You know how you go about your life doing things you always thought were good for you and then you found out you were, um, poisoning yourself?

Well, that happened to me recently when I was struggling with a nasty head cold, the first I’ve had since I quit teaching high school three years ago. Before my retirement, I often faced children who had no qualms about coming to school sick, coughing and sneezing on me with wild abandon. Like most teachers, I suffered at least two or three colds every year.

I’d been blissfully free of that particular scourge, until some big bad bug recently tracked me down. And I’ll admit, I’d forgotten how horrid a simple head cold can be. I’m sure you’re aware of the coughing, sneezing, runny nose, headache, leave-me-the-hell-alone-I’m-dying-here symptoms that come with a cold.

As I’d been down that tissue-littered road before, I jumped into action. I drank hot peppermint and honey tea and copious quantities of water. I stayed in my jammies wrapped in blankets for five days. (Another great thing about being retired is that you can recline in your pajamas 24-hours-a-day without excuses and no one cares.)

And I knew something else that would make me feel better: Vick’s VapoRub. I bet every single one of you has that dark blue jar with the green top in your medicine cabinet right now. Come on, we were raised on the stuff. Moms would rub that slimy goo on us as if it was a magic cure-all. Some people even put it on their feet, though I’ve never tried that.

Somewhere along the line, maybe 20 years ago, I decided I liked the smell of Vicks. So, I got in the habit of putting a dab beneath my nose at bedtime. So soothing, yes?

Except that I just read you should never, ever, put Vicks under your nose. What?

I have often been a bit smug about my efforts to stay healthy. I never smoked and drink in moderation. (Okay, not always. But I do now.) While I’ll admit to dabbling lightly in illicit drugs in my youth—Come on! I grew up in the 70s and 80s!—that was a long time ago. I exercise regularly and get my rest. I eschew sugary drinks and eat healthy food. I take my medicine when the doctor looks at me, frowns, and tells me I must. I try to see the positive side of things. And yet, it seems, I’ve been poisoning myself all along.

With Vicks!

In case you’re wondering, Vicks first appeared on the market back in 1905 and is owned by Procter & Gamble. It’s intended for “use on the chest, back and throat for cough suppression or on muscles and joints for minor aches and pains.” However, one of the main ingredients in Vicks is camphor, which is defined as “a neurotoxin with a chemical structure that allows easy penetration of the blood-brain barrier. Camphor also has irritant properties to skin and mucosa.”

Yikes!

Now, all this has me wondering about my mother, who, as I recall, always told us to put a bit of Vicks beneath our little red noses whenever we were sick. Not the maternal type, I’m now wondering if Mary Anne couldn’t wait for us to leave home for college and was trying to knock us off early, using Vicks as her weapon of choice.

I also read that Vicks should only be used up to three times daily when one has a cold. I began counting how often I’d recently placed some beneath my nose so I could breathe. When I ran out of fingers, I realized I might be doomed. I’m trying not to think about that blood-brain-barrier thing.

The irony is scientists don’t believe Vicks actually works. It just tricks your brain into thinking it works, so you feel better. But doesn’t that mean it works?

I’m so confused.

Now, I’m not saying Vicks is a bad product. It’s just that one should use it as recommended. Still, I did try to throw my Vicks away, but I just couldn’t. I promise I’ll try to break my addiction eventually. Perhaps there’s a 12-step Vicks program somewhere.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

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When the Powerball Jackpot edged up over a billion dollars recently, it was difficult not to get carried away with the possibilities, even with the astronomical odds against winning the big prize which were 1 to 292 million.

We almost never play the lottery, but when my sweetie pie came home holding a single ticket it was hard not to sit and dream.

“I’d buy a big house on St. Croix,” Ryan said.

“We already have a lovely condo there with a magnificent view of Christiansted Harbor,” I pointed out. “Do we really need something bigger?”

He stared at me for a moment. “Okay. What would you want?” he asked.

