I received a large box in the mail the other day. I’d been expecting the package. It came from Vancouver, Washington, from my in-laws.

Like many older people, Arlene and Stanley are downsizing, and with a move on the horizon they asked me and my sweetie pie if there were any of their belongings we might want. Since I’d always admired the guitar that hung on the wall in their living room, I asked if anyone else had expressed an interest in the old Gibson. They said no and that they’d make sure it would go to me.

The guitar belonged to Arlene. “I began guitar classes at The Old Town School of Folk Music on Chicago’s north side in maybe 1967,” she said. “After a year or more of lessons I realized I wanted a better sounding and easier-action instrument. We found the Gibson in a pawn shop I think for $30.”

As I gently unpacked the box, I realized that the Gibson had been on quite a journey.

“The guitar moved with me once in Chicago,” Arlene said. “Then to Phoenix, then Beaverton, Oregon, on to Portland, then the San Francisco area, back to Portland, on to Camas, Washington and now Vancouver, Washington.”

And now back to Phoenix.

I opened the new case that had protected the guitar on her journey to me. She was nestled in soft padding and I thought she looked lovely. Still, though I wanted to pick her up to see how she sounded, I knew I couldn’t. A note inside said she had a cracked bridge and that I shouldn’t tune the strings until that medical problem was addressed. So, I needed to make an appointment with the guitar doctor.

I’d visited the guitar hospital before. I’d traveled to the west side of Phoenix to Atomic Guitar Works when one of my other guitars had a terrible fall onto some concrete.  

“She’s in great shape!” the Guitar Doctor, Tim Mulqueeny, said of the Gibson. “Most of the ones I see that are this old are really banged up.” He explained how he would build a new bridge and give her new strings. Then he instructed me to play her all the time.

Here is where I’ll say that I’m not a very good or consistent guitar player. I played from the time I was 12—when my aunt handed me a little nylon-string guitar—until I was about 22. I got a Yamaha 12-string when I was 15, and it was that guitar that I, like Arlene, lugged from state to state over the years: New Jersey, Ohio, Washington, D.C., Georgia, Virginia, New York, Connecticut, and Arizona.

And still, I never played. That guitar sat in the corner of my bedroom staring at me for 33 years. Somehow, music got pushed into the background, usurped by my everyday life.

Then, at 55, I started playing again.

“Guitars are like parrots,” the Guitar Doctor explained. “They need attention. You have to play all the time.”

I stroked the guitar constructed of warm Honduran mahogany and spruce, which was lovingly handmade back in the 1960s. I recalled that not too long ago, after I’d been ill with Covid and spent almost a year recovering from severely broken leg that had to be surgically repaired, I’d completely stopped playing again. I’d stare at the guitar in the corner, but I was sad and could find no music in my world.

And then, one day, for no particular reason, I started playing again.

The Guitar Doctor explained that she’d have to stay with him for a few weeks, but that he’d take good care of her. And when she comes home, I will do my best to take his advice and play her every day.

In the meantime, I’ve named the guitar Chrissy, which is Arlene’s nickname, and whenever I pick up my Gibson, I will think of her and do as she suggested.

“Play with joy!” she said.

And…I will.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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I live in Phoenix, Arizona. I’m guessing some of you might be aware that recently that means I’ve been living inside an oven. Literally. This is record-breaking heat even for those of us who are used to desert extremes with weeks and weeks of temperatures above 110 degrees and overnights in the 90s, so there is no relief. And it’s mainly due to a high pressure dome, one that won’t move on and which is causing us to sear like meat.

Don’t believe me? Last week, a guy was waiting for a bus and thought it might be a good idea to sit on the curb. He got third degree burns, through his clothes.

I mention this because while I whine and moan daily about getting fried by my seatbelt or weeping at the scorched remains of my vegetable garden, I must remind myself of one important thing: I no longer have to go outside and work in the heat.

I was an amateur sports official for 40 years. Twenty-nine of those were here in Arizona. When I had games coming up, I paid close attention to the weather report, because I often had to deal with extreme heat and sometimes that did not go well.

Consider that in baseball, a sport played year-round here in the Southwest, I had to don under armor-type gear, plastic shin guards, a thick chest protector, polyester shirt and pants, a tight wool hat, and a face mask constructed of metal and leather pads. While in football there was no heavy protective gear to contend with, the requisite under-garments, long black polyester pants, striped shirt, and cap were not made with hot weather in mind.

Many people may not realize this, but as a sports official my primary responsibility was to keep people safe. Every year, my brethren and I took classes and clinics, webinars and exams that not only focused on game rules, but on safety protocols, as well. And still, according to the National Center for Catastrophic Sports Injury Research, 51 high school football players have died from heatstroke since 1995, which was the leading cause of preventable death in high school sports.  

Note that high school athletes are primarily young, healthy individuals, while the average age of a high school sports official is about 50. I didn’t retire from officiating until I was almost 65.

While the Occupational Safety and Health Administration issues safe temperature norms for those who work indoors, I could find no such limit in place for those who toil outside. Construction workers, firefighters, miners, agricultural workers, mail carriers, and others must learn to tough it out. And, I learned the hard way, so do officials.

