Hello, my name is Chris. I have a confession to make. I don’t like working for a living. I am not terribly good at it, either. More than once I have been instructed to put my belongings in a cardboard box and wait for security to escort me out of my place of employment. It’s the perp walk for fired people. So, I hope you can forgive me when I tell you I once considered a life of crime, petty crime, and lots of it.

My inspiration was the extraordinary con artist dubbed the Shrimp lady when I  was a reporter for the Albany Times Union. She had a ton of money and no boss in sight and I thought: I wonder if I could do that? I mean, I’m lousy at working so maybe I could become fantastic at stealing.

I mean, I like the “art” part of con artist. Making a scene and getting money seemed downright theatrical. And the schedule seems pretty flexible. What could go wrong?

The Shrimp Lady’s method of operation was to enter a grocery store, grab a ten pound bag of shrimp, take it to customer service and demand her money back. She would claim the food was rotten. Sometimes her elderly mother would provide backup. You know, retching noises or indignant How-dare-Yous. They would make a scene.

More often than not, the flustered cashier would open the register and hand over the dollar value of the food.

The problem was she hadn’t actually paid for it in the first place.

I admit I was impressed that when whe had $400,000 in cash in her late-model Cadillac, when a search warrant was executed. Wow. That’s a lot of shrimp.

Shrimp Lady, also known as Sherry Kaye or Sheri Kay Diamond of Reno, Nevada, of whoever she really was, was charged with scheme to defraud and placed in the Schenectady County Jail. She pleaded not guilty.

That’s where I come into the story, other than my fantasies of ill-gotten gain.

My editor called me at home and told me Shrimp Lady’s mother, Diane, had complained of chest pains while visiting Shrimp Lady in jail. My job was to interview her at the emergency room.

I set off to do so. I thought they had been caught red-handed and she tell me all her tricks. Then I could be a Shrimp Lady, too.

 I was wrong.

Mother of Shrimp Lady, sitting on a hospital bed with an oxygen hose up her nose, told me I had my facts wrong. The real victim was her daughter, Sherry, incarcerated without a change of underwear.  She was literally airing her family’s dirty laundry in public. My job, as she saw it, was to take notes and put her tale of woe in the paper to generate sympthy.

That’s right. She and her daughter had been caught red-handed with $400,000 and a nearly new Cadillac but they were the victims, the injured parties, the wrong individuals deserving justice.

Like a good reporter, I questioned her from several angles and attempted to win her trust and used all the psychological games I could think of. Mother of Shrimp Lady was like a broken record about being wronged and the dirty underpants. Eventually, I was asked to leave the emergency room and I did. Instead of admiring Shrimp Lady and Mother of Shrimp Lady, I was repulsed by them.

I didn’t need a tutor in con artistry. I knew it all at that moment. You need to keep moving because you can’t play the same trick on the same person every day without them geting wise. So keep changing your name, get drivers licenses from the states you visit and birth certificates, too. Once you assemble your toolkit, you have to cast off some things. Your pride, your dignity and your shame. I don’t want to do that. I want to be proud when I’ve done well, be ashemed when I’ve fallen short and the last thing I want is for my dirty underpants go viral on the Internet. Even if it means I could get something without paying!

So I have to work for a living even when it hurts. So if you see me with a bag of shrimp. I bought it.

Thank you for listening.

This story was performed at Patchwork Storytelling Guild’s Sept. 6 2026 story concert, Stories for Grownups.

Copyright Christina Sturgis 2026. All Rights Reserved.

When I was 8 years old, I was obsessed with getting Girl Scout badges. I would find the easiest path to my goal as shown in the Girl Scout Handbook, bring the paperwork to my dad for his signature and get more badges. I would go through the possibilities in the handbook and declare, “This one is a cinch.” I was not trying to be a better person or better Girl Scout; I was trying to get the most badges with the least effort.

My dad was home following a heart attack so he was very available to play my little game.  One day I was focused on a badge called The Dabbler, where the Scout was required to demonstrate several different art forms, but he wasn’t so quick to sign on the dotted line.  I showed him that I could paint with watercolor, draw with a pencil and  do a simple dance. None of these artistic expressions were a masterpiece, but it was about quantity not quality in my mind.

