Cents and Sensibility: The Moth Radio Hour

Also, on the product market, you will find your next step or your first big enterprise.

With KaE, the development of the online market, also the advantages of the companies. And that's the question as it is. Where the team, like security and compliance, is really worth it. It's long-awaited, it's almost out.

“That's why many startups are happy, and wait for them.”

And if it's not, it's still not worth it. Yet, stop in Alfanta.com. This is the Maulther Radio Hour. I'm your host, Suzanne Rust. I admire and envy the financially savvy. And most aspects of my life, I feel like a fairly well-adjusted, well-informed adult.

But there's something about talking finances, budgets, investments, 401ks, long-term goals that shuts me down.

My new year's resolutions almost always include a promise to get better with managing money.

And while I did fulfill that promise last year with a financial consultant, which was really helpful, by the way, I still have a way to go before I feel as confident as I would like. I think all of this is what drew me to the theme of "Sense," as in coins, and "Sensibility."

“Because I'm curious to see how others navigate those sometimes murky waters.”

This hour is about money, but also about the things we value beyond it, like a sense of security, love, respect, and knowing when what we have is enough. Our first story was told by Steve Zimmer at a slammer Chicago, where we partner with Public Radio Station WB Easy. Here's Steve, live with them all.

1973, I'm 10 years old, and my dad works at a tool in die company, which doesn't pay much money, but he's also an inventor, which pays negative money. So every night, after dinner, he goes down to his basement workshop. And I never follow him.

I'm very similar to my father's father, and they really never got along.

“And that might be okay, except that my parents fired a lot,”

and I get kind of pulled over to my mother's side, and that, you know, which just widens the rift between me and my father. Now, my big new hobby is coin collecting, and mostly I read books about coins. But one night, my dad comes home with $40, a bag of $40 of pennies, and pennies from the bank, in paper rolls. And he lays him out on the kitchen table, and it doesn't say anything just starts sorting through him.

So I join him, and it's probably our first father's son activity. Now, when you're sorting Lincoln pennies, the first thing you do is look for weedies. pennies predating 1959 with weeders on the reverse. So now, all of a sudden, every night, my dad and I, are there after dinner, sorting through pennies in complete silence.

Except for the periodic discovery of a weedie, which causes the finder to say, weedie. [ Laughter ] So it's like, "Grainman, with two dust and Hoffman." [ Laughter ] So now, one night, I find a weedie from 1943.

Now, due to wartime copper shortage, just 43 pennies were made of zinc. They're gray, but the penny I found is brown. Now, there are 25 known specimens of 1943 copper pennies. A mint employee at the time illegally snuck them out. In the best global world of coin collecting, no one is more universally beloved

than the unscrupulous mint employee. So, so, this penny is worth triple the value over house if it's genuine. Now, the easiest way to counterfeit a 43 copper penny is to copper plate the zinc version. But the zinc's are lighter, so all we need is a good micro scale. And my dad decides that he's going to build one.

Since, since, is my mother observes, I spend $20 on a scale when you can build one for $38. So, so, now, for the first time, I follow my dad down into the basement after dinner. And, you know, as workshops, you know, got all this array of tools and all, you know, like switches and hinges and capacitors and screws.

And, so, and, you know, he goes all out on a scale, if, like, two-sided, like Justice and a super accurate.

“And, and we, but we don't, you know, try it until we're sure it's, it's perfect because a false positive would be heartbreaking.”

So, the big night comes and we try to try our penny against a 1952 copper penny with similar wear in the balance perfectly. It's copper. And, like, oh, you know, this is going to, you know, it could solve all our financial problems. I'll probably get my picture in numismatic news. And, for my, yeah, this is a long shot victory.

He never got from his inventions. So, we set it aside a day to go to coin stores. And, you know, we dress up in our, you know, we have part of Blue Sportcoats.

Shorts leave college shirts and ties. And, we, we visit GS coins first. And, the managers, there's Rudy is no interest in, in our coin. So, next up is, uh, Keddy coins, uh, to huge dealer.

“And, and, uh, and we actually get to sit down with owner. He's an expert on Lincoln pennies. And he says, well, you know, the easiest test is just to hold, you know, if, if, if it sticks to a magnet, it's, it's, it's a fake.”