I was working a varsity high school football game in severe heat one evening, when I noticed two of my crewmates were not in their positions. I looked toward the endzone, where both were lying in the grass, suffering from heat sickness. I’d worked with these men for years and had never seen them go down. One was a medical doctor, and when he said he couldn’t continue, I knew we had a problem, because I also felt ill. I’d had heat sickness at least three other times, so I knew the symptoms and realized that soon I might be lying in the grass with them.

It was just before halftime, so I called the head coaches together and explained the situation. For safety reasons the game could not continue with fewer than three officials, so in an effort to finish the contest, I suggested we run the clock in the second half,  which means the clock is not stopped in the usual manner between plays. I considered it a fair and equitable solution. The coaches argued a little, but since neither wanted to return and continue the game at a later date— which would have happened if I went down—they agreed.

I couldn’t have been more surprised when my boss called a few days later and railed at me for running the clock. It seems the losing coach, though he’d agreed on the field, had called to complain.

I held my ground. “I have a right to protect those at a game from harm,” I said. “You know that!”

“Yes, you do, but the rules say your job is to protect players, coaches, and fans. There’s nothing in the book that says you have to protect other officials.”

I almost dropped the phone.

The point, of course, is that it’s not just difficult working in the heat, it can be deadly. In fact, more people die of heat-related injuries in this country every year than in all other weather-related events combined.

So, the next time you head out to watch your children and grand-children play a game, carrying your chilled water bottle and hand-held, battery-powered fan, wearing a floppy hat, T-shirt and shorts, maybe say thank you to an official, if one passes by. Because without them, there’d be no game. And, after all, sometimes they’re risking their lives for your enjoyment.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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Christian Molinar invited me to join him on his podcast The Bus Stop. We talked about a lot of things, including my rather unique trip though the sports world, where I served as both a sports reporter and an amateur official in five sports: football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball.

Christian wrote the article below, a story that gives me hope that someday those who don’t always fit in will be welcomed.

Thank you, Christian, for your kind words.

Breaking Barriers:

Anne Montgomery’s Extraordinary Journey in Sports Journalism and Officiating

Christian Molinar

Anne Montgomery shattered barriers throughout her remarkable journey in the world of sports journalism and as a sports official. She shares her extraordinary story, unveiling the challenges she overcame and the triumphs she achieved.

From the very beginning, Anne faced numerous hurdles on her path to success. As a young woman aspiring to be a sports journalist, she encountered a male-dominated industry that often dismissed or undervalued her talent. However, Anne’s determination and passion for sports fueled her drive to push boundaries and defy expectations.

Undeterred by the gender biases that pervaded the sports journalism world, Anne fearlessly pursued her dreams. She dedicated countless hours honing her skills, studying sports extensively, and building a network of mentors who believed in her potential. With unwavering perseverance, Anne proved time and again that her gender was not a limitation but an asset that enriched her perspective and storytelling.

Anne’s breakthrough as a sports official marked yet another momentous occasion in her career. In a realm predominantly occupied by men, she embraced the challenge of becoming a respected authority figure in the sports arena. With her deep knowledge of the game and a steadfast commitment to fairness, Anne swiftly gained recognition as a trailblazer in the field.

Throughout her journey, Anne encountered countless obstacles and faced resistance from those resistant to change. However, her indomitable spirit and relentless pursuit of equality ensured that every barrier would eventually crumble in her wake. Her fearless determination opened doors not only for herself but for countless other aspiring women who saw in her a beacon of hope and inspiration.

As Anne reflects on her incredible journey, she reminds us that breaking barriers isn’t just about personal accomplishment; it’s about challenging societal norms and fostering inclusivity for all. Anne’s contributions to the sports journalism world and her role as a sports official will forever be etched in history, serving as a testament to the power of passion, perseverance, and the unwavering belief in oneself.

Be inspired as Anne Montgomery shares her extraordinary story, one that transcends the boundaries of sports and sets a precedent for all who dare to dream big and strive for greatness.

Yes, I’m blushing now. If you’d like to listen to my conversation with Christian, just click the link below.

I was casting about for something to do, because almost all the things I spent my life doing are no longer options. The kids are grown, and I’m retired from reporting, teaching, sports officiating, and lap swimming.

As I was considering new options, a website caught my eye: Learn How To Play Again. I was intrigued so I read on. “Second Beat Improv Theater is rooted in the long-form format of improvisation. Our classes encourage students to trust their own choices both on and off the stage. We promote the idea of working as an ensemble through performance and class exercises to fully support everyone’s ideas. The belief is implemented through listening, saying yes to new ideas and reacting honestly.”

It sounded pretty tame, until I read the definition of improv. “Improv is live theater that is made up in the moment. Nothing is scripted, nothing is rehearsed, there’s no net. And it’s unique: Once you see an improv performance, you’ll never see that show again. Every performance of improv is different.”

Despite my reservations, I instantly forked over my credit card and signed up. Over the next six weeks, I and my fellow students learned the basics of improv, thanks to our director Sam Haldiman, pretty much the nicest teacher I’ve ever had.