“I am not sure I like this badge the Dabbler,” he said.
“It reminds me of the phrase, Jack of all Trades. Do you know what that means?”

“No Daddy, I’m in the third grade. We don’t talk like that. Does this mean you won’t sign on the dotted line? (A Pause) What time is Mama coming home?”

“I don’t know. Mama is working at the store until 3 p.m., but you know how she likes to have coffee with her friends. And then, she was going to do some grocery shopping. And she left tv dinners for us to have for supper. I think she could be gone until late. You are stuck with me,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, as the glory of one easily-obtained badge faded in my imagination.

‘So, as I was saying, A Jack of all trades is someone who can do many things, like a little carpentry, a little gardening, basic car repair and lawn maintenance,” he said.

“That sounds great. That sounds like you, Daddy. I want to be a Jack of all Trades, too,” I said.

“Well, there is more to that phrase. It’s Jack of all Trades, Master of None.” Now that I’m sick,  I wonder if it might have been wiser for me to specialize, to get very, very good at one thing,” he said. “Maybe you should think of that, too.”

 I carry this conversation with me to this day. Is it better to learn a lot of things or to specialize? I find that life forces me to learn a lot of things just to survive. When my newspaper career declined, I became a school bus driver. Totally different skill set. I had to learn to live with a lot of negative feedback. They say I drive too slowly. My “throttle work” is jerky. That means I am not smooth with speeding up and slowing down.

At this point, I needed the arts to survive emotionally while I struggled financially. I needed more friends, new friends, different kinds of friends and different ways looking at the same things. As I plunged deeper and deeper into the Jack of all Trades territory, I thought of my dad casting himself as Jack of All trades, Master of None. Maybe I’d grown up just like him. And it was a very good thing.

What comes from this life of journalism, improv theater, Shakespearian theater, folk singing, photography, painting, drawing and dance?

Any guesses? (wait for guesses) Ok, if I write jot down some notes?

A full, rich life. That’s what. Thank you for listening.

Recently, a high school classmate wrote a book about his near-death experience. Without the internet and online career networking, I wouldn’t have known. I read his book and consider him a hidden gem. I wouldn’t have guessed he had such wisdom and insight when we took chemistry together.

The lesson is to take more interest in people. I studied networking. The message: meet everyone at an event, but don’t linger. See the gem potential, but quickly. We don’t have all day to get rich.

This reminded me of my mother, a good networker, though not a business tycoon, but a waitress in the coffee shop in our town’s only supermarket. If someone needed a good used car, she put the word out. If a family had children my age, she made a play date. Once she found a college student from Russia to rent a room from my aunt.

But the most important networking my mother ever did was when I was 7 and my dog got lost. Rhondi, a dachshund, also known as a “wiener dog,” went out for a poop and did not return. I was heartbroken. I could not eat. I could not sleep. I could not pay attention in school. This went on for days.

My mother made sure everyone knew about the lost dog and broken-hearted child, until a big, strong truck driver found her. He remembered the sad story of the little girl and missing dog as he was driving through our town one day. He jumped out of his truck and cornered Rhondi in a garage. Can you imagine the joy on Mama’s face when he carried Rhondi into the coffee shop?

My broken heart was mended because my mother could see the gem in a total stronger. I want to carry this lesson forward and be more like her.

I told this story on Arts Sunday, April 27, 2025, at the Dorothea Dix Unitarian Universalist Church, DDUUC.org. My author-classmate is Mike Hardman and his book is Heartman, available from Amazon.

Copyright 2025 Christina Sturgis, All Rights Reserved.

People need encouragement more than criticism. One special day I saw someone suffering the way I once had and I stepped in with the words that would have comforted me.

I was in the office for the school bus company where I work when a woman came in crying. She had just had an accident on her very first day as a driver and was afraid she would be fired. The accident had resulted in a smudge of paint. No injury, no loss of life, no dent, no ding and no scrape. She had been yelled and screamed at. It seemed to me everyone was overreacting.

I had been in her shoes. Once the mirror on my bus clanked against another bus and I was so upset I nearly fainted. What good would fainting do, I now ask myself?

