I like to sing. Always have. But I haven’t done much of it lately.

Here’s why. About a year ago, I underwent cervical spine fusion. A surgeon implanted two titanium clips in my spine through the front of my neck. Sounds fun, doesn’t it? My metal bits look sort of like those clasps you’d use to hold a bunch of papers together, or in my case to make sure that chips bag stays tightly sealed. 

As I love a good story, I remember prior to the surgery I said to the doc, “Could you give me a scar that looks like I was in a biker-girl barfight?”

He squinted, then shook his head. “No!”

So, today, geez, I have nothing cool to show for the operation. In case you’re wondering, my wonky spine is the result of 60 years of sports. Remember when they told us sports were good for us? They lied! And if I could figure out exactly who “they” were I might hunt them down. But I digress.

Despite the pleasing effects on my spine—no more bone-crushing pain that wipes the colors from my world—I was left with an impaired singing voice. And while I have always been an Alto II who rarely hit what most would call modest high notes, my voice is even lower now.

Recently, I decided to rectify the situation, so I signed up for voice lessons. Though I was rather startled when my teacher launched me into singing gospel tunes, Richie is helping me get my voice back.

During a break in my singing, Richie said, “Do you run or walk?”

“I walk,” I said.

“You should sing when you’re walking.”

I smiled. “I already do that.”

Here’s where I’ll admit that every morning I walk a rolling route on my little Caribbean Island of St. Croix, where I get to look at green hills, blue skies, and marshmallow-colored clouds. And the turnaround spot is picture prefect: a sprawling field carved into a hillside of tropical forest where, if I’m very lucky, horses and deer might be found placidly grazing together while a white cattle egret flutters around them. So, long before Richie suggested I sing while walking—an effort to improve my breathing—I was already serenading anyone within earshot.

I’ve since learned that singing is good for us. Apparently the smart folks who know such things say it can reduce stress, strengthen our immune systems, and, as Richie pointed out, improve our lung function. And here’s something really cool. Music in general—either singing, playing, or listening to it—affects us the same way chocolate and sex do. Our brains produce endorphins, chemicals that give us feelings of euphoria and well-being. Imagine that!

So, I will continue my morning stroll, singing whenever I feel the urge, even though I might periodically verge on channeling Barry White.

Your Forgotten Sons

Inspired by a true story

Anne Montgomery

Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to a Graves Registration Company, where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Lorraine, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?

Universal Buy Link

Amazon

Apple Books

Barnes & Nobel

Google Books

Kobo

Bookstores, libraries, and other booksellers can order copies directly from the Ingram Catalog.

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

Goodreads

Amazon