I spent twenty years in a high school classroom, doing my best to impart some modicum of wisdom to my students. I’ve seen some of those kids grow up. I also have four foster children now in their twenties. I mention these young people because sometimes they baffle me with the things they don’t know.

I realize now that with all the science, history, math, English, and other courses we made them take, some practical stuff might have gotten lost along the way. So, even though I’m retired from teaching, I’ve put together the perfect course that should be required for all high school students in the country.

First, every child must take what we used to call home economics. I’m sure women in my age group remember the girls-only class where we learned home management, how to cook simple healthy meals, and the basics of sewing. But why were boys not required to take home ec? Of course, back then, those jobs were considered “women’s“ work, still don’t you agree that today everyone needs those skills?

You’ll notice the word economics in that dusty, old course, and wow is that important. Often, my students didn’t know the difference between a credit and a debit card. Nor did they understand what an interest payment was or a mortgage or a budget. Checking and savings accounts were mostly foriegn. I used to show them my paycheck and tried to explain Social Security and state and local tax deductions and they were stunned by the idea that they didn’t get to keep their entire paychecks.

“Why are they taking our money?” they’d bark back.

“To pay for things like schools and roads, police and firefighters, health programs and the military,” I’d explain.

“The government should pay for that!”

And then I’d try very hard not to roll my eyes. “Taxpayers are the government!”

Another important class was auto mechanics, which—perhaps not surprisingly—was only taught to boys. In my world, girls would understand how to change a tire, jump start an engine, and decode the meaning of some of those strange noises that periodically emanate from under the hood. And they would all understand the importance of having roadside assistance, so they don’t have to wake up Mom and Dad in the middle of the night when the car is misbehaving. (You know who you are!)

Speaking of cars…whatever happened to driver’s ed? Anyone who takes to the roads knows that many people have no idea what they’re doing out there. No one seems to understand what a turn signal is for, or the meaning of those lines painted on the road, or why it’s a bad idea to text a buddy when behind the wheel. So let’s require some professional intruction, as opposed to learning from some family member who may know nothing about good driving.

And how about a few lessons on simple home repairs, like fixing a running toilet, or patching a hole in the drywall, or clearing a clogged drain. Useful, yes?

Health class is currently required in many schools, though I’m unsure of what exactly they’re teaching. I still recall the young lady who pointed out that it is simply impossible to get pregnant the first time you have sex. Methinks a little sex ed, though highly controversial in some states, should be required in this day and age. That and physical education, which used to be obligatory, but is now reserved for coaches to keep their team members lifting weights on a regular basis. Instead, I’d get my students outside, sans electronic devices, if only to give them a chance to walk a mile or so on the track on a regular basis.

Finally, I’d teach communication skills, which are sadly disappearing at an alarming rate. Yep, I’d make them put those phones down and actually talk to one another in person, making actual eye contact in the process. I’d add that dreaded of all skills, public speaking, as well as resume writing and career planning.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. How could I possibly get all of this into one class? Because it would be a year-long, two-semester course. I know working everything in is possible because I once taught world history where I was expected to teach the beginning of humankind to the French Revolution. Compared to that, my course would be easy.

At this point, you’re probably wondering what I’d call my class.

That’s easy. I’d call it Life.

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One of the nifty things about getting older is that sometimes we get things for free. In this case, I’m referring to that golden moment I turned 65 and Medicare kicked in. While medical insurance is certainly nice, it’s the little side bonus that got me excited. I was informed that Medicare would spring for my gym membership.

Since I’ve been working out my whole life, I was delighted to let someone else pick up the monthly tab. But when I entered my club recently, I was informed that my membership had expired.

“Don’t worry,” said the nice lady at the desk. “Just contact your insurance company and they’ll reinstate you.”

So, I did. It was then I discovered I had gym-membership options. There were apparently a number of clubs nearby that were part of the program. Instantly, I thought of the brand-new, three-story facility that had just sprung up, a fancy club at the Biltmore, a name that here in Arizona is associated with what we call the “pretty people.” I was almost embarrassed to ask if that club was on the list. Surely that wasn’t possible. The dues at my usual gym amounted to $30 a month. At the Biltmore it was $250.

“Yes, we can get you in there. It’s one of our premier clubs,” said the insurance lady.

