“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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I was a high school teacher for 20 years. I mention this so you’ll know I’ve spent a great deal of time around children. During that time, I met far too many kids who were terrified of failing, which made them unwilling to try anything new. School—high school especially—is where young people should take advantage of extracurricular activities like sports, drama, clubs, music, art, debate, and whatever else they’re offered. But in my experience, few children took advantage of those opportunities.

Because much of my background is in sports and so many of our young people are in need of exercise and socialization, I often encouraged students to pick a sport.

“I don’t know how to do that,” a child would say.

“Not a problem. The coach and other players will help you learn,” I’d counter.

One kid shot back, “No! Our team sucks!”

“Then perhaps you could help them improve.”

There are a number of reasons young people may fear failure. Some children have low self-esteem and little confidence. Sometimes kids are bullied and believe they’re not good enough. And sometimes parental pressure is the problem. All of these issues compel young people to stay in their comfort zone, making it difficult for them to stretch and grow. And, sadly, many become underachievers, who lack the skills to achieve their dreams.

Maybe they’d feel better if they understood that even the greatest athletes, artists, and business people suffer from insecurity, at times. The difference is they manage to shake off their fear and push forward, learning as they go.

In my efforts to get my students to try new things, I often used the story of Michael Jordan, who famously didn’t secure a spot on his high school basketball team when he was a sophomore. Jordan was a skinny 5’10’ player who after tryouts was relegated to the junior varsity squad. I’m guessing he was disappointed, but did he quit? No! He worked harder and today is known as the NBA’s greatest player of all time.

Some  of my students understood that failure could be used as a tool for growth. There’s a special place in my heart for the wide receiver who dropped an easy catch a few yards from the endzone, a touchdown that would have won the game. And the kid who struck out swinging with the bases loaded in the final inning. And the one who, with the game on the line, missed the free throw. These children picked themselves up and arrived at practice the next day ready to give it another try. And that is a beautiful thing, don’t you think?

This willingness to step into the spotlight, fail, and learn from one’s mistakes is one of the most valuable skills a child will ever learn, one that is at the very heart of succeeding in life.

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

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When I was a teacher, much of my job was about helping students plan for the future. The idea was to determine where in the business world they might be happy and thrive. The process wasn’t difficult, if I could get a child to answer those three important questions: What do you like to do? What are you good at? What will someone pay you to do?

Over 20 years, I posed those queries to just about every student who walked through my classroom door, but looking back, I think I might have failed them, because I never saw Artificial Intelligence coming.

Like many people, I watched those sci-fi films where robots evolved and threatened human existence. Movies like Stanley Kubrick’s 1968 epic 2001: A Space Odyssey, where Hal, the computer with a human personality, took control with deadly consequences. In the same vein are The Matrix, I Robot, Westworld, and Ex Machina, where humans find themselves second-class citizens in a mechanized world.

While I don’t want to go all doom-and-gloom, the rise of the machines will change our world exponentially, primarily in the area of jobs. It’s estimated that within the next 20 years no humans will be working as travel agents, truck and ride-hailing drivers, bank tellers, sports officials, warehouse personnel, cashiers, and fast-food workers. Publications like newspapers and magazines will be entirely digital, jettisoning the folks who print and deliver periodicals. I even saw a video recently about a three-story building that was being assembled using a 3D printer. Only two men were required at the site to monitor the process, eliminating the need for construction workers.

You may have noticed that most of these jobs are considered low-skill positions, occupations that don’t require a big investment in education. But high-skilled employment will not go unchallenged. With ChatGPT—an Open AI model that can speak, think, and grow—jobs held by creatives like authors, artists, musicians, screen writers, and video game and graphic designers are also in peril.

So, what do we do now? We can’t stop AI; no stuffing that genie back into the bottle. It’s estimated that by 2030 between 400 to 800 million jobs will be eliminated by automation. As many as 375 million people will have to find new occupations. That means we must teach people to monitor and adjust. There will be no staying in one career for life. We have to learn to pivot and try new things. Be life-long learners, as the job market changes.

Recently, Microsoft co-founder and philanthropist Bill Gates spoke at the commencement cermony at Northern Arizona University where he offered this advice. “Your life isn’t a one-act play. What you do tomorrow, or for the next ten years, does not have to be what you do forever.”

The good news is that even though many jobs will disappear, others will emerge. A good place to start planning your future is the Bureau of Labor Statistics, a governmental agency that keeps tabs on overall job growth, as well as impending growth in individual occupations over the next ten years.

So strap yourself in and be open to a future that will be everchanging.

It should be quite a ride.

