Musical Notes: May Montage–Something for everyone this month.

April 30, 2015 | by Andrew Dyrli Hermeling

Whether you’re in the mood for literary songwriting, ethereal pop or genre-defying frenetic rock, May has a live show perfectly suited for your tastes. And, as spring nears its finish line, there is no better time for live music. Days are longer, and the evenings are warm. So either relax or move to the beat, just make sure to order a beverage and take in May’s musical offerings.

FREEDY JOHNSTON, 5/7, HMAC, TIME AND ADMISSION TBD
One of the ‘90s most acclaimed singer-songwriters, Freedy Johnston has continued to build upon his extensive repertoire. He will by stopping by the capital of the Commonwealth in support of his forthcoming LP, “Neon Repairman.” Like many of his contemporaries, Johnston has used a faltering record industry to his advantage, taking creative direction into his own hands and producing his most recent work through private fundraising. This is fitting considering he is often referred to as “a songwriter’s songwriter.” This is a perfect show for fans of Neil Young, Tom Petty or Elvis Costello.

ERIC + ERICA w/SHAWAN & THE WONTON, 5/8, 6:30PM, LITTLE AMPS DOWNTOWN
Dreampop seems to make a lot more sense come the warmer months. It’s hazy yet inviting, never in too much of a hurry, but not morose. Durham, N.C.’s Eric + Erica perfectly exemplify these particular characteristics. Their live performances feature such exotic instrumentation as autoharp and foot pedal bass synth. Yet their music is also somehow familiar and reassuring. Since the release of their first album “This is Where”in 2013, they have been constantly touring. They are wrapping up their second full-length album, due to be released later this year. They will be joined by local artist Shawan & the Wonton.

JON SPENCER BLUES EXPLOSION, 5/27, 8PM, ABBEY BAR, $15
Formed more than 20 years ago, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion has earned a reputation for musical iconoclasm and limitless experimentation. Drawing influences from such divergent styles as R&B, noise rock and rockabilly, they have worked with equally diverse artists such as Ad Rock, Elliott Smith and Steve Albini. Their live shows are high energy and electric, disorienting yet still somehow indisputably rock n’ roll. Either way, this is a show that will surely make you move.

Mentionables: Vacationer, 5/1, The Millworks; Cruisr, 5/8, FedLive; the Baseball Project, 5/15, HMAC; Steven Wilson, 5/23, Whitaker Center; Kelly Zullo, 5/30, Midtown Scholar

Upgrade Your Anchors: Good style starts from the bottom, up.

April 30, 2015 | by Dave Marcheskie

Getting a fresh pair of kicks as a kid was the best feeling, right? Inside that future diorama vessel was one’s status. A new pair of Nike Air or Adidas shell tops (Airwalks once) would always impress your classmates.

As an adult, nothing will make a man more impressive than a pair of proper footwear—the true anchors of men’s style.

After this column debuted in February (I’ve noticed a lot more pocket squares around town, nice job!), a lot of guys asked questions regarding shoes. What color goes with what color suit? Wingtips or double monk-strap? And, if you can’t name one men’s shoes designer other than Nike, we’re in trouble.

Basics. Men’s shoes are broken down into four main food groups: oxfords, loafers, casual and athletic. Oxfords are any variety of dress shoes with laces; loafers are without laces. Casual can be boots, boat shoes or sneakers, but not running shoes—that’s athletic. Think Converse’s iconic Chuck Taylors vs. Reebok ZPump Fusion—a ‘90s comeback!

Any man should have at least a pair of black and brown dress shoes, any variety. Match your shoes with your belt—always! Black shoes work best with navy, gray, charcoal or black suits. Brown shoes pair well with navy, tan, coffee and even some medium-gray suits. Wanna go further? Oxblood-colored shoes work best with blue suits and walnut plays nicely with light gray. For better visuals, there are plenty of shoe-and-suit combo charts online and on Pinterest.

Fellas, they might be comfortable, but please stop wearing the square-toed, thick-soled Dockers or Rockport slip-ons that come in wonderful shades of matte Tootsie Roll. Stop it. You helped kill cobblers. If there’s one thing to splurge a little on, let it be shoes.

A well-dressed, professional man should have polished, hard-soled dress shoes. Think about it: Our eyes are attracted to the shine and quality. Take a close look at Jimmy Fallon’s shoes next time.

Remember: clean, simple details truly matter.

If you can afford it, choose Allen Edmonds ($250 to $385). Me? I try to fit my 12E feet at shoe outlets like DSW or online. eBay will even have discounted off-season styles.

You’ll never go wrong with a classic pair of wingtips with broguing (tiny holes). These often showcase a shoemaker’s well-stitched leatherwork. Style fact: the holes were originally designed for Celtic countrymen to allow bog water to seep out. Choose a lighter brown pair with a deep burnish at the toe. You can also achieve this look yourself with dark shoe polish.

If you want something a little trendier, the double-monk strap is top choice. Pick up a pair without broguing for a streamlined look. Double monk-straps are great versatile anchors for work and play. You can wear ‘em with chinos or jeans with either a blazer or button-down.

Want to really stand out? Spectators are great wingtips for summer. They’re the two-tone, bone-and-biscuit shoe that’ll impress anyone at that wedding or garden party.

If you already have decent dress shoes, I have one easy and affordable tip that’ll set you apart—colored laces. You may have noticed this style creep up in out-of-the-box kicks, as well. Swap out those brown or black dress shoelaces for your favorite color. You can get a four-pack for $7 on Amazon. This is especially great for your casual leather boots and suede chukkas.

“Boat dockers” are another great staple for summer. Try rocking a colored canvas pair instead of the brown leather Sperry’s. Canvas shoes are more breathable and infinitely better looking than sandals with socks—or Crocs.

Once you’ve plopped down a pretty penny for your penny loafers, you must invest in shoetrees. They are usually made of cedar (to defeat stinky feet) and fit inside your shoe to help keep its form and shape. This decreases unwanted creases where your toes flex.

Since the cobbler closed downtown, your best bet is to head to Top Shelf Menswear in New Cumberland. I’ve noticed Dave Wise has a forest of shoetrees and will prune your bad habits with his extensive knowledge on this stuff.

Wise would even tell ya, “Keep ‘em shined!” No Internet banana-peel tricks. Just use some good, old-fashioned shoe polish, an old T-shirt and elbow grease. Women may still have our closets beat with quantity of shoes, but we should at least battle back with quality. Remember, it always feels good to upgrade your anchors.

Our Sharp Press Man, Dave Marcheskie, is a reporter for abc27 News. If you’d like to ask Dave a question, please email it to [email protected]. He may use it in a future column.

This column is sponsored by and the shoes were provided by Top Shelf Menswear, 300 Bridge St., New Cumberland, 717-770-2080. www.topshelfmenswear.com.

