I teach communications skills to high school students. We explore all the different ways we deliver messages to one another: speaking, writing, digital design, radio, video, film.

Recently, I realized I have neglected one of the most common modern modes of communication: the humble T-shirt.

First, a brief history lesson on that most ubiquitous of sartorial artifacts.

“How did the T-shirt become an essential feature in our wardrobes, as necessary as a pair of jeans?” asked Laird Borrelli-Persson in her Vogue article ‘From Marlon Brando to Kendall Jenner, 27 of the Best Classic White T-shirts Ever.’ “The most classic version, a white cotton jersey crewneck that became standard military issue in World War II, is descended from undergarments worn by Navy men in the 1910s. Chanel famously adapted jersey, a fabric traditionally used for underwear, into fashionable womenswear in the twenties, but it would be decades before this hidden staple came out from under, and gradually morphed from a masculine to a unisex garment.”

Today, the T-shirt has been converted into a canvas where we display images and ideas that are important to us, and, when taken in their entirety, present who we are and where we stand.

“The basic tee, after all, is the simplest, easiest piece of clothing imaginable,” Borelli-Persson said. “It’s blank-page quality functions like a screen on which we project our current cultural preoccupations.”

Of course, this idea had me scampering to my closet, where I dove headlong into my stacks of T-shirts, wondering what this mountain of cotton might have to say about me.

I found a multitude of tees identifying me as a teacher: a red and white shirt saying “South Mountain High School Staff,” one displaying the head of a roaring Jaguar, my school’s mascot, and another with swirling stripes reminiscent of a barber pole proclaiming me a “Professional Role Model”, a gift from the student government kids. (See me blush.)

While my school tees denote my present, a bunch of others, similarly themed, represent my future. “St. Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands,” “Jimmy Buffet: Beach House on the Moon,” “Dive Fiji Islands.” My next adventure, when I retire from teaching – two years to go, but who’s counting – is to move to St. Croix, where I can have my scuba gear at the ready to dive into turquoise waters anytime I wish, and end the day with a cheeseburger in paradise, while I sit on my porch, sipping an adult beverage, as I watch the sun dip into the Caribbean.

Elsewhere in my closet, I located a fading black football shirt, washed so many times the cotton feels like a cloud. White letters spell, “Without the Ref, it’s only recess.” And my blue “Umpire Development” tee, which I wore under my chest protector when I called balls and strikes. Both identify me as a sports official, an avocation I have proudly practiced for almost 40 years. Intermingled with those were myriad tees sporting the emblems of my favorite college and pro teams.

I also have a few tees denoting me as a Maricopa County Public Health Volunteer. We’re the folks that get called up when there’s an especially nasty outbreak of the flu, or a terroristic release of anthrax, or something goes awry at the nuclear power plant. Hopefully, I’ll report when called for duty and not go running about like a four-year-old with my hair on fire.

I have a really beautiful black, red, and white T-shirt with Chinese symbols and letters scrawled on the front, a souvenir from a trip to China a few years back. I asked a couple of my Chinese acquaintances what the writing said. After staring at the shirt intently, they agreed that whoever penned the script had handwriting so poor the meaning is indecipherable. Whenever I don the shirt, I’m reminded of the young lady in Beijing, proudly wearing her English language tee that spelled ACNE in capital letters, so perhaps I really don’t want to know.

At the bottom of the pile, I found a shirt that had the state flag of Arizona on one breast: a gold star on a navy background, streaks of red and gold shooting out, a symbol of one of the things we do best here in the Grand Canyon State – sunsets. The back of the shirt said the following, in multicolored letters: “Arizona Kingship Program.”  Smiling, stick-figure children reclined on top of the words. I received the shirt when I graduated from foster mom school, a crash course in parenting that helped me make what, I hope, were the right choices on the road to helping my three boys – who still call me Mom – become men.

And today, somewhere in the mail, a new t-shirt is heading my way. John Lennon’s face appears as a kaleidoscope of color. Then, the words, “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”

Imagine that.

 

Anne Montgomery’s 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 is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

Bella, my blue-eyed cattle dog, had been acting strangely. Always a good girl, she started chewing up pillows, strewing stuffing-guts all over the back yard. At seven years old, this new behavior made me wonder, and made me glad that, following a recent purchase of four pricey pillows, I had a change of heart, returning them for some that were less expensive.