Though I was dubious, I agreed to a visit. And what I saw at this “gym” was astounding. There were of course the usual floors filled with aerobic machines—all pristine—with separate areas for weight lifting, spinning and yoga classes, as well as basketball and tennis courts. Then I was escorted to the rooftop pool with its unobstructed view of iconic Camelback Mountain, a dining and bar area, and myriad poolside lounging cabanas. Now, I must mention here that the sparkling pool was pretty, but I paused as my guide pointed out all the amenities.

“There are no lines on the bottom,” I said.

“Um, no,” he said spreading his hands wide.

“Then how are lap swimmers supposed to get from one end to the other in a straight line?” I asked.

“I guess they forgot.”

As a life-long lap swimmer, I wondered how one could build a lap pool without lane lines, but then he whisked me down the elevator where I found a spa that would provide me with a manicure, pedicure, haircut and style, and a massage, if I felt so inclined. We walked past the chiropractor’s office with its warm-water massage chairs, then the sushi bar that later in the afternoon reverted to a real bar where I might have an adult beverage. Next to that was a large café boasting high-end carry-out meals, snacks—lots of them vegan—and big comfy couches where people lounged while plugged into their computers.

I considered the time of day. “Don’t these people have jobs?” I whispered to my tour guide.

“I’ve wondered about that myself,” he said quietly.

It was after I entered the women’s locker room that I realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. It was the preponderance of women wearing thong bikinis. As I pulled on my royal blue Speedo, I felt like I was donning something akin to a prairie dress. But as those bare bottoms sauntered by no one gawked at me. In fact, no one said a word or made eye contact, as I waded into the pristine whirlpool, followed by a cold plunge—52 degrees: Eieee!—then a steam. Fresh white towels were everywhere. When I padded into the shower area I discovered that no one carried their own products. Shampoo, conditioner, body soap, shaving cream, and razors were all arranged prettily in each shower stall. I’d been lugging around a big pink gym bag full of stuff for years. Now, I could get by with nothing more than my bathing suit, cap, and goggles.

If you’re wondering, yes, I joined, because I’m not a dope. But I’m still a bit conflicted about my membership, which, as the insurance lady said, is completely free. As I walked through the parking lot past a gleaming black Maserati and a host of top-dollar late-model SUVs that will never be driven off road, I felt perhaps I didn’t belong. Would I miss my dingy old club and the regular folks who populate the place?

We’ll see.

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I’ve enjoyed keeping up to date with some of my former students via social media, still sometimes what I see is disturbing, especially the posts from my female students. Almost universally these young ladies—who are mostly in their twenties— post what we old timers call cheesecake: shots where there is little in the way of clothing involved and the emphasis is on butts, cleavage, and pursing ones lips in what, I’m guessing, is supposed to be a provocative pose.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The human body is a beautiful thing. And I do recall growing up in the world of no bras, miniskirts, low-rider bell bottoms, and halter tops, so now you’re probably wondering what has me so anxious. The problem is these young women are posting nothing else; they’re social media streams are just endless views of their barely-covered bodies. They never seem to say what they’re doing in life, what they’ve accomplished, or where they hope to go.

I’m worried because nothing seems to have changed in regard to women being valued only for their looks, a message that girls understand loud and clear. Still, I would sometimes point out in class that only being pretty is never enough, because as beauty fades, one needs skills and training to be successful. Often my comments were laughed off, the girls shaking their heads at the absurdity of losing their looks.

Still, there are plenty of women who understand that beauty is fleeting. A 2019 study showed 92% of all plastic surgery procedures in the U.S. were performed on women, and in 2020 the number of those aged 30-39 who’d undergone facial and body augmentation numbered almost two million. It used to be plastic surgery was the realm of those 50 and over, but not anymore. The question is where does it end? And why are so many women so unhappy with the way they look?

We can probably blame social media, though in my time it was the impossible proportions of Barbie and those glossy fashion magazines that worshipped whip-thin models like Twiggy that had me and many of my peers feeling insecure about our bodies. Today, one just needs to switch on any social media site to see how beautiful everyone else is. And no worries if you don’t stack up. If you can’t afford plastic surgery, those cute little filters can crop out any body parts you don’t like. We can tweak our faces and give ourselves cheek bones, shave fifty pounds off our bellies, and even change the color of our eyes. We can all look like super models.