And, uh, we, to assume that zinc pennies were zinc, they're actually zinc coated steel. So, if our penny sticks to the magnet, it's fake. So, he holds it to the magnet. And it doesn't stick. And, um, and the guy's like, huh, you know, we talked about our weight test. And, uh, and so he, so he looks at it for a long time under high magnification. And he says, this is, uh, this penny's real copper. Fortunately, it's from 1948. Someone had professionally ground off the left side of the eight. And, you know, he showed us blood pictures. And you could see, like, the real three versus a cut eight.

And he said, oh, you know, this is actually pretty good fake. You know, people collect these, it's probably worth, you know, at least $10. So, so, you know, back in the car, you know, my dad just sits in the seat for a long time before turning the ignition. And, you know, we get home and clip our ties.

“And my, my dad, my dad, my dad goes straight to the basement. And I go up to my room and ponder why I feel like yelling at my mother.”

And, uh, and, uh, and after dinner, I, uh, I sort, I start sorting through the remaining roles of pennies. And surprisingly, my, my dad joins in. And we probably aren't going to find a penny that changes our life. And I'm probably not going to understand my dad any better than he understood his dad.

But, you never know. Thank you.

[ Applause ] That was Steve Zimmer, a multiple-moth grand slam winner. Steve lives in New York where he works in finance and still occasionally looks at coins on eBay. In 1932, such as the mercury dime, the standing liberty quarter, the peace dollar, the walking liberty half, the buffalo nickel, and the $10. And $20, saying God is gold coins. He says that the flat presidential coins that are on the market these days pale in comparison. [ Music ]

Those first jobs we have as a teenager can shape how we view work and money. Our next story was told by Stacey Bader Curry at a New York City slam. For WNYC is a media partner of the mall. Here's Stacey. [ Applause ] When I was 14, my greatest joy in life with my job at CVS. It calmed me to a line boxes of etc. And to make change in my head. But when I was 16, and I started remembering humanizing skew numbers for fun, I thought maybe it's time to move on.

So I interviewed with Mr. Hazel, the manager of the coolest movie theater in town. He was very formal and he wore this Nadi 3 piece suit. And introduced me to Doug, his driver, and I thought, wow, this movie theater is really nice. So I got hired and I worked behind the candy stand. And right away, this place was very strange. You know, CVS was like a Jane Austen novel. It was very orderly. And there was this lovely atmosphere of gloom and isolation.

And the movie theater was like Lord of the flies. Mr. Hazel was never there. The teenagers were always conspiring and laughing.

And I was completely left out. But what really bothered me was our popcorn inventory system.

And then count the tubs again after the shift. And the difference was what we sold.

“But the whole shift, I was mentally tallying ourselves. And it never added up to what we had on the inventory sheet.”

The money was correct in the cash drawer, but I knew we were selling more. So I expressed my concerns to my co-worker Marie. And she snapped her gum in my face and said, "Yeah, better talk to Mike." Now Mike was a head-assurer. He was a little intimidated. And that afternoon he grabbed me. And he said, "So, I hear you want in." And what? He said, "Listen kid, what we do here is we sell refurbished popcorn cubs." I had no idea what he was talking about. So he laid it out for me. What you got to do is you come with me and clean out the theater.

You look for popcorn cubs in the garbage on the floor. You meet me back in the break room and we wipe them out. And as long as there's no visible butter stains or tears, you put them back behind the counter and you take the corresponding cash out of the drawer. So I was appalled, but a little intrigued. And so I said, "Well, what do you do in the cash?" And he smiled broadly. And he said, "Well, we all got a dinner every night at Charlie Browns. And then after work, I buy a case of beer."

“And not only did I join their organization, I elevated it.”

I brought my strong quant skills and my analytical reasoning. I said, "Guys, we are not allocating resources properly. We don't need three people to clean up after dirty dancing. That is all teenage girls. They eat twizzlers. We need to focus upstairs the theater number three where we were showing the untouchables. Now, if you don't know, this is uncanny. The untouchables is the true-life story of Elliott Ness's take down of Al Capone.

And you know who came to see the untouchables in the summer of 1987 senior citizens. They never put butter on their popcorn.