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

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I watch the news a lot, but sometimes the world’s happenings are hard to bear, so to give myself a little break I periodically switch over to PBS where they have those wonderful programs that make me forget what’s going on.

I’m talking, of course, about cooking shows.

There are perfectly good reasons why I love cooking shows. I worked in the restaurant business in my youth and was married to a chef for a while, so I like to think of myself as a bit of a foody. My sweetie pie also loves to cook—in fact my ex-husband gave him some pointers and once exclaimed that, “Ryan makes the best coq au vin I’ve ever tasted!” I fell in love with cooking shows when Ry introduced me to Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, hosted by chef Guy Fieri, the most un-chef-like chef you’ll ever meet. (Give it a try!)

I bring this up because sometimes I learn fascinating things about food from these shows that have me running to the computer to learn more. Like the fact that Europeans, upon meeting a tomato, decided it was poison. Why you ask? Because only wealthy people could afford these fantastical New World fruits—yes, a tomato is a fruit—and strangely those rich folks started dying after eating what came to be called “poison apples.” Poor people blamed the tomato, when in fact it was the pewter plates that were knocking off the rich because of lead poisoning.

Then there’s the artichoke, which most 16^th century European women were banned from eating, because the vegetable was believed to make people feel…um… frisky. All the way back in ancient Greek times that prickly plant—called kaktos by the locals— was thought to be an aphrodisiac. And when Italy’s Catherine de Medici was shipped from her home in Italy, where women relished the artichoke, to France where she married King Henry II at the tender age of 14, she exclaimed, “Oh, mio dio!” when she was told that eating her favorite vegetable was a no-no, even though men were free to consume it. However, Catherine was lucky because Henry didn’t seem to mind her constantly scarfing down artichokes. It’s good to be the queen, apparently.

Puffer fish are an interesting food, as well. People eat them even though THEY CAN KILL YOU! Before I go on, let me say that I’m a scuba diver and puffer fish are very cute, so I would never eat one. Also, I don’t want to die a miserable death from poisoning. In Japan, however, puffer fish are all the rage. A Japanese friend once explained that even though the fish contains a toxin called tetrodotoxin which can cause paralysis and death, people eat it because the chefs who prepare the delicacy must take a national test and practical examination to be allowed to prepare and serve it. She also explained that eating puffer fish is a manly exercise, where a dude’s masculinity quotient is elevated because he’s so very brave for eating a poison fish. Kind of a mine’s-bigger-than-yours contest.

The point, I guess, is there’s a giant world of interesting food out there and we should learn about it, especially since it’s so much more entertaining than the news.

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

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For most of my adult life, I’ve had the ability to walk into a room full of strangers and strike up a conversation with just about anyone.

Now, at 68, whenever I walk into a room nothing happens.

Nothing!

I’ve become invisible.

And I’m not the only one. Friends—women in my age group—have told me the same thing. No heads turn to greet us. No one smiles from across the room. No one seems to notice us at all.

Studies show that after 49 the attention strangers pay to women plummets.

Israeli-American writer Ayelet Waldman was interviewed as she approached her 50^th birthday. “I have a big personality, and I have a certain level of professional competence, and I’m used to being taken seriously professionally,” she said. “And suddenly, it’s like I just vanished from the room. And I have to yell so much louder to be seen. . . I just want to walk down the street and have someone notice that I exist.”

This invisibility can be exhasperating. Recently, I was at an event in San Diego. Dinner and drinks were part of the festivities, which generally leads to myriad conversations. But as I walked among the other guests, looking for some geniality, people turned away. I promise you, I’d bathed and was dressed appropriately, and still…nothing.

Occasionally, some older women do get recognized. Take Martha Stewart’s recent foray into posing in a bathing suit on the cover of Sports Illustrated. At 81, the former queen of homemaking was poured into various swimsuits, artfully draped, and air brushed to perfection. I guess we’re supposed to be impressed that the magazine known for showcasing young, rapier-thin women with big breasts and flat stomachs, gave a nod toward the more mature crowd. Still, I think I’d be more impressed with Stewart’s spread if she’d been allowed to actually look, you know, older. While she claims to have foregone plastic surgery, the photos have clearly been run through photoshop and numerous other magic filters, because there isn’t an 80-year-old alive with that kind of flawless skin. Is the assumption that SI readers would turn away if Stewart actually looked her age? Or, even worse, they’d just ignore the whole endeavor?

Note that the problem of invisibility is not just about our egos. There are real world implications to aging. In The Atlantic article “The Invisibility of Older Women,” Akiko Busch said, “The invisible woman might be the actor no longer offered roles after her 40th birthday, the 50-year-old woman who can’t land a job interview, or the widow who finds her dinner invitations declining with the absence of her husband.”