But to what end? I sometimes try to imagine how much time women spend chasing pretty. Then I wonder what wonderful things might have been accomplished had they put as much effort into studying, or working, or volunteering.

I’m not naive. I understand all this posing is about attracting a mate. But if someone only wants you for your looks, can the relationship last? Note that over 44% of marriages fail every year, with infidelity being the leading cause. The chances of divorce go up when one person is deemed no longer attractive enough. So, if a lasting relationship is what one yearns for something other than looks needs to be involved.

I learned a lesson years ago when I was attracted to a man who paid no attention to me whenever our paths crossed. One of my friends observed these interactions and dragged me to her house, where she dressed me in her clothes. While my attire was generally sporty, Debbie’s wardrobe featured sheer, low-cut dresses with slits up to her hip and four-inch spikes in every color.  

Later, I toddled back to the restaurant where we worked, with lots of makeup and bright red lips, body parts I rarely exposed on full display, wincing at the pain in my feet. When the guy saw me, he grinned and started chatting with me as if we’d never met before.

Of course, I was thrilled. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that the person he saw in that pushup bra and stilettos wasn’t me. In that moment, I lost all interest in him. He was attracted to someone who didn’t exist.

I mention this because while pretty is fine there has to be more. You need to have interests, because, eventually, couples need to talk to one another, conversations where pretty is irrelevant.

So, go ahead and emphasize your looks, if you want, but remember if the goal is to meet someone who loves you for who you are, you might think about cultivating interests, hobbies, volunteer work, and a sense of humor.

Then take some pictures that show you actually doing something.

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I don’t like paper receipts.

First, there’s the obvious. Do I really want to know how much I just spent? Every month when I take my cat Westin to the vet for his shot, ear cleaning, and medication, the sweet receptionist smiles up at me and says, “Would you like an itemized receipt?”

“No!” I shout, before saying I’m sorry, but I have no desire to know what my feline friend is costing me. His medical fees are more than the dozen dogs and 40 cats I’ve taken care of over the years combined, so there’s no point in pouring salt in that wound.

But there are other reasons I eschew paper receipts. According to the Forbes article “The Business Case for Eliminating Paper Receipts,” “In the United States alone, paper receipt production uses an estimated 12.4 million trees, 13.2 billion gallons of water, and emits 4 billion pounds of CO2 each year.”

Yikes!

And there’s more: “Additionally, over 90% of paper receipts are coated with BPA or BPS – known disruptors of the endocrine system. The health implications of this are astounding, with retail employees and workers frequently exposed to paper receipts often carrying higher than 30% more BPA and BPS in their systems than individuals without that level of exposure.”

So, yes, I was feeling rather high and mighty by waving off anyone’s attempt to hand me a receipt.

Until now.

The other day my sweetie pie asked me to pick up a package of tortillas. As is usually the case when grocery shopping, a few other things made their way into my reusable canvas bag. (There’s a reason my friends and family sometimes refer to me as Eco Annie.) After waiting in line, I parked myself in front of the self-checkout machine. I followed the directions, swiping the barcodes and placing the items properly in the bagging area. Note that I have learned not to argue with the lady’s voice that gets rather strident if one takes too long to follow commands. “Place the item in the bag!”  

Everything was going rather smoothly until I put cucumber on the scanner. With no barcode, I selected the look-up-item button, found a cucumber, and hit the key. But the charge didn’t appear on my list. I tried several times, but my fifty-nine cent cucumber didn’t register.

I stared at the people waiting—it was a busy day—and tried again. And this time, it worked. I stuck my credit card in the slot, was instructed to remove it, but no receipt appeared. I looked around for an attendant, but saw no one. Then I glanced over my shoulder at the shoppers anxiously tapping their feet and staring holes through me.

So, I took my bag from the bagging area, and walked toward the door, behind a blonde, lady police officer. I smiled and thought I would thank her for her service, but as we headed out into the sunlight, she yelled at a woman in the parking lot.

“Excuse me! Do you have a receipt?” She addressed a small woman with an armload of flowers.

The woman squinted. “In my pants pocket.”

