The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Matters of the Heart

Episode Date: April 4, 2023

In this episode, stories about finding, keeping, and losing love. Hosted by Meg Bowles. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by: Meg Bowles Storytellers: Kristy Hawkins Kemp Powers Niall Ashdown Esther McManus

Attention Houston! You have listened to our podcast and our radio hour, but did you know the Moth has live storytelling events at Wearhouse Live? The Moth has opened Mike's storytelling competitions called Story Slams that are open to anyone with a five-minute story to share on the night's theme. Upcoming themes include love hurts, stakes, clean, and pride. GoodLamoth.org forward slash Houston to experience a live show near you. That's the moth.org forward slash Houston. From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bulls and in this show we'll hear stories from the heart, deep loyalty, great pride

and affection, unbridled passion. Love is a common theme in Moth stories. Perhaps because love touches every corner of our lives. We cherish and celebrate it, we daydream about it, and often find ourselves in pursuit of it, like our first storyteller, Christy Hawkins. Christy shared her story at a Grand Slam in Denver, Colorado, where we partner with local public radio station KU&C. Here's Christy Hawkins live at the mall.

Cheers! I got divorced recently, and my friends and family have decided that it's time for me to get back out there. One of them actually suggested that I should get on Tinder. And I'm not so old and out of it that I don't know what Tinder is. I know what it is. Actually when I first got divorced, I asked my 21-year-old niece if she thought I should sign up for the Grindr.

And she explained to me that Tinder and Grindr are not the same thing. But I don't really know how these sites work. I know what they are. But as my friend described it to me that night, and with those swiping left and the swiping right, it occurred to me, this sounds so much like junior high. I mean, in junior high, when you like somebody,

you would write a note and ask them, do you like me back? Check one, yes, no, maybe. And then you wait for a response. It's straightforward. But for me, that's terrifying. If this is how dating is going to be, I'm not sure I want in, because I have really traumatic

experiences with these notes. See, when I was 13, I was in love with a boy named Ryan. Ryan was tall and blonde and blue-eyed, and he was smart and quiet. He's what the kids today would call a hot nerd. And I was not a hot nerd. I was what the kids today would just call a nerd. And I had a perm, and I had super thick glasses, and I wore turtlenecks almost exclusively, like every day. I mean, Ryan was way out of my league and I knew that

but it didn't stop me from loving him, I just loved him and I was not at all subtle about my love for Ryan. So a couple of his friends caught on that I liked him and these boys, Marcus and Adam, would just tease me about it. But I didn't care. I was in love. Well, this all came to a glorious, glorious head, the Friday before spring break of my eighth grade year. I went to my locker to get my books to go home,

and there was a note stuck in my locker. And the note, I opened it up and read it, and it was from Orion. And it said, dear Christy, I opened it up and read it, and it was from Orion. And it said, dear Christy, I really like you. Do you like me too? Check one. Yes, no, maybe. Love, Ryan, it said love. I mean, it was happening. Like, this is happening. I floated to the bus, and I read read and reread that note all the way home and imagining how

Ryan and I were just going to be together forever. And I knew that we would not be able to make our dreams come true until after spring break because back in those days we didn't have cell phones. So I would have to wait until we got back to school. But when I got home we were ready to leave on vacation for spring break. And the phone rang just as we were walking out the door. And my mom answered it.

And she called that it was for me. And when I got closer, she staged whispers to me, it's a boy. Like, she's as surprised as I am, because I am not a kid that ever got called by boys, believe me. And so I just knew it was Ryan. He was ready to get the party started. Like, he could not wait for spring break to be over.

He wanted this to happen now. So, I was super cool. I was like, hey Ryan, what's up? And he was like, hey, Christie, it's Ryan. And then he took a big breath and he said, you know that note you got in your locker? Well, I didn't write it. Marcus wrote it.

It was just a big joke. And he thought it was really funny, but I didn't think it was funny. I just thought it was kind of mean. So I thought I had to call and tell you that I don't like you. Oh, man. I felt all the feelings.