I told my teary-eyed collegue: “I can tell just by looking at you that you are very intelligent and conscientious person. You have made a tiny mistake and been yelled at. What’s going to happen now is you are going out for a driving lesson with Ken. He is excellent. He drove a tractor trailer for years. He really knows his stuff. Plus, that, he’s a very nice guy.”

“Then, you are going to put this in the rear-view mirror and you will do great here.”

Six months later, we both have our jobs and something to smile about across the parking lot. ( I presented this live April 5, 2025, at the Spoken and Stirred Coffee House and Open Mic at Dorothea Dix Unitarian Universalist Community, DDUUC.org.)

Copyright Christina Sturgis 2026. All Rights Reserved.

The title of my story is Benjamin Franklin and Me, but you are going to have to listen for the Ben Franklin part. The story is also about my favorite subject: me. I am a school bus driver. One hot day a few years ago, I decided to stop at Taco Bell on my way to the afternoon shift.

So set off for the bus yard in my car with the air conditioning blasting and my stereo blasting and the headlights on. I learned tacos and steering wheels don’t mix. I was missing the nourishment and staining my shirt. I pulled over to focus on eating. Then, I made a critical error. I turned the motor off. The battery was dead. Crank, crank. Silence. Crank, crank. Silence.

Because there is a school bus driver shortage, the company picked me up so they didn’t have to replace me. I got back to the bus yard and my two bus aides, Tom and Ursula. We were transporting for Early Childhood Learning Center with children as young as 4. Even with two bus aides it took a while to get everyone in.

The bus was not air conditioned. Tom nor Ursula were not young. Tom was over 80 and longing for the Good Old Days when society was more orderly and children were more obedient. Ursula was about 70 and from Korea. She society was more orderly there and children were more obedient. As different as they may have looked, Tom and Ursala bonded deeply over this vision of a better world far, far away.

On hot days the caregivers fall asleep and don’t come out to get the kids. We are not allowed to go on private property and knock on doors because of insurance and liability concerns. I called the dispatcher on the radio and awaited instructions each time.

Finally, the children had all been handed into the arms of their caregivers and we were free to get on with our lives. I am certain we looked like three old horses, ridden hard and put away wet. I asked if either Tom or Ursula could drive me back to my broken-down car so I could call Triple A and get a battery delivered.

 “No,” said Tom. “That battery will be too expensive.” He knew I was barely making ends meet and I didn’t need the additional expense of a luxury-priced car battery. He said we should get the car jump started and go to his favorite garage, where the price would be fair.

“I have jumper cables,” Ursula said. And she did. I have never seen a cleaner or more beautiful set of jumper cables. They were in a clear plastic pouch, like they had never been used. None of us knew how to use them. All three of us were scared of getting shocked. Ursula took the lead. She found directions on the internet and soon her car breathed life into mine. We went to Tom’s garage and I bought a new battery and drove home feeling very fortunate that someone would risk heat stroke to help me.

Tom didn’t work summer school that year. Ursula and I had a special education route in a mini bus with broken air conditioning. I requested the repair, but it never got done. Ursula was incredulous that the equipment was there but wouldn’t be fixed. She showed up and did her best, regardless. One day she could in trouble for cleaning the bus too thoroughly. It took too long.

On the last day of summer school, Ursula handed me a sealed envelope, like this one. (hold up the envelope.)

“Put this in your pocketbook and do not open it until you get home,” she said. By then, I was used to  obeying orders from bus aides. (open the envelope)

What do you think was in the envelope? Can anyone guess? I have enlarged it so you can all see. (I held up a 2-foot by 3-foot replica of a $100 bill with Ben Franklin’s portrait..)

It was a one-hundred-dollar bill with the portrait of Ben Franklin. It was the first, last and only one I have never had. I will never forget Tom and Ursula and all their kindness.

Thank you for listening.

(Copyright Christina Sturgis 2025. All Rights Reserved. This original story was presented live at Deep Water, a story concert by Patchwork Storytelling Guild, on March 23, 2025 in The Rotunda, Philadelphia, Pa.)

When I was 8 years old, I knew everything about horses and ponies. I was in the 4-H horse club, where once a month we meet at a member’s house to learn to take care of animals. Then we would eat Rice Krispie treats and run around the house until the host family was sick of us.

