used city employees for personal reasons.

Market Report Released

The Broad Street Market Task Force last month released a long-anticipated report on how to improve the condition, management and overall operations of the historic Midtown market.

Chairwoman Jackie Parker told Harrisburg City Council that the market’s two buildings are in decent condition, but that they will require “large capital investments” over the next decade.

More immediately, the report strongly recommended changing the market’s management structure.

Currently, the Broad Street Market Corp. operates the market, with the Historic Harrisburg Association as its sole shareholder. The task force advised separating from HHA and transitioning to a nonprofit entity, which then could better pursue grants and other funding.

“It would be a newly established nonprofit that is dedicated to full-time fundraising for the market,” said Harrisburg Mayor Eric Papenfuse, who announced the 10-member task force early last year as one of his first acts as mayor.

That transition could take the better part of two years, said Parker, who also is director of the city’s Department of Community and Economic Development.

Under the new structure, the market’s two buildings would remain owned by the city, but ongoing repair and maintenance would shift to the nonprofit, which would be overseen by a board of directors composed of volunteers from the community and market stakeholders.

The report recommended a number of other operational improvements, including free WiFi, greater recycling efforts, extended hours, greater diversity of food options, a marketing budget and better litter management.

Separately, Joshua Kesler last month was named president of the Broad Street Market Corp. board, replacing Jonathan Bowser, who resigned in June. Kesler is owner of The Millworks restaurant and art studios across the street from the market.

Campbell Pleads Guilty

Former Harrisburg Treasurer John Campbell last month pleaded guilty to charges that he stole money from several Harrisburg-based non-profit organizations.

Campbell said he was guilty of two counts of unlawful taking, a felony, and one count of Charitable Act fraud, a misdemeanor. He also promised to make full restitution for the thefts, which total almost $30,000.

Campbell was accused of taking money from several groups, including Historic Harrisburg Association, the Stonewall Democrats and Lighten Up Harrisburg. He was not charged with theft relating to his position as city treasurer.

If Campbell makes restitution by his Sept. 15 sentencing, Dauphin County Deputy District Attorney Joel Hogentogler said he would agree to a sentence of probation.

Anti-Blight Bills Passed

Harrisburg City Council last month approved two bills meant to battle the continuing problem of blight in the city.

The bills, passed unanimously, create a registry of foreclosed properties and increase fines on real estate investors and speculators for code violations.

Under the first ordinance, banks will pay a $200 annual fee for each property on the registry. The properties then must be kept properly maintained and secured.

Under the second, the city will levy higher fines on “corporate owners” of properties cited for code violations than it does on residential owners.

The higher fines are justified because it costs the city money to track down the investors and speculators, who often live out of the area and are difficult to identify and contact because they hide behind corporate entities, said Mayor Eric Papenfuse.

Food Truck Rules Updated

Food trucks in Harrisburg must locate at least 100 feet from brick-and-mortar restaurants under an ordinance passed last month by the City Council.

Council unanimously approved an ordinance update that requires food trucks and other mobile food vendors from setting up within 100 feet of existing restaurants, 15 feet from building entrances and 15 feet from a fire hydrant.

The ordinance update was urged by several downtown restaurants, which have complained that food trucks set up near them during high-volume times, such as during lunch and on weekend nights, and negatively affect their business. They also have complained about grease and litter.

The mobile vendors also must cease selling by 2:30 a.m. and move from the area by 2:45 a.m.

The ordinance does not apply to food trucks that congregate during special events, such as the monthly Food Truck Feast held during 3^rd in the Burg.

HUD Funds Distributed

Harrisburg last month finalized the recipients of its annual dispersal of federal housing money.

The city received $3.1 million from three U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development programs, most through HUD’s Community Development Block Grant program.

The city’s housing rehabilitation program received $451,806, the largest allocation, and the city police department received $250,000, which it plans to use to boost manpower in Harrisburg’s most troubled neighborhoods. The city’s demolition program got $111,114.

Other recipients included:
Fair Housing Council, $130,000
Tri County HDC, $100,000
Camp Curtin YMCA, $80,000
Christian Recovery Aftercare Ministry, $75,000
Habitat for Humanity, $70,000
Boys & Girls Club of Harrisburg, $60,000
Latino Hispanic American Community Center, $59,982
Heinz-Menaker Senior Center, $50,000
Mid Penn Legal Services, $30,000
Christian Love Ministries, $29,000
Codes Enforcement, $10,000

The city’s Emergency Solutions Grant Program received $164,603, and the Homeowner Improvement Program got $295,765.