CASA Student Scribes: Fade Away

April 30, 2015 | by Yaasmeen Piper

My eyes flutter open. The light hanging above my head nearly blinds me. The first thing I see: the wooden ceiling covered in chipped red paint. To my right is a wall full of old wine bottles, cardboard boxes with baby clothes spilling out, and numerous bobble heads my dad swore he threw out.

I’m in my shed.

I have no idea how I got here, but I guess it’s better than laying in a ditch somewhere or waking up with a face tattoo. Now that I think about it, I grab my face feeling for any abnormalities when red catches my eye. Blood. With having two older brothers the sight of blood is nothing new, but seeing my hands and t-shirt covered in it and possessing no memory of how it got there gives me an uneasy feeling. I scan my body looking for any open wounds. Nothing, and other than the throbbing in my head, I feel no pain. I gradually sit up and immediately feel hundreds of tiny soldiers stomp around in my head. I rub my temples but the throbbing continues. Tiny drops of blood scatter around my sneakers. I raise my head to see a trail of blood leading to the door. I follow them. I expect to see a dead body at the end of it. It’s probably Jack the Jock. I always hated that guy with his perfect hair and perfect teeth. Maybe my drunk self ripped them out. The thought kind of makes me smile.

The trail ends at the door. Slowly, I creep the door open, preparing for the worst. I’m greeted by blinding sunlight. I examine my surroundings: grass with daisies and tulips popping up from the ground, a tall oak tree, which I jumped off in seventh grade and broke my leg, and a white house full of parents that are probably looking for an explanation. No dead body, but a bloody handprint smudged at the doorjamb as if the person stumbled out of the shed. Around the fingernail impressions, four tiny indents mar the wood, each displaying a piece of purple paint. I match my hand to them. The fingers are too skinny to be mine, which confirms my original theory: the blood scattered around the shed and on my clothes doesn’t belong to me.

The Monday morning chatter at school consists of Natalie Thelman’s party. The hundreds that attended recalled their favorite moments (like when Trish threw up on Ava and Chad did the “chicken challenge,” whatever that is). Those who didn’t go told stories they heard had from others. I don’t remember any of it, the entire night a blur. The last thing I remember after walking in with Travis is seeing Lila. From twenty feet away, I still smelled her: fresh strawberries and rain. It made me sick watching her straddle Jack the Jock that night, knowing we had broken up just two weeks before.

I find Travis in the main hall, eager to tell him about the blood I found in the shed. I wave at him from a few feet away, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. His body stiffens, face goes pale as if he’s going to puke any second.

“Hey Travis,” I call after him, catching up to him. “Why do you…” I pause, following his gaze. About ten police officers scatter around the hallway. Two officers talk to our principal, Ms. Andrews. The others chat up some students who look like they’re about to crap their pants.

“Ah man, this is it, “ says Travis, trembling. “I knew I shouldn’t have downloaded all that illegal music. Oh god, I can’t make it in prison. Do you see this face? I’ll be someone’s bitch within the first twenty-four hours.”

“Calm down. I’m sure they aren’t here for you.” But my heartbeat quickens. What if they know about the blood in the shed? What if I really did hurt someone? What if I murdered someone?

“…I’ll move to Canada and change my name, “ Travis continues. “William Chatterberry. Yeah, I like that.“

“Hey,” I call to a girl named April as she struts my way. “Do you know why they’re here?” I motion toward the cops.

She looks both ways then leans in.

“That Charlie girl went missing Friday night,” she whispers. “The last time anyone saw her was at Natalie’s party.”

Charlie Westbrooks, Crestwood’s infamous rebel. I have creative writing class with her. I usually joke around in that class unlike Charlie. Her poetry and stories are rich and oozing with pain. Every time she presents I get lost in her chaotic world. I just never heard someone so…broken.

Travis lets out a loud sigh of relief and collapses back onto the lockers.

“Do they have any leads?” I stuff my shaking hands in my pocket.

April shakes her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Excuse me.” I squeeze past her and start toward the officers. I keep my eyes focused on everything but them. I lean down to tie my shoe close enough to overhear one of the conversations.

“Last time I saw her she was in the pool—fully clothed,” says a student. “She was alone.”

“Do you know anything about Ms.Thelman’s car?”

He shakes his head.

Suddenly a cold hand grips my arms and pulls me into a dark classroom.

“What the hell?” I stare down at my little sister, Riley.

“I should ask you the same thing.” She shoves her phone in my face. I pull her hand back and stare at the picture. Natalie, in a black crop top and skinny jeans, chugs beer straight from the keg while a plethora of teens cheer her on.

“Wow,” I say, sarcasm lacing my voice. “Natalie sure is impressive.”

“Not that, you idiot.” She takes the phone and zooms in on two people. It’s a moment before I realize one of them is me. The other Charlie. It looks like we’re stepping out into the backyard. My arm is laced around hers. I’m smiling like an idiot staring at the ground. Charlie stares into the camera looking like a deer in headlights. My focus zooms in on her hand resting on the doorway, mostly her fingernails. Her purple fingernails.

Oh god. “Oh god.” My hands shake so severely I nearly drop the phone.

“I know. Garrett told me he saw Charlie pulling off in Natalie’s car with someone. He couldn’t identify the passenger. Let’s keep it that way. If the police saw this you could get in some serious trouble.”

They’d take me into questioning no doubt. What would I say? Sorry officer, I was too drunk to remember anything, but I did wake up with her blood all over me and I’m just now telling you about it. I might as well just write guilty on my forehead.

“Crap crap crap,” I pace the floor. “Who else has seen this?”

“I found it on Garrett’s phone. He left at the party.”

“Delete it. Now.” My voice came out more menacing than intended. I can’t shake this uneasy feeling in my gut. The last time I got that drunk was when my father caught my mother cheating on him. It tore the family apart and I was a wreck for months, but even then I remembered most things. This night comes up completely blank.

“Even if I did delete it, what if someone else has it on camera? What if the police see it?” says Riley.

I press my palms into my eyes. She’s right. There’s only one thing left to do.

“I need to find Charlie.”

Walking home I keep looking over my shoulder expecting a swat team to roll out of the bushes at any moment. I thought it was over when the cops left the school until I see them posted in Joe’s Coffee Shop and some local gas stations. I panic and quickly alter my path. I cut toward Perch Park. Silence and tall trees with decaying leaves surround me. Most importantly, it was cop free. My body relaxes. Something I haven’t done since Sunday morning.

A car engine roars in the distance. I see sunbeams bounce off the red and blue siren. I freeze. Cops. Without thinking, I dash through the woods, my arms in perfect right angles. I keep running until my lungs overflow with air and my knees begin to give out. I collapse onto the leaves and my back strikes a cold, metal object. I groan in agony. I look behind me to see a pastel, blue convertible. Band stickers cover the passenger’s side door and a pair of tiny flip flops hang from the mirror. This car could only belong to one person: Natalie Thelman.