“There’s no judgment. People get the chance to play at being kids,” he said. “Working with groups and having the opportunity to build a collaborative atmosphere..(is) something of intrinsic value to make you a better person.”

Sam ushered us through acting drills where we practiced things like performing scenes without words. “Just talk in gibberish,” he explained.

Note that’s harder than you might think. Still, working in teams of two, we somehow managed to make our scenes understandable.

One of the tougher drills for me was when I stood alone on the stage and had to play ten characters for ten seconds each. There was no planning. Every ten seconds Sam said switch, and I had to play whatever character came to mind. It was exhausting but also exhilarating.

As you might expect, we students became pretty tight over the course of our class, despite all of us being very different.

Alicia Williams is 37 and has worked in education most of her life. She decided to take the class to stay in the present and get out of her head. “Improv reconnects you with your inner child through playing games and being silly,” she said.

Angelo Fiore, a 27-year-old process quality engineer in the aerospace and defense industry, agrees. “In work I need to be an adult. Here I can be more childish,” he said. “I’ve learned that it’s okay to be yourself. It’s easy in a group like this to let yourself go.”

Connor Scott is 26 and works as a risk analyst for brokerages. For him, the class was about reconnecting with acting, which he did in high school. “I wanted to act without having to memorize lines,” he said laughing. “Thinking on your feet is more challenging. (Being) in the moment is much more difficult.”

Jowi Estava Ghersi worked as a professional actor before the pandemic. The 31-year-old, who’s also a graphic designer, said that improv has helped to reignite her brain. “Isolation was hard and I don’t feel like theater has fully come back,” she said. “I feel like I’ve reclaimed the part of my brain that lets me get on stage and trust what’s about to happen.”

At 54, Laura Renaud spends her work hours as an executive coach. When I asked why she decided on improv she said, “Why not! I think it’s really about leaning into the aspect of being comfortable with the uncomfortable. I’ve learned that connections and relationships are important. There’s a certain way you have to see your partners to make it work. Improv is a way to feel open and free.”

The class builds to a final show where we will perform a 20 minute program based on a one- word suggestion from the audience. Sam has assured us that we’ll be great. He’s so positive that his deep appreciation for the values of improv is easy to understand. “I wanted to have a creative outlet,” he said. “To have fun, and try new things, be bold.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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“The author’s ability to interweave the past and the present was masterful. The characters were complex and interesting, especially with the underlying theme of rethinking the history of worldly human migration. I saw myself in the book, through both Kate and Kaya, through the accurate representation of the balance women face between their passions, society and partnership. Without giving away the ending, the emotions I experienced in the last chapters were ones rarely felt when finishing other books. A real page turner and I am wondering when the movie is going to be made!”

Alicia Williams

Goodreads

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

TouchPoint Press

Historical Fiction

Get your copy here or wherever you buy books.

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.

What’s worse than a fractured foot? An injury that has no story. You know,  something like “I was being chased by a bear and fell off a cliff!”, or “I tripped while saving a baby from a burning car!”, or “I was whitewater rafting, hit some rapids, flipped into the water, and hurtled downstream into some rocks!”

Sadly, my story is…nothing happened, except I’d been walking around on a sore foot for a few months.

My podiatrist took some X-rays, fiddled with my aching appendage, and said, rather ominously,“You’re not going to like me.”

But, of course, that could never be true. He’s the doc who used a titanium plate, eleven metal screws, chewing gum, bailing wire, Super Glue, and who knows what else to reconstruct my formerly broken other leg.

“You have a stress fracture.”

“Why! I didn’t do anything,” I protested. “I didn’t fall or exercise too much! Hell, all I do is walk a few miles every morning. That’s what I’ve been reduced to.”

He nodded and spread both hands. “I’ve had my hip replaced and rotator cuff surgery. The result of old sports injuries. That’s what happens to athletes.”

Isn’t that sweet that he said I was an athlete and not, “Well, you’re old and paying the price for your misguided youth.”

So the story is some old foot injury that never healed properly, after decades of abuse, just fractured. Maybe it was 25-plus years in ice skates. Or 40 years of sports officiating. Or skiing some of those slopes I didn’t belong on. Or maybe I’ll blame my mom who accidentally dropped a freezer on my bare foot when I was a teen. Who knows?

“You still have your boot?”

I took a deep breath as I remembered the plastic-strapped contraption I’d worn while learning to walk again following my surgery. “I do.”

“And you have the lift for your other shoe?”

I wrinkled my brow, as he referred to the divice that keeps boot-wearers level when they walk. “I don’t know.”

“It’s in the boot,” he said with such confidence that I wondered if he’d actually been in the corner of my closet where the boot has resided since I was finally freed from the thing.

“Don’t walk without your boot,” he said. “I’ll see you in three weeks.”

I can’t say I didn’t whine all the way home. Then, I slid back the closet door, dug out the boot, and you know what? That shoe lift was exactly where he said it would be.

I’ll ask him how he knew, in a few weeks. In the meantime, I’m working on a better story.

I’m open to suggestions.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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Amazon