One winter evening I brought my friend and fellow 4Her, Mindy, home for some pony riding. After all, I had 2 ponies, one for each of us. One pony was Woodvale Top hat, a purebred Welsh pony. The other one came with no name, so I called her Princess, copying another horse-crazy girl in my school. Princess was a Shetland pony bred for the coal mines with no pedigree and a stubborn streak a mile wide. She was princess of nothing more than my heart. When Mindy and I came around the corner of the barn, Princess was flat on the ground. We stopped short and stared.

 Finally, Mindy said: “Is she dead?” I kneeled on the cold ground and patted her velvety soft nose. “What’s the matter girl?” I said, “No, she’s moving,” I said. Then our 4-H training kicked in. “looks like colic. She could die. We have to get her up and walk her.”

Mindy said, “She’s not going to like it.”

“We got to do it,” I said. So we pushed and pulled and pleaded. “Princess, you got to get up or you’ll die,” I said, crying. More pushing. pulling. And pleading. She lumbered to her feet and then went down again. Finally she she stood up and took a few steps, hoping to get away from us. “Yay, Princess!” we said, hugging and kissing her. She passed gas like the air brakes on a tractor trailer. She spewed stinky green diarrhea. Imagine some wet, heavy splatttering sounds. We didn’t know whether these were signs of success of failure. So we walked on.

It got dark and cold My dad came home from work. “It’s great that you remembered to walk a pony with colic.” Before he could go in the house and call the vet, Mindy’s mother drove up and insisted she go home because it was school night. My dad apologized for keeping her out after dark.

Mindy says she’s still mad at her mom for pulling her away from a pony emergency.

He called the vet and came out of the house with two things, a flashlight and a his hat. It was the 1960s and a 50-year-old man wore a hat.

 “We have to get something from the drug store.” He made me go with him, despite my protestations not to leave Princess. “No, I’m not leaving you alone in the dark with this. This is a grownup problem. You are coming with me.”

He bought mineral oil and said the vet said we should pour it down the pony’s throat. He was worried. “She’s not going to like it,’ he said. So, we led her into the barn and opened the bottle

“This is going to take both of us,” he said, adjusting the flashlight to help not hinder. “You back her into the corner,’ he said, taking the cap off the bottle. “Now, you hold the bottle and I’m going to hold her head up so her neck is straight up and down,” he said.

 Her eyes were wild, her body was tense and it was an understatement to say she didn’t like it.” “Always talk to your horse,” he told me. “Talk to her in a nice quiet voice. Tell her we won’t hurt her.”

 “All right Princess, this is going to make you feel better,” I said.

Dad set the flashlight on the stall wall, freeing both of his hands. “Okay, pinch behind her lower lip to get her to open her teeth,” he said. I pushed the bottle into her mouth and the oil went down her throat. He waited waited while she swallowed the goo. “Now, what, Dad?”  I asked.

 “It’s time to in the house and take care of ourselves.”

“But they said to walk her. She could die,” I pleaded.

“We have done everything the vet said. We can’t take care of anyone else unless we take care of ourselves,” he said, firmly. He turned to me before opening the back door.

 “You are not allowed to check on her during the night,” he said, as though he were reading my mind. I picked at my supper, prepared by my mother who fully understood the crisis. Soft-hearted me and a sick pet. Exhausted, I slept like a rock. But in the morning, Princess had made it through the night and so had I.

 I am telling you this story because I like the version of myself in it: confident and determined.  The bad stuff of life hadn’t come to me yet and slumped my shoulders and made me second-guess myself.

So would you please, in honor of my long-ago Princess and the night we saved her life, close your eyes and telepathically send me the confidence of 8-year-old me. I need it so bad. Take a pinch for yourself while you are at it. (I closed my eyes and bowed my head for a moment. Then I opened my eyes. Put my arms up and out.)

It’s back! Thank you so much!

THE END. (I Told this story at the Rotunda, Philadelphia, Pa., with the Patchwork Storytelling Guild during Philadelphia Fringe Fest.)

I will be on stage appearing in the “Stories for Grownups” storytelling showcase from 2 to 4 p.m. Sunday, Sept. 8, 2024 at the Rotunda, 4014 Walnut St., Philadelphia. My story is, “The Night I Saved the Princess.” I would love to see you there. How to get tickets and more about the show is at the website. Patchworkstorytelling.org