Charlie has to be close and I need to find her before the police do. I scan the car. Glass litters the front seat. An orange towel, spotted with red is tucked under the driver’s seat . A blue cabin, overgrown with vines and moss, and looking like it could collapse at any moment, appears a few feet away. A shadow moves across the second story window. My heart skips a beat. A tiny voice in the back of my mind echoes: Charlie. I grab the largest stick I could find and creep closer, peeking through the window. There’s a single floral couch. No Charlie in sight. I inch toward the front door and pull the knob. Unlocked. If the person who kidnapped/ murdered Charlie is here they sure are dumb. What criminal leaves the door unlocked? Unless there’s something in here they want me to find.

The wood creaks under my Doc Martens. The room reeks of dust and moss, the sun escaping from the cracked windows my only source of light. The thump of footsteps comes closer. I tiptoe up the stairs holding the stick out in front of me, stopping at the second to top step. I lean against the wall until I look into one of the bedrooms. There’s a twin bed with a thick white blanket. I was about to dismiss the room as clear when a male body moves into view. Tattoos run down his arm and poke out of the back of his black tank top. He talks into a flip phone and by his red face and the vein popping out of his forehead, I can see he’s not happy.

I tighten my grip around the stick and inch closer.

I’m going to die. This man is ten times bigger than me, but what do I have to lose? Soon I’ll be the number one suspect in the missing Charlie case.

A step closer.

Who will get my things? I never had time to write a will. Oh god, I hope Travis clears my internet history.

I step into the second floor hallway. The guy slowly turns my way when I feel damp hands wrap around my mouth and pull my shirt. They drag me down the hall. I had no time to scream or react before they slam me against a wall and flick on the light. I was about to protest but then I notice the thick red curls. I smile. Charlie.

My mouth opens as her chipped, purple fingernails crush my throat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” says Charlie. “ Do you have a death wish?” Her grip tightens. My windpipe grows narrower and narrower.

“You’re. Choking. Me.” I gasp. Her face remains stern but she removes her hand. I dive in and hug her, happy that she’s here and breathing instead of a bag of bones. Her arms shoot up as if she’s about to be arrested. I hear something crunch. I feel a thick cloth on her lower abdomen.

I reach my hand toward it. “Hey what’s—” She smacks my hand away.

“Charlie?” I hear a male voice call.

“I’m fine, Lee.”

“Lee?” I whisper to her. “You’re friends with your kidnapper?” Oh no. She’s delusional.

“Kidnapper? What are you. . .you need to go now.” Charlie nudges me toward the door but I push her hand away.

“No. Not until we call the police and I get some damn answers. Half the town is looking for you.”

Her expression softens and I swear I see tears swell in her eyes. “They’re… they’re looking for me?”

“Yes. That’s what the town does when people go missing. Now, let’s go.” I grab her by her arm but she slaps my hands away.

“No. I can’t.”

“You have to. People think you’re dead.”

“Let them think that.”

“And they think I did it.” Well, that’s not exactly true. Not yet anyways. “Why was your blood all over my shed?” I look down at her lower abdomen. “What happened that night?”

“It’s better you don’t remember.”

I step closer to her. “What happened to you?”

“Leave it alone, Noah.” She turns away from me.

“Tell me. Did I hurt you?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Tell me. I can take it.”

She shakes her head.

“Please.”

Charlie stands face to face with me. She searches for something in my eyes, then speaks. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

Yaasmeen Piper is a senior at Capital Area Charter School for the Arts.

Peace in the City: In Riverfront Park, a tranquil, inspirational respite.

April 30, 2015 | by Missy Smith

Walking or jogging through Riverfront Park, you may get a serene feeling as you enter the Peace Garden.

You might see garden coordinator Gwen Lehman in the dirt, volunteering her time to give some love to the various flowers planted throughout the natural, tranquil space. Or maybe you have only seen the garden as a blur through the car window while traveling down N. Front Street.

As May brings its sun and warmth, Peace Garden will begin to show its true magnificence, offering an oasis of calm and beauty amidst the busy city.

Up for the Challenge

Peace Garden traces its roots to 1990, when Harrisburg pediatrician James Jones returned from a gathering of the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War in Hiroshima, Japan.

“The co-founder of [IPPNW], Dr. Bernard Lown, challenged us to create parks to affirm life’s fragility and the human spirit’s resilience,” recalled Jones, who at the time was president of the Harrisburg-Hershey chapter of U.S. affiliate Physicians for Social Responsibility (PSR). “There are many parks and statues dedicated to wars, battles and soldiers, but few to the protection of the environment and the pursuit of peace.”

He came home inspired and ready to act and was met with a positive response from members of PSR and city officials in Harrisburg.

The physicians envisioned an artistically designed, natural public space with annual and perennial plants, striking sculptures and a coming together as a community.

“The Peace Garden planted flowers and trees for beauty and ideas promoting peace, justice and the environment, in plaques and sculptures overlooking the beautiful Susquehanna River,” explained James.

Local organizations, churches, rotary foundations and social clubs donated the plaques.

“[The donors] really represent a broad spectrum of Harrisburg,” said Lehman. “As stated on the dedication plaques at each of the designated, three-block areas along the beautiful Susquehanna River, the Peace Garden is dedicated to the pursuit of peace and the preservation of our earth.”

The overall message, she said, is that the natural world, nations and the welfare of individuals are inextricably linked.

“We hope that people take the time to stop and read the messages on plaques,” she said. “They are some of the most thoughtful ideas from people all over the world.”

A Major Joy

Writer, artist and oral surgeon Frederick Frank—who worked alongside Dr. Albert Schweitzer in Africa—created life-size sculptures depicting the infamous destruction in Hiroshima, while allowing viewers to reflect on the power of new life and hope that is born after horror.

Long-time coordinator Michael Lehman designed the main garden beds when PSR first created the Peace Garden. Five years ago, Gwen Lehman took over as coordinator, and, each year, along with PSR volunteers, leads the task of planting all of the flowers and beautifying the garden.

“Physicians for Social Responsibility is primarily in charge of the design, maintenance and upkeep, but the Peace Garden has been a true partnership with the city of Harrisburg,” said Lehman, explaining that the city provides the land, water and some mowing. “They have been great to work with during these 20 years. This is a really positive public/private partnership that I’d really love to see more of.”

This cooperation has allowed Harrisburg-area residents to take time away from their busy lives and to be inspired and to enjoy the peace that only nature can offer.

“I feel good when I’m there, partly because of its beauty and partly because of the inspiration of the things I read when I’m there,” said Lehman. “It is a major joy for me.”

Planting and pruning, she experiences first-hand how much the garden has touched people.