That theater was littered with pristine cups. So we were flush with cash. And we would roll into Charlie Browns like we owned the place. We passed Mr. Hazel at the bar and he was nursing his eighth scotch. And it was like this portal to an alternate reality open for me. It was like this world where people didn't care about being proper.

“And they didn't have the same complicated relationship with money that I had.”

You know, I grew up in a coupon clipping generic toilet paper household. And here I am at Charlie Browns, a restaurant where they bring you sour cream with your baked potato. And you don't even have to ask for it. And I'm ordering shrimp cocktail in prime rib. It was exhilarating. So ball came and we got rid of dirty dancing and we got fatal attraction.

And everyone in their grandmother wanted to see that bunny in the pot. We were mad, busy, and quality control really slipped. One day, I'm serving a small popcorn to a woman. And as I put it in her hand, I see all two late ellipsic inference on the cup. It's just the bottom lip and it's underneath the rim.

But she took it and she went into the theater. And as at door shut, I imagine the life in prison. And I realized I liked my complicated relationship with money. I find great comfort in that. So even we didn't get caught, but I quit the theater.

And I started waiting tables. And I waited tables all through high school through four years of college. And I self-financed my own education by waiting tables. And thank you. And I still have a complicated relationship with money, but that's fine.

And I'm still thrifty, but I do occasionally go to the movies.

And I always order popcorn because they don't sell it in tubs anymore.

They sell it in disposable paper bags now. Thank you. That was Stacy Bader curry. After nearly 30 years of living in New York City, Stacy and her family moved to Maine in 2020. She says that in New York, fragality was survival.

But in Maine, it's practically a competitive sport.

Containers, clothes, food, like she's training for the Olympics of thrift.

“I was curious to know how those scamming days affected her.”

And she said that after that close call at the movie theater, she became hyper vigilant about avoiding even the hint of impropriet work. After college, Stacy landed on Wall Street, Justice pioneering internet companies were going public. She admits that she could have bought those stocks on day one,

but didn't. Her fear of crossing the line cost her the windfall that could have changed her life. These days, as a mom, who is three quarters of the way to being an empty nester, she says that time spent with her four children, her husband, and their two dogs is the thing she values most.

To see a photo of a teenage Stacy, head to themoth.org. You can share these stories or others from the moth archive and by tickets to moth story telling events in your area through our website, TheMoth.org. There are moth events all year round. Find a show near you and come out to tell a story.

And you can find us on social media too. We're on Facebook and X at TheMoth and on Instagram and TikTok at Moth Stories. [music] Coming up, a story about what it means to have enough. When the moth radio hour continues.

[music] The moth radio hour is produced by Atlantic public media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

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This is the moth radio hour. I'm Suzanne Russ, your host for this finance focused hour. What does it mean to have enough? Danny M. O'Gene opened up when she told this story at a Phoenix slam, where we partner with public radio station KJZZ.

Here's Danny, live it from now. [applause] I'm in the sixth grade.

“My little brother, Jair and I are racing home from the school bus.”

It's a frigid winter day. Our current rental house doesn't have working heat. A thin layer of ice coats the walls of the bathroom and the uninsulated garage that's our shared bedroom. To keep the roaches and rodents at bay, we keep all of our food stored in an old steamer

trunk on the kitchen floor. Kicking off my shoes, my stomach cramps. The food stamps are due, and I have an eaten since. We finish the leftover beans the night before. On good days, I can smell the beans before the bus even pulls away.

The other kids make fun of us by pinching their noses or pretending to gag and shame snakes around my belly creeping up my chest and my neck until my face is bright red. But that shame vanishes the second I walk through the door. It's funny how a thing can make you feel so ashamed one second.

And so joyful the next. On the days that I smell beans, I know Jair and I are going to have dinner for at least a couple of nights, which is the closest thing that my 12-year-old brain can imagine is luxury. Lifting the lid of the heavy trunk, my heart drops.

I had hoped to find some saltine crackers or maybe a jar of peanut butter. Anything to stay off our hunger. But there's nothing except a little bit of leftover rice.

I always give my brother half of whatever food I have.