I thought for a while. What do I want? The question had me reflecting on a time in my life when money wasn’t an issue. I’d been engaged to a wealthy man back in the 80s. He didn’t want me to work and pretty much told me to buy whatever I wanted.

Sounds great, doesn’t it? But it turns out being able to purchase whatever you want doesn’t always make you happy. I remember one year when I took twelve vacations, some that were ridiculously expensive, like the time we chartered a magnificent sailboat and cruised the Caribbean with a captain, boatboy, and private chef, along with cases of our favorite libations.

I was in my mid-twenties at the time, and up until that point I’d wanted to be a sportscaster. I’d worked for years following that dream. But then my partner said there was no reason for me to work and that he preferred I not go into a career where I needed to access athletic locker rooms. I tried to convince myself that I’d be happy being Mrs. Him. And I’m embarrassed to admit that those no-limit credit cards made me forget my career goals, at least for a while.

But was I happy?

Years later, when I became a teacher, I tried to explain to my students that while money certainly makes life easier in some ways it doesn’t fix everything. “Here’s the problem,” I said. “If you can buy anything you want, whenever you want, eventually you run out of things to want.”

Mostly, they laughed and shook their heads like I was crazy.

“What’s really important is doing things you love. Making positive connections with people. Having work or hobbies that, most of the time, you look forward to doing.”

And still they weren’t convinced.

“I’d play video games all day!” one student said.

“I’d buy lots of pretty clothes and jewelry,” another said grinning.

“My friends and I will just hang out and do nothing!” came a voice from the back of the room.

“Ah, that might be a problem,” I said. “Your friends will probably have jobs and responsibilities and won’t have time to just hang out with you.”

I knew this from experience. What I recall from having all that money was that I was terribly lonely.

And I struggled with letting go of my dream of being a sportscaster. I remember a moment, late one evening, when I stared at a catalogue filled with pricy designer dresses. I ordered a black-lace, formal gown made by Norma Kamali. It was absurdly expensive. Afterward, I remember feeling nothing, because what I truly wanted was to be a sportscaster and no amount of money could buy that for me.

I still have that dress, and all these years later it reminds me of what I learned: Things don’t make us happy. Things lose their shine after a while. Making memories is the key. When I’m on my deathbed, the only thing I’ll have is stories. None of those purchases will be coming with me.

I stared at my sweetie pie.

“What do I want? World peace would be nice, but that’s not possible.”  I smiled.

Eventually, I decided I would buy one thing: a big, beautiful piece of natural aquamarine. (I’m a rock collector.) Then, I would give a lot of that money away. After that, I’d travel the world.

And…I’d always spring for First Class.

The past and present collide when a tenacious reporter seeks information on an eleventh century magician…and uncovers more than she bargained for.

WOLF CATCHER

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction/Suspense

TouchPoint Press

February 2, 2022

In 1939, archeologists uncovered a tomb at the Northern Arizona site called Ridge Ruin. The man, bedecked in fine turquoise jewelry and intricate bead work, was surrounded by wooden swords with handles carved into animal hooves and human hands. The Hopi workers stepped back from the grave, knowing what the Moochiwimi sticks meant. This man, buried nine hundred years earlier, was a magician.

Former television journalist Kate Butler hangs on to her investigative reporting career by writing freelance magazine articles. Her research on The Magician shows he bore some European facial characteristics and physical qualities that made him different from the people who buried him. Her quest to discover The Magician’s origin carries her back to a time when the high desert world was shattered by the birth of a volcano and into the present-day dangers of archeological looting where black market sales of antiquities can lead to murder.

REVIEW COPIES OF WOLF CATCHER AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

Review/interview requests: media@touchpointpress.com

Available where you buy books.

I’ll admit I didn’t especially care whether the Astros or the Phillies won the World Series. However, I was rooting for someone. I really hoped Houston skipper Dusty Baker finally got to go home with a ring as a manager. Though Baker earned the title as a player with the Dodgers in 1981, the prize had eluded him as a skipper for 24 years. But not anymore. With a game six, 4-2 victory over Philadelphia, Baker’s Astros became the 2022 World Series Champions.