Like, I was crushed, beyond crushed. But I gathered my wits and I said, oh, God, Ryan. I totally knew it was a joke the whole time. Like, I would never fall for that. Well, anyway, Ryan, my mom's calling me so I have to go. I'll see you at school. And I just fell apart. I cried and cried and cried. I cried for seven days

straight as spring break. But when I got back to school, I hid my feelings. I never said a word about it to Ryan. I never said a word about it to Marcus. I just went on with my life. But fast forward 15 years and I ran into Marcus in a bar. And I asked him after a few drinks, why in the hell did you do that to me? That was so mean. And he said, I had a huge crush on you. And that was my way of showing it. Okay, well, you know, that sounds kind of sweet. So we got married. Yeah. You got married. And we got three kids. And we spent 10 years together.

But wait, wait. You guys heard me at the beginning of the show say that I just got the horse, right? So I'll spare you the details. But when Marcus left, it was like getting that note all over again and then getting a call telling me that the whole thing was just a joke. So here I am. I'm 40.

I'm going on 14. And I have to start dating again and we have to do it with technology. I mean, when I was in my 20s, we just like put on beer goggles and wrote a number on a napkin and hoped for the best. Like that seems simple. This is going to be tough, but I'm trying to look on the bright side. I mean, I don't wear glasses anymore and I don't perm my hair and I don't wear turtlenecks that often. So I'm liking to be a turtle next, that often. So, I'm liking my chances. I am liking my chances. So, I am here tonight to tell you that I am going to get on the grinder.

And I am going to find a Ryan. And I am going to be swiping up and swiping right. And one of these days, I'm going to get swiped back. Thank you. Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay!

Yay! Christy Hawkins works from home for a large health care company. And when she's not working or playing chauffeur for her three kids, she's entertaining the friends and family who are always coming in and out of her house. She says life is very busy, but lots of fun. When Christy found out we were airing her story, she shared it with her ex-husband Marcus. They're still friends and co-parenting like champion,

she says. When Marcus heard the story, he wrote to her and said, you say all those things like hair and perm and turtlenecks, like they made you unattractive, but that isn't true. I loved your red turtleneck and Sally Jessi's and the short on the sides curly on top do. It's amazing how we feel about ourselves and how other people see us. In the last year, Kristi says she's gotten more serious in her search for love and she's currently swiping and getting swiped a lot.

She shared some classic yearbook photos of Marcus and Ryan, and yes, she is sporting her famous turtleneck. You can see those on our website. They're pretty cute. [♪ OUTRO MUSIC PLAYING [♪ Our next story comes from Kimp Powers. He told it way back in 2011 at a Moth Grand Slam we produced in Los Angeles in partnership with KCRW. Here's Kemp live at the I'm 37 years old and I wasn't really very good at much of anything in my 20s. At least of all marriage. But the decision to get a divorce wasn't an easy one.

For a lot of people, the legal tangle is what stops them from getting a divorce. But in my world, that wasn't really a big decision maker. It was because we had a daughter. And going through it that meant that on some level, I was going to be losing her. If not, literally, then, figuratively. So when people have a really bad breakup, it's not uncommon for one parent to be left feeling like basically their kid is better off without them and in my case It wasn't very hard to convince me to put it very simply. I really really really sucked at being a dad

When my daughter was a small infant I swore that she was gonna break some kind of record for falling out of bass and nets falling out of cribs Falling out of beds and it always seemed to happen when I was the one that was watching her. And I was hardly ever around. I traveled so much for work. And in the rare occasions that I was there, any effort that I made to try to bond with

I always seemed to backfire. I bought her this when she was three months old. I bought her this gangly little puppet that I named Sanchez after my favorite Rage Dancehall singer. And she was really in the Sesame Street, so I really thought that this puppet was gonna bring her a lot of joy. Instead, it just fucking terrified her.

