I FELT LIKE A HOARDER.

I ONCE HEARD IMELDAMarcos’ shoe collection had 3,000 pairs, and Sarah Jessica Parker had a walk-in closet dedicated exclusively to her extensive shoe wardrobe. On a much lesser scale, I, too, had been no slouch in amassing my own footwear stash.

I never imagined I owned so many shoes until I discovered bedbugs in my New York City apartment one summer.

My bedbug saga began at my job at a major Manhattan art museum when I suddenly became aware of itchy, unsightly reddish welts running down my arms and ankles.

“Look at all these bites!” I said to my colleagues, who gasped and cringed as I grabbed a Band-Aid to cover the bloody bite I had unconsciously scratched.

I assumed my welts were allergic reactions to mosquito bites. “No,” said a nurse friend when I showed them to her a few days later. “We had a bedbug breakout at the hospital. Those are dead ringers for bedbug bites. Check it out on the Internet.”

It took me a day to muster the courage to go online. Once I saw the photos of bedbug bites and read the first-person accounts of human bedbug suffering, I knew I was in deep trouble. As new welts appeared on my body that itched non-stop, I slept in jeans and long sleeves in 90-degree heat to ward off the bedbugs’ parasitic feeding frenzy.

Even with the air conditioner turned on full blast, I found myself profusely sweating, unable to sleep. With my anxiety and insomnia levels soaring, I don’t know how I functioned at work in the following days.

Feeling ostracized by my colleagues at work made me feel worse. Everyone stayed away from me, never offering support, even though I was clearly rattled by the bedbug situation at home. I later learned they were warned by museum management not to engage with me. Management worried I would sue them as the source of my infestation or report it to the media, which would have shut down the museum at the peak of tourist season. Worried about the stigma surrounding bed- bugs, I stopped socializing with friends. Would you want to be near me or come to my infested apartment if you knew I had bedbugs?

Most upsetting was the fact I never saw my blood-sucking roommates. Their invisibility made me feel helpless, vulnerable, and at their mercy. Where were they hiding? The bedbug-sniffing beagle that visited my apartment three times detected their presence, not only in the mattress and electrical sockets but in shoes I had left on the bedroom and living room floors. Who would have guessed that bedbugs shared my affinity for shoes?

To rid myself of the home intruders, the exterminator instructed me to throw out my mattress and empty my closets and drawers. Every article had to be steamed or put through the dryer at the hottest setting and then sealed in a plastic bag for two weeks.

More than 60 shoeboxes, potential bedbug hideouts, had to be tossed. My steamed shoes alone took up five oversized garbage bags that sat in heaps in my living room.

Two months after the initial infestation, I was finally deemed “bedbug-free.” My long-awaited return to a normal life without the creepy crawlers invading my body and space motivated me to embark on a fresh, clean start. I had the closets and bedroom painted. And I vowed to purge my home of clutter. Unnecessary papers, books languishing on shelves, and decades’ worth of clothes and shoes that no longer fit, were “too vintage,” or just took up space for no reason… all had to go! “Simplify! Purge! Let Go!” became my mantra.

My purge campaign took off to a stunning start. With the help of my sister, a natural-born purger, I sorted through the bags of clothing piled high in my living room. In one weekend, we lugged 11 bags of clothing to my neighborhood Goodwill Thrift Store.

I felt like a hoarder saved by an intervention. Was my bedbug scourge an intervention in disguise?

CONTINUED ON PAGE 22

A former New Yorker, Fredricka R. Maister is now a Philadelphia-based essayist/memoirist. Her personal essays and op-eds have appeared in a variety of print and online publications, including the Baltimore Sun, Miami Herald, Chicago Tribune, Philadelphia Inquirer, Big Apple Parent, New York Jewish Week, Philadelphia Jewish Exponent, The Times of Israel, The Forward, OZY, The Manifest-Station, Broad Street Review, and ICON. maisterf@gmail.com

ROSIE / CONTINUED FROM PAGE 5 BEDBUGS / CONTINUED FROM PAGE 20 painting will not look right in regular light. There was no shade to be had, so the only solution was to turn the easel toward the light. That way, the sun shines on the back of the panel, which casts its shadow on the pallet. Good for the painting. Hard on the painter.