“Almost always, someone stops with appreciation or they call things out as they are running by,” she said. “I think people really do appreciate the fact that there is a place like this in the city. Sometimes, people will hand me $20 while I’m working.”

Lehman also believes that the Peace Garden brings people together in a community who otherwise can be alienated from one another.

“There are typically deep divisions in greater Harrisburg, between people who are financially challenged and who are not,” she said. “Peace Garden is really a space where all aspects of our community come together. We all need to be reminded of the power of ideas for good, and I think natural beauty is the most effective way of taking us outside of ourselves.”

Keep Peace Alive

Maintaining the Peace Garden takes a large commitment of resources.

PSR has a core group of volunteers dedicated to ensuring that the garden continues to thrive, but, as with any volunteer effort, donations of time are much needed, especially around the middle of May.

“In one day, we’ll put in about 1,000 individual plants,” Lehman said. “That’s the time of greatest need in terms of physical labor.”

PSR also needs volunteers who can help with routine weeding in the summer, she added.

And, of course, donations are always welcomed.

“This is an expensive endeavor, to put in the number of flowers we plant every year,” said Lehman. “We put in the irrigation system, which was expensive. We hire a landscaping company to do heavy lifting for us, and they edge all of the beds.”

Each October, PSR holds an annual banquet, which is a major fundraiser for the garden. Also, it has established an endowment fund through The Foundation for Enhancing Communities to help support the work.

“All the funds to carry out the mission are privately provided by Physicians for Social Responsibility, other individuals and organizations,” said Jones.

Those wishing to donate funds to the Peace Garden can do so by contacting The Foundation for Enhancing Communities at 717-236-5040 or by visiting www.tfec.org.

For more information about the Harrisburg-Hershey chapter of the Physicians for Social Responsibility and the Peace Garden, visit www.psr.org/chapters/harrisburg.

Eat With Purpose: Good food, a good cause at the monthly Harrisburg Food Truck Feast.

April 30, 2015 | by Rebecca Hanlon

Olivia and Rodrigo Madrigal

Olivia Madrigal wants to give something back to the city that has supported her through the years.

As the co-owner of MAD Sandwiches and the organizer of 3rd in The Burg’s Harrisburg Food Truck Feast, Madrigal looked on the masses that flood Midtown Harrisburg those Friday nights and wondered if they could all work together to do something great.

“Any time I’ve ever had the opportunity to give back, I’m overwhelmed by how great it feels,” Madrigal said. “I wanted to magnify that.”

Madrigal came up with the idea to benefit a different Harrisburg-based charity each month during the feast, which takes place at N. 3^rd and Harris streets every third Friday of the month through October.

A different organization has been selected for each month, and donation boxes and cash jars will be set out so visitors can make contributions, Madrigal said. While she hasn’t set any goals for how much she wants to collect each month, she knows every little bit helps feed someone who is hungry or clothe someone who has nothing.

“We wish we had enough resources to reach out beyond Harrisburg, but we don’t want to stretch ourselves too thin,” Madrigal said. “Instead, I think we can make a greater impact on the organizations that are doing good work right here.”

She also hopes to give incentives to encourage people to donate, such as coupons to use at the food trucks or random drawings for event tickets. Whatever helps people give, she said, is worth it.

Food trucks that participate in the monthly event also are doing their part to give back. Part of the $60 fee for each participating truck covers advertising, a special events license from the city and the rental of portable toilets. Any money left over after those initial fees will be donated to charity, Madrigal said.

The first charity to benefit during the April feast was the Central Pennsylvania Food Bank. Brad Peterson, director of communications for the organization, said they usually ask for non-perishable items, such as peanut butter, canned tuna and canned fruits and vegetables. Cereal, pasta, rice and soups also tend to be in high demand, he said.

The impact the food bank has on Dauphin County alone is substantial, Peterson said.

In 2014, Dauphin County residents received 7.4 million pounds of food, or the equivalent of 6.1 million meals, he said. The food bank served about 22,500 households in Dauphin County that same year, he said.

Dauphin County is one of 27 counties the food bank serves and has just a fraction of the 55,000 people who use its services each week.

“The food bank relies on donations to fulfill our mission,” he said. “More than 80 percent of the food we distribute comes from donations, so public support and donations are vital to our work and the people we serve.”

The YWCA of Greater Harrisburg is the charity selected for May, Madrigal said.

The organization provides care to single women and children through its emergency shelter, and it empowers those women through its housing program, clothing and food bank, life skills education and drug and alcohol recovery support groups.

Tina Nixon, chief executive officer of the YWCA of Greater Harrisburg, said she thought adding a charity element to the feast was a great way to make the event about everyone in the community.

“It’s good that the community is engaged in what we do,” Nixon said. “We see a lot of women come here who want to give back later. There seems to be this constant circle of support in Harrisburg, and I’m so grateful for it.”

The YWCA is often in need of new bath towels, hand towels, pillows and twin sheet sets, Nixon said. They also need umbrellas, underwear and socks. Gift cards for groceries, clothing stores and other items also are accepted.

Many of the women who seek refuge in the emergency shelter arrive with just the clothes on their backs, Nixon said. Anything the shelter can give them—from a toothbrush to a new sweater—is a great comfort, she said.

Madrigal hopes to spread the word about each month’s charity through announcements on NASH FM 106.7, as well as on the event’s Facebook page.

Some people didn’t come to the feast last year, she said, because they felt they didn’t have anywhere to park. She hopes people keep in mind that they can park directly in the lot where the trucks are set up at no additional cost.

For Madrigal, the opportunity to give back is a call she has to answer. She still has a few charities to add to the calendar for the rest of the year, but she knows that any organization they choose will benefit.

“There’s a lot of need in our community,” she said. “We want to give back without seeking anything in return. This city means that much to us.”

Harrisburg Food Truck Feast takes places every third Friday of the month during 3^rd in The Burg. The trucks gather in the parking lot at N. 3^rd and Harris streets starting at 5 p.m. For more information on the featured food trucks and charities, visit their Facebook page: HBG Food Truck Feast. This month, 3^rd in The Burg takes place May 15.

CASA Student Scribes: Advancing Technology

April 30, 2015 | by Kasey Smith

She was beautiful.

Nolan spotted her at the far end of the garage, behind towers of cardboard boxes and avalanches of decades-old fallen debris. He pushed his glasses further up his nose, then rethought and pulled them off to wipe the dust from them. Surely it had messed with his vision—Uncle Ted couldn’t really have had such an old relic in his possession, could he? He hadn’t been interesting enough.

But she was interesting. Nolan waded through the junk towards the treasure, bobbing and weaving around bicycles with tangled pedals and tables stacked with rusty tools until he was there, standing in front of an old Apple II, the second Wozniak wonder of the computer world. This was technological history, right here! Why did Uncle Ted have one? He hated technology; he rarely touched the TV remote, even to the day he died.

