Fran Hasson

Fran Hasson lives in Fenwick Island. She moved here from Germany after retiring from the Department of Defense Dependents Schools in 2006 to be closer to her younger son and mother. Her older son lives in Europe, and the only way to live equidistant from them was to settle in the Azores, so she chose Stateside connections instead and Fenwick Island won.

Her teaching assignments included Health and Physical Education classes in New Jersey, St. Croix, Virgin Islands, and Germany. While in Germany she changed careers to begin teaching English first in Middle School, then with junior and senior Language Arts and AP English classes.

Fran has visited over 40 countries and 25 States.  She has drawn on her experiences living on St. Croix in the Virgin Islands, as the setting for her first published novel, Allawe. It was during the time in St. Croix that she also improved her chess skills and was fortunate to participate in Chess Olympiads in various places such as Lucerne, Moscow, and Thessaloniki.  Fran’s interests include reading, writing, travelling, and playing chess whenever she can find a local opponent! If there are any takers out there, contact her at fhasson@comcast.net.

 

Allawe – A Novel

She walked over to the town center, a busy crisscrossing where the incoming and outgoing roads of King Street, Company Street, and Hospital Street converged, divided by municipal parking and home to the famous Crucian roach coach. The intersection reminded Marla of a Sicilian parking lot her mother had once described. She had to look in each direction several times before darting from the shops to the food cart. The roach coach was a converted ice cream truck with a canopy that opened up and emitted scents that tempted locals and tourists alike, who followed their noses to the center of the thoroughfare. Cumin, ginger, finger peppers, Scotch Bonnet pepper, and chili and barbecue sauces could be sniffed out from two blocks away.

Marla eagerly joined the small crowd at the food cart and waited her turn to order from the hand-written menu. Beef paté was the specialty of the day. She envisioned Oscar Mayer liverwurst but it was actually a steaming, deep-fried turnover filled with shredded beef simmered in a spicy tomato sauce. The aroma made her mouth water and she watched while the sweating cook served up order after order by himself. He moved quickly between the two deep-fryers and the crowded countertop filled with meats, buns, dough squares, and sauces. He deftly slapped sandwiches together and fished the sizzling patés from the fryers, landed them on paper plates, and leaned toward the crowd to collect their money. Marla thought of the regulations at the Delaware beach where hands that touched food were not allowed to touch money and shook her head. So much for rules and regulations.

Locals asked him where his partner was, but she couldn’t understand the rapidly-spoken mixture of English and patois. It was hard enough to pick out his name, Enrico. It seemed to be an entirely different language, but she could make out a word here and there. A local man removed his baseball cap, mopped his forehead with his long sleeve and said to another, “Sun hot today, m’son.” A teenager with a wool cap full of dreadlocks that looked like a red, yellow, and green windsock slapped the arm of an oncoming friend and sang out, “Wha’ happenin’?” His friend leaned back from the waist, twisted, and responded in words that escaped her. The two roared in laughter. “Irie!” one exclaimed and they scanted, a Michael Jackson moonwalk move, toward the ferry to the Hotel on the Cay. She knew from Seacrets that the word meant things were good, but hearing it expressed by these two young men gave it an energy that Johnny Bates lacked.

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