I like to sing. I’m an Alto 2, which means women at my end of the vocal spectrum don’t get those high-soaring, glass-shattering solos. If singing were a house, we’d be the foundation, deep in the ground, supporting all the fancy rooms upstairs. As an Alto 2, I am also sometimes called “sir” on the phone.

I don’t have a great voice. I learned this when I auditioned for New Jersey’s All-State Chorus when I was in high school and didn’t make the cut. I also got a hint when my singing teacher one day said, “You have a nice little voice.”  At that moment, a bell went off in my head, signaling that my dream of becoming a Broadway musical actress was probably unrealistic.

Still, I did perform in about ten school and community theater musical productions, and I sang in two groups in college. One was an A-cappella ensemble that, in retrospect, was rather awkwardly named the “Swingers.” I also played the guitar with rather rudimentary skill, which made me popular at Girl Scout camp, where singing around the campfire was an evening norm.

Then, following college, I stopped singing. I stopped playing the guitar. Though I lugged that old Yamaha 12-string through eight states and 24 moves, and would ceremoniously place it in a corner of whatever new dwelling I inhabited, I ignored it, save for a cursory dusting now and then.

Fast forward about 35 years. Now a teacher, I joined ranks with three of my brethren: three women with high levels of  performing expertise. One used to sing with big bands and played the piano. One was a member of the aforementioned high-soaring, glass-shattering soprano circle, and the other was a professional actress. Which, of course, made me the the occupier of the lowest rung on our musical totem pole. We would perform around the holidays at nursing homes, singing songs from the 1940s, 50s, 60s, and 70s, everything from the Andrew Sisters to the Mamas and the Papas to Simon and Garfunkel with the usual Christmas fare thrown in.

I enjoyed our practices and performances. I hadn’t realized how much I missed music. In an effort to make myself more valuable to the group, I picked up that old guitar. I struggled, but learned a few songs we could perform. I also served as our MC.

Then, one day, the piano player abruptly stopped during practice. “You’re off key!” she said during one of the rare times I sang solo. I tried again. “No! Here’s the note.” She repeatedly plunked the piano key. The other singers looked away, embarrassed for me.

Shortly thereafter, I got sick with what I thought was a miserable lingering cold. My doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong and sent me to a specialist. The nose and throat man checked me out, then explained that surgery was required to remove a strange colony of anaerobic creatures that had taken up residence in my sinus. (Yep, it was as gross as it sounds. Hope you’re not eating.)

I remember, prior to the operation, I was asked to sign a batch of forms. One informed me that I might lose my eye. I signed it. Another let me know that I could suffer brain damage. I signed it. The third explained that I might come to with my voice irrevocably altered. I stared at the form, then handed it back to the nurse. “I’m not signing this,” I said, as I envisioned waking up with a voice like Fran Drescher.

The thought of never being able to sing again made me sadder than I thought possible. I know what you’re thinking. Sadder than losing en eye? Sadder than brain damage? Really? All I can say is…yes.

The good news is I neither lost an eye, was deprived of any important bits of brain, nor had my voiced changed. Even better, I could once again hear notes properly. And now, though our little group has disbanded, I sing and play my guitar most days with a wild abandon I didn’t have before the surgery. And though I can hit even fewer high notes than in my youth, I don’t care as much. I’m just happy to sing.

 

Anne Montgomery’s new YA novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain will be released on March 28, 2017. The book’s launch will take place at the Poisoned Pen Bookstore at 4014 N Goldwater Blvd #101, Scottsdale, Arizona on April 2, 2017 at 2:00 PM. 

 

 

Chapter 1

Rose Madsen couldn’t risk staying out much longer. She still felt the paddle blows—what her mother called “appropriate corrective measures”—from the last time she’d disappeared for too long. But the chill of the spring morning had eased following sun-up, a full two hours after Rose had risen to do her pre-breakfast chores, and now the high desert sky was a cloudless blue. When she got back, she’d have to bathe, dress, and feed Becky, a chore she didn’t mind doing, but right now all she wanted was to wade in the creek and feel the sun on her face. Becky could wait a little while longer.

“Recalcitrant,” her mother often said, referring to her seventh daughter. Rose rolled the word around in her mouth, but the term had too many sharp edges. Other folks in town didn’t use words like recalcitrant. Children were either good or bad. She’d overheard people say Mother’s vocabulary was too prideful, a sin that needed correcting, and struggled with the thought of Mother as a sinner.

Rose dipped a hand into the stream and marveled that just a day earlier it had been dry as a bone, nothing but fine sand and loose rock. But then the snow high in the mountains had melted, delivering a clear, cold flow that Rose knew would quickly disappear.

She dabbed at the milk splotches on the hem of her ankle-length cotton dress. She’d been milking cows for over ten years, but no matter how often she squeezed those velvety teats, she could never avoid splashing her clothes. Rose scrubbed at the almost invisible stains on the sky-blue fabric knowing that Mother would probably spot them no matter how hard she worked. She’d be shut up in that tiny room in the barn, forced to study her dog-eared book of scriptures and go without food because “dirty clothes proved one harbored dirty thoughts.” No matter how often Mother said that, Rose had no idea what it meant.