I can relate to the 40-year-old actor. When I was pushing 40, I was suddenly unable to find a TV sports reporting job, even though I’d worked for five stations, including ESPN where I’d anchored SportsCenter. The problem? The sports target audience is 18-to-34 year old males, and once a woman exceeds that boundry the idea is men will no longer watch. (Note that while you will see some “older” female sports reporters today, the pendulum remains mostly stuck on the side of youth and beauty.)

So, what can we do? Helen Dennis offered some advice in her Los Angeles Daily News article “How older women can combat feeling invisible or unseen in social situations.”

1. Be interested & interesting
2. Use humor
3. Stay current about world events
4. Show interest in others; make appropriate conversation
5. Dress well and age appropriately
6. Take an interest in people who are younger and older than yourself
7. Stay curious about life
8. Respect your life and stay engaged
9. Engage in conversation with wallflowers
10. Always speak kindly of others and avoid gossip

While that seems like a lot of effort, women still in the business world need to stay relevent, if they want to climb the work ladder. But for those of us who are retired, maybe all we need is a mental reset. I sometimes think of actors like Jamie Lee Curtis and Kate Winslett, both of whom have battled the Hollywood beauty and age police. Then there’s the brilliant Maggie Smith who has no qulams about showing her age. And the incomperable Frances McDormand who looks straight into the camera barefaced, daring viewers to see her for who she is.

Taking their example, here’s hoping we regular folks can someday walk into a room with the same strength and determination, so we might force those around us to not look away.

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

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I’m a writer, so obviously I love words. My problem lately is that certain words and phrases grate on me. Take “adulting “for example, which is the current mantra for young people who happen to believe they’re doing something adults might do. Something mundane, but necessary, like cleaning your house, doing the laundry, and paying the bills. The word comes out as a whiny groan, because who wants to act remotely like a grown-up?

Then there’s “swol” which is a term ascribed to a person who works out and develops muscles. The word sounds like a nasty diagnosis, not a compliment. Then again, maybe the term is meant derisively, because working out involves—as the word implies—work, so maybe that means being “swol” is a physical form of “adulting.”

I almost don’t want to mention “cancelled” but the current meaning ascribed to the term is so prevalent it’s hard to ignore. While we are used to cancelled appointments, the modern version actually cancels people. The visual itself is disturbing. The idea of speaking out against someone with whom we don’t agree is a Constitutional right in this country. However, the general idea is that we protest against someone’s actions or beliefs. The notion that the entire person should be relegated to a trash heap has never been the point  If you’re a student of history, perhaps you can see why this type of public shaming might be problematic, especially if it’s applied to a group of people and not a single human being who’s behaved like a boob. The other issue is that if one does not jump on the cancelled bandwagon, then they too are threatened with being cancelled. Wouldn’t it be better if when we disagree with someone or something, we just avoided them? Don’t like what an author put in a book? Don’t read it. Offended by a movie, TV show, or comediane? Don’t watch. But please don’t tell others what they should do. Stick to your own lane.

And how about “my truth”? Something true is defined as “that which is in accordance with fact or reality.” As a former journalist, I take facts very seriously, and it’s my understanding that facts are the same for all of us, despite political folks who think “alternative facts” are a real thing. “My truth” has been defined as “what is true to me based on my own experience and understanding.” That suggests that one may believe whatever they want without justification or proof. I did find another definition for the expression which I think is spot on: “’My truth'” is a pretentions substitute of non-negotiable personal opinion.”

The most ridiculous expression is “we’re pregnant.” I mean, does the man have morning sickness? Does he suffer discomfort caused by a new person growing inside him? Does he experience the trauma and agony of labor? Does he have breasts leaking milk? No, no, no and no! So how, please tell me, do men get included in the pregnancy equation? Note that, yes, men do have to deal with a pregnant partner, but that’s not even remotely the same thing.

I understand that verbiage changes over the generations. When I was growing up we said things like, “Take a chill pill.” “Catch you on the flip side.” “Do me a solid.” “Far out.” and “Groovy.” The difference, I think, is that none of these phrases were the least bit meanspirited, judgmental, or factually incorrect.

So let’s try to be accurate and positive whenever we come up with new ways to say things. Wouldn’t that be better?

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

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As I was zipping around the TV options recently, I happened on the Westminster Dog Show where a Petits Bassets Griffons Vendeens—whatever that is—won Best in Show. The pup’s name was CH Soletrader Buddy Holly, so the dog’s sobriquet was as ostentatious as it’s breed.

Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs and have shared my home with many of them over the years, but the folks at the Westminster Kennel Club have me annoyed. If you are unfamiliar with the group, here’s how they describe themselves.

“The Westminster Kennel Club, established in 1877, is America’s oldest organization dedicated to the sport of dogs. It hosts the iconic, all-breed Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, the second-longest, continuously held sporting event in the U.S. The annual dog show—a conformation competition for purebred dogs—and the Masters Agility Championship and Masters Obedience Championship— where dogs from all backgrounds are eligible to compete.”

That last part about the agility and obedience championships was added in 2014, after animal rights activists complained that mixed-breed dogs were barred from competition, because, well, they were mutts.

Just about all my dog friends were mixed-breed creatures, most from the streets or shelters. I’m not looking for a pat on the back here, just stating a fact. It never occurred to me that any of them might be lacking because they didn’t have a breed nametag affixed to their lineage. Some of us can look past the droopy ears, mishmash of colors, and uneven body parts mutts often display and see the beautiful creature beneath the surface. But for some reason other folks feel the need to go all designer doggy, which leads to the problem of breeding dogs to display certain characteristics.

Before I go any further, note that humans and canines presumably got together about 30,000 years ago, probably when wolves discovered that those odd-looking, biped creatures were known to kill things and sometimes left juicy bits of meat and bone lying about. So, being clever creatures, they started following humans around. Somewhere along the line someone—I’m guessing a woman, mom-type—maybe found an abandoned wolf pup and raised it, which no doubt had other cave dwellers agog, after which the woman was probably named president of the clan.

Later, dogs were bred to perform services for humans, the canine version of singing for one’s supper. We’ve trained dogs to guard and hunt and herd and find lost humans in disasters. There are service dogs that help disabled people and police, and dogs that sniff out bombs and contraband at the airport. Important work.

Today, however, most dogs don’t have jobs. They’re just pets. Don’t believe me? All you beagle owners, when was the last time you were out hunting rabbits with your dog? Most of us do not contend with flocks of sheep or herds of cattle, nor do we need our Dobermans and pit bulls to protect us from random robbers. When was the last time those of you with Great Danes went stomping through the brush, trying to flush out wild boar? And all you fans of chihuahuas—I probably shouldn’t even mention this— but do you know what you’re little darling was bred for? Food! Yep. The Aztecs herded those wee dogs along with their warriors so they might have fresh meat when they were off doing warrior stuff. I mention this because I’m guessing you’re not sipping a nice Cabernet as you prepare to sauté your little pup with garlic and onions.

So, the question is, why are we still breeding dogs when millions go unadopted in shelters every year? Why are we breeding dogs with traits nature never intended, purebreds that suffer from genetic conditions. I’m talking French bulldogs, pugs, and Pekingese whose “adorable” features can lead to breathing and eye problems, as well as infections. Why are we willing to shell out big money to backyard breeders who prioritize profit over animal welfare?

I know some of you may be looking at your canine friend and thinking I don’t know what I’m talking about, because your dog’s breed is the best breed ever.

But is it? Really? Here’s hoping the next time you’re looking for a pet, you open your mind just a little. Maybe that shelter dog is a bit funny looking, but that’s doesn’t mean he won’t be the best friend you ever had.

Give it a try.

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

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I’ve lived in the desert for going on 35 years. I mention this because there is at least one article of clothing one can’t be without, especially since we are pretty much guaranteed close to 110 days a year where the temperature exceeds 100 degrees. I’m talking about shorts, of course.

Growing up in New Jersey, I rarely donned shorts. The reason? I’m of the fish-belly white crowd, so much so that Jill, my best friend growing up who had lovely, dark skin, used to ask me to sit next to her on the beach on those trips to the Jersey Shore.

“You always make me look better,” she’d say, patting the towel next to her.

It wasn’t until I got a job in Phoenix, Arizona in the late 1980’s that I finally gave in and acquired some shorts and I’ve been wearing them ever since. For years I wore the same shorts. I probably had ten pair, purchased at Chicos. White, cotton, comfy, styled like Bermuda shorts but looser. Then suddenly, and even though I’d purchased them at different times, they all fell apart.

I felt stranded, so I headed off to the mall only to find that Chico’s didn’t make them anymore and what I discovered at every store I went into was just plain depressing. Later, when I returned home looking dejected, my sweetie pie creased his brow. “What’s up?”

“I can’t find any shorts.”

Ryan gave me a look like he couldn’t believe such a thing would ruin my day, then he smiled. “Why?”