I sat on the step and looked over my shoulder to see the pig inside; then I would turn back toward the easel, pick up paint, and add the brushstroke. A hat with a serviceable bill is a part of my standard kit, painting indoors and out, and I needed it here. I swiveled back and forth, observing inside and painting outside for nearly five hours, adjusting the angle of the easel as the sun moved across the sky. While exhausting, the constant change of direction did provide me with an even rotisserie tan.

The pig doesn’t have a name; she is identified by a series of markings on her ear. It’s a farm thing. I called her Rosie. She looks like a Rosie. Actually, she looks like a sofa. Rosie is a big pig, and she wasn’t comfortable with the soon-to-be babies and the heat. She was stretched out on the wood floor, motionless, with not much more than a glance for me as I worked a dozen feet away. I knew I was taking a risk when I began—how long can you expect a pig to lie in one spot? About 20 minutes into the painting, she dragged herself up on her feet, grunted and spit, lurched sideways, and slumped against the other wall, facing the opposite direction.

It’s important to have a Plan B. I had brought two panels—one sienna-toned and one light gray—so I swapped them out and started over. If she decided to move to a third place, there was no Plan C. It’s not like I would pack up and paint someplace else if the first two fell through. It was Rosie or nothing.

If only the purging of my shoes had been as easy and painless! I left that task for the end, knowing my attachment to shoes would be a daunting obstacle. Sure enough, unlike my clothes, the bags of shoes remained heaped in my living room for months.

Parting with decades-old shoes that no longer accommodated my feet, a full size bigger with a matching set of bunions was a no-brainer. Shoes that were “a little tight” and had not been worn in years were

The gestation period for pigs is a predictable 114 days, or as farmer Matt explained, three months, three weeks, and three days. I’ll wait while you check the math. Of course, if you don’t know when the sow had her big night, delivery day is a guessing game. When Matt thinks she is a week or two away, he will move her to a labor room, which is more appropriate for giving birth (what we in the pig-know refer to as farrowing), and a safer environment for the piglets. She could have a litter of seven to fourteen, and it’s best to have them in a space designed to keep them out of trouble. (Update: she had nine)

After another 20 minutes, Rosie got up again, hacked and snorted, turned around, swayed a bit, and dropped against the first wall, taking the original pose. I couldn’t have asked for a better repositioning and said thank you. She gave me a wink and slid back into her hot summer stupor. I put the first panel back on the easel and resumed working on that one. Those seemed to be Rosie’s two favorite spots, and we went back and forth several times. Two poses, two panels. I ended up with two paintings, which is great, but it took twice as long, with me under the 87° blue sky sunshine. In a pig pen. That really ground me down. Rosie didn’t care.

I returned to the farm when the weather was a little kinder and stopped to see my girl. She made her way over to the fence and gave me a smile and a big burp. She was obviously in better spirits than the last time, though I’m sure she does that for everybody. n more problematic. For weeks I kept trying them on, limping from room to room, to convince myself they really were “too tight” to ever wear again.

And then there were my high heels, which I long ago traded in for what I dubbed “old lady shoes,” i.e., flats or low heels purchased for comfort at the expense of beauty. Bidding farewell to my high heels, which always made me feel tall, thin, elegant, sophisticated, and yes, young, felt impossible.

For more months than I care to admit, the shoes stayed stuck in garbage bags, I stayed stuck in inaction, and my “Simplify! Purge! Let Go!” mantra stayed stuck on mute.

What then finally extricated me from the stalemate with my shoes? Quite simply, the constant eyesore of the garbage bags crowding my living room, an in-my-face reminder of my bedbug trauma. Even a glance could flash me back to my welt-covered itchy extremities, the sleepless nights, the bedbug-sniffing beagle visits, the endless loads of laundry, and social isolation. Letting go of my shoes and any residual “bedbug PTSD” had to trump holding on to the past infested with those bloodthirsty critters. With that realization, I packed up the shoes and carted them off to a thrift shop.