More than $1 million will not go directly to recipients. Grant administration received $482,624, while debt service ate up $638,000. The latter item covers this year’s installment of repayment of a $3.8 million federal loan that Harrisburg backed for the failed (since revived) Capitol View Commerce Center.

Recovery Officer Appointed

Audrey Utley was appointed last month as the new chief recovery officer for the Harrisburg School District.

State Board of Education Secretary Pedro Rivera appointed Utley after a search committee recommended her. She recently retired as superintendent of the Steelton-Highspire school district and served a short, three-month stint as acting superintendent of the Harrisburg district in 2010.

Utley will continue the effort of trying to improve the financial and academic condition of the Harrisburg district, an effort begun by Utley’s predecessor, Gene Veno, who served in the post about two years before resigning in June.

Under Veno’s recovery plan, the district’s precarious financial situation stabilized, but the academic performance deteriorated further, according to state performance measures released last year.

2 Projects Get Green Light

More apartments are coming to Harrisburg, as the City Council last month approved land development plans for two substantial projects.

First, council unanimously approved Harristown Enterprise’s plan to convert 21,000 square feet of office space and another 6,000 square feet of loft space to six two-bedroom and 16 one-bedroom apartments above a stretch of shops along N. 3^rd and Market streets in Strawberry Square.

If all goes according to plan, work on the project would begin this fall with completion slated for spring 2016, said Brad Jones, president and CEO of Harristown Enterprises, which owns Strawberry Square.

Council then OK’d a plan by WCI Partners to transform the former Harrisburg Moose Lodge Temple at N. 3^rd and Boas streets into 33 one-bedroom apartments, with commercial space on the ground floor. WCI also plans to renovate three boarded-up townhouses on the property.

WCI President Dave Butcher said the project should begin in early autumn with completion expected next summer.

Transit Consolidation Urged

A state official last month urged the Harrisburg City Council to consider regional consolidation of mass transit services.

Area governments could save an estimated $2.3 million a year, mostly through reduced administrative staff, if they chose to consolidate into a single entity, said Toby Fauver, deputy secretary for multimodal transportation for the state Department of Transportation.

Fauver cited the potential savings as he briefed council on Phase 2 of the South-Central Regional Transit Consolidation Study, which recommends consolidation for most transit systems in south-central Pennsylvania.

If they decide to merge transit operations, the participating counties and municipalities would need to appoint representatives to a transition board that would decide such issues as structure, governance and operations. The consolidation would cost about $4.7 million to achieve, but the state would absorb that cost, Fauver said.

Changing Hands

Boas St., 106: K. Miller to A. Nascone, $130,000

Boas St., 314: B. Ostella to W. James, $99,900

Briggs St., 241: M. Simmons to C. Jeffers, $113,500

Calder St., 504: P. Maruszewski to H. Nguyen, $109,900

Catherine St., 1620: R. & M. Caplan to M. & V. Keyes, $31,000

Chestnut St., 2137: P. Bowman to G. Bierbaum & W. Alford, $184,900

Cumberland St., 117: J. & C. Kuntz to Cardinal Investments LLC, $81,900

Derry St., 2422: N. Foose to D. Brently, $61,900

Green St., 1910: WCI Partners LP to C. Reinhold & K. Hurst, $193,900

Green St., 3011: R. Snyder to M. Palermo Jr., $180,000

Herr St., 415: A. Antoun to J. Foreman, $54,900

Herr St., 1424: M. & A. Foreman to Bethesda Mission of Harrisburg, $275,00

Kelker St., 235: S. Woomer to D. Robinson & J. Vu, $99,900

Kensington St., 2408: PA Deals LLC to F. Frattarole, $63,500

Manada St., 1905: PA Deals LLC to G. & J. Modi, $96,000

North St., 1718; 2418 Jefferson St.; 2228 N. 4^th St.; 350 Harris St.; 352 Harris St.; 1813 Boas St. & 1833 Forster St.: R. Shokes Jr. & Shokes Enterprises to JDP 2014 LP, $497,000

