Hold onto your hats!

I do not now – nor have I ever – owned a cellphone.

Now don’t jump to conclusions and assume I must be an old technophobe. I’m well versed in both MACS and PCs. I can layout a newspaper in InDesign and use Photoshop. I am on Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn, and have multiple e-mail accounts, a website, and a blog.

So why no cellphone? First, I’m a teacher who spends a great deal of time and energy trying to keep my students focused on lessons. Surveys show that teens 15 to 18 spend almost nine hours each day utilizing on-line media. Children eight to 12-years-old are logging about six hours daily. These kids are more anxious than their predecessors, with higher rates of suicide and depression.

Now let’s consider what these children might be missing with so much time focused on a screen. Other than the issues involved in falling behind in the classroom, many are not participating in sports and clubs, so social interaction is limited. I know people will argue that they are interacting with others on-line, but as a teacher of communication skills, I know in-person contact is much more important.

Anyone who doesn’t believe that children are addicted to their phones – as are many adults – are kidding themselves.

So, how do we get people to disengage? Dr. Michael Ungar wrote in Psychology Today, “(I)t would appear that at least part of the solution to our children’s cell phone addiction is to offer them equally stimulating and socially engaging opportunities to do things that produce the same brain rewards as … staring at a small blue screen.”

Ungar went on to say that the solution is “providing young people with lots and lots (and lots) of opportunities to stay engaged with each other, to participate in arts and sports activities, and to have safe spaces after school to hang out.”

Of course, we must get kids to buy into putting down their phones and, in my experience, that is almost impossible.

The other problem with phones is the damaging effect they have on relationships. Time reporter Mandy Oaklander wrote in her article How Your Smart Phone is Ruining Your Relationship, “Real-life interactions are dulled when a person feels the urge to check their phone, and the distraction a phone affords one partner doesn’t make the other person feel good.”

Oaklander says phones are interfering with our relationships, leaving us anxious.

“It didn’t matter much how much a person used their device, but how much a person needed their device did. People who were more dependent on their smartphones reported being less certain about their partnerships. People who felt that their partners were overly dependent on their devices said they were less satisfied in their relationship.”

I think my aversion to cellphones is that I’m afraid of becoming like the people I see daily: heads down, consumed by the screen, unaware of what’s going on around them. Who hasn’t witnessed people at restaurants busily texting, ignoring one another? Or the mother, face in her phone, instead of talking with her children? Or, geez, those who feel the need to communicate from a bathroom stall?

I can’t help but wonder what is so urgent.

“Ms. Montgomery, how can you not have a cellphone?” my students often admonish.

“I’m not that important,” I say.

“What if there’s an emergency?”

“Call 911.”

“What if a family member is sick?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

My biggest concern is that it’s getting more difficult to live without a cellphone. It’s almost as if there’s a secret conspiracy to require everyone to get on board. A few weeks ago, I discovered I can no longer go to NFL games. All tickets work only through your phone. No more paper copies will be accepted. The league is determined to get 100% of fans to use their smartphones at the gate.

I sense this line of thinking will creep into use at movies and concerts and grocery stores and restaurants, so, eventually, I will be on the outside of society looking in.

I know what you’re thinking. “Geez! Get a friggin’ phone and join the 21^st century.”

I know my time is coming. Still, I wish I wasn’t being forced to join the crowd.

What’s peculiar is that when I tell people I don’t own a cellphone, there is always a beat of silence as they examine me for obvious flaws. Then, oddly, many say wistfully, “I wish I didn’t have one either.”

Think about that.

Now, turn off your phones. Breathe. Watch a sunset. Walk your dog. Have a real conversation. There’s a world out there you can smell and touch and people with whom you can make eye contact.

Try it. You might be surprised.

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.

After reading the USA Today article on NFL coaches and incidents of domestic violence, I was struck by one theme. The coaches with violent histories against women all “declined to comment” and “teams would not make them available for comment,” and “would not answer written questions” concerning the allegations.

You might recall NFL commissioner Roger Goodall proclaiming the league had a “commitment to being a leader on the issue of domestic violence,” following the harrowing video of player Ray Rice beating his fiancée and dragging her from an elevator. Yet Goodall also declined to be interviewed for the story disturbingly titled “Red flags in the NFL: Domestic violence allegations easy to find in coaches’ pasts, but teams didn’t act on them.”