And from there things just continued to get worse. I mean by the time when she was six months old I decided that it was really smart for her to know that fire was dangerous and it was something that she should stay away from. So one day when I was making a cup of tea I picked her up. Holding her in one hand in the hot kettle in the other I explained very carefully that you should never ever ever touch hot things because they could hurt you. At least I did in my mind, because in reality by the time I got to the word touch, she'd

already reached out and grabbed the bottom of the steaming kettle and burned herself. So by the time my daughter was one years old, I was already pretty much afraid to be left alone with her. She suffered from a fibral seizure at 18 months and vomited in the middle of the night and inhaled it almost choking to death. She was in the hospital for a week. And I remembered looking at her in that incubator with the tubes up her nose and the butterfly IV in her hand and thinking to myself, dude, you're just going to fucking get somebody killed. And so I didn't fight because I didn't really think I had any right to. I didn't fight the incredibly restrictive visitation rights

that I had. I didn't fight when her mother asked for my approval to relocate to Phoenix. And I didn't even fight when the visitation that we did agree upon fell by the wayside because at the end of the day, you know, they were too busy in their life out there for her to keep up with her schedule of visitation in Los Angeles. So my friends, they were really supportive, but they weren't really able to offer meaning and counsel. It was this really bizarre twist

that we had all grown up in this world where divorce was just a fact of life. But suddenly, I found myself in this adult world where every single family that I knew was nuclear. It was like we were suddenly back in the 50s, only I didn't have to drink out of a separate water fountain. And I didn't have to worry about getting lynched from having had a kid with a white lady.

But every single person that I knew my age was either so happily married that it bordered on kind of sickening or so relentlessly single that it bordered on parity. And my friends loved me and I loved them too, but to all of them, to the friends who were married, I was basically that single guy that they could live vicariously through. And to the ones who were single, I was the divorcee with all the responsibility that proved to them

that them not having any kids and not getting married have been the right decision to make. So I basically went on with my life and got used to the routine that we had. That was all I really had. The sporadic phone calls, the grudging pickups that happened at the halfway point between Los Angeles and Phoenix

in an aptly named shit hole of a town called Desert Center. It was a barren place filled with more scorpions and dust devils than people. And our drives out of the desert my daughter and I hardly ever spoke and I was pretty glad about that because not talking meant that I never really had to explain why we were in the situation that we were in. So one day back in March, I get this telephone call early in the morning and it's from my daughter. And I'm pretty surprised because she almost never calls me.

When I answer, she's distraught. She's crying. She says, Dad, a tsunami has just destroyed Japan and it's heading for California. You need to get out of bed right now and get to a high point immediately. Now, initially I just had to assure her that there was no chance that the title wave

was gonna wash away Korea town anytime soon. But she was still too worried to be calmed down so to assuage her fears I had to talk to her. And we talked. We talked about her piano lessons. We talked about her upcoming 13th birthday. We talked about her now six-year-old brother who lived with me, who she missed dearly. And we talked about me, who she missed just as much.

It turned out that she still had her puppet Sanchez, which she hung on the wall next door of bed. When my daughter's 13th birthday came around, we made a pact. Going forward, we would speak every Sunday at 12 p.m. No matter where we were. And when we spoke, she would get to ask me one question. It didn't matter what the question was, I had to give her the answer.

And this was something that made me a little bit nervous because I was finally going to be held accountable for something. When the first question came, it was, what was my favorite book? After that, it was, what was my favorite movie? A week later, what was my favorite song? After that, it was what was my favorite movie. A week later, what was my favorite song. And as the weeks turned in the months,

these questions revolved about the things I'd done, the places I'd been, and how I was living my life. My daughter is 13 years old and five foot 10 inches tall. But I can still pick her up, and I can still hold her in my arms. We talk every week now and when I hold her every time that I see her and when I do I just make sure that I keep that hot kettle just a little bit out of reach. Thank you. Camp Powers is an author and a celebrated writer and director for both stage and screen. His screen adaptation of his award-winning play One Night in Miami was nominated for

an Academy Award. He's an amazing storyteller all around, and dare I say, a pretty great dad. In an email, Camp gave me a little update. He said, in 2020, after my daughter graduated, Magna Cum Laude from her college in Arizona, she returned to Los Angeles and moved into my house. She's currently working at a Los Angeles Publicity firm and continues to live at home with dad

until she can save up enough to get her own place. You can find out more about Campin, any of the stories you hear in this hour, on our website, the moth radio hour continues. The Mothradio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media and Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Mothradio Hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bulls. Sometimes our love for things isn't appreciated by others in quite the same way. Something one person finds mundane might be magical

