The adorable pumpkin

This is Bob, my pumkin man, who along with his friends often joined me at Halloween

Did you know that pumpkins are a fruit? Actually, a berry called a pepo because they contain seeds and develop from a flower.

I sometimes wonder what those first Europeans thought as they rampage through what would become the Americas when they discovered the indigenous folks cultivating those eye-catching orange gourds, a habit the locals had been practicing for about 9,000 years. In fact, those marauders didn’t even have a name for the hue pumpkins sported. It wasn’t until the 16th century, after the Portuguese introduced oranges to Europe, that “orange” become an officially recognized color.

All that said, this is the pumpkin time of year so their presence invades many aspects of our lives. First, we add them to our diet: pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, pumpkin soup, pumpkin ravioli—yes, it’s a thing—pumpkin seeds, and the ubiquitous pumpkin spice latte, to name a few.

The good news is pumpkins are a healthy addition to one’s diet, discounting all that lovely butter, sugar, and cream we sometimes combine it with. Here’s what my AI friend told me: “Pumpkins are very good for you, offering a range of health benefits due to their high content of vitamins A, C, and E, fiber, and antioxidants like beta-carotene. These nutrients support vision, immune function, heart health, and healthy digestion, while the low-calorie, high-water content makes them excellent for weight management. Pumpkin seeds also provide beneficial fats, protein, fiber, and minerals.”  

But pumpkins as food is not enough. We so love our pumpkins we add their sweet-spicy-earthy smell to candles and soaps and face creams. And we hold pumpkin contests where we build contraptions to see who can hurl one the farthest and others where the point is to grow the most gigantic pumpkin possible, some of which approach 3,000 pounds.

But, best of all, it is the pumpkin that signals Halloween. Note here that my ancient Celtic ancestors originated the jack-o-lantern thing, even though there were no pumpkins in Ireland. Those people were forced to carve faces into potatoes and turnips, which couldn’t have been easy, so imagine their delight upon meeting a pumpkin, which improved those jack-o-lanterns exponentially.

When the kids were still home, we liked to dress up on Halloween. (In case you’re wondering, I paid hommage to Boudica, the Irish warrior queen who, for a time, managed to defeat the Roman invaders. Sadly, they eventually caught up to her, but her legend remains.)

It’s probably no surprise that as a descendant of all those red-headed revelers Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Though I was never very skilled at carving, I was enthusiastic, which had me cutting a lot of those little guys for the big day. When the kids were at home and not quite so grown up, we made a party with all those pumpkins. We even built a pumpkin man called Bob, that frequently freaked out the local children.

The point is, no matter what you do with pumpkins, it’s clear many of us find them adorable. So here’s to the pumpkin! May it ever color our lives.

Wolf Catcher

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction

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.

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Ginger witches, black cats, and nonconforming women

If I were actually a witch, I’d cast a spell and look like this. (A girl can dream.)

While I sometimes worry about our turbulent times, I often reflect on the fact that things could be significantly worse. Consider the late 1700s, for example, when I probably would have been running for my life. My crime? I’m a ginger. In fact, the first thing the doctor said to my mother as I was zooming out of the womb—I say zooming because I came precariously close to being born in the backseat of a cab—was, “It has red hair!”

We who are gingers were considered rather suspect several centuries back, the bright hue of our locks sparking ideas that we might consort with the devil in our spare time. While there are no exact records, it’s estimated that many thousands of gingers were executed between the 16th and 18th centuries.

But we redheads were not the only ones targeted as witches, and another motive for securing one’s neighbor to a stake for a barbeque might surprise you. While the usual religiosity sparked witchy rumors, many of the accusations were of a more fiscal variety. The vast majority of those accused of sorcery were, of course, women. No surprise there. But many were widows. It seems that back then women could only own property if they inherited it from their husbands, and sometimes they held the titles to nice farms and shops and maybe the local pub, possessions that sparked envy in others in the community. So, if one could get say an impressionable young girl to swear that a woman had tried to bewitch her, the pitchforks came out in force. When said witch was convicted and executed, her property was taken by the authorities and offered for sale. Hummm?

You’re probably wondering, in the absence of convincing testimony, how the locals could prove a woman was a witch. My favorite was the old tie-her-up-and-throw-her-in-the-water test. It seems the defendant was bound and heaved into the nearest stream or lake where the townsfolk stood and watched…waiting. If the woman in question managed to undo her bonds and escape, she was clearly guilty and would be burned at the stake. As for the ones who drowned, they were pronounced innocent of practicing witchcraft with the locals giving themselves an oopsy.

I suppose I shouldn’t worry about any of this, as my red locks have faded and no longer stand out. But there’s also the issue of freckles that some believe are “witch’s marks”, so called evidence that I’ve made a pact with Satan. Gosh! There’s no hiding those. (Note here that I prefer to think of my freckles as chocolate chips, but I digress.)

And then there’s the black-cat thing. While I’m currently down to one such kitty, I’ve had a bunch over the course of my life. But you non-cat folks shouldn’t feel too smug because you’re not out of the haunted forest yet. It was once believed that anyone with a pet of any kind was suspected of sorcery.