She removed her Nikes and socks and stepped into the current, bunching her skirt with one hand, lest the garment trail in the water providing proof she’d sneaked away. The water rushed around her legs, numbing them to mid-calf. She shivered. It was exhilarating. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky. If only she could stay here as long as she wanted.

She drew in a deep breath of cool, desert air and started to step back out onto the creek bank when a rock beneath the sparkling surface caught her eye and drew her hand into the flow. The stone was egg-shaped, spotted with the remains of multi-colored pebbles. She remembered learning in science class that stones like this were made up of smaller rocks that had been forced deep into the earth, melted, and fused together, only to reemerge countless years later to be washed and tumbled by the river, edges softened, rounded. She held the stone in her palm and ran her thumb over its smooth surface.

How long had this transformation taken? Mr. Wayland, who had proudly passed his rock samples around the classroom, might have known the answer. But he was gone, and the school was closed. Large goats had eaten away the greenery that once surrounded the building that housed the classrooms. A sign above the doorway still read Colorado City Unified School District #14. Trash littered the grounds that were hemmed in by a chain link fence. The Prophet had decreed that all children should be home schooled. And so they were.

Rose wanted to keep the stone, but that was impossible. The telltale smoothness of the rock would surely shout out that its life had been spent tumbling in the riverbed, one of the many places Rose was never allowed to go. Mother had warned her repeatedly about the terrible flash floods that could barrel down the mountain without warning, sweeping away everything near Short Creek. Rose wriggled her toes in the frigid stream, then sighed and dropped the stone back into the water where it landed with a plunk.

Anne Montgomery’s new YA novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain will be released on March 28, 2017. The book’s launch will take place at the Poisoned Pen Bookstore at 4014 N Goldwater Blvd #101, Scottsdale, Arizona on April 2, 2017 at 2:00 PM. 

I’ve been a teacher for 17 years and, when meeting new high school students, I often ask them about their interests. Without fail, some kids list shopping as their favorite hobby. These students, so far, have been female.

I try not to roll my eyes and then explain that a hobby is generally something where one might engage in creative or artistic pursuits, collect themed objects, or perhaps play a sport or instrument. Still, the girls smile and insist that shopping is their hobby.

I read recently that the average woman spends approximately 400 hours each year shopping, and can blissfully browse for prospective purchases for two hours before tedium strikes. Conversely, men quickly get bored with those trips to the mall and grocery store, losing interest after just 26 minutes.

I know what you’re thinking. It’s the women who usually spy the empty cupboards and resupply the milk and toilet paper and dog food and all of the other stuff needed to run a household. So, of course, they spend more time at the store. But, even when we discount those “we gotta have it now” moments, women are still in shopping mode much more than men.

I wondered why, so I put on my history teacher cap and thought about our ancient ancestors: those hunter-gatherers who foraged for food and resources until they started to settle down in permanent communities about 12,000 years ago. The hunters, we suspect, were generally men. The gatherers, mostly women. It’s estimated that 80% of our ancestors’ diets consisted of wild fruits and vegetables. While the men were out looking for something to kill and drag home, women and girls were peering intently at foliage and digging in the ground, looking for groceries. And their rummaging probably wasn’t restricted to foodstuffs. No doubt a pretty rock or feather might have found its way into a woman’s basket, perhaps to use for barter later on when food ran out.

What does this have to do with the modern female shopper? Here I have a completely unscientific hypothesis, though one that makes perfect sense to me. Human beings – and all creatures alive today – had to adapt in order to survive. So, perhaps, buried in our DNA is a “shopping” gene, passed on from our ancient female ancestors. Those women, who had to examine fruits and berries and roots and leaves, were forced to take great care and time to make sure they selected items that didn’t poison their families. They also had to stock up enough goods to make it through the harsh times of the year. Thanks to our female ancestors abilities to pick the best available provisions, they were able to survive, reproduce, and pass their genes down to us.

So, don’t feel too badly about enjoying that time at the mall, just leave your beau at home. I, in the meantime, will try to stop rolling my eyes at my students.

Anne Montgomery’s new YA novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain will be released on March 28, 2017. The book’s launch will take place at the Poisoned Pen Bookstore at 4014 N Goldwater Blvd #101, Scottsdale, Arizona on April 2, 2017 at 2:00 PM. 

As authors, we are called upon to write about emotions. Part of our job description is to get readers to experience what our characters are feeling. Not a simple task. What I’ve learned is that it’s easier to write about emotions if I’ve experienced them. I’m not saying this is absolutely necessary, but when one can look back at a personal moment and say, “Yeah, I want my character to feel that!”, perhaps writing about their response to an intense situation is just a little bit easier.