through someone else's eyes. Our next storyteller, Neil Ashton, developed a love of birds as a boy that is stuck with him long into adulthood. During the pandemic, the ordinary little feathered friends became lifelines. He said in an email, in the midst of my not going out, a sparrow hawk sat in a tree and ate its meal, and then sat there digesting it for another hour. Birds always fail to disappoint me. Sounds like love to me. Neil shared a story that gives us a little insight into his particular ornithological obsession

at an evening we produced at the Union Chapel in London. Here's Neil. When I was eight years old, I was in a primary school classroom drawing. I didn't know what I was drawing. And then when I'd eight years old, I was in a primary school classroom drawing. I didn't know what I was drawing. And then when I'd finished my drawing, I realized what I'd drawn was a bird. And it was probably a robin. And from that moment on, I realized that the most important thing in the world was birds.

Birds were brilliant. They still are. Birds can sing and fly. Think of anything else they can do, both those things. Don't think too hard, it's not the point of the story. They can also dance and dive and swim. They are just brilliant. And the good thing about this Mae'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwach i'n gweithio'r ysgwch i'n gweithio. Mae'n gweithio'r ysgwch i'n gweithio. Mae'n gweithio'r ysgwch i'n gweithio. Mae'n gweithio'r ysgwch i'n gweithio. Mae'n gweithio'r ysgwch i'n gweithio. Mae'n gweithio'r ysgwch i'n gweithio.

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dew-soped Tussaki grass back towards the nest, and when we got to the brink of the nest, the eggs had gone, and had been replaced by five little downy brown cheeks. Beautiful little baby birds, they'd hatched in the night. When I romanticize it in my head, I think there's still little bits of dried yolk on their fur. And just before we get to too close, they start to lift up on really long legs, to have sized legs and totter off over the Tuskegee grass, a bit like drunk women on stilettos. Or if that offends you, drunk men on stilettos. o'n gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio. Mae'n gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio. Gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio. Mae'n gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio.

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and I'm thinking, well, if this is it, then this is it. He keeps telling us he's had a good life. He doesn't need any more life. There's nothing else to achieve, particularly. If this is it, it'll be fine. And there's no need to grieve, just let him go, because there are lots of losses you suffer as a child with your parent. There are little losses, little moments of grief during your life. When he can't put you on his shoulders anymore, that's a loss. When he drops you off at university,

in my case, university, and wave goodbye, and you're standing there on your own two feet, on your own, that's a loss. When you're going for a walk, looking for birds, and i'n ymwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'n ysgwyr i'r ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn ymdyn y Mae'n gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r yn Yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd, yn Ysgwyrdd,ithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn ymwyr i'n gyd yn gyd yn ymwyr i'n gydbod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gwybod i' gwybod i' gwybod i'r gwybod i'r gweithio, o'r gweithio'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio.

Mae'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio. Mae'r gweithio. Mae'r gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith And they fly quite impressively, so they always look like they might be something more interesting. Ooh, that could be a hawk. No, it's another effing pigeon. It's another pigeon. I don't like pigeons. So anyway, I sort of lean forward because I have to go.

And I lean forward. My dad, who, as I've said, is hard of hearing. I wouldn't have heard the black bird or the Robin or anything like that. I lean forward to him and I say, I love you. And he says, what? And I say, I love you. And I stand up, kiss him on the cheek, and I walk out the hospital ward. And just as I'm leaving, I hear my dad say, it allowed voice, I know you do! So I go on a train and I get on a plane and I'm in Houston and I'm doing my show. And probably two and a half weeks later at about half a state in the morning and get a phone call

and it's my wife and my wife says, hello darling, how are you? I say, I'm fine, how are you? He says, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r gwaith, mae'r llwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn ymwyd yn yr gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn y strangwau, ac yn ymwch yn gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld gweld which I did a lot very hard for about 30 seconds and then stopped. And then I looked out this window and by the window, this overlooking a busy Houston street, there is a telegraph wire. And as I look out the window, a bird comes out the sky and lands on the telegraph wire and it's a pigeon. LAUGHTER And I look at the pigeon and the pigeon looks at me. It's quite a jaunty little chap, you know. Looks at me as if to say, you're right me.