Even now, I fill with pride and accomplishment whenever I peer into my closet and scan my shoe collection—half of its former self— neatly stacked in transparent plastic, bedbug-free boxes. n

CITY / CONTINUED FROM PAGE 12 with a closed off commercial corridor and be part of the Go Mt. Airy Supper Sessions for well over two full blocks of Germantown Avenue. Those trolleys come pretty fast and hard down the 7100 and 7200 blocks of the Avenue—that’s trust.

There’s Willie Nelson’s annual Outlaw Music Festival at Hersheypark Stadium (August 4) and The Mann Center (August 5).

Did you know that the Bruce Springsteen and his E Street Band shows at Citizen Bank Park August 16 and 18, are not sold out? Isn’t that unusual for his old stomping grounds, or is it that another Tri-State Area native—Taylor Swift—took all of the air and the money out of the area

Willie Nelson is going to live forever, that’s a fact. But why tempt fate? Go, and witness the sound of angels having flown too close to the ground with the 90-year-old country legend, The Avett Brothers, Particle Kid and more.

After a July filled with Barbenheimers and Improbable Mission: Impossibles and the last call for Indiana Jones, coming up to August 2 and mere Seth Rogen in the blandimated Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem seems small. Maybe a weekend for Netflix? Make sure you own your own code—they’re cracking down.

On Wednesday, August 9, friends and neighbors of Mt. Airy can set up their own chairs, set behind communal tables, and

with her own three-and-a-half-hour show that passed through Philly this spring? Is The Boss going to have to advertise four hour shows just to keep up? And dancing? And diving into that digital pool trick that Swiftie does?

Comedy is pretty serious business, and I’m not sure it’s for everybody. See I love TIP “T.I” Harris as a rapper and as an actor. From VH-1’s T.I. & Tiny: The Family Hustle through to his trap muzik hits, I’m always down for T.I. But, can he additionally be great as a stand-up comedian. Author Nora Ephron used to say that no one can have style and a sense of humor at the same time. And T.I. has plenty of style—uh oh. See for yourself at Helium Philadelphia August 17 through 19.

It’s painful to think of, losing Super Bowl LVII to the champion Kansas City Chiefs. But let’s just jump into the fire, hop back on the saddle and and romp through the 2023 Philadelphia Eagles preseason schedule with games on August 17 against the Cleveland Browns and August 24 vs. the Indianapolis Colts. Surely, a few wins will prime the Eagles for September’s full season. And if not…. n pectedly from the side, like an unseen shiv to the gut. Rogowski, Whishaw and Exarchopoulos are all exceptional, particularly in the powerful climactic scenes when Martin and Agathe assert themselves so as to exorcize the devil in their midst. [N/R] HHHH1/2

Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny (Dir. James Mangold). Starring: Harrison Ford, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Mads Mikkelsen. The guiding hand of Steven Spielberg is sorely missed in this fifth go-round for globe-hopping archaeologist Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford). After an extended, 1940s-set prologue with our hero creepily de-aged, the James Mangold-helmed feature settles in 1969, where a soon-to-retire Indy connects with his goddaughter Helena (Phoebe Waller-Bridge) to seek out the Antikythera, a two-piece dial created by the Greek mathematician Archimedes that may have the power to pinpoint fissures in time. That’s the big quest; the more intimate one concerns Indy’s increasing sense of himself as a figure alone and unloved. Surprisingly, Ford (an actor whose disinterest can be more than palpable at times) seems extremely engaged while the rest of the cast—particularly Mads Mikkelsen’s ex-Nazi doctor Jürgen Voller, who would like to use this, ahem, Dial of Destiny, for his own nefarious purposes—are going through the pop-blockbuster motions. Most disappointingly, none of the action setpieces come within a hair’s breadth of the series at its best. [PG-13] HH