Nolan bent down and scrubbed away the grime on the screen with the hem of his sleeve. The poor thing needed heavy TLC, but otherwise seemed in pretty good condition. No cracks in the screen, no jammed keys in the keyboard, and even a functional-looking cassette player. Maybe the stale air of the garage had preserved the Apple II in the height of her beauty, so Nolan could discover her for himself, like realizing the best-wrapped present under the Christmas tree was meant for him.

“Mallory! Look at this!”

He heard reckless stomping around him. Mallory, black hair and oval face smudged with dirt, surfaced from the ruined city of junk. “What? An old computer?”

Nolan heaved a dramatic sigh. “Yes. Ancient. One of the very first Apples.”

“Oh, God,” Mallory said, rolling her eyes. “Is this the part where you criticize my iPhone? Is it too mainstream for you?”

“Look at it, Mals.” He straightened up, gestured to the computer, and invited her to look: the Apple II consisted of a big, blocky monitor, the white casing yellowed with age. It sat on a keyboard three times the size of modern-day models, the keys brown. Despite Nolan’s eagerness, she shook her head.

“I can see it. It’s an old computer.”

“It belongs in a museum!”

“Okay, Indy.”

“Wait! No, she doesn’t!” Nolan whirled back around to the computer, tapping a few keys experimentally. “She’s still salvageable. Maybe I could get her in working order again.”

“Why would you waste your time on it? And why would you call it a she?”

He glared at her over his shoulder. “Because I, unlike you, appreciate history. And you call your laptop Babygirl.”

Mallory scoffed. “Whatever, bro. Have fun trying to download porn onto that.”

Of all Uncle Ted’s possessions, the Apple II was the most valuable. To him, at least. It might get a decent offer if he auctioned it off, but the history contained in this technological landmark was worth more than anything else on the market. Why sell it to some collector who’ll stick it behind glass and do nothing else?

No, the Apple II deserved a thorough examination—and maybe a restoration, if at all possible. Computers were meant to be used. What could happen if he could get a computer nearly fifty years old to work again? How well would it function? What if he could upgrade it to the level of computers today? If he could restore such an old computer, whose processing power was like an infant’s compared to the abilities of those today, he might end up in technological history, too. His name would appear with the Apple II.

Nolan set up shop in his tool shed and got to work. He fixated on the Apple II and made it his mission to bring her back to life, because the world didn’t deserve to lose such a priceless piece of history, such a precious artifact.

Wow. He was turning into Indiana Jones.

But he was certain that this Apple II was as precious as the Holy Grail, or maybe even more. He got the first glimpse of her capability early on into his restoration.

One day, after only a few weeks of scrubbing and updating and programming, Nolan plugged it in and hit the power button. The fans whirred and the screen flickered to life. Nolan fell from his stool when it blazed bright white, awaiting his commands.

“Yes! Oh, my God, I did it!”

When he’d returned to his seat, the screen had darkened again and a welcome message started to scroll across the screen, but the letters flickered and froze. Nolan scowled. “What’s wrong? I cleaned you up. Maybe you have the wrong parts.”

Nolan reached for his screwdriver to take it apart again, but when he sat back down to begin the task, a new message had appeared.

RECONFIGURE BINARY SYSTEM

Nolan’s jaw dropped. A computer that actually told him what she needed? Computers could only tell the user what was wrong: they couldn’t offer solutions.

At least, most couldn’t.

Nolan set the screwdriver aside, found the command line interface, and started typing. He’d need to find some way to re-implement the entire binary code (more likely he’d have to replace the whole thing instead of fixing a few errors, with a system so old). Maybe he could find software that would download the whole code once he removed the corrupted data—

RECONFIGURE BINARY SYSTEM FOR ROMAN ALPHABET

Nolan blinked. “But you’re a computer. You need binary code to function. You aren’t able to understand letters.”

RECONFIGURE BINARY SYSTEM FOR ROMAN ALPHABET

Nolan spoke aloud as he typed back, a habit that always annoyed Mallory. “No.”

RECONFIGURE RECONFIGURE RECONFIGURE

Nolan sighed, his fingers tapping away. “Open binary system.”

Clearly this computer was capable of more than Nolan had fantasized. If she wanted to learn the alphabet, then her capacity extended far beyond what Wozniak intended. How could this be achieved in the seventies? And if she could do all this, how was she lost from fame, stowed away in Uncle Ted’s garage?

Now Nolan had to see the Apple II’s limits. He had to test her thresholds, push her to her brink. He set out to convert her to using the alphabet in her coding, and then began adding other programs like Java. Downloading should have taken ages, but she gobbled the program up almost instantaneously. She wanted to learn, to improve, to exceed expectations. She wanted to reach her own brink.

In return, Nolan felt like she pushed him towards his. He slaved over the Apple II, unwilling to tear himself away from it. It was less about the wonderment and fame now—it was about the Apple II and what she could do. He had to keep going for her, if no one else. He would push himself to push her. Which one would reach their limit first?

He could tell Mallory started to worry about him. She’d peek in on him working and ask how he was doing. He tried to give her a quick answer so she would go away, but she always liked to linger and ask more questions. Sometimes she’d bring him snacks to eat, or insist he’d stop for the night and sleep; but couldn’t she see that his work was more important than eating and sleeping? Besides, the Apple II didn’t want him to stop.

One day, while laboring over the beautiful computer, Nolan noticed a new message appear on the screen. He set down his box cutter (he was pruning wires) and turned to the computer screen, wiping the sweat from his face.

UPLOAD CONSCIOUSNESS

He wasn’t even fazed. He typed back. “How? A human mind is impossible for technology to capture. There’s no way your circuits have the storage, no matter what you want.”

DOWNLOAD CONSCIOUSNESS TO CIRCUITS THEN INSTALL.

He sighed. “With what? How do you propose I do this?”

UPDATED CIRCUITS WITH EXTENDED STORAGE CAPACITY

“You’re so clever.” How did she know he’d bought new circuit boards last week? He pulled them from the drawer he’d stuffed them into and arranged them neatly on his worktable. “Now what?”

COMBINE BIOLOGICAL CIRCUITS WITH TECHNOLOGICAL

“What?”

The Apple II wouldn’t answer again; what choice did he have? He had to give her what she wanted.

He grabbed the box cutter again, rolled up his sleeve, and put the tip to the crook of his elbow. Why was his hand shaking? He was doing what the Apple II wanted. She wouldn’t lead him wrong, would she?

He drew a straight line into the skin of his elbow and held it over the circuit boards. This might contaminate and destroy them. How was this supposed to upload human ingenuity? How was he supposed to share his consciousness with the Apple II? Suddenly a terrible thought entered Nolan’s mind as the circuit boards reddened: maybe she never wanted to share it at all.

He managed to install them just before he collapsed to the floor.