N. 2^nd St., 405, Unit 2 & Unit 4: Belco Community Credit Union to Vinculum Inc., $410,000

N. 2^nd St., 1100: L. & A. Morato to S. & J. Toole, $45,000

N. 2^nd St., 2537: J. & M. McCarthy to N. Banting, $72,100

N. 2^nd St., 2821: D. & M. Anderson to J. & L. Witmer, $96,000

N. 2^nd St., 2904: J. Reitz & Webster Bank NA to F. & B. Pinto, $285,750

N. 2^nd St., 2926: J. & Y. Garner to M. & S. Bennington, $282,000

N. 2^nd St., 3118: A. Barlup to P. & M. Rowan, $152,000

N. 3^rd St., 1720: F. Phillipy to A. & A. Campoverde, $90,000

N. 4^th St., 1625: GWD Capitol Heights LP to J. Wolfe & K. Hunt, $103,300

N. Front St., 1525, Unit 103: K. Blum to A. McKenna, $214,900

N. Front St., 2401: E. & D. Black to J.A. Hartzler, $215,000

N. Front St., 2501: Harrisburg Builders Exchange to Poole Anderson Construction LLC, $415,000

Rudy Rd., 2401: C. Butler to B. Royster, $119,900

S. 18^th St., 946: W. & D. Shalan to Darna Investments LLC, $140,000

S. 21^st St., 971: Lee Estates LLC to T. Le, $100,000

S. 29^th St., 520: E. Cohen & Goodrich Assoc. to Goodrich Assoc., $125,000

S. Front St., 607: S. Farr to T. Edinger, $130,000

S. Front St., 711: Z. & J. Goodling to P. Moore, $180,000

State St., 1801: MAT Properties Inc. to Transcend Church, $99,000

Taylor Blvd., 52: PA Deals LLC to V. & S. Vdov, $56,900

Woodlawn St., 2359: Meier Norton FLP to Meier Supply Co., $406,800

Wyeth St., 1404: A. Weikert to F. Frattarole, $103,900

Wyeth St., 1412: PA Deals LLC to F. Frattarole, $103,900

Harrisburg property sales for June 2015, greater than $30,000. Source: Dauphin County. Data is assumed to be accurate.

Student Scribes: “Tar-an-gi-o-li-o.”

July 31, 2015 | by Kelsee Baker

Wisps of cherry liqueur and sweet cream veil the kitchen, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. Mama sets the pan of cherry tarangiolo on the windowsill to cool. The decaying window pane frames the row of apartments across from ours. She crosses the room to dust off the record player.

“Miles?” Saxophone melodies crawl from the speakers and she dances—twisting and turning her body like the curtains waving to us at the window.

“Your turn.” She helps me from my wheelchair, cradling me, and kisses me on the cheek; sweet as tarangiolio.

“My beautiful boy.”

We sway together until the record skips and the timer dings, signaling the room temperature of our baked treats. Mama helps me back into my chair, and I wheel myself into the kitchen. Spooning the delight into teacups, I help top the dessert with sweet cream. I raise a bite of the tarangiolio, my indulgence, wanting to savor the taste of my favorite confection, but Mama slaps the spoon away.

“No. You haven’t said your prayers yet.”

She puts a hand on the back of my head and forces it down to the table for reflection. I clasp my hands together, reciting the words Mama taught me:

“O Mighty Lord Satan, by whom all things are set free, I cast myself utterly into your arms and place myself under your all powerful protection. Comfort me and deliver me from all the qualms and snares of those who wish to harm me, both seen and unseen. This I ask in your name. Ave Satanas!”

“Good boy. Now eat. When you’re finished, take the scraps to the others.”

Mama rises from the table, crossing the room once again to lock herself into her study. Reversing my chair into the room, I wheel myself up to her door. Her noontime prayers echo from the cracks, snaking along the wood like serpents inked on the pages of The Satanic Bible.

“And I pray to you, O Satan,” a whisper in her solitude, “for the lame. For he will know not of strength, but of ill-acceptance and unfavorable complacency.”

My wheels creak on the oak floorboards, melding into her murmurs. I set the leftover tarangiolio and flashlight on my lap and curve around to the dumbwaiter facing the opposite wall of the kitchen. Steadying the pan on the lift, I pull myself up and into the concave space. I tug at the rope dangling above, take a deep breath and hold it.

Diving into the recesses of the house, I exhale when I reach the bottom only to choke on the rank stench of excrement and blood. Voices whisper from a dark corner. I grab the pan and pitch it into the darkness. The whispers cease. Frightened, I struggle to palm the flickering flashlight. One footstep scrapes again the cement floor…then another.

I shine the light into one corner. Empty. The footsteps creep closer. My heart pounds, and before I can reveal what the opposing corner is hiding, a hot breath touches my skin. The beam of my flashlight illuminates bruised legs, soiled undergarments and a pentagram carved in an emaciated chest. The horrid face, caked with blood, tilts its head in ghoulish curiosity.