Sorry. I always give my brother half of whatever food I have. And every time shame wraps me in a dark cloak. I'm perfectly aware I shouldn't have to give half of my food to my brother. But awareness doesn't change my reality of doing without

without more winter clothes or breakfast or lunch.

because the idea of throwing them away makes me feel sick. Every coin I find, I stash away so in an emergency I can buy a loaf of bread. When I'm on free school lunch, which is an often because we move around and awful lot, I smuggle food home so that he can have something to eat before he goes to bed.

When I'm old enough to have a job I use my paycheck to help pay rent. But I also hide boxes of granola bars all over my room. None of this makes me feel good. And before I know it, shame's my albatross.

It's around my neck always whispering that I'll never have enough

because I'll never be enough. Years pass and a childhood of constantly doing without has trapped me in a state of constant type of vigilance for my own families well-being.

“The only way I know to fight the anxiety and the fear”

is to stock pile staples. I haven't crossed the line until hoarding, but I absolutely cannot function with fewer than a dozen roles of toilet paper in the house. My partner never says anything about my dragonways.

Every once in a while he'll question if we really need

another tube of toothpaste.

But in the end he lets it all go because it's not that big of a deal. And honestly, sometimes it turns out to be a good thing that we have a shelf stable supply of goods. Times when the checks are short or we're dealing with unemployment it's really comforting to know we don't have to wipe our asses with leaves.

So.

“Now it's spring 2020 and we're taking our high school senior”

on a out of state college tour. It's early March. The WHO hasn't even declared COVID a pandemic yet. But all of that changes on our trip. The tour our son took was the last in person tour.

That school would give for nearly two years. Driving down a deserted, snowy highway in the middle of the pandemic. NPR reports on all of the shortages. The toilet paper is gone from all the shelves. There's no rice, there's no food, there's nothing.

Panic starts to claw at me. And it just tightens when we pull into a gas station in the middle of the desert. Even there.

“Not one role of toilet paper or a can of Chef Boyardees in sight.”

In the car, I do a mental inventory of what we have at home. We have a 25 pound bag of beans. We have black beans, pinto beans, myocobas. We have chicken stock and I do all of my mental thoughts. And I know that between the pantry and the freezer,

we have enough to get us through an entire year. We have plenty of food. And suddenly the shame releases itself. And warm pride floods my body. As I realize my trauma response to growing up in extreme poverty is actually kind of useful.

As does turns into night, I lean back in my seat and smile, knowing that when the shit hits the fan, I can provide for me in mind. Thank you. [applause] That was Danny M. Ogene, an author and Phoenix story slam winner, currently based in Texas.

As a child, Danny wanted to be either a bounty hunter, a tight rope walker, or a professional moth catcher. Fortunately, she realized rich people actually don't hire kids with nets to relocate bothersome mouths from garden parties, and she started writing stories instead. Danny's story raised some questions. Specifically, I was curious to know where Danny's parents were at the time of her story.

Here's what she shared. I wish I could tell you where my parents were, but I really can't. Starting around kindergarten, my parents would disappear, leaving me to take care of my brother. Sometimes just for a couple of hours during the day, but sometimes I'd wake up in middle of the night to discover we were alone in the apartment.

One of my nicknames was Little Mama, and that's exactly how they treated me. As if a five-year-old ever had any business taking care of a three-year-old. As I hid out a lesson, their vanishing act got longer.

Dad always came back, but it sometimes took my mom weeks.

I especially remember the cold, the quiet in the hunger. On those quiet days, we didn't question where she was, because frankly, she was physically and emotionally abusive, and we were happier when it was just the two of us. I sensed a lot of emotion in Danny's voice when she spoke about her brother, Ger, so I asked her about him. My brother died in 2012, and our relationship at the time was pretty strange.

When I left home for college in the mid-90s, he felt I betrayed and abandoned him.

His death was unexpected, and we never quite got past his anger at me, though we both tried to understand the other.

“Now, I remember him with the same fierce, loyal love I felt for him when we were children.”

He appears in both large and small ways in every story you're novel I've written since his death. I like to think at some point in our middle-aged, we'd have found a mutual understanding and restored our relationship. That was Danny M. O'Gene. [Music] Some people value money, some people value stuff, and then there are people in another category all together.