The Flash (Dir. Andy Muschietti). Starring: Ezra Miller, Michael Keaton, Michael Shannon. The DC Cinematic Universe launched with 2013’s Man of Steel, butlimps to an ignominious close with this hideous standalone feature about speed freak Barry Allen (an uber-irritating Ezra Miller), aka The Flash. Reduced to being janitor of the Justice League (a godawful opening setpiece sees him saving a gaggle of digitally augmented infants and a tongue-lolling canine from certain nosediving death), Barry has plenty of time in-between rescue mis- sions to wonder what might have happened if his mom, Nora (Maribel Verdú), hadn’t been murdered all those years ago. By chance, Barry discovers he can run fast enough to access alternate timelines and bring Nora back to life. But there are consequences, some of them comic (pop-blockbuster Back to the Future recast without Michael J. Fox), others more serious (the genocidal return of Man of Steel villain General Zod). Sad to say that not even a plum role for Michael Keaton, reprising his role as the Caped Crusader from the two Tim Burton Batman films, gives this big-budget doggerel any spark. [PG-13] H n

TERELL STAFFORD / CONTINUED FROM PAGE 16 many trumpeters with great sounds who could play fast and high, I had to do one thing; play with emotion. She wanted me to find players who evoked joy, sadness, and soulfulness and learn from them. That’s been in my mind since age 13, developing emotion as a player. Consequently, I love the blues. I love ballads. I love complex and complicated things, as I like to make them as easy as possible. That’s probably why I love to teach. That’s why I love to play, period. Bobby Watson told me, “Tomorrow is not promised, so give it all NOW.” So I give it all, always.

A.D. Amorosi: Can you talk about why you wanted to teach?

Terell Stafford: That’s a complex question in that I did NOT want every time Tim Warfield and I played his theme song, we positioned ourselves to get our faces in the shot. “You know, pays for that? I do. Perhaps you should look into that teaching job.” I told Mr. Cosby right there that was what I would do. That’s how I started teaching.

A.D. Amorosi: Moving from teaching to family and the label you’re with now, Le Coq, how did you get there?

Terell Stafford: Bill Cunliffe, who has been working with Le Coq, pulled me in. I came in only to do some overdubs on a project they loved because a month later, they called me for another separate new session. That was the beginning. The Le Coq people are very fair, generous, and, more importantly, very sweet people who love music. Peo- to teach. Mainly because I was dyslexic and my mother was a reading specialist. We had an interesting relationship with my dyslexia and her wanting to help me through it. I saw how she came home beaten down daily if a student couldn’t comprehend a concept she was trying to teach. She gave it her all. I thought THAT was just a lot of work, worrying about 30 different kids’ education. But when I finished my master’s, I had a teaching gig waiting for me in Maryland. The job was mine. But I told the superintendent that, at that time, I wasn’t proficient enough in my instrument to teach anyone. Why don’t I get an advanced degree and I would consider teaching? I did that, and when I was working with Shirley Scott on You Bet Your Life, she told me that a position at Cheyney University had opened up - she really wanted me to take it, but I just couldn’t. Mr. Cosby then came to me, told me that he heard what Shirley had asked me, then joked that ple that sweet, you want to do all that you can for them. They repeatedly asked if I would record an album for them, and—at that time—I wasn’t in a place to make a record. Then during the pandemic, I felt so thankful to be around my family and get in deeper with my daughter and wife, which inspired me to do the new record. Hanging out with them was the basis for Between Two Worlds. The joy and sadness of the pandemic brought it all out of me.

A.D. Amorosi: So, what two worlds do you believe you are in, and how are they expressed through this new album?

Terell Stafford: I am between the world of education and the world of performance with fatherhood, being a husband, and so many places in between. My life is a juggling act. And that’s a good thing, sometimes. n

VALLEY / CONTINUED FROM PAGE 12 lust after and linger over bucket seats and rumble seats, jazz-age grilles and space-age fins, parlor-style interiors and sculptural exteriors. Full service and 360 degrees for 60 years, the festival features classic-car roller skating to “Ghostbusters,” changing direction whenever the singer shouts the title. Brightly painted and picket fenced, with a small-scale Ferris wheel and a Mom & Pop snack shop, the park could be mistaken for a movie set. In fact, the vaudevillian façade of Hilarity Hall, billed as competitions, a toy show, an automotive flea market, a sale of non-automotive antiques, bingo and swimming. This year’s spotlight is on the Corvette, a sleek legend sky high in the muscle-car pantheon with the Camaro, GTO and T-Bird. (Aug. 4-6, Memorial Park, 50 Poplar St., Macungie; 610-967-2317; awkscht.com)