Before I can scramble back into the dumbwaiter, strong arms take hold of me, and I’m forced from my wheelchair up against a wall. One of the figures steps forward, and I realize his mouth has been sewn shut. I whimper, fearful of these strange creatures. It raises a finger to its stitched mouth, trying to assure me there is no reason to be afraid, but the gesture sends me into inconsolable sobs.

Oh Satan, please take me and carry me away from these people.

I black out.

Upon awakening, I lie on the floor encircled by the figure’s demonic face, the room lit only by candles placed at five points around me. A pentagram. I try to sit up, but my chest heaves backward. Bound, senseless, I am trapped.

I force my head to the side only to make eye contact with Mama, cloaked in black and holding her Satanic bible. She chants, and I recognize Latin, the dead language.

“Mama!” I shout. “Mama!”

No response.

“Mama, do you hear me? Is this body not fit for Satan? Is this why you’re choosing to do this?”

She closes the bible, producing a knife from her waist pocket.

“Mama, do you love me?”

“The bodily vessel you reside in must surrender to Satan. The first domain is conquered, and satanic happiness will follow you to the gates of his kingdom in fire.”

Mama stands above me and raises the knife.

“No, Mama! I am your boy. You love me, don’t you? You love Satan, but you love me, and I love you. Please, listen!”

“Ave Satanas!” She plunges the knife down to my weak frame. An arm reaches out, grasping her hand inches above my chest. The scarred figure who acknowledged me before wrestles the knife from Mama.

“No! You cannot interfere with the work of Sa—” she begins, but the figure throws Mama to the ground. As she attempts to scream, she is silenced by a swift slice to the throat.

The figure turns to me. I think I may succumb to the same fate, but it instead saws the black stitches, freeing its mouth.

“Come!” It issues to the others. Two by two, they ride up the shaft and into the light.

Mama does not stir.

I do not want to close my eyes for fear that void of death that awaits me will be a painful and lonely one. There are no prayers to be whispered. Tears, the closest I can come to reconciliation, saturate my face. The taste of my comfort food fades into my drying mouth.

“Tar-an-gi-o-li-o,” I say to myself and gaze into the textures of the rope bindings. No longer am I free, but alone. Deathly alone.

Kelsee Baker is a senior at CASA Charter School.

Student Scribes: Curfew

July 31, 2015 | by Andrew Huyghue

My phone vibrated as the final five seconds of the state playoff game counted down.
“If you don’t make it back by midnight, I’m gonna whoop your ass!”

It was from my mom.

“We’ll make it back in time, right?” I asked my best friend, Andre.

“Jalen, we could drive home in a golf cart and still have two hours to spare. Don’t worry bro.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to focus my attention on the basketball game, which had a score of 102-101. Our high school, Robertson, was winning. There was one second left, when the infamous John Doe, a guard from our hated arch rival school, McLendon High, made the shot that won the game.

We headed to the exits, our heads down. When the kids from McLendon filed on the bus, Andre motioned for me to follow him outside, where we met up with a mob of Robertson kids.

“They wanna beat us in our own house? Let’s show em a lil’ something,” Andre goaded the other kids, finishing the last of a Heineken. He fell into my arms.

“Go home Andre, you’re drunk,” I told him.

Before he could reply, he vomited into the bushes near the school.

Crazy things happen when a broke, ghetto school like Robertson meets up with a high-class, privileged, white school like McLendon. Andre darted towards McLendon’s principal, Mrs. Coconuts. Before I could stop him, he raised his hand to Mrs. Coconuts’ head and pulled her wig right off, throwing it into the bushes. Andre walked away laughing hysterically, and our large group of kids fell to the ground, laughing out of control.

“C’mon bro, let’s just go home,” I said to Andre.

We had an interesting friendship. He was always the more popular kid, got all the girls, but most of all he always got in trouble. I was quieter, smarter and got Andre out of trouble. They say opposites attract. We were the perfect match.

Andre unbuttoned his pants and started to relieve himself on the McLendon bus. One of the players from McLendon jumped off the bus and got in Andre’s face. But Andre was never one to back down. He took a deep breath and spit on the face of the McLendon kid.

That did it.

Kids from McLendon stampeded out of the bus and met up face to face with our school. Punches were thrown. Hair was pulled. Weaves got yanked out. As I tried to break up the brawl, there was a kid who went to our school—and to this day I can never remember his name—but I definitely remember him clocking me in the right eye for no reason during the fight, and me falling to the ground. Another kid from my school got knocked out as the world turned black for me.