I considered that we had two new house guests and thought, perhaps, my pup might be jealous. I’ve heard dogs can become afflicted with the green-eyed monster when new babies arrive. So, I sat Bella down and asked. She stared at me lovingly, but wouldn’t say.

The pillow carnage continued. Then, I got a frantic e-mail at school. “Bella’s hurt! She’s crying! What should we do?”

I’m lucky that the folks I work with are animal people. “Go! Go! We’ve got you covered.”

I roared home, picturing all kinds of awful scenarios. I was greeted by Bella, whining miserably, hugging her back leg tightly to her body. When I tried to check the injury, she screamed like she was being electrocuted. I called the vet.

“Keep her calm. Don’t let her move around. We’ll see her in the morning,” the receptionist said.

At 8:00 a.m., Bella and I faced the vet. She frowned. “Looks like she ruptured her anterior cruciate ligament,” she said.

Visions of NFL players with wonky knees played in my head.

“Or she could have a fracture. Either way, she’ll probably need surgery.”

The American Express card in my back pocket poked me. “And how much would that cost?” Memories of my year-long financial adventures with Westin the cat still fresh.

“Two to three thousand,” she said. “First, we’ll need to get some x-rays and do some blood work, because she’ll need some medication.”

Understand that I love my dog. Some of you might think ill of me for considering the cost too dear. Bella popped her head onto my lap. I thought about asking if it would be cheaper to amputate. I’ve seen three-legged dogs that do quite well. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask, lest she think me a monster.

The vet bent down, and the moment she touched my sweet dog, Bella screamed.  She squirmed and whined when the doc tried to examine her mouth and leg, and forget about that thermometer in the butt.

“We’ll have to sedate her to get the x-rays.”

Forty minutes and $641.00 later, the vet reappeared with my sleepy dog, who was recovering from anesthesia.

“Well,” she wrinkled her brow. “Her ACL is fine and no fracture, either.” Did the vet seem disappointed? “But we’ll send the x-rays out for another look. And we’ll get her on some anti-inflammatories and pain meds.”

Bella came home, the front leg where they’d inserted the anesthesia needle wrapped in a purple bandage sporting gold sparkles. After a pain pill, she wandered dreamily to my bedroom.

The next day, Bella’s leg was much better. The vet called in the evening with the news that there was nothing – nothing! – wrong with my dog. I squinted at Bella, who was sprawled on my bed.

“Keep up with the anti-inflammatories for five days. Sorry you had to spend so much to find out she’s OK.” The vet seemed genuinely apologetic.

In retrospect, I realize it could have been much worse. Still, the $641 bill rankles. All for a simple diagnosis: my dog’s a drama queen.

 

Anne Montgomery’s 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 is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

Ashley Hasty, who recently took my novel The Scent of Rain on vacation, is the book blogger behind the Hasty Book List. She asked me to share my thoughts on a whole bunch of topics. And, big mouth that I am, I was happy to comply.

https://www.hastybooklist.com/home/anne-montgomery-author-interview

Anne Montgomery’s 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 is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

 

 

We authors love when reviewers take the time to read and comment on our books. Ashley Hasty, of the Hasty Book List, recently packed up  The Scent of Rain and headed off to Cabo San Lucas for some reading in the sun.

https://www.hastybooklist.com/home/the-scent-of-rain-book-review

Anne Montgomery’s 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 is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

 

What do you want to be when you grow up? I’ve addressed this issue before. What I never realized when I was young was that I would want to be so many things.

I also never considered that, over the course of my life, the goals I yearned for would keep changing. Proof? If you’d have told me I would spend two decades in a high school classroom, I would have scoffed. Yet, here I am, two years away from retiring after 20 years.

And what do I want now? After being a sports broadcaster and a print reporter and a sports official in football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball, as well as a teacher, it seems I should sit back and be content. But, I’m just not wired that way. (I’m working on that relaxing-thing, but it continues to be a struggle.)