Here’s the thing: The National Football League … doesn’t … care! Oh, they pretend to give a damn about women. Come on. All those guys wear pink in October for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. In fact, the league also decreed October should be a time when we think about domsetic violence. And they want you to remember how great they are because they hired a woman official a few years back and another woman – Rita Smith – who is called “an adviser to the league on domestic violence issues.” Surely that means they support women.

But people, read the writing on the scoreboard. The league is only interested in covering up allegations of domestic violence. In fact, there is only one reason they give a whit about women: money. Statistics show women drive 70 to 80 percent of consumer spending and they are the dominant buyers of apparel and gifts. Now check those prices at the Official NFL Shop and do the math. (And isn’t it cute that the league also sponsors the Official NFL Ladies Shop?)

So let’s stop pretending. The league is and always will be a boys’ club, committed to defending its employees and hiding all incriminating evidence.

Can we do anything about this attitude? Probably not. However, even though I love football and have been an avid fan for almost four decades, I will never buy league paraphernalia, nor purchase a ticket to a pro game, nor buy a streaming service for the sole purpose of watching an NFL contest.

Perhaps you’ll join me. The more of us that turn away from the league, the better chance we have of them listening. And guys, if you’re vacillating, think of the women in your lives: your mothers, wives, sisters and daughters.

Do it for them.

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.

 

 

I was a sports reporter for about fifteen years. During that time, there were certain job skills I was required to master. One was press box etiquette.

Unlike other occupations where one might seek guidance courtesy of a handbook or instructive power point, I had no way of knowing what was expected in that journalistic inner sanctum. So, sometimes, I made mistakes. Some that earned me the ridicule of my brethren.

One such moment took place when I was diligently watching the Arizona Cardinals lose another game. This was back when the Cardinals were one of the worst teams in the NFL – kind of like now. I was the team’s beat reporter for what was then KTSP-TV in Phoenix, which meant I traveled with the squad, attended games, and filed reports that ran on the evening news. I would watch from high above the field, documenting plays, determining story angles, identifying players I’d like to interview in the locker room following the game, and figuring out what I’d like to ask them, all of which would be pre-packaged for a live shot.

As you might expect, I got to know the players pretty well. Let me say here that, under the circumstances, I do not believe my behavior in the press box was horribly ill-mannered, still the other reporters were appalled when, on one rare, spectacular Cardinals play, I leapt in the air and cheered.

I was greeted by silence. I squinted at the row of reporters who stared at me with disdain. Apparently, cheering in the press box was a serious faux pas. But how was a I to know? No one handed out a list of do’s and don’ts upon entering the press box. And I was just delighted the Cards managed to sneak in something for their very short highlight reel.

The tension was thick. The other reporters turned away as if I had a contagious disease. I slumped into my chair, chastened.

On another occasion, I watched the Rochester Americans – a minor league affiliate of the Buffalo Sabres – host an AHL game. There was a timeout on the ice. The referee skated up to the scoring table, performed a nifty hockey stop, and got into a conversation with the guys keeping the books. Then, he picked up the phone.

We reporters were startled when the phone rang in the press box. One of the guys grabbed the receiver, listened for a moment, and then looked at me and furrowed his brow. He scrunched up his face like he needed a serious dose of antacids. Then he held the phone toward me and said, “It’s for you.”

Slowly, I put down my pen and rose from my seat. I took the receiver.

“Hey!” The referee said. “Where do you want to have dinner tonight?”

“Um…” I glanced at the other reporters who were waiting, wondering.

The referee laughed.

“I … don’t … know.” I squirmed, all eyes on me.

Let me pause here and explain that, yes, I was dating the referee. (Never could resist a guy in stripes.) I stared at the ice and he looked up at the press box, gracing me with a rakish grin. Players were waiting. Reporters were staring. I was sweating. What could I say that would sound professional?

“Yes! That would be fine.” I hung up quickly and returned to my seat, acting as if there was nothing strange about a referee calling a reporter in the press box in the middle of a game. I stared at my notes and considered explaining that I had been an amateur hockey official, so we were discussing a rule clarification, but that was just silly. So I focused on the ice, where the ref dropped the puck and the game action resumed.

The other reporters seemed to be waiting for an explanation, but I avoided eye contact and hoped they would be distracted, since what could I say? I knew that dating the ref might be considered out of bounds. I gripped my pen and concentrated as the puck bounce around the ice.

Despite the apparent need for decorum in the press box – don’t interrupt the guys broadcasting the game, pick up after yourself, keep the volume down, cuz we’re working here – there’s one place in that hallowed hall that’s generally a free for all. I’m sure you can guess.