Once the cops had shown up, everyone ran away. (Whenever you see a bunch of black people run, don’t think, JUST RUN.) As I tried to catch up to them, a painful sting zapped my back. I turned around and saw a police officer pointing a taser at me. Someone grabbed me from behind and screamed, “Rape!” A police officer clamped handcuffs on my wrists. Andre and the boys escaped, just ahead of me.

As I leaned into the police car, I remembered I still had to get home before midnight. It was 7:42 p.m.

“Lucky boy,” the police officer said as he unhooked the handcuffs revealing marks around my wrist that I still have today. I raised my eyebrows. “Looks like an anonymous someone paid your bail. You’re free to go.”

I tried to hold in my smile. I started to walk away when the officer grabbed my arm.
“I don’t want to ever see you here again, boy.”

I nodded my head as sweat poured down my face. I rushed to the exit, and checked my phone. It read 9:08 p.m. A sober Andre pulled into the parking lot with my car. The bumper fell off at my feet.

“You’re welcome,” Andre said with a smirk. I pulled him from the driver’s seat and took over. Silence blanketed us. I wanted to chew him out, but I was always scared of him, so I didn’t. As I drove ahead, red taillights flooded the Interstate. I sucked my teeth— accident. We sat bumper-to-bumper trading middle fingers, until I made my way to an exit and found a back road.

It was 10:02 p.m.

Driving along an unlit country road, an old woman appeared out of nowhere right in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes, hitting my head on the steering wheel.

“What the—”. I rolled down the window.
“You’ve got to help! My grandson, he’s unconscious!”

“Call 911?”

I started to reverse the car in order to get away from her.

“There’s no cell service,” Andre said. I was so intent on getting home on time; I had forgotten he was even here. I looked down the road, which was more deserted than a deadbeat daddy’s family.

The old woman banged on the car door.

“Look, Mrs. Doubtfire, I don’t have time for your games; I’ve got somewhere to be,” I said.

“Is that more important than saving this kid’s life?” Andre asked me. His face looked stern and serious, a stark contrast from how he was just a few hours ago. Of all times, now he wanted to be considerate.

“You’re the only hope I have,” the old lady said as a tear dropped down her cheek.
“All right!” I said as I rolled my eyes.

I busted the door open, which almost knocked the woman over. It took all my strength to throw the unconscious, overweight child into the back of my small Subaru. When I strapped him in, his shirt lifted up and racks of jellyrolls hung out.

“Hurry!” The old woman snapped as she buckled up. I got in the driver’s seat and drove off to the hospital, away from home. By the time Andre and I got back into the car, 10:57 p.m.

“We still have time,” I said to Andre. He nodded his head in agreement. “You’ve been fairly quiet,” I said.

He stared towards the window, somber. “This is the first time—”.

A car rammed into the side of ours.

The airbag smacked me in the face. As I tumbled from the car, I tried to stand, but fell back to the ground. My precious car was mangled. How did we survive this?

“Are you okay?” Andre asked me from somewhere in the pitch black night.
Blood ran down my face. I reached for my phone to call 911. 11:27 p.m.

“If you don’t make it back by midnight, I’m gonna whoop your ass!”

I approached Andre who was staring at the ground.

“We gotta get outta here.”

“Are you crazy?” Andre said.

“Just trust me.”

We left the accident scene. I spotted a nearby Ford perched in a driveway. I smashed the window. Glass shards sliced my fists.

“Jalen! You’re going too far!” Andre screamed at the top of his lungs. “Look who’s talking,” I said as I got inside the car.

I learned to hijack cars from my Uncle Bernie who I never wanted to be like, but, boy, would he be proud of me now. Andre couldn’t wipe the shock off his face as we drove off in the stolen car.

I pushed the gas pedal down like I was Paul Walker in a “Fast and Furious” movie. A police siren blared behind me. When the police gestured for me to pull over, I just floored it. Andre opened his door and dove out of the car right before I hit a roadblock.

My mom visited me in jail. At first, I was relieved to see her. Until she grabbed me by the ear and whooped me right then and there in front of everyone.

Andrew Huyghue is a freshman at CASA Charter School.

New Director Named for Susquehanna Art Museum

July 30, 2015 | by Lawrance Binda

An interior gallery at the Susquehanna Art Museum.

The Susquehanna Art Museum has named Alice Anne Schwab as its new executive director.

Schwab last served as director of education for the Harrisburg Symphony Orchestra and currently serves on the boards of several local non-profit organizations.