My aspiration now is to make a living as an author, a career goal almost as daunting as that sportscaster idea back in the 70s.  Thanks to the advent of the personal computer, somewhere between 600,000 to 1,000,000 books are published in the US every year. Finding any of my sweet babies – yes, we authors tend to think of our books as our children – in that pile is like locating that proverbial needle in a haystack.

And here’s where you come in. Amazon – love or loathe the great behemoth – is the place authors careers are made. It is the word-of-mouth of yesteryear. So, I’m asking for a favor. It is reviews that sell products on line. And reviews are especially important when selling books. Leaving one is easy. Go to the page for The Scent of Rain: https://www.amazon.com/Scent-Rain-Anne-Montgomery/dp/0996390146. Click on customer reviews. The cover art will appear next to five stars. Click on the number of stars you think the book is deserving of and you will get an option to make comments.

And this is really important! You must be totally honest. If you don’t like the book, that’s perfectly OK! How can an author improve without honest criticism? We cannot.

So, if you’ve read The Scent of Rain and feel called to comment, I thank you. I can’t tell you how much every single review matters.

Now, I’m putting my author cap back on. It’s time to start a new story.

 

Anne Montgomery’s 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 is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

I read the sports page every day. I’m old school, so I’m talking the ink-and-paper version. I believe there are a lot of women out there like me, those who find pleasure in perusing the box scores and checking up on favorite players.

That’s why the plethora of ads promoting those little blue-pill substitutes for men are starting to bug me. Back when I first took up the sports page, I’m guessing women interested in that section of the paper were few and far between. But with the advent of Title IX – that lovely law that proclaimed girls should have the same extra-curricular rights as boys and which subsequently led to an avalanche of women having their college educations paid for via sports scholarships – more women than ever before find the sports news interesting.

It’s hard to miss the giant headlines we face while reading about our local teams:  “New Pill Triggers All-Day Arousal in Men,” screams one headline, which makes me wonder if that particular condition might prove to be painful, because I’ve heard that other declaration so often: “Seek immediate medical help if you experience an erection lasting more than four hours.”

The ad does it’s best to look like actual news. And it takes up half an entire page, so somebody is paying big bucks to get the message out. For reasons I can’t quite explain, I felt the need to pop on my reporter’s cap and take a look.

First, I noted the “article” was written by Ryan Steele of the Mens Health News Syndicate. A few clicks of the mouse and … how strange … neither Mr. Steele nor his syndicate can be found on the Internet. Surely, there must be some mistake. Then, I wondered … Man of Steel? An in-your-face product endorsement?

I did discover that the company behind the advertised supplement is called Innovus Pharma Laboratories and they do exist, or so says a glossy website, upon which I found their board of directors, who seem like a fine group of folks, though their collective bios are rather cumbersome to read – perhaps by design – and statements like “serves on the Board of Directors at several privately held pharmaceutical companies,” gets my Spidey senses tingling.

The article talks about a “key sex molecule” defined as both “critical” and a “miracle”, but leaves one guessing as to what it actually is.  Then there’s this: “And since it’s natural there are no unwanted side effects.” Note that anthrax, lead, asbestos, and arsenic are all natural substances.

Readers are encouraged to “take advantage of this limited offer” and call the “special TOLL-FREE hotline”, because “If you miss out on our current product inventory you will have to wait until more becomes available.” Whew!

Here’s the thing. The product in question, called Vesele, is basically two amino acids you can buy over the counter. If you want to give them a try, go ahead and fork over about thirty bucks at your local Walgreens. Or you can shell out over double that to the people sponsoring the ad. Even better, contact your local health care professional, instead.

My question now is why is this stuff advertised in the sports pages? A similarly-long article, touting an arthritis drug that claims it will give me “immediate relief that lasts for hours” and which is also written by an unknown reporter for a non-existent media source, and, surprise, marketed by Innovus Pharma Laboratories, is in the news section. When I consider the myriad sports-related misadventures I’ve stumbled through over the years, requiring the vast majority of my parts to undergo X-rays, perhaps it should be the other way around. Unless, of course, one considers sex a sport. Um … I think I’ll save that for another day.

In the meantime, you know what I’d like to see more of in the sports pages? Sports.

 

Anne Montgomery’s 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 is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.