Like our next storyteller, Tajji Marie Torrelian, who told her story at an LA Grand Slam, where we partner with public radio station KCRW. Here's Tajji. [Applause]

“So I am not attached to stuff, which kind of sounds altruistic, but actually means I'm pretty careless with things.”

I once accidentally donated my very favorite sweater to Goodwill to give you an idea. My wife, on the other hand, is festidious. She is careful and intentional with everything that she has. But I come by my anti-stuff neurosis for a few very good reasons. One, I moved every year of my life until I was 17, two, I had parents who just didn't parent. And three, I lost everything I owned when I was 10 years old.

It was February, and it had been raining for a month straight, which was actually not that unusual for the little Northern California town that I'm from. And on that day, though, I woke up to my mom shaking me saying, "Pack a bag, we're leaving as soon as we can." So I got up, I went to the window, and I was stunned at what I saw outside. There was this rushing river of brown, sludgy water where our street used to be. And the cars parked on the street were filling up with water while I watched in real time.

And so I threw some things in a bag, and I looked back out that window, not even five minutes later,

and I couldn't believe how high the water had gotten. The single story house across the street that I was looking down on from my second story window was gone.

There was a teeny bit of the roof peeking up, but it was basically under water. And so the next thing I knew, we were climbing out that window, because it was the only safe way out of the house into my neighbor's boat. And there we were, floating down my street, navigating our way around these big tree branches and floating furniture.

“And I remember looking back at my house, filling with water, thinking, "I wonder if I'm ever going to see my room again."”

And sure enough, the only things of mine that survived that flood were the few things that I threw in that bag that day. And in the middle of this scary traumatic event, I was scared and shocked, and I just couldn't process it really. So I did what a lot of kids do. I came up with a way to make something scary, not so scary. And my coping mechanism of choice was detachment. I just decided, I didn't need that stuff anyway, and I got on with it, which kind of tells you the sort of overly mature tenor old that I was.

But over time, this coping mechanism just sort of settled into my personality, and I became someone who was not precious about stuff and kind of took pride in it. It was like if I don't love it, then I won't miss it when it's gone, which worked great until I met, fell in love with, and later married a woman who was beautiful and smart and funny and very attached to her stuff. And you know, just to be clear, my wife is not a materialistic person. She doesn't like shopping. She is a regular in our buying nothing, Facebook group, but this is a woman who still has her favorite red ruler from great school on her desk.

And she just recently got rid of this black fisherman's cap that she was wearing the very first time I saw her 25 years ago, which is charming and also something I just never understood.

But I didn't care, we were taking pictures, had a great day, it's one of my favorite places to go.

“And we ended it back in the hotel room, kind of peeling off all of our wet layers, and I filled something strange on my hand, or actually something not on my hand, and I looked down and I realized my wedding ring was gone.”

And I panicked, and I tore apart the hotel room, I looked in every pocket, and when I finally got to the gloves, I was wearing that day, and they were empty.

I realized what must have happened is when I took my gloves off to take a picture, my ring must have fallen off at the headlands. And I felt sick. It was the same sinking feeling I'd felt decades later, floating down that street, watching my house filled with water. It was this deep and immediate sense of loss and grief that I hadn't let myself feel for a very long time. And back then, I was wondering, am I ever going to see my room again, but now I was older and wiser, and I knew that ring was gone forever.

And maybe for the first time, I felt ashamed for having lost something, because it wasn't just something, it was our ring. My ring, our ring, the one we'd had specially designed and made for our wedding back before it was legal, and then the one that I'd worn for almost two decades of moves and travel and parenthood and our second wedding when it finally was legal. This ring had seen some things, and it was gone, and I was crushed because it just felt irreplaceable. Well, about a year later, we were in Ohio celebrating our 20th anniversary, and I still had not replaced that ring, because I felt like I just couldn't.

But we decided to go hiking with some friends, and so I parked the car and my wife went off to see if they were there. And when I had almost cut up with her, I saw her on the ground in front of me, which was strange. So I kind of picked up my pace, and when I got there, I realized that she was kneeling and smiling and had something smaller hand.

And she said to me, you know, we never really did proposals for our wedding, we just kind of decided to get married for both of them.