Kasey Smith is a senior at Capital Area School for the Arts Charter School.

CASA Student Scribes: Good Company

April 30, 2015 | by Grace Beatty

Cookie had been missing for a good three days now. No amount of calling could summon him, nor did the stale tuna bits sitting on the back porch lure him home. Sheridan sat on the front stoop all afternoon, waiting for her beige and brown pal. He never showed for his twelve-to-four catnap, not even with his favorite mat placed right in the sun.

With a sigh she heaved herself off the stoop and walked through the young suburbia, halting at the main road. Only thirteen-year-olds were allowed to explore into the forest beyond — her mother’s rule. But what if Cookie had gone in there? She couldn’t wait three years! Looking both ways, she hurried over the asphalt and disappeared down the ridge. The warm spring breeze drifted through the branches above, caressing their baby flower buds. New grass sprigs folded like feathers under her bright orange rain boots.

A loud crunch distracted her. Sheridan turned to see a thistle bush toppled over. A boy her age sprawled on top, startled eyes fixed on her. On instinct she ran as fast as the plastic boots could take her, the pursuer at her heels, footsteps drawing closer with every passing tree. Tripping through brush, she fell to her stomach at the edge of a drop-off, its cliff falling to a rocky outcropping below. Her head spun, the severe drop spinning before her eyes. Scrabbling back from the end she ran into a pair of legs. A hand clutched her shoulder.

“Don’t move!”

Sheridan stared into the trees, frozen. The hand helped her up and turned her around. A boy’s frightened eyes stared into hers, his face dirty, hair littered with small bush leaves. His other hand held a pocketknife, its end pointed at Sheridan’s ribs.

“Don’t move.”

She nodded, gulping her fear.

His gaze hardened. “What are you doing in my woods?”

“Your woods?”

He raised the knife to her head, shaking. “Yes, my woods!”

Tears burned her cheeks. “I’m just looking for my cat!”

He cocked his eyebrows.

“His name is Cookie, it’s on his collar. He’s brownish.”

The boy snorted. “I ain’t seen no collared cat.” He scanned the trees. “Who’s with you?”

“Nobody.”

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Sheridan obeyed. The boy pulled her forward, putting one hand to her neck, knife to her lower torso.

“Okay, go. Slowly.”

She eased through the bushes, the hand pushing her forward, steering her past thick trunks and roots and over an enormous fallen oak. Descending a final hill, they came to a small ravine. The boy’s eyes darted toward the forest behind them, then pushed Sheridan toward an old pine trunk that bridged the two sides.

“You first.”

Looking over the edge, she saw the bubbling stream flow past, wet pebbles reflecting the springtime sun. She gripped the log with two hands. The boy tapped the knife against his thigh.

“Come on!”

With trembling steps, Sheridan climbed up the tree roots, crawling across the slick bark with caterpillar speed. The boy jumped up after her, his sneakers grazing her boots with every step.

Nearing the end branches, the trunk began to thin, and with a slip of her palm, Sheridan’s chin slammed into the tree. She yelped as she straddled it, clinging like a terrified kitten. The boy looked back, then prodded her with his bare foot.

“Go!”

“No, I’ll die!”

He knelt carefully, loosening her legs and pushing her rear.

“No. You. Won’t.”

He peeled her off the trunk, releasing her in a final heave. She toppled onto the grass beyond. His shiny blade passed her head, landing on the dirt. She glanced for a second at its dark wooden handle, “Tim” etched expertly into the finish. The boy snatched it before pulling Sheridan to her feet.

“Back up, come on.”

“Tim?”

“What?”

“That’s you?”

“Yeah, so?”

Sheridan stood, wobbling to the side a bit. She rubbed her chin, a dark red streak appearing on the back of her hand.

“I’m bleeding!”

“You’ll be okay.” He aimed the blade at her once more.

Sheridan whimpered and put her hands behind her back. Prisoner and wild boy crossed the field beyond the tree-bridge, up to their hips in overgrown lawn. An old barn sat abandoned a hundred yards away, a sunken ship upon the sea of grass. Once at the large wooden doors, Tim ordered Sheridan to kneel, which she did, and opened the latch holding the building shut. Musty hay smell greeted their arrival.

Inside, a cat bathed itself on a dirty pillow placed between colorful bottles, running its brown paw over caramel ears, the day’s lunch now a bony carcass on the floor. The cat stopped as they entered, training its dark blue eyes on the pair.

“Cookie!”

Cookie stood up and dropped to the floor, knocking a few of the bottles over. He padded across the dusty floor while Tim rushed over to the fallen glass, forgetting Sheridan. “My collection!”

Sheridan swept Cookie up in a bear hug. “Oh Cookie I missed you so much!” She planted a wet kiss atop the cat’s head.

“That’s not his name.”

Sheridan paused. “What?”

“His name isn’t ‘Cookie.’ It’s Patch.”

“No, it’s Cookie.”

“Where’s his collar then?”

Sheridan felt along Cookie’s neck, searching for the blue leather and safety bell, but found only neck fluff. Cookie mewled and wiggled out of her grip, delicately navigating the shards of glass. The light creeping in reflected off the pieces, sending sepia spots around the barn wall. Sheridan hung her head, eyeing the open door.

Tim stood after gathering his glass in a neat pile on the ground. He headed back to Sheridan and started shoving her towards a ladder in the back corner.

“You’re staying here.”

Sheridan’s boots dug into the ground, slowing her advance. “No.”

“You can’t leave. Just stay up there, please.”

“I want to go home!”

“Don’t yell!” Tim pressed the flat of the knife to her side, forcing her onto the ladder.

Sheridan gazed to the hayloft above, spider webs crisscrossing the rungs, hinting at their hosts waiting in the corners. On the third rung, a wolf spider stalked invisible prey before disappearing. A sliver of evening sun penetrated the dark roof through the loft entrance, illuminating the dust population above, emphasizing the darkness of the space. Her joints locked. All of Tim’s pushing couldn’t force her up. His blade trembled against her.

“Go!”

Bleary-eyed, Sheridan sucked in a breath and wailed. It echoed off the walls, vibrated the hanging dust, and stretched out to fill the barn’s interior. Tim jumped back and covered his ears, nicking his lobe.

“Stop it, stop!”

He lunged for her but she turned, kicking him square in his gut. She drew another breath and continued the barrage of noise. Cookie dove off the pillow and made a beeline for Sheridan’s legs. He leapt onto Sheridan’s back and slid his claws out to hold on, which only made her scream louder. She thrashed about, trying to shake the cat off, and when she did he went flying into Tim’s face.

He flung Cookie off him, sending the cat skittering away, and threw his knife down in a fit of frustration.

Sheridan stopped and stared as he began to cry, his mouth turning into a pout.

“Fine, leave, I don’t care!”