“They don’t make shorts for people my age?”

“What do you mean?”

“You should see them. Even in the women’s department, the shorts barely cover your butt. Who wants to see my butt?”

He paused, searching for an appropriate response.

“You remember the airport?”

He nodded.

If you’ve been anywhere near an airport lately—or a mall, grocery store or pumping gas, for that matter—I bet you’ve seen a host of older women sashaying about in cutoff jeans exposing much more of their bums than anyone wants to see. They might as well be wearing thongs.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m far from a prude. (Stop tittering!) But there’s a time and place for such attire and in the general public it’s just not a good look. And, let’s face it, most of us, even you younger ladies, just don’t look good in those Daisy Dukes. Sometimes, I find myself wanting to scream at my sisters, “Did you look in the mirror?” But, of course, I don’t. What other people wear is their business.

Another issue is that short shorts are seriously uncomfortable in my desert. You’ll see if you ever come here and sit on anything left outside during the summer. You’ll look like you fell asleep in the sun and you can suffer serious burns.

My dearth of shorts continued despite several trips to the store and numerous online searches. Then, one day, I took Ryan with me. We rarely shop together for anything but food, since neither one of us finds joy in shopping. I could see that he was just as frustrated as I was.

He stood there, considering. “Why don’t you try men’s shorts?”

At my wits end, I followed him to the men’s department, where a miracle occurred. I found shorts that were both comfortable and less revealing.

So why do guys get comfy clothes and we don’t?

I think a revolution is in order.

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

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Some of you may remember that storied time long ago when flying was fun. People actually bathed and changed out of their pajamas before heading to the airport. There was no need to arrive two hours prior to boarding. No long security lines to traverse. No explaining to an angry TSA agent that, no, you’re not a terrorist and that you didn’t mean to leave a half a cup of liquid in your water bottle. There was actual food served on actual plates with actual utensils by smiling stewardesses.

Now that I’ve mentioned stewardesses, note that they don’t like to be called that anymore. They are flight attendants. Which is fine, especially since today many of them are men, but back in the early days of commercial flying no males could apply. United Airlines “invented” the stewardess in the 1930s, and in 1967 the airline bragged that they’d trained over “15,000 smiling reasons to fly the friendly skies…Everyone gets warmth, friendliness and extra care. And someone may get a wife.”

Stewardesses were incased in cute little outfits and held to exacting standards of beauty. Weight between 100-118 pounds. No shorter than five-feet tall, but no taller than five-foot-four. Between 20 and 26 years old. She had to be unmarried with no children. She had to be attractive with no visible blemishes. Her hair had to be her natural color—one wonders if there was some kind of test— which had to be neatly styled and worn no longer than shoulder length.

And, of course, she had to have a pleasant personality.

Considering the qualifications, it appears the primary purpose of a stewardess was to be a eye candy and a glorified waitress quite suitable for marriage, hence the reason the average “career” only lasted 18 months.

Last year, a lovely young woman came to stay with us. While she was here she became a flight attendant with United Airlines, so I had a professional sounding board the day I returned home from a trip seething about the way I was treated on a flight.

I had gone through rotator cuff surgery and had suffered a severely broken leg that had to be surgically repaired, both in the year-and-a-half prior to the day I walked onto the plane. The injuries required long periods of rehab. While I was doing well, there were still some restrictions. Like not lifting things. When I wheeled my bag to the back of the plane, I saw two flight attendants standing in the galley.

“Excuse me.” I smiled. “Could you help me put my bag in the overhead bin?”

One of them crossed her arms over her chest and yelled out, “If you can’t handle your own luggage you should have stowed it under the plane!” The other one just stood and stared at me.

I almost gasped. It’s hard for me to ask for help with physical things, as I spent much of my life working around men, where one didn’t want to show weakness, lest they be sized up for the next meal. Luckily, a male passenger appeared and quickly took care of the problem, still I was smoking mad.

When I explained what happened to my house guest, she calmly explained that I had the job of a flight attendant all wrong. “They’re not there to serve you,” she explained. “They’re on board to help you in case of an emergency.”

I squinted. “Then what’s with the outfits?” She looked at me quizzically, forgetting that she had recently complained about having to wear a skirt and pumps to work. “So, flight attendants are going to save me from the burning wreckage of a downed aircraft in heels and an A-line skirt? Really?”

I could see her brain whirring.

Here’s the thing, if the airlines want us to believe that flight attendants are there to rescue us in a disaster, I want them dressed like friggin’ Navy Seals, don’t you?

And a return to the pleasant personalities might be nice, too.

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

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