But I'm going to do it now with this ring, so will you stay married to me? And I said yes, and she put her ring on it. And I am very attached to this ring now, because I think allowing myself to feel terrible about that loss of that first ring really helps me understand how special an object can be. And as you might imagine, I take very good care of this ring now, because I have realized that sometimes taking care of our stuff is a way of taking care of our people. [ Applause ]

That was Tajima Rituerely, a communications consultant, facilitator, and storyteller based in Los Angeles. Tajis says that she and her wife talk a lot to their son about what has value.

“They stress the importance of taking care of your things as a way to be less wasteful, while also not loving your things so much you forget about what matters most in life,”

like people, relationships, and experiences. What Tajis values most these days is quiet time, and says that those moments when she can turn off the noise of the world are true luxury. To see a photo of Tajis, go to themos.org. [ Music ] In a moment, heavily tips and collection play drama, when the math rate of hour continues.

[ Music ] The math rate of hour is produced by Atlantic public media and Woods Hole, Massachusetts. [ Music ] The American Dream, we all have a version of it. The notion that where you begin is nothing to do with where you end up, that anything is possible.

Run for office, live off the grid, hit a homer, throw robots, teach goat yoga, anything. This spring, the math main stage is traveling to cities around the country with stories of the American dream.

“Does it even exist anymore? For who? What happens when that dream is dashed or deferred, and what happens when the dream is fulfilled?”

Let's come together and listen to people telling true personal stories of their very own American dreams. Experience the Moth main stage live. Find the city near you at the Moth.org/mainstage. [ Music ] This is the Moth radio hour. I'm your host, Suzanne Rust. In this next story, Charles Carracciolo shares an experience about a job with a surprising curve.

Here's Charles. [ Applause ]

“Hi everybody. So I'm from Flushing, it's my neighborhood.”

[ Applause ] And maybe every neighborhood has a hub or a center point where we're all the action is. Sometimes it's a building like this, like a town hall. Other places, it's a bar or a cultural hub, like a restaurant or something like that. For me, I grew up Catholic, so for me, it was the church where almost every significant event in my life, for my young life, happened to church, right down the road. It's about a mile down the road here, saying ends.

And when I was in fifth grade, the pastor sent around a leaflet that he saying that he needed new altar boys.

And I was the first kid to sign up because I needed to be in the show.

I wanted to be under the bright lights in the production. And it mostly stemmed, I wanted to make my classmates jealous. You know, I'd be up there pouring the wine of the water on the priest's hands and then handing them the towel, like I was just roti. And I'd get to ring those bells, those good human bells, three times during the mess. It was glorious. And then, you know, what a 11-year-old boy doesn't want to wear a dress, right? To the church.

I had a black and white robe combo with a frilly lace. I wanted to wear that, but I know that sounds like enough perks already, but there was more.

There were pay days, and a pay day for an altar boy was a funeral or a wedding.

You could make serious bank on these. There was crazy. I averaged about 25 bucks at each. But at one really raucous, and that raucous, the wrong word, a big Italian funeral, I made 50 bucks. And I was ecstatic. And I know it's, you know, they were so sad, and I was so happy. And I felt bad, a little bad. But, you know, it was terrible because, you know, they lost this pillar of the community. It was like the loved one, and they were sobbing and carrying on, and the priest had that Aladdin's lamp thing with the incense.

And, you know, the incense made it sad, or it smelled sad.

“But when I smelled, when I smelled incense today, I think of one thing, cash money.”

So, I think of, feel terrible. I could go to confession, though, so.

So, after about six months to 12 months, I was making, you know, my bank account was bulging with altar boy money. And it went to my head. I got very jaded. You know, the new new altar boys would come on, and I wasn't helping them remember prayers or telling them when to ring the bells or when to bring the wine over. They were in my way. These amateurs were standing in my way. Me and these pay days. And I coveted these. So, you know, I think the priests got on to me, though, because they started to one guy with hell, one guy.

One priest with hell, the tip. I did a funeral, and I'm waiting by the door, like, you know, hey, hit the, and he didn't tip us. And I was like, what? I was pissed. You know what, what was I going to do? There was no local union, like a file that grievance with, right? So, I went to a high-powered, my own mother, and she gave me the double barrel truth, like, what? You're not there to make money. You're there to make your neighborhood a better place, and make yourself a better person. Think about that.