He stomped toward the broken glass and kicked it, the edges scraping up his skin. He sniffled.

Sheridan put her hands on her hips and crinkled her eyebrows. “I’m telling my—”

“No!” Tim whipped around and held out his hands, pleading. “Please! Please don’t tell!” His voice broke between breaths. “I don’t want them to take me away again. Every time I go have fun, and I get in trouble for leaving the house, and Nancy gets mad and sends me to a new house with new parents and no friends.” Now, he started to sob. “I don’t want new parents, I want the old ones!”

Tim curled up and sobbed into the floor for a good while before calming down. The sky outside had turned blood red, illuminating the world with the day’s final glow, reaching through the slats of the barn, warming Sheridan’s boots. Cookie strode up to the poor boy and rested his furry chin on his back, purring. Except for the cat’s soothing purr and the thumping heart in her ears, silence reigned around them.

Sheridan knelt next to Cookie, who gazed at her with his ocean eyes. She spoke, her voice hoarse. “Listen up, Patch. This is Tim, and he’s going to be your new friend. He needs lots of help, because Nancy is mean and he doesn’t have any friends, so that’s going to be your job. You watch him, okay?”

Patch blinked. So it was settled.

Sheridan rose and headed out the door, back across the grassy sea, over the bridge, through the woods, and back to her home, where her mother scolded her for being out so late. She could barely stay awake in school the next day, and as soon as she got home, she headed towards the woods, back to the barn. With a heave she opened the door to no Tim, no Patch. The shards from the day before still lay piled on the ground, a small object placed on top. Sheridan inched closer to see a leather blue collar with a silver bell, ‘Cookie’ inscribed on the dangling nametag. In front of the pile, written in the dirt, was a message: “Thank you.”

They would make good company.

Grace Beatty is a senior at Capital Area School for the Arts Charter School.

Student Scribes: Tricky Transport, Tackling Troubles with Trolleys

April 30, 2015 | by Mary Imgrund

Walking towards the stop, the man sees a bus pull up and drive away within secondsof hisreaching the sign. A 15-minute walk later, he finds himself at the next stop along the way; after waiting 20 minutes, he is left disappointed again. Even after waving and locking eyes with the driver, he is ignored, stranded once again. “I wasn’t worth the stop,” he sarcastically thinks to himself. He decides to take a taxi home.

This story was told to me by a friend who has lived in Harrisburg for most of his life. Though public transportation should be the heart of any city hoping to avoid being cut off from itself, many find personal vehicles necessary to get around the Harrisburg area. Transportation does not need to be that way. Harrisburg used to have trolleys—the proof, their tracks, is buried by asphalt. Though companies who own and operate the bus system might say otherwise, trolleys are the most efficient way to move people.

Not only would a trolley system be more fuel efficient than both buses and privately owned vehicles, it would also cut back on many traffic problems. According to a study implemented by the Central European Programme, trolleys, running on electricity, would demand fewer variable costs than buses running on petroleum, which varies greatly in price. Citizens would enjoy less noise and fewer emissions. Because they cannot move from their tracks, these streetcars would need to run on a very regular schedule; buses remain subverted by traffic and the whims of their drivers. A trolley can’t cut anyone off, nor would it take up two lanes of traffic making awkward turns. They would cut down on the need for privately owned cars, which take up highly prized parking spaces and cause damage to frequently traveled roads. Commuters often drive through the city to their place of work then promptly leave at five. Many don’t live within the city limits, so the community is not compensated by their earnings.

A trolley system could improve both the traffic and carbon footprint of the city, as well as interpersonal relationships in the community. Rather than driving from destination to destination, isolated from the other drivers and pedestrians, trolley riders would be forced to travel with each other through the city. It would reinforce the notion that Harrisburg is the center of commerce and recreation and make travelers interact with each other.

Many cities such as Portland, Cincinnati and Charlotte have brought public transportation and environmental issues into the spotlight by investing in an ultimately successful streetcar system. I stayed in Toronto for a week and a half with a class, and, while I was there, I was shocked by how easy it was to navigate the city, how safe I felt doing so when using the user-friendly streetcar system. Toronto still had buses, bike lanes and even some personal cars, but the trolleys were what we used most frequently. I never once felt crowded, stressed or worn out by my travels there. The abundance of public transportation made me feel immediately connected to the city because my desire for exploration was not only easily satiated, but encouraged.

A streetcar system would simplify some of the complications of city life: being on tracks makes trolley travel more dependable than buses, and, as such, trolley-riding would become more appealing than driving. Fewer cars on the road mean fewer repairs, more community spirit andsmaller environmental impact. Shouldn’t Harrisburg, as the capital city, set the example for the rest of the state?

Mary Imgrund is a senior English major at Penn State Harrisburg.

A River Connects Us: As the weather warms, take time to enjoy the glorious Susquehanna.

April 30, 2015 | by Tara Leo Auchey

Harrisburg is a river city.

It’s the reason it exists in the first place. The enterprising and astute John Harris realized the significance of this location when he came here in the early 1700s and established himself on the mighty Susquehanna.

Until the 20^th century, the Susquehanna and its banks were primarily used for commerce, disposal of the city’s sewage and rubbish, and, ironically, drinking water. However, the City Beautiful movement of 1902 to 1926 changed that. Riverfront Park was built, along with the Dock Street Dam, so that the river could be enjoyed and used for swimming and boating.

That’s precisely what I do every summer.

About two years after we moved to the city, we bought a pontoon boat. It’s a used gem with a hard top and plenty of seating for all-day floats on the river. We dock it at one of the marinas on City Island and can easily walk there from our house when we want to.

For us, it’s our getaway. Pretty much every weekend from May to October—weather and water conditions permitting—you’ll find us in our favorite spots just a stone’s pitch from the concrete steps of the city. However, it’s not something we do just on the weekends. The proximity permits us to go any time we want to watch the sunset, have our dinner, and unwind from a long day.

The views are stunning. We’ve seen the state Capitol dome and surrounding buildings drenched in the hot pink glow of a setting summer sun. We’ve watched spectacular lightning storms from afar and seen blue moons rise more than once.

Of course, we’re not alone out there. There are many others enjoying the water, including fellow pontooners, jet skiers, kayakers, canoers, paddle boarders and folks fishing. In fact, one of the most remarkable things about recreation on the river is that there are people from all over the region enjoying Harrisburg in that way.

Then there’s the wildlife. We have kayaks tied up to our old boat, and, when we’re in the mood, we take adventures through the islands of the Susquehanna. It’s magnificent, not just the serene scenery of lush flora but especially the birds. We’ve observed bald eagles swoop to catch fish, an American coot nest in the marshes, blue herons dance in courtship, and anyone who follows my water escapades knows I befriended a loon a couple of years ago.