I froze, as the officer reached into the woman’s jeans rummaging for proof that she paid for the flowers. My small bag of groceries suddenly felt inordinately heavy. I’d never committed a crime. (Okay, when rock collecting I sometimes ignore those No Trespassing signs, but that’s mostly the limit of my illegal activity.)

I suddenly envisioned all those dopy TV criminals who try desperately to look innocent but fail miserably. I told myself I’d committed no crime. I’d paid for my items, I just didn’t have the proof. I walked ever so casually around the officer, heart beating wildly. Would she believe me if I told her the machine didn’t supply a receipt? If not, would she haul me in for shoplifting?

As it turned out, my acting ability carried me through. Or maybe the cop was just too busy with the flower woman to notice my guilty expression.

I will now rethink my opposition to receipts, if only to avoid doing time in the slammer.

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I was a teacher for 20 years. During that time, I taught mostly communications and journalism, as I’d been a reporter in a previous life. Still, when I applied for my teaching certificate, I was required to take a test to prove I knew something of value and, as journalism wasn’t an option, I took the history test.

Like many young people, I didn’t always care for history. It wasn’t until I got to college that I discovered the thrill of learning about the past. Though, looking back, I did sometimes wonder about those who lived before me. Once, as a 12-year-old, after watching a TV show about ancient cave drawings, I took my father’s tools and gouged a hole in our garage wall. I believed there might be ancient artifacts buried in my 1950’s-era split level and wanted to find them. I was stunned when my parents punished me. Apparently, they were not the least bit thrilled by my budding intellectual curiosity.

In college, spoiled brat that I am, I got to live and study in Europe, where ancient sites were often just around the next corner. Celtic tribes inhabited the area of Luxembourg where I lived, until Julius Caesar arrived around 54 BC with his smart looking troops and conquered the local populace. Today, you can see, for example, a two-story, 40-room residence with marble walls, mosaics, a swimming pool, and under-floor heating, the construction of which began around 70 AD, built, no doubt, by Rome’s version of Elon Musk.

I can’t emphasize how fabulous it was to study the great World War I battle of Verdun and then pop over for a visit to see those trenches for myself. Or to spend a week in the Soviet Union during the Cold War. Or to take the train to Paris to follow the Nazi occupation and Germany’s ultimate loss in World War II. Perhaps, had I not had those opportunities, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with history.

While I can’t say that history is currently the least favored school subject—math obviously holds that dishonor—from my experience it’s one students generally want to avoid. The argument has been the same for decades. “History is boring!”

Henry the XIII, the pyramid-building Aztecs of Mesoamerica, and Genghis Khan and his troops all have lessons to teach us.

Why do they feel that way? Sadly, for generations, the teaching of history often rested on the memorization of facts, dates, and times, which by themselves are as exciting as dust. What students need are good stories. For example, Henry VIII’s desire for eight wives is a made-for-TV soap opera with intrigue, violence, and romance, and an aftermath that changed the world. Then there were the Mesoamerican Aztecs, with their advanced architecture, engineering, agriculture, and science and their cities that rivaled those in Europe, at the time. And you’e got to love Genghis Khan and his lightning-fast horsemen who roared through parts of Asia and what would become modern-day Europe in blitzkrieg fashion. They conquered the locals and left behind snippets of their DNA that changed those of us who descended from them. If you like milk and cheese and ice cream, thank Genghis and his boys, because without their quirky lactose-digesting gene, we’d all be unable to enjoy a hot-fudge sundae.

I do understand that many of the historical events students are required to study are not inherently intriguing on their own, but history teachers should be able to find ways to make those moments interesting and, even more important, relevant. Also, we need to look closely at the times and events being taught. History lessons here in the U.S. have too often focused on the European versions of events, but there’s a big world out there with all kinds of historical lessons, so expanding what’s taught might help us better understand one another.

The problem currently is that not many college students are pursuing history as a major, fearing that the only job out there for them is, well, teaching history. But according to reporter Valerie Strauss, in her Washington Post article “Why so many students hate history—and what to do about it,” the study of history is good preparation for all kinds of careers.

“Historical knowledge is powerful currency for the 21st century,” she wrote. “History increases cultural literacy and sensitivity. You will learn to consider multiple points of view and changing global contexts…It also offers a unique education in the curation of content, teaching you how to collect, evaluate, and arrange a variety of sources into persuasive arguments and narratives. By interpreting the past you will better understand yourself. And those who know their history help to shape how people see themselves in the present and what they hope for the future.”