Golf is, in my not very humble opinion, too much: too expensive; too frustrating; too greedy with water, an increasingly precious essential. George Carlin and I agree that converting private courses into public parks is a great form of climate control. An exception to these rules is Lehigh University’s Mulvihill Golf Learning Center, which is affordable, breathable and still scenic. Twelve bucks buys 100 balls to drive into a bucolic bowl of fields, trees and hills. The two greens and three sand traps are nicely tilted and roughed to make putting and chipping tougher and, in the bloody end, more rewarding. This attractive lineup lures a wide range of rookies, team members, aspiring pros, semi-pros and at least one celebrity regular: Sandy Koufax, the Hall of Fame pitcher and cultural hero. At 87 he drives off a tee with the elegant authority he drove off a rubber. (Goodman Campus, Lehigh University, 902 College Drive, Bethlehem; 610-7586740; lehighsports.com; credit and debit cards only).

Bushkill Park proves that old fashioned is always fashionable. The 121-year-old amusement emporium offers simple eternal pleasures. The whirl of a carousel. The distortion of a funhouse mirror. The rumble of the country’s oldest funhouse, evokes the outside of a mythical castle/saloon. Once a ruin due to floods from a same-name creek, Bushkill is once again a happy beehive for kids of all ages. Its rebirth honors late cofounder Mabel “Mom” Long, whose wish is painted on a ticket booth: “I Hope It Carries On When I’m Gone.” (2100 Bushkill Park Dr., Easton; 610-258-6941; bushkillparkandgrove.com; first annual musical fundraiser Sept. 9).

College Hill in Easton has been my refuge for 47 years. My architectural old soul vanishes into a residential wonderland rich enough to be on the National Register of Historic Places. Paxinosa Avenue abounds with grand Victorian stone mansions with turrets and wraparound verandas. Weygadt Drive snakes for three blocks into an almost rural lane, a proper setting for a grander stoneand-slate manor house seemingly imported from the English countryside. Relaxing is required in Nevin Park, a sublimely sloping, shady rectangle anchored by a new three-tier Victorian fountain, a replica of one melted down for World War II scrap iron. Walking the river-running streets, admiring elaborate gardens, staring at odd names (an alley called Thirty Foot) and oddities (a round brick tower/gazebo saved from a demolished estate) is equally soothing and draining. I recharge my batteries at the College Hill Tavern, a satisfying hangout for burgers, beers and towngrown vibes, and Giacomo’s, which makes excellent meatball parmigiana subs, cannoli and broccoli-rabe sausage. The latter eatery is catty corner from Pierce Street’s charmingly narrow entrance. Shrouded by bushes, canopied by a massive copper beech, it could be a magical cave’s mouth. n sona from stage to screen with this energizing musical motion picture loosely inspired by his rise to fame in Minneapolis. Realism isn’t the goal; full-bore melodramatic fantasy is, as Prince’s character The Kid feuds with The Time’s Morris Day, fights with his abusive father (the great Clarence Williams III), and enchants aspiring singer, and raspberry beret wearer, Apollonia (Apollonia Kotero). Punctuating all the sentimental educating are several delirious concert scenes featuring Prince’s band The Revolution. It’s hard to pick a favorite, be it banger opener “Let’s Go Crazy” or the climactic performance of the lengthy title track, which feels like an achingly emotional plea from some distant alien planet. This is a movie that has the strange ability to make doves and grown men cry. (Streaming on Amazon Prime.)

One of the great movies of the ‘90s, writer-director Todd Haynes’ second feature focuses on Carol (Julianne Moore in one of her best performances), a nondescript suburban housewife who suddenly becomes allergic to her environment. Her breathing becomes labored, nosebleeds are frequent, and no medical professional can adequately diagnose her. Her ordered life falls more and more to pieces until, as a last resort, Carol goes to a remote wellness center run by the charismatic and very cultish Peter Dunning (Peter Friedman). There, strangely, her body deteriorates further, though her spirit finally seems to lift. What does it mean to be healthy in a sick world? Haynes provides no easy answers, instead bearing witness to his protagonist’s odd journey from an unremarkable woman to a person who, even marked by extreme sickness, finally finds her voice. (Streaming on MUBI.) n