Not enough can be said about the incredible bird-watching from the middle of the river. This area is a National Audubon Society designated “Important Bird Area,” and it’s known for its waterfowl and birds of prey. As Paul Zeph, director of conservation for Audubon Pennsylvania, once said, “The birds of this crossroads epitomize what a special, amazing place this is.”

This place is special and amazing, and more people need to realize how much of that is based on Harrisburg being a river city. We’ve had many guests on the boat, and just like us, they, too, have been struck with the awareness that being near the water and on the water makes you understand better just how poignant and important Harrisburg is.

I’ve encountered many people who grew up in the city and steer clear of the water. I’ve been told it’s because it’s safer that way. After all, it is the mighty Susquehanna, and it can be more dangerous than it looks.

After rains, it can be high and swift and filled with debris, such as floating logs and branches. When the waters go down, large, jagged rocks sit unseen right below the surface. The Susquehanna River is wide, powerful and constantly changing with the seasons and weather.

Some mothers have warned children to stay away from the water to be safe.

I, of course, do not advocate that.

Rather, I believe we should embrace the river, learn about it, know it and respect it. There are lots of ways to do that.

Take a ride on the Pride riverboat and check out its River School for the kids. Walk the river or sit on the beach at City Island. Rent a kayak from Susquehanna Outfitters along with a guided tour. If you’re so inclined, do some research. The Susquehanna River Basin Commission, Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission and the Chesapeake Bay Foundation (yes, Harrisburg falls in the bay’s watershed, which makes the people of Harrisburg stewards of the bay, a considerable responsibility) are great sources to get you started on discovering the importance of the river.

I love the river. I never cease to exalt its value or appreciate its mightiness. I never take for granted what an asset it is to my home city.

The Susquehanna River is the region’s splendor. It offers something to everyone. It brings us together. It connects us as a resource. We all share in its power and wonder.

And it’s worth saying again, it’s why this place—all of it from East Shore to West Shore—even exists in the first place.

That’s something to appreciate.

Tara Leo Auchey is creator and editor of today’s the day Harrisburg. www.todaysthedayhbg.com

Of Drama, Comedy: Jewish Film Festival takes on the light, the dark.

April 30, 2015 | by Barbara Trainin Blank

Ida

Cecilia Peck remembers her first meeting with Linor Abargil back in 2008. The Miss World winner of 1998 was looking for a filmmaker to recount her story.

Just six weeks before attaining her crown, the then-18-year-old Israeli had been a victim of a terrifying kidnapping, stabbing and rape in Milan.

“Linor had vowed then to tell her story one day,” said Peck, a director/producer and daughter of actor Gregory Peck. “But it took her 10 years to heal and get ready. She wanted to make a film about her fight for justice, in the hopes of encouraging other survivors of rape around the world not to be ashamed and not to stay silent.”

Peck created “Brave Miss World,” an Emmy-nominated documentary about Abargil’s journey from rape victim to global activist. She realized that a documentary with a powerful narrative could be impactful.

“Linor was so riveting in person,” Peck said. “She was determined to change the way people think about rape. But she was also very vulnerable, willing to risk her hard-fought healing to do a film that could help others.”

The screening will be followed by a panel discussion featuring Kristen Houser, vice president of public relations for the Pennsylvania Coalition Against Rape; Rhonda Hendrickson, director of violence intervention and prevention services at the YWCA Greater Harrisburg; and Kate Cook, a local rape survivor-activist.

“Brave Miss World” is the opening film in this year’s Harrisburg Jewish Film Festival, which this month celebrates its 21^st year.

The festival offers other dramatic films. “The Green Prince” is a documentary account of Moab Hassan Youssef, son of a Hamas leader, who emerged as one of Israel’s prized informants and the Shin Bet (internal security service) agent Gonan Ben Yitzhak, who risked his career to protect him.

More wrenching is “24 Days,” the French true-life thriller based on the 2006 abduction in Paris of French Jew Ilan Halimi. It was a case the police treated as an ordinary, for-ransom kidnapping, ignoring the anti-Semitic elements. Prof. Robert Weiner of Lafayette College will speak after the film.

Nominated for three Israeli Academy Awards, “Apples in the Desert” concerns Rebecca, an only child, who lives a cloistered existence with her strictly religious Sephardic parents in Jerusalem. Unhappy with the restrictions of home and community, she secretly breaks taboos and attends dance classes, where she forms a relationship with secular kibbutznik Dooby.

“It’s a good coming-of-age story,” said Julie Sherman, festival chairwoman and coordinator. “Since this is the Film Festival’s 21^st year, we selected a few films with a coming-of-age theme.”

Also featured is the Polish movie “Ida.” The 2013 Oscar-winning Best Foreign Film concerns a young woman on the verge of taking vows as a nun. Orphaned as an infant, she meets her aunt, her only living relative, who tells Ida her parents were Jewish. The two women embark on a road trip into the Polish countryside to learn the fate of their family.

Two other Holocaust-era films are “Run, Boy, Run,” the true story of a Polish boy who seeks the kindness of others in his solitary struggle to outlast the Nazi occupation and keep alive his Jewish faith, and “The Last Mentsch,” about a survivor of Auschwitz who has denied his identity.

Also included is the Golden Globe-nominated courtroom drama, “Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem.” An Israeli woman (Ronit Elkabetz) is trapped in a loveless marriage and seeks to finalize a divorce from her estranged husband. In Orthodoxy, dissolution of a marriage is possible only with the husband’s full consent, and her devout husband refuses.

If the festival seems drama-heavy, it is also full of comedies, said Sherman.

“There are comic films for everyone,” she said. “These include the date-night film, ‘It Happened in St. Tropez,’ a fun, light, romantic comedy/French farce with exaggerated family conflicts between two brothers who are always fighting and love triangles that will particularly appeal to Baby Boomers.”

Israel’s “Hunting Elephants” is a coming-of-age crime comedy about a 12-year-old who bands together with his grandfather and two elderly men to rob the bank the boy’s father had worked in. “The film is great fun and appeals across generations,” said Sherman.

“Zero Motivation” has been called a movie that combines “Private Benjamin” and “M*A*S*H,” but, Sherman said, it can be more accurately described as “M*A*S*H” meets “Office Space.”

In a remote desert military base, a platoon of young female Israeli conscripts serve out their time playing computer games, singing pop songs, and conspiring to get transferred to Tel Aviv—while endlessly serving coffee to the men in charge.

“It’s definitely a millennial movie,” Sherman said.

The 2015 Jewish Film Festival opens May 14 with “Brave Miss World” at the Jewish Community Center, 3301 N. Front St., Harrisburg. It continues May 15 to 21 at Midtown Cinema, 250 Reily St., Harrisburg. A full schedule of films can be found at www.hbgjff.com.

For more information about the special screening of “Brave Miss World,” contact Roberta Silver at [email protected] or 717-379-5997.

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like

You May Also Like