What’s more important than that?

Today, perhaps more than ever, we need to study history so we can see where we’re headed and, if we don’t like what that future holds, what we can do to change it.

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You’ve probably seen the Meta ad. A young teen stretched out on his bed, clutching a football. “I wanna be quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys,” he says.  “I wanna carry eighty-thousand fans to victory.” Then, we see the boy again, this time in a stadium wearing a Cowboys-like jersey, throwing a pass. But the kid isn’t wearing a helmet. Instead, he’s donned his Meta Quest 2 Pro headset, a dandy little device that sells for $1,500.

It’s not only the exorbitant price of the virtual-reality apparatus that has me riled, it’s the whole idea of the ad. The kid reminds me of when I was still teaching. I did my best to sit down individually with every one of my students, an effort to tease out what they wanted from life and perhaps formulate a plan to help them get there.

When a kid came to me saying they wanted to be a professional athlete—as many did—I pointed out that there’s a lot of hard work and dedication on that path and no guarantees. Though I know the odds of being an athlete at the pro and Olympic levels are incredibly slim, I never tried to talk anyone out of it, though I always mentioned the need for a plan B, explaining that one awkward step can end an athlete’s career.

“So, you play on our team here at school. What’s your position?” I’d ask.

More times than I care to remember the kid would look at me quizzically and say, “I don’t play on the school team.”

“A club team then?”

“No, I just play in the neighborhood.”

I would then gently point out that if they really wanted to become a pro athlete, they should actually play on an actual team. “That’s the way to learn,” I’d say. “You can’t become a great player without playing.”

And then they’d just stare at me, as if to say no effort should be required to reach their dream.

Now, back to the Meta ad. What is it really saying to young people? Are Mark Zuckerberg and his boys actually insinuating that wearing their high-tech goggles is better preparation for a career in sports than, um, actually playing in real games? That’s the impression the ad gives me. It seems the idea of hanging out in your room, interacting with pretend people is preferable to actually getting involved with a real coach and players. No weight training or sweating required. No learning the intricacies of your position. No need to develop the interpersonal skills involved with being a team member. No putting yourself on the line in front of actual fans. And if that imaginary pass you’re throwing to an imaginary receiver in an imaginary stadium goes awry, no worries. Just restart your imaginary game and give yourself a do over.

Is this really the message we want to send when one in five kids in the U.S. is clinically obese, which amounts to 14.7 million children and adolescents? Add to that the fact that almost 16% of 12-to-17-year-olds suffer from depression, a condition often brought about by isolation and loneliness. Perhaps their little Meta headset might make them feel like they have actual friends, but eventually they’ll learn the reality of virtual reality. There is nothing real about it. They will reside in a fake world and someday, when they need an actual friend, there might be no one to turn to.

Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe, someday, some kid will play football or baseball or hockey in their pretend universe and then they’ll become pro players. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it. Because it is!

We should not allow children to slip into this world. Video games sucking up all their time are bad enough. The Metaverse will swallow them whole.

I know what some of you are thinking. She’s just an old teacher who doesn’t understand modern technology. These are just games. What’s the harm?

All I can say is take heed, parents. Don’t leave your kids for endless hours in their rooms where they will become increasingly addicted to their fabricated worlds.

I really hope I’m wrong.

But…I’m not.

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Every year for decades I have wondered whether the coming New Year’s Eve celebration could top the one I experienced in 1976. So far, nothing’s come close. So, in honor of that long ago evening, I will share the story again.

Forty-seven years ago, I faced a young man I had just met.

“Come with me,” he said.

I had arrived in Luxembourg, that wee country squeezed by Germany, France and Belgium, just two days earlier, the beginning of a six-month stint abroad at my university’s branch campus. I had been placed with Kurt and Margareta Schroeder: Swedes, two of the loveliest people I have ever met. Lennart was their son.

“She’s an old friend,” he explained about the woman who owned the castle. “Every New Year’s Eve we go there and celebrate.”

I did not, at that point, sense there was something he wasn’t telling me. Sweet Margareta, who would, over the course of my stay, squeeze me orange juice and provide fresh-baked bread with honey and jam each morning, assured me that the short drive into France would be fun and that her blond, blue-eyed boy with the mass of unruly curls would take good care of me.