And I look at him and I say, no. No, I'm sorry, if you think you are going to be the punctuation mark at the end of the story of my father's life and my relationship to him, if you think you are going to be the point where it comes full circle, if you think you are going to supply some sort of congruency to the narrative arc of my life with my dad then you are sadly mistaken sir because you are a pigeon and my dad was an eagle, my dad was an owl, my dad was an eagle owl. So the pigeon looks at me and somewhat apologetically lifts off and flies away And I watch it go And so I'm still waiting for the punctuation mark that was about two years ago

Hasn't arrived yet All I'm left with is a sense of absence That something's not there sense that something's not there. But every so often I get a sense that he is still around. The last time it happened was about a year ago I was in a Cornish woodland in a clearing sunshine dappling through the leaves and this little wood was full of song and wing and my father was in every note and in every feather. Thank you. That was the actor, writer, and improv comedian Neil Ashtown.

Neil still feels his father when birds are about. In an email he told me, my mom was on her own during the COVID lockdowns and the birds and the feeders and the garden probably kept her going more than anything else. And in that, I'd like to think that dad is keeping her going. When I asked Neil about his thoughts on love, he said, love has its flip side, loss. Once you lose a treasured loved one, it sharpens the love for those left behind and the fear of losing them.

I deeply love what I'm grateful for, and I'm grateful for what and who I love. As Neil mentioned in his story, he thinks of his father as awulish, and he almost got a tattoo of an owl after his father died, but thought he'd probably think that was stupid. And he added, I'm not very good with paint, so I resisted. You can find out more about Neal and see pictures of him and his father on their bird

adventures on our website, themoth.org. Something I love about working at The Moth is listening to stories that come in our pitch line. People call in and leave a two minute pitch. The stories are sometimes funny or heartbreaking. Small moments and big moments that left a lasting impression. If you have a story, we'd love to hear it. Just visit our website and look for Tell a Story and you can find all the info for how to pitch us. Or you can call us at 877-799-Maw.

That's 877-799-6684. Pitches are developed for shows all around the world. Coming up, the magic of a great love when the Mothrad Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bulls and our final story in this hour comes from a Stair McMannis. She shared it in evening we produced in Somerville, Massachusetts in partnership with local public radio station WBUR. Live from the Somerville Theatre, here's a stair, McNance.

Good evening. I am so proud to be here. And I thank you. And I thank you for being here. And I thank you and I thank you for being here. So my story is some 35 years ago, I was asked to open a restaurant called Le Bas in the University of Pennsylvania campus in Philadelphia. It was called LeBass because it started as a school bus. We made things that at the time seemed and were really very unusual and nobody made them. French baguette, crusty bread, brillage, even the tricky croissant. We were so popular that we had to open a real bakery to be ready for the demand. So my boss and I, David, went all over the world, France, Germany, New York, Seattle,

begging bakers to teach us their trade. Soon, we had bread in almost every table in the restaurant of Philadelphia. We were hit. Then one day out of the blue in 1998 I received a call From a woman who was scouting to find bakers to be guest at the Julia Child TV show. And she asked me to send my croissants to her to try them.

I couldn't believe my ears. For me, you understand, it's a real dream. I was born in Marrakesh, Maroco, in 1936. The 13th child of my family, and the last one. My saint mother cooked and baked every day except Shabbat. My father was a rabbi and a farmer. Every morning when I would wake up I see my mother and her maid I see my mother and her maid blowing on a small charcoal burner to make a fire in order to heat water to make the daily bread. We did not have electricity. I was mesmerized to look at my maid, stooped on a small, low table with this huge mass of dough, kneading it while her whole body is rocking to make it crack and beautiful, while my mother encouraged her to do it a little longer, please, until this dough became silky and bubbly.

Then, they made round loafs, left them to rise, until they were ready to go to the public oven to be baked. It was my job as a little girl coming from school to bring the golden loathes home. They smelled so good, and I felt that that was the time, my passion for the magic of flower and water was planted in me and never left. And here I was receiving a call from Julia Child. I better be ready. So, every day I made batch after batch of croissants. Imagine how happy my neighbors were.