Which brought to mind the time Dusty and I were involved in a little conspiracy.

Here’s what happened.

Back when I was still umpiring amateur baseball, I got a call asking if I’d like to work an exhibition game between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Triple A Phoenix Firebirds. I was shocked and delighted. Though, if I’m being honest, the fact that I was assigned to work the plate was a little intimidating, as was the fact that the game would be broadcast live on TV.

It was May 12, 1994, and, much like today, women umpires were almost as rare as unicorns. Back then, I was often not accepted by my baseball brethren, and I sensed some animosity from the rest of the guys on the crew. No doubt, some of them would have relished working the plate. In fact, there was a last minute tussle when the powers that be tried to have me removed from my assignment. But, in the end, there I was at home plate taking a lineup card from Dusty.

Before I go on, I have to address one of the most confusing issues in baseball: the strike zone. It probably comes as no surprised that the definition of the strike zone has been awfully hard to pin down over the years. Major League Baseball explains it this way: “The official strike zone is the area over home plate from the midpoint between a batter’s shoulders and the top of the uniform pants–when the batter is in his stance and prepared to swing at a pitched ball—and a point just below the kneecap. In order to get a strike call, part of the ball must cross over part of home plate while in the aforementioned area.”

When I was a baby umpire, I took that definition seriously, which had other umpires laughing at me. According to them, my strike zone was too big. I started watching the way other umps called pitches, and realized that, despite the way the rule is written, the strike zone had been whittled down to a space the size of a postage stamp. As I’m rather literal in regard to rules, I struggled to comply.

After accepting the lineup cards that afternoon at Phoenix Municipal Stadium, Dusty lingered by the plate. When the other manager retreated into the dugout, he leaned in. “Did I mention we have a plane to catch?” He graced me with that big Dusty grin. I paused. Then I smiled too. I knew exactly what he wanted me to do.

After he left, I watched the pitcher warm up. I realized I’d take a lot of grief if I complied with Dusty’s wishes. I looked at the other umpires in the field, then considered all the fans in the seats and the players in the dugouts. Would they all think I was a terrible umpire for doing nothing but following the rules?

I can’t say I wasn’t concerned. But when that first pitch rocketed in and though it might have been considered a little high by some, I called, “Strike!” The batter turned and stared at me, but said nothing. A short time later, I called him out looking. I’d made my point. For the rest of the game, I felt as if I’d been freed, released to finally call the strike zone the way it’s written.

The game ended in just under two hours. Did I take some crap? Sure I did. But that’s generally part of the game.

When it was over and the players had all headed into the dugout, I noticed Dusty standing down the third base line. A beautiful Sonoran Desert sunset lit the sky behind him: peach, purple, pink. Then, Dusty looked at me, grinned, and nodded his thanks, before he too disappeared into the tunnel.

Today, I say congratulations to Dusty Baker on his World Series victory! And I say thank you for one of my favorite baseball memories.

The past and present collide when a tenacious reporter seeks information on an eleventh century magician…and uncovers more than she bargained for.

WOLF CATCHER

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction/Suspense

TouchPoint Press

February 2, 2022

In 1939, archeologists uncovered a tomb at the Northern Arizona site called Ridge Ruin. The man, bedecked in fine turquoise jewelry and intricate bead work, was surrounded by wooden swords with handles carved into animal hooves and human hands. The Hopi workers stepped back from the grave, knowing what the Moochiwimi sticks meant. This man, buried nine hundred years earlier, was a magician.

Former television journalist Kate Butler hangs on to her investigative reporting career by writing freelance magazine articles. Her research on The Magician shows he bore some European facial characteristics and physical qualities that made him different from the people who buried him. Her quest to discover The Magician’s origin carries her back to a time when the high desert world was shattered by the birth of a volcano and into the present-day dangers of archeological looting where black market sales of antiquities can lead to murder.

REVIEW COPIES OF WOLF CATCHER AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

Review/interview requests: media@touchpointpress.com

Available where you buy books.