“Sure, I’ll go. What should I wear?”

“It’s a drafty, dirty old castle,” Lennart said. “Just wear jeans.”

Later, we drove past open fields and woodlands where trees stood naked and lacy, having long ago shed their leaves. Pewter clouds pressed from above. The chill made me glad to be wrapped in a turtleneck, heavy sweater, and ski jacket. My straight-legged Levi’s topped rugged hiking boots. As the countryside raced by, I wondered what a “dirty, old castle” might look like. I’d spent my life in New Jersey, a place pretty much devoid of castles of any kind.

Lennart turned onto a narrow road, like the rest, a quaint blend of forest and rolling pastures.

“This is part of the estate,” he said. “She inherited two thousand acres from her grandfather.”

When he pulled onto the circular drive, I stared at the massive, two-story stone structure that was maybe four-hundred years old. As we mounted a wide, white stairway, I considered the odd placement of a sculpture that appeared to be George Washington and his men on their fabled crossing of the Delaware. The piece rested halfway up the staircase. I would soon learn that the statue’s haphazard placement was a remnant of the castle’s World War II occupation by Nazi officers who were caught amidst their attempts to steal artwork. The sculpture was left on the stairs as the soldiers fled an attack by local French citizens and there it remained.

“The castle has sixty-four rooms,” Lennart said. “But we only use a few of them. It costs too much to keep the heat on.”

Marie greeted us in French and with two kisses, one on each check for Lennart. She eyed me quizzically. I couldn’t help but notice her modelesque frame squeezed into impossibly tight jeans. A scarlet, long-sleeved shirt similarly hugged her curves, revealing a hint of cleavage, and perfectly matching red lipstick highlighted her lips. Raven hair hung loose down her back. High, black heels clacked with each step.

My hiking boots suddenly felt heavy. My cuffed Levi’s a bit too rustic.

Marie chattered on with Lennart in French, one of five languages he conversed in fluently. “She doesn’t speak English,” he whispered.

My French was pathetic. I could read menus and road signs and order wine, if I had to. But I didn’t need to understand the language to see there was something between them.

Marie led us into a dining room where a long table was set with linens and crystal. A chandelier sparkled above, throwing shadowed light on 16^th century oil paintings. Over the course of the evening, eight other Parisians would join us, not one of whom spoke English.

Multiple bottles of wine and champagne were uncorked. When we were all seated, a silver tray appeared from the kitchen bearing a massive fish. I wondered if poisson was the traditional New Year’s Eve repast, as I requested another serving. I didn’t notice I was the only one asking for seconds.

I was surprised when the next platter appeared. And even more so when subsequent others arrived. I knew, without being told, that to decline an offering would be rude. As I needed a pause before the next course circled the table, I was greatly appreciative when we ran out of wine and Lennart explained we would have to trek to the cellar for more. One dark-haired, animated man—who I was told was a popular French comedian—led us through the castle’s murky halls and stairways. He started singing Gregorian chants, which seemed both fitting and a bit sacrilegious when we arrived at the family chapel, replete with alter and pews and cross. More than a bit tipsy, we joined him, our voices echoing off ancient stone walls.

We retrieved myriad dusty bottles of wine, some over 100 years old. As you might expect, much of the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur. But sometime later, I woke in a bedroom shrouded in shadow. I could hear the ticking of a grandfather clock and loud stomping. Boots hitting the floor over and over. But my wine-addled brain and warm covers precluded me from investigating.

The next morning, I asked Lennart if I could see the clock. He translated my request. Marie, tilted her head.

“The clock was removed from that room many years ago,” Lennart said.

I wondered if the Nazis were to blame, but I didn’t ask.

“And the stomping?” I waited while Lennart spoke with Marie.

“That is the German soldier,” he translated. “He was caught in the courtyard when the Nazis were fleeing. He was killed there. Later, Marie’s grandfather took the man’s skull and placed it in his library. The soldier has been marching around the castle at night ever since.”

I stared at Marie. Her shrug told me a stomping Nazi ghost was no big deal in an old French castle.