When the day came to send the croissants to Julia, I wrapped everyone individually, Frose, pacte, l'aventement, et rote un litre dans le frère. Cher Julia, partir c'est mourir un peu, qui me dit, pour vivre, c'est de se dire un petit. Même pour mon croissance, ils sont là pour moi, donc ils ne se sont pas dit un petit. Same for my croissants. They left me, so they died a little. But here is a way to revive them and bring them back to life. In a 300 degree oven, Fahrenheit, please.

Bake them for 10 minutes and enjoy. I then tied the bag into my bicycle and went to Fedex. They assured me the croissants will arrive the next morning to Cambridge, Massachusetts, right your home. Then it all hit me. I just sent Qwazam to Julia Child. sent croissant to Julia Child. Me, this little girl who saw the most basic breadmaid in the most primitive way by women who did not know how to read and write.

And now I'm sending chic, elegant croissants to this divinity called Julia Child. But I was worried. Will she like them? How many bakers sent her their croissants? I did not sleep that night because I went through despair to hope. In the morning, attentively, the phone rang. It's there! I love your buttery croissant!

Would you be on my show? I lost my voice. I couldn't talk. I think I said, thank you. Julia, a month later, I went to Boston for the show. I carted the suitcase with croissants, fresh, frozen, pão chocolate, almond croissants, and those that were frozen in different stages of the making of a croissant, just in case I would need them in the show. When I arrived to Juliette Home, which was also the studio,

home, which was also the studio. I was in another world. Cameras everywhere, screens, people running around. No one even noticed I was there. Then Julia arrived, bigger than life. She graciously introduced me to the guest audience, and then she became the student and I, the teacher. But the air conditioning did not work. The heat was intense, humid. The dough was melting in my hands. I couldn't do anything. I was nervous.

But the demand. Thank God I had those, those. I took one of them, filled it with the butter, wrapped it in the butter, gave the regular turns, the classical turns for past pastry, and went through every step of every move that you make for the Khoi Thong. You have to understand Khoi Thong's are capricious, and they don't forgive much. But when they went to the oven and miracle happened, all those layers, all rose harmoniously at the same time and produced the best croissant. It was a triumph. Julia said in her face with the biggest joy I ever saw her showing she took a of a hot croissant, huge one, in her mouth.

And while chewing on it, she showed this beautiful inside of the croissant to the audience and said to me, even in France, they don't make croissants like leaves anymore. Then she added, keep the tradition alive. Here's this little girl from Marrakesh, spending her life pursuing her passion for what flower magic can do in multitude ways. Yes, Julia, I am Thank you. That was a Stair McMannis. Over the years, she and Julia developed a friendship and Esther told me about a night when Julia came to Philadelphia and a stare invited her for dinner.

At first it was meant to be a small affair, but the guest list quickly grew to include all the chefs in Philadelphia, so she put them to work. The menu she said was a simple Moroccan home meal with couscous, grilled racks of lamb, miniature bustillas, which is a Moroccan pigeon pie, and a French dessert, millfoy. The evening was a success. Julia loved the meal, and they all apparently enjoyed the wine a little too much. Asteria says, for her, baking is like a disease with no cure, but a good disease. Her advice is to be patient when you bake and do it over and over again until your fingers learn to recognize when the dough is right.

She says that baking is hard, boring at times, and unforgiving, but for her the reward is always making someone happy. You can find a recipe for Esther's amazing croissants in Julia Child's book Baking with Julia and on our website, themock.org. Esther also shared some wonderful pictures spanning her career in the kitchen. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us again next time. And until then, here's wishing you happiness and joy in all the things and people you love. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Katherine Burns and Meg Boles, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show.

Co-producer is Ficky Merrick, Associate Producer Emily Couch. The rest of the Moths Leadership Team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Janess, Jennifer Hickson, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Klucce, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Gladowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Moths' stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift, other music in this hour from Agrian Leg, Wolfpeck, George Brandel Eglow, and Stefan Remberl. We received funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Mausah radio hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media and Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented

by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, TheMoth.org. you