Schwab replaces Laurene Buckley, who served a little over two years in the post. Under her tenure, the museum constructed its new facility, which opened in January at N. 3rd and Calder streets in Midtown Harrisburg.

In this position, Schwab will oversee the day-to-day operations of the museum, supervising both the administrative and creative teams to create a “premier regional art museum,” according to the museum’s announcement.

To learn more about the Susquehanna Art Museum, visit www.sqart.org.

TheBurg Podcast, July 24, 2015

July 24, 2015 | by Admin

Welcome to TheBurg Podcast, a weekly roundup of news in and around Harrisburg.

July 24, 2015: This week, Larry and Paul recover from the big-ticket news binge of last Friday’s podcast and chat about this week’s more quotidian developments: the Broad Street Market is looking for a new manager, Kipona is moving back to the Riverfront, the Civil War Museum wants to stay open and all over town there are some really big trash cans.

Special thanks to Paul Cooley, who wrote our theme music. Check out his podcast, the PRC Show, on SoundCloud or in the iTunes store.

TheBurg Podcast can be downloaded by clicking on the date above or by visiting the iTunes store. You can also access the podcast via its host page.

Most Kipona Activities Return to Riverfront Park

July 22, 2015 | by Lawrance Binda

A scene from the pow-wow at last year’s Kipona.

The city administration today announced details for the upcoming Kipona festival, stating that many activities will return to Riverfront Park.

The three-day festival, held yearly over the Labor Day weekend, will feature many events familiar to Kipona, such as canoe races, a kid’s festival, music, food and vendors.

Kipona will revert to its traditional format of most events taking place along the waterfront in Riverfront Park, while such activities as the Native American pow-wow and the karate tournament will be on City Island.

Last year, most activities migrated across the Walnut Street Bridge to City Island, leaving only a handful of vendors in Riverfront Park.

Hours will be Saturday, Sept. 5, and Sunday, Sept. 6, noon to 9 p.m., and Monday, Sept. 7, noon to 6 p.m. Fireworks will take place on Sunday. The Harrisburg Senators also will play games all three days.

“We will have food and live music all three days in Riverfront Park,” said Mayor Eric Papenfuse. “And we’re not forgetting about the children. There will face painting, balloons, caricaturists and even the Cobblestone Players to make this a true family festival.”

Street parking will be free on Sunday and Monday. Parking will be available throughout the festival on City Island for a flat rate of $3.

Dugan Resigns as Broad Street Market Manager

July 17, 2015 | by Lawrance Binda

The courtyard and stone building of Harrisburg’s Broad Street Market.

Ashlee O. Dugan soon will leave her position as manager of Harrisburg’s historic Broad Street Market, which continues to struggle with manager retention.

In her resignation letter, Dugan told the board of the Broad Street Market Corp. that she would leave effective July 29 to take a job as the PA Preferred Coordinator for the state Department of Agriculture.

“This experience has been a unique one full of challenges and successes,” she wrote to the board. “I am grateful for the opportunity to have served this beloved place. I am confident that the market is facing in the right direction, and I see amazing things on the horizon.”

Dugan has served in the post since June 2014. The market has had six interim and permanent managers since 2010.

Joshua Kesler, who recently was named board president, said he is sorry to see Dugan go, but hopes that she might be able to assist the market in her new position. He added that the board now would initiate a nationwide search for a new manager.

“We’re going to take our time and find the best possible candidate, “ he said. “I think we’ll be able to find that person.”

In the meantime, Barbara Skelley, who served as market manager from 1995 to 2003, has agreed to take over in a part-time, interim capacity.

In a phone interview, Dugan said she regards recruiting new vendors to the market and starting Farmers at Broad, a monthly outdoor producer’s market, as two of her greatest successes. In recent months, about 10 new vendors have come into the market.

Despite these strides, Dugan said that the market continues to struggle with such challenges as market infrastructure, which was long neglected, and a negative public perception of the market due to past problems.

In addition, she said that she strongly agrees with the recommendation that the market move to a non-profit structure. The Broad Street Market Task Force made that suggestion in a recently released report.

Kesler praised Dugan for achievements during her tenure, saying the market is now “on the right track.”

“A lot of work has already been done to make it stable for the next person,” he said.

In one of her last official acts, Dugan announced that the market will extend its opening time by one hour, to 6 p.m., on Thursdays and Friday. The extension, she said, will help people who wish to shop or get a bite to eat after work.

This story was updated to reflect the interim market manager and extended hour announcements.

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