On the drive back to Luxembourg, Lennart would confess that he and Marie had dated for years. This was the first New Year’s Eve celebration they weren’t a couple. He knew she was seeing someone and didn’t want to go to the castle alone. He did not disuuade the others when they inquired if we were dating.

Over four-and-a-half decades of New Year’s Eve celebrations have passed since my trip into the French countryside, an evening filled with subterfuge, fabulous food, old wine, a stomping ghost, and an invisble grandfather clock.

I’m pretty sure nothing will ever top that.

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

Contact: Chelsea Pieper, Publicity Manager, Media Liaison

Review/interview requests: media@touchpointpress.com

Pre-orders available here.

The other day, as I was lolling in the early-morning comfort of my bed, my smoke alarm went off. This was surprising not for the obvious reason, but for the fact that it actually worked. I’ve had a bad habit over the years of removing the batteries, because the thing always decides to beep its displeasure around three in the morning when the juice gets low.

In any case, I sprang—in my mind I sprang, more than likely I crawled—out of bed to see what was amiss and was assaulted by an odor reminiscent of jet fuel. I met my son in the living room.

“What’s that smell?” he said over the blaring of the alarm.

“I don’t know!”

There was no visible smoke in the house, but when I opened the front door to see if the pungent odor was coming from somewhere else, I realized the problem was in my home. We switched off the alarm, opened the doors and windows, popped the cats into a carrier—they were not amused—and went outside.

A short time later, my sweetie pie called the air conditioner repair guys, convinced my ancient unit had finally succumbed to old age and had spontaneously combusted.

As we waited, I noticed my blue-eyed cattle dog was gone. Bella is almost 12 and has been acting oddly the past year or so. According to the vet, doggy dementia may be at work, a condition that sometimes causes her to stare at walls and ignore us when we call her. Since we brought her home from the shelter over a decade ago, she had never run away and walks with us happily without a leash, when it’s appropriate. Then, about a month ago, she slipped away while I was gardening. Luckily, a young neighbor recognized her and brought her home. But this time, despite searching all over, we couldn’t find her.

As anyone who’s ever had a pet go missing can attest, the not knowing is brutal. Happily, in our case, the panic was short lived. Neighbors who we don’t know took Bella in and called the animal control folks, using the number on her license. They texted me, but since I was looking for my dear dog, I didn’t see the message. Instead, they heard my son calling for her in the street and there was a happy reunion.

Later, after the AC man announced that it would cost a bit over eight thousand dollars to replace my burned out air conditioner—the fire had completely fried the interior and nothing could be saved—I winced, but didn’t whine.

You know why? I got my sweet dog back. Later, I delivered some cupcakes to my neighbors, because they were kind enough to care about an old lost dog.

The moral of the story? Always keep fresh batteries in the smoke detector and never, ever give up on humanity.

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The big dive was coming up—number 100—so my sweetie pie and I were trying to sort out the specifics, because scuba tradition dictates that this dive is different.

To backtrack a bit, note that scuba diving requires a lot of learning. Afterall, when underwater, one is on life support, so getting things right is imperative. With that in mind, divers keep a logbook where they reflect on their first 100 trips below the surface. What were the conditions: water temperature, visibility, dive profile, and depth? What creatures did they encounter? What did they do well? What do they need to improve upon, with special focus on things that might have put them in danger. As a former teacher, I think the log process a great idea and a fabulous learning tool that culminates in that centennial dive.

But as Ryan and I approached the 100-dive benchmark, we realized it also comes with a caveat. You see, at that point, custom dictates that divers descend…um…naked.

Long before we arrived at our little place in St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands we discussed diving au naturel. We always claimed we would perform the ritual, but the closer we got to the moment, the more we started to quibble.

“I don’t think I’m going to do it, Ryan said, as we stared at the sea.

“You always said you would,” I answered wondering about his apprehension. I considered my own concern, which was mostly getting arrested for public indecency, but a scuba boat captain insisted that once underwater, rules about nakedness don’t apply. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I wanted to believe him. I stared at Ryan. “So, Mr. Tough Guy, what are you so afraid of?”

He let out a breath. “Dangling.”

I burst out laughing, but when I looked into it, it seems that, yes, men who dangle in the water, do sometimes lure passing fish into taking a nibble. It’s the same with fingers, if one isn’t careful.