“And I said, well, I did join just to make money. That's why I'm here now still, but, you know, it was the main reason. So, whatever, I blew that off and I said, listen, it's not going to happen again.”

I refused to get stiff by a priest again. It's not going to happen. So, next Saturday, my mother drops me up a church, because I have a wedding, and I get broke up. I'm already on backstage in this accuracy, and waiting to go on, and the groom and the best man come back with a big fat envelope of cash. Lay it on the priest, and I, like, normal ray, right? I like, this is my moment. I seize the opportunity, and I stand up, and I say to a man of God, in front of all these people, I say, "Father, are we going to get the tip today, or are you going to keep it like last week?"

Yeah, no, more confession, whatever, and so. So, as soon as the bridal party leaves this old Irish priest, he's critting his seat, he's like, "You! Get out! You're finished! Beat it!" Okay? And I know I did, I know I'm in trouble, but I'm just, you know, I'm thunder struck, but not in the good way that they talk about a church. It was thunder still like in the Old Testament, not like that, but, you know, I was in trouble, and I knew it. So, I wandered around the door at the side door, and my mother is there. She's talking with French, just dropped me off. She's like, "What are you doing out here?"

And I said, you know, I was busted, so I was like, "I should just confess now, and I burst in the tears, and I blurred it out." I just got fired from the Older Boys. Yeah, so she was laughing, I was blubbering like a baby, and I'm like, "All right, maybe Jesus and the church don't call it fired, but it felt very much appropriate," right at that moment.

And they've relaxed the dress code, you go, "We're sneakers on the altar now." Two years ago, as I've massaged kids wearing air Jordans under his robe, I almost fell out of the pew. Anyway, they don't ring the bells anymore, and they don't let you play, they don't even take in the communion ritual, which I took very seriously.

“It's the only thing that I took seriously. You'd have to hold a dish right under people's chains, right at their neck level, to catch, you know, this was a symbolic thing. This was the body of Christ.”

If can't touch the floor, so you'd get ready to catch it, but there was always some wise ass who wanted to roll his eyes at me on the line, or stick his tongue out to make me laugh and get me in trouble with the priest. I wasn't half on that, so, and he's on that happen. I would drive the metal edge of this plate right into their Adam's apple, right? Like I was Jesus' own henchmen, right? And tonight, this is my confession. Amen. Thank you very much. That was Charles Carracciolo. Charles is a video editor by day, a drummer on random weekends, a metspan for six massacistic months a year, and a dad and husband 24/7. He dreamed of making his own movies since getting an 8-millimeter movie camera for Christmas at age 13.

“And finally, at the ripe old age of 53, he made his first film, and since then, he has cranked out two more that he's very proud of. His latest film, Gorilla Warfare, is about his obsession with the planet of the apes.”

When I asked Charles what he values most these days, he said that he's pleasantly surprised that he feels more creative in his 60s than he did in his 20s and 30s.

He also shared that he recently lost his wife of 32 years to cancer, and he has come to appreciate his two grown sons in a way that he could never have imagined.

To see an adorable photo of Charles from his altar boy days, go to themoth.org. Our final story comes from Christian Garland, who told it at a high school grand slam in New York.

“Here's Christian, live with him, I like it too.”

So, I'm like, "I know now, I'm a preacher's kid. I grew up in the church. I swear I'm only missed like two Sundays on my whole 16 years of life." And my grandfather, he was a minister, so, you know, he was my best friend, he was like, the person I could talk to about anything and everything.

So, when I was growing up, I'm about 9-10. I wanted to be the friend that had anything everybody else had, but I always wanted to have something better than everybody else.

I was the friend that, like, if you got the new video game, I had that video game and another one, that was just about to come out that you ain't know about. So, you know, one day, my friend came outside, he had these ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly sneakers on. I suppose I should mention at the time, my grandfather, he was a big dude, he was like 6-3 to one like a size 13 sneaker. And so, I used to walk around in his shoes like it was cool, I thought a big feet was cold. So, I was like, "Yo bro, I got those, man. They ain't nothing. I got those already."