Then there are those of us who exhibit clearly nonconformist behavior. I’ve spent my whole life speeding down that particular highway: sports reporter, umpire, referee. If there was a place I didn’t fit in, I’d find it and set up housekeeping.

Under the circumstances, I’m glad I live in today’s world where people are kind and accepting and give one another the benefit of the doubt.

Oh, wait.

Wolf Catcher

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction

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.

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

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

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“Ass to the grass!” A useful phrase when driving

See all those bits of blue? Those are places where one must drive on the left side of the road. It takes a little practice, but the phrase, “ass to the grass” helps immensely. (The green dot is the little island of St. Croix where I have a home.)

A while back, I stared at my 90-something mother who was looking up through the steering wheel of her Ford Fusion. My father had, of his own accord, prudently decided to quit driving, but Mom was holding on. Finally, I bought the car and with no vehicle to drive the problem was solved.

I didn’t get the big deal back then, but I do now. While I’ve been driving since I was 16, for the past four years I have been chauffeured around à la Miss Daisy whenever my sweetie pie and I were on the island of St. Croix where we have a home. The reason? Simple. We rented cars and to add another driver would have cost an extra $25 a day. Since we stay for months at a time that adds up, so I resigned myself to riding shotgun.

Until now. The local Avis rental facility was having a fleet sale, and after a modicum of deliberation, we drove off in a cute, shiny blue Nissan Kick, a sort of baby SUV. We needed nothing big—since the island is only 28 miles long and seven miles wide—and there’s no point in buying a fancy car when one lives beside the sea. While the view is lovely, the salt spray eats vehicles in an inordinately short amount of time.

When Ryan handed me my set of keys, I felt a tingle of excitement and maybe just a bit of anxiety. My apprehension was understandable when you consider that on St. Croix people drive on the left side of the road, like they do in England and 75 other countries worldwide, mostly due to the legacy of the British Empire.

Here’s my new car. Isn’t she cute? Now I can drive around St. Croix. The only thing is the steering wheel is on the left side and we must drive on the left. It takes a bit of getting used to.

In case you’re wondering, Americans prefer the right side because back when horses were pulling wagons, the driver generally sat on the left side of the buckboard to better see what was coming their way. So, when cars started populating the roads they took up the right side. Old man Ford of the Ford Motor Company—ever the entrepreneur—started producing automobiles with the steering wheel situated on the left side to accommodate the new American drivers, and it is those cars that populate my little island. So we drive on the left side of the road while also manning the vehicle from the left side.

Admittedly, it takes a little getting used to. Those right hand turns in traffic—or what passes for traffic here—can make one pause. In any case, I feel as if I’ve got my mojo back. There is a certain sense of freedom in picking up the keys and saying, “See ya!” But as I buckle up, I have to remember that useful little phrase when driving on the left side of the road: “Ass to the grass!”

Wolf Catcher

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction

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.

Amazon

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Barnes and Noble

Google Books

Rakuten 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.

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Social-emotional learning: What’s the problem?

A child in crisis needs more than than classroom lessons. They need to learn how to handle their emotions.

I’ve been thinking about social-emotional learning lately and wondering what all the fuss is about. I say this as a person who entered the classroom at 45 with little understanding of my job.

I became a teacher following a reporting career where absolute professionalism was required 100% of the time: dependability, competence, punctuality, and strong communication skills were compulsory every minute of every day. So it’s perhaps not surprising that I required the same of my high school students. I truly believed I was preparing them for the “real world” and had no doubts about holding them accountable.

When a colleague pulled me aside and pointed out that I was dealing with children and could perhaps be a bit nicer, I scoffed. That most of my students hated me was obvious, still I believed I was right.

I finally began to understand the day I dragged a habitually late student from my first period class. As I was lecturing him about how he would fail in life if he couldn’t manage to be on time, he stared at his shoes. Then the 14-year old stared up at me. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Montgomery. I had to sleep on my uncle’s couch last night and I don’t understand the bus system from there. And I don’t know where I’m going to sleep at night and…”

And…that’s when the lightbulb went off. I was haranguing a homeless child. I instantly realized that punctuality and school work might certainly take a backseat when one is homeless. Note here that I taught in a Title I school where the vast majority of my students lived in poverty, so many dealt with hunger, abuse, gangs, neglect, foster care and all of the other ills that often live in that realm.

And what does this have to do with social-emotional learning? Everything. A child in stress needs both physical and emotional assistance. At my school we fed hungry children and provided clothing, shoes, back packs, and toiletries to those in need. We also listened. I made it a point to get to know all of my students to determine if there was anything I could do to make them more comfortable in the classroom. And, when my limited skills were not enough, I called in our social worker, who worked tirelessly behind the scenes helping kids in crisis.

So, while the role of a teacher is to impart subject matter to students, we can’t do that effectively unless children are able to manage the stresses in their lives. We have to help them acquire the skills and understanding to manage the many emotions they face in healthy constructive ways. Because if we don’t, some might give in to despair and one day pick up a weapon.

And that is social-emotional learning.

So tell me, please, why do so many people think this process is inherently evil?

Wolf Catcher

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction

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.

Amazon

Apple Books

Barnes and Noble

Google Books

Rakuten 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