We were on-island for ten days and had planned on doing our 99^th and 100^th dives, so the question of naked diving splayed before us. The plan was to walk in near the Frederiksted Pier, a place where people were always nearby, so my concern was the logistics of getting into my gear with a bathing suit and then having to remove it all and, upon exiting, putting it back on. It’s not a simple as it sounds. And, while there’d be no dangling, in my case, the thought of placidly swimming past a nice young family with my 67-year-old butt prominently displayed was a bit daunting.

A friend recommended that I just slip into a thong, which she felt, despite the flippers, would be easier to remove. I paused, considering whether she actually believed I might own such a garment. I was tempted to lead her to my top dresser drawer where my mundane undies resided in a heap, but I demurred.

As we considered the logistics of our 100^th dive, weather intervened. A strange trough of cold wind rotated north of the island, churning up the biggest waves we’d ever seen in the Caribbean. Ten-to-12-foot swells pounded the shore on the cliff beneath us, sounding like a jet engine. The National Weather Service issued flooding and riptide warnings, explaining that even the most seasoned swimmers would be in danger if they headed into the water.  We waited for the surf to calm, but the entire time we were there, the conditions persisted, as if the sea was warning us off.

In the end, we opted to save our dives for a later date. Still, while we’d been given a reprieve in regard to diving in our birthday suits, the issue of our 100^th dive remains.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

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As a former reporter, I’ve always been capable of writing about anything. My assignments included just about every kind of sport, but I was also tasked with writing about how potato chips are made, the wonders of dairy farming, and archeological looting, to name a few. On top of that, I’ve written nine books.

Now, for the first time ever, I find myself stuck. The problem is…a love scene.

I’m not sure why I’m struggling. No one has ever labeled me a prude. (Stop giggling! I know who you are.) And still, every time I try to write the words, I get halfway through a sentence and stop.

Most of my novels have elements of romance, but that has never been the main theme. Scenes of that sort have always been mostly kiss and fade to black. But now I find myself needing a real love scene.

Because I was struggling, I contacted some of my author friends who specialize in romance and boy did they have a lot of suggestions.

“Refer to small things,” said author E. J. Lane. “(The) touch of their hands, he breathes in her hair, as he watches her drop her robe. She takes a quick breath in excitement at the expression on his face, as if he is seeing something precious.” 

That’s good!

“I concentrate on feelings and emotions rather than continuation of the physical process,” said author Stella May. “All my love scenes were dictated by my lovebirds. The temperature of that ‘steam’ defined by the characters and their relationships.  I just need to pay close attention, and find out if the whole scene will be more like a black-and-white sketch, or heavy on details (like an) oil painting, or a blurry surrealistic picture.”

You can probably guess I’m leaning toward blurry.

Author Tina Ruiz compared a love scene to a football game, a lovely analogy for me, since I spent forty years officiating the game.

“Remember when you were on the grass during a game? There were tensions between players while spectators cheered or booed,” she said. “This moves the story forward.  A hand touches a breast and she doesn’t pull away, he scores a point.  She leans her body closer to his, he scores another point. His breathing changes and she now knows that this is going to go all the way.”

I now want to cue Chris Berman. I know some of you are now thinking about all those sports/sex analogies. Get your head back in the game!

Author Eris Perese made me feel a bit better when she admitted that she also struggles with love scenes. “I don’t exactly pull the blinds when I write love scenes, but I do have trouble. You have to give yourself permission to feel hot love again to write it.”

Hot love. Got it!

“One might assume that they have each been in love with someone in their earlier years.  It might have been glorious, embarrassing, hurtful, or even degrading,” Perese said. “And so the love scene now might be more encompassing: their dreams, values, hurts, and willingness to try again. But because of that past experience, they may be tentative at first and then able to enjoy the freedom of being in love. Close the drapes, put on some music, and let the power of love flow.”

Why do I hear Barry White singing “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe?”

“My best advice is…action,” said author Vonnie Hughes. “Just don’t do a list of what they did, how they felt, what the room was like, etc. Some people like to write laundry lists, but I doubt the readers bother about all that. They want ACTION interpreted through emotion.”

Now, after all this advice, you’re probably wondering how my love scene turned out. I’m embarrassed to admit that I…um…skipped it. I wrote in big, red, capital letters Finish Later!

I’ll let you know how it goes.

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

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