He was like, "Hi, prove it. I didn't have them." So, my grandfather, my grandfather being a minister or whatever, he gets the money out of the collection plate. So, I knew where he put the money. It's not what you all think. I lied, it's exactly what you think. So, I told him, "I got sneakers, one upstairs. I took the money. I did." And it was like $200.

And I went on third avenue in the Bronx. I went inside and looked at the guy, "I was straight-face. I want the biggest size. Guy."

So, you know, I got sneakers and I go home and my grandfather, he's going to know if he found out. He was screaming at my uncle, he was like, "Why would you steal my money?" He said, "I didn't touch your money. I don't know what you're talking about." And I walked in and I froze, I was like, "Oh, he mad." And he was like, "Question, come in." I was like, "Huh?" He was like, "Where'd you get some sneakers?"

He was screaming and he said some very hard money. He was like, "I would never be able to trust you again, but one day you're going to repay me for the money you took. I don't know how. I don't know when, but you're going to repay me."

It was terrible. It was fast forward a couple of years about like two, three years ago.

I started, I'm a drummer, I played a drums on a radio for Al Sharpton on the radio or not a clock. [applause] I saw her. He paid me good. [laughter] And so, I'm like, you ever had that thought where you think start thinking about something and your mind goes somewhere else?

“That's what I was like, "I'm a grandpa, so I'm going to repay him." So me, I didn't get McDonald's for two weeks in the row.”

So I had got the money to pay him back. So I put it in the envelope. And so, I take him out to dinner at his favorite place.

Crown don't, I don't want sixty-first street. Next to him. I first he was skeptical. He's saying,

"You cast somebody pregnant?" [laughter] I was only 13, and I don't know if he's talking about that. I was like, "No, of course not. That'll be absurd." [laughter] So, we got our food. And I took the, I've had on a coat, it was cold. It's like the end I took early November. I took it on my side pocket, and it's like, you know the little pocket, it's like, "Take it out, put it on the table."

“And he looked in. He was like, "What's this?" I said, "You said I was going to repay you."”

And you didn't know how, but I just repaid you. And we started crying, hugging, "Oh, I love you. I love you too, Granddad."

The waitress came, she started crying, because she thought it was a tip. [laughter] And, you know, I just, I'm just glad I got a chance to fulfill my grandfather's sending, got to pay him back and earn his trust back from him, because he said, "You know what? You surprised me. I'm proud of you. I trust you again." And that was the last thing he told me because two weeks after that he died. And I did the same thing. I did, "Ah." Until I found out he didn't get to spend the money. I was mad.

I was mad on my grandma, because I knew she had the money. I know what she did with it. And so, a couple of days ago, I made a few more arrangements. I still ain't no more than money went. I got up, and I went to go view the body of my grandma. She stopped me. She said, "You see that suit in the shoes he got on?" And, like, "Yeah, she said, "You're money paid for that." I was so proud that, number one, I got my trust back from my grandfather, and he was starting in the suit and she was Abwater. Thank you.

That was Christian Garland, a father, musician, activist, and a proud Bronx New York native. To see a photo of Christian at the time he told his story, head to them off.org.

“While you're there, think about sharing a story of your own. Do you have stories about money?”

Or is there a moment in your life that changed you? If so, you could pitch us a story right on our site, or call 877-799-Moth. That's 877-799-Moth. But no cliffhangers, please. That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We'd like to thank our storytellers for opening up to us with their stories, and to all of you for taking the time to listen. We appreciate you, and hope you'll join us next time.

And that's the story from The Moth. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, J. Ellison, and Suzanne Rust, who also hosted the show. Coproducer is Vicky Merrick, Associate Producer, Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Michaela Bly and Catherine McCarthy. With additional grand slam coaching by Michelle Jalowski and Chloe Sammon.

The Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Marina Cluchay, Sarah Austin, Jennifer Hickson, Jordan Cardinale, Kate Tellers, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Eurene. Most stories are true, as remembered in the firm by the storytellers.

Podcast music, production support, from Davy Sumner.

“The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media, and Woods Hole, Massachusetts.”

Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including Executive Producer Leah Ries Dennis.

For more about our podcast for information on pitching us your own story,

and to learn more about the Moth Goat or our website, TheMoth.org.