It’s the buffet. No one bats an eye when reporters stuff their pockets with extra cookies or candy bars, or they eat the last sandwhich, even if they’ve already had two. It’s just a perk, the scribes will say. No manners required. That’s one rule that was obvious right from the start.

I wish the others had been that clear.

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.

 

 

I have moved around a lot over the course of my life. I’ve lived in eight states and another country. I’ve resided in 13 different homes. Through all of those moves – and the purging of personal goods that inherently comes along with such transitions – certain items remain.

There’s the glass mug that says LHS – Livingston High School – Senior Prom, June 1, 1973. And my Yamaha 12-string guitar which I lugged from place to place without ever playing for 35 years. And the geode with an array of blue-gray crystals that my best friends gave me for my sixteenth birthday. And the rest of my rock collection that has grown to about 400 specimens, some that I’ve had since I was in elementary school.

I think of these things now because I recently had to go through my father’s possessions. He died in June a week shy of his 96th birthday after a long and interesting life.

I faced boxes piled atop one another, taped and carefully labeled. I picked up one that had an ominous message. Do Not Open!

“Sorry, Dad,” I said as I cut through the tape. Inside I found a thick wade of money, bills from the post-World War II Philippines and Japan. Numerous coins spilled out: Indian Head pennies dating back to the turn of the 20th century that mingled with a single New York City Transit Authority subway token and a few 1960’s-era Kennedy half dollars. In an Altoid tin, my dad had another collection of coins. These apparently from some of the countries he’d visited over the years: France, England, Germany, Ireland, Canada.

Inside another box were small black-and-white photographs of my father and his shipmates on board their destroyer escort – the U.S.S. Alvert Moore – during the war, as well a a photo of my mother dating back to 1939. Mom – who is the epitome of strait-laced propriety even today at 94 – appears in a pair of white short-shorts and a halter top. When I presented the photo to her, trying to suppress a laugh, she insisted the woman in the photo was not her. Even when I pointed out her name scrawled across the top, she dismissed the picture as an obvious fashion faux pax committed by someone else.

There were also six pairs of rosary beads and some saints’ cards. Not too surprising for a life-long Catholic. And a thick but tiny book titled Useful Information for Business Men Mechanics and Engineers, with gilt-edged pages devoted to Weights of Flat-Rolled Steel, Heat Colors, and Unit Compression Stress for Main Members. (Don’t ask me. Dad was an engineer. Oddly, he was rather useless at fixing things, still he managed to design and build complicated industrial machines.)

A small cardboard tube caught my attention. Inside were three pages of rolled-up orange paper dated August 8, 1969: a letter I wrote from Girl Scout Camp. “I’ve been scubaing in the jungle,” I said of one of my earliest scuba dives in Saranac Lake, New York. “It’s got millions of water vines and plants all over the place.” The post script read as follows. “Shelly passed into blue cap,” I explained of my friend who had struggled with swimming early on. “Boy, is she happy!”

Another box held a fistful of sobriety coins courtesy of Alcoholics Anonymous. Dad earned over 35 of those awards, an achievement of which he was immensely proud. There was also a theater program from my high school production of South Pacific where I played a Navy nurse and a complicated slide rule in a black leather case with markings indicating my dad had owned it since he was in college at Penn State.

While going through the boxes – several of which were confounding since they were empty – I noticed some trends. My dad apparently collected pocket knives – there were maybe a dozen – and fingernail clippers and dental floss. I placed them in piles wondering what possessed him to keep purchasing these items. I wish I could ask. Perhaps his predilection caused my own. I too love pocket knives and have acquired more containers of dental floss then I’ll ever use. (I’ve put many dentist’s children through college.)

While clearing out my dad’s clothes, I couldn’t help but think of Jon Hamm’s character in the TV series Mad Men. Despite being raised in a family of mostly coal miners, my dad was a clothes horse who wore his Brooks Brothers suits, buffed wingtips, and rakish fedoras with pride as he ventured into New York City to work in the 1960s. I brought some of his clothes home and, as it turned out, they fit my youngest son perfectly, which has me doing double takes sometimes. My dad would have been delighted.

As I sorted through my dad’s belongings, I saved some things and discarded others. Clothing and shoes went to Goodwill. The watercolor of his ship at sea went to my brother, who will eventually pass it on to the great grand children, along with my dad’s service medals.

When I was finished, I wondered why my dad saved the items he packed in those boxes. I will never know. Still, I’m glad I had the opportunity to study the things that were important to him. It gave me the chance to hold onto him a little bit longer.

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.