Let’s take fear, for example. In my upcoming novel The Scent of Rain, my two young protagonists grapple with all kinds of fear. Fear of an uncertain future, fear of punishment, fear of physical harm. We have all faced fear in one form or another. I admit I’m afraid of a few things. I finally quit umpiring baseball after 25 years, because, though I’m loathe to admit it, I’m scared of screaming line drives. I’ve been hit by baseballs way too many times, often accompanied by a fan yelling, “Don’t rub it. It only hurts for a minute!” Which is, of course, the biggest lie in baseball. Those bruises last for weeks. And let’s not talk about the balls that hit boney parts. I’ve been afraid in a few doctors’ offices over the years, waiting for a prognosis. There was that all-consuming fear when one of the boys was out late and didn’t call, making my mind whirl about the frightening scenarios that might have befallen them. And then, there was that moment when I jumped into the ocean, bobbed to the surface, and saw the dive boat being sucked away in a swift current.

I willed myself to be calm, as I watched the boat shrink away. I could see the distant shore of Cayman Brac, a small Caribbean island Christopher Columbus was said to have sailed by and which he called “Las Tortugas,” because of the many turtles he’d sighted in the area. I was a novice diver at the time; still not entirely comfortable with the life-support gear that allowed me to breathe under water. I knew the current would dissipate if I descended, and, as I feared being swept away and lost at sea, I lifted the tube that would allow air to exit my buoyancy control device – called a BCD – and began my descent.

I was just a few feet beneath the surface when I noticed the outline of the creature near the sandy bottom directly below me. A shark. I panicked, kicked hard, and forced my head above the water, struggling because I had let too much air out of my BCD. I intended to remove my mouthpiece to warn the others, but the boat was tiny now. No one would hear me.

I stopped kicking and looked down again at the shadow thirty feet below. Then something approached. I was startled to see another shark directly in front of me. Then a third circling to my right. Eight, maybe more, of the smooth-skinned beasts whirled around me and I thought I might cry.

But then, near the bottom, coming at fast clip, was another diver, showing not the least hint of fear. Later I would learn that nurse sharks are gentle creatures unless harassed, and though they can grow as large as fourteen-feet, they eat primarily fish and shrimp, and can be considered the kittens of the shark world.

Like many Americans, my view of sharks was tainted by the movie Jaws. Until I’d seen the film that put Steven Spielberg on the path to fame and which coined the phrase Summer Blockbuster, I had fearlessly paddled far out into the ocean on those family trips to the Jersey shore, body surfing and swimming without any consideration for what might lurk below.

We think of sharks as indiscriminate killers, but research shows that humans slaughter about 100 million sharks every year – roughly 11,000 every hour. Sharks are responsible for less than ten human deaths annually in what are generally cases of mistaken identity. Surfers, arms and legs dangling off the sides of their boards, look to sharks like floundering seals – a favorite meal. Sharks have been on the Earth over 400 million years. Man now threatens their existence.

One summer, near the coast of Roatan – an island off of Honduras – I listened as the dive master outlined what we were to do. A much more seasoned diver now, I paid close attention to the weathered but handsome Italian who repeatedly explained the plan. He went into the water first, with me close behind. Hand-over-hand I pulled myself down a thick buoy line, where seventy feet below a tall rock wall was fronted by a half moon of white sand. As instructed, I lined up with the other divers, our backs tucked tightly against the rock, hands under our armpits. The Italian knelt out on the edge of the sand and waited.

Soon, shadows appeared in the distance. Then one, two, three, a dozen Caribbean reef sharks swirled their thick gray bodies in a dizzying dance before us, the Italian kneeling in the middle of them as if in prayer.

Then he motioned for us to join him. Remembering to keep my hands held close to my sides – fingers can sometimes be mistaken for small fishy treats – I ventured among them. Above me, below me, on all sides: sharks. Divers and animals swam together close enough to touch. One huge female came near, a thick silver hook poking through her lip with a length of line trailing past her gills.

Finally, we were motioned back to the wall, where once again we held our bodies still. The Italian opened a white bucket and backed away as dead fish floated up. The sharks wrestled one another for the snacks then slowly swam away, disappearing into the distance. He pointed to the buoy line, but before the ascent, a white triangle caught my eye. A shark tooth lay in the sand. A gift.

Back on the boat, I would hear the Italian speak in a worried tone about the nine-foot shark he called Maria. The hook, which had probably become imbedded when she had snatched a meal from a fisherman’s line, was taking too long to disintegrate and fall out. I envisioned the animal, could almost feel the cold steel of the hook on my cheek.

Afterwards, I wondered how the abject fear I’d felt when I first swam among those majestic beasts had, somehow, morphed into empathy. Clearly, it was the vision of the Italian, as he stared out over the water, speaking quietly about Maria as if she were a lover.

Anne Montgomery’s new YA novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain will be released on March 28, 2017. The book’s launch will take place at the Poisoned Pen Bookstore at 4014 N Goldwater Blvd #101, Scottsdale, Arizona on April 2, 2017 at 2:00 PM.