Recently, it’s come to my attention that something is missing in society. Perhaps you’ve noticed too. It seems that manners have disappeared. As a devotee of British mystery shows, I’m wondering if it would be prudent to put some detective inspectors on the trail, because if we’ve lost manners—which are basically human kindness—I’m deeply worried.

Just the other day, I sat in the whirlpool at the health club waiting for a swim lane. As is generally the case, I was relaxed and happy in all that hot, swirling water. Then a large man wearing a Speedo walked over with goggles in hand. When one of the swimmers signaled to me that he was done and I could have the lane, I smiled and walked out of the whirlpool.  I nodded at the man who had just arrived, and, in jest, teased that I’d wrestle him for the lane.  To my surprise he frowned. “What are the rules here?” he barked. “You weren’t standing by the pool waiting!”

“Um…I was trying to stay warm.” I gestured toward the spa.

He frowned again and continued to complain, which prompted me to bend at the waist and wave my hand toward the pool. “You take it then.” To my surprise, he did.

Anyone who’s driven a car lately, certainly knows there’s no civility on the road. A red light has become a mere suggestion to some. Other drivers cut you off, then flip you off for the smallest things. And when’s the last time someone held the door open for you? Be honest. That used to happen with regularity, but no more. And please don’t tell me holding a door is sexist. I hold doors for men and women, young and old. How is that offensive?

I don’t even want to mention basic table manners or the folks that think it’s just fine to play loud music until three in the morning. And let’s not forget those very important souls who talk incessantly on their phones in public, sharing their personal information loudly in restaurants and even public restrooms.

Understand, I’m not talking about using the right fork at dinner here, or a man chivalrously hurling his overcoat upon a puddle, so a woman won’t damage her dainty shoes. It’s just basic everyday human kindness I’m concerned about.

I suppose we could blame parents for the current lack of civility. Wasn’t it their job to make little Johnny learn “Please!” and “Thank you!”, and “Don’t you look nice today, Aunt Lou!” In fact, I read that home is the best place to acquire manners, since, as all teachers know, it takes a lot of practice to get something right.

Apparently, the decline of a more courteous world is not new. Fred Astaire, the charming dance-master of 20th-century American film, is quoted as saying, “The hardest job kids face today is learning good manners without seeing any.”

And now…a confession. I was once a reporter and an amateur sports official. It should come as no surprise that newsrooms and athletic fields are not always the most mannerly of places. So, when I became a teacher, I carried some of that behavior with me. A sweet colleague took me aside and suggested I try a little nice. “Just say good morning to everyone you see,” she suggested.

I thought the idea was silly, but still I gave it a try. And she was right. That small gesture seemed to make the day more positive. Though I’m now retired from the classroom, every day when I walk the dog, I smile and say good morning to anyone I meet. And though some people ignore me, others will beam a beatific smile my way and say good morning right back. It’s a little thing, I know. But a little nice goes a long way.

Maybe you’d like to give it a try.



The past and present collide when a tenacious reporter seeks information on an eleventh century magician…and uncovers more than she bargained for.

WOLF CATCHER

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction/Suspense

TouchPoint Press

February 2, 2022

In 1939, archeologists uncovered a tomb at the Northern Arizona site called Ridge Ruin. The man, bedecked in fine turquoise jewelry and intricate bead work, was surrounded by wooden swords with handles carved into animal hooves and human hands. The Hopi workers stepped back from the grave, knowing what the Moochiwimi sticks meant. This man, buried nine hundred years earlier, was a magician.

Former television journalist Kate Butler hangs on to her investigative reporting career by writing freelance magazine articles. Her research on The Magician shows he bore some European facial characteristics and physical qualities that made him different from the people who buried him. Her quest to discover The Magician’s origin carries her back to a time when the high desert world was shattered by the birth of a volcano and into the present-day dangers of archeological looting where black market sales of antiquities can lead to murder.

REVIEW COPIES OF WOLF CATCHER AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

Review/interview requests: media@touchpointpress.com

Available where you buy books.