A few weeks back, I had rotator cuff surgery, the second time I’ve undergone the procedure, which surely means my dream of pitching in the Majors is over. Everyone is so nice now that I’m trussed up in a massive sling, unable to do the simplest things. That the afflicted appendage is my right arm just multiplies the misery.

“How can I help?” “Call me if you need anything?” my lovely friends and family members say. And while I know they mean it, somehow, I can never bring myself to ask.

One reason for my reticence is the memory of the time long ago when I fractured a vertebrae after having been run over by three players while officiating a high school football game. Like today, friends ascended offering their help. I was unable to walk for a short time and was confined to bed, but once I was packed into a brace, I managed to toddle around on my own. Still that was when I really needed help.

“Anything I can do?” a friend said.

Then I made my request. One that I had been burning to ask for weeks. “Please,” I practically begged. “Would you shave my legs?”

Crickets.

Anyone who has ever shaved a body part knows itching is involved if one stops. That no one took me up on my request is perhaps understandable, and now I face similar issues.

What do I need? First, I can’t pull up my pants. A simple problem to rectify, and yet I sense my loved ones might not want to drop everything to run over every time I’m facing that particular challenge.

Then there’s my daily battle with the newspaper. As a former reporter, the thought of getting through the day without checking the news just seems wrong. I’ve been reading a newspaper daily for going on 45 years. The problem, of course, is turning the pages. If you don’t believe me, give that a one-handed try. Anyone want to stand by my side while I read and then turn and crease the pages for me? (And here’s where I admit that I have always had a secret desire to have one of those old-world butler’s who would iron the daily paper for me, pressing out the folds and wrinkles à la Downton Abbey, but I digress.)  

I’m an avid tea drinker, so much so I have regularly made two big pots of tea daily, which is difficult to deal with left-handed. I am often over shooting my delicate, china cup—Drinking tea from a mug is barbaric. Just sayin’.— so my tea ends up spilled everywhere. Maybe the aforementioned butler who presses newspapers could help, but again, my busy friends and loved ones might not be so enamored of the idea of standing by my side and filling my teacup when its empty.

I have often written about the sorry state of my teeth, a condition I blame on my Irish heritage and my love of all things chocolate. I have put many dentists children through college and probably paid for a few vacation homes, as well. So, anyone want to come over and floss my teeth? I thought not.

I could continue complaining about my small, everyday challenges, but I am reminded of a video I saw recently. A lovely young ballerina dances with a troupe, leaping about the stage, all elegance and grace. That the dancer has no arms matters not at all. I think of that young woman every morning as I wrestle my way into my clothes. She inspires me to figure out how to do things on my own in my temporary, one-armed world. So, I will do what I can.

That said, anyone want to shave my legs?

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

The little gnome was hanging out with two of his friends. This was around the time those Travelocity ads were all the rage. You remember the ones where the funny little gnome kept winding up in strange places around the globe?

Now you might think the smart folks at the on-line travel company created the wee guy from scratch, but prior to their ad campaign there was a group in France called the Garden Gnome Liberation Front. (I’m not making this up.) The idea was that people had the right to steal garden gnomes with no intention of returning them to their rightful owners. The mission was to free the gnomes and return them to the wild, where the GGLF believed they rightfully belonged.

I mention this because as I stood over that little patch of gnomes, I had a deep desire to pick the red-capped one up and take him with me. However, as a former Girl Scout and recovering Catholic, I shuddered at the thought of stealing, so instead I knocked on the door.

At that time my sweetie pie and I were on a trek in Australia. We were on an outback expedition as part of the Australian Mineral Symposium, where we got to go mining with all sorts of cool rocking people: professors and miners and mineral enthusiasts, which for a rock collector like me was as close to heaven as I’ll probably ever get. (Did I mention I’m a recovering Catholic?)

When the woman who owned the small hotel where we were staying in Coolgardie opened the door, I asked if I could borrow the little guy for the day.

“It’s nice of ya’ ta ask,” she said in that lovely way Aussies speak. “Lot’s a people just nick ‘em and we never see ‘em again.”

“Oh, no! I promise I’ll bring him back,” I assured her.

We had a full day of rocking ahead. But, of course, we wanted to keep him safe, so we strapped him in a car seat and headed out into the wilderness.

Turns out he was quite a good rocking gnome. He wandered around the tailings piles with us, and despite a small spill, he got right up and marched on. He helped me gather lots of lovely gaspeite, a rare bright green mineral the color of a Granny Smith apple.

After a long day of rocking—and an evening of drinking with Australians which takes much intestinal fortitude—I was pooped. My gnome and I needed some shut eye, though somehow he managed to sleep with his peepers open. Lucky for me my sweetie pie is not the jealous type.

The next day I said goodbye to my new friend and put him back with his buddies, so no one could accuse me of niking a gnome.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

Dear Scammer,

By the number of fake Facebook “friends” you send my way, I must conclude that you really want my attention. Well then, you need to get better at this.

First, get your names right. I can’t tell you how many times you’ve sent me men—always older men—with two first names. You know, like Bob John, Bill Steven, Lloyd William. These appellations are a dead giveaway that these people are probably fake.

Then there are the photos you put on these pages. I’m not sure why you think I’d be enticed by men surrounded by little children—kind of creepy—colorful balloons, flowers, and puppies. Not that those things aren’t nice, it’s just that you’re not putting enough imagination into it.  Come on. Take a little time and check out what I like, before you fabricate my dream man.

And speaking of my Mr. Dreamy, why is he so often in a uniform? While I admire and respect those in the military–as well as those cuties in their firefighting gear–the uniform thing is just a cliché. If you were one of my students, I’d give you a C- there for lack of imagination. And can you please stop sending me doctors and widowers? I’m curious as to why you think those guys are especially appealing.

Now, get rid of those round headshots. I don’t see many real people going for that look. And when that’s the only thing we see on the page that’s rather suspicious. Not to mention off-putting. That said, your fake folks do nothing but display pictures of themselves in hackneyed situations—the aforementioned children, balloons, flowers and puppies. Again, this does nothing but ramp up the creep factor.

I realize that someone on your end is tasked with supplying fake interests for your fake people, and, if nothing else, I usually get a laugh out of them. Richard Dick: Interests: power-lifting, scrapbooking, motor sports, flower arranging, and long walks on the beach. Really?

I’m not sure why, but I am periodically tempted to make friends with you, Scammer, just to see where our relationship goes. I know you’ll tell me I’m beautiful and that you love me and that you need money to escape a bad situation. And you’ll want my Social Security number and access to my bank accounts, all the while assuring me of your undying love.

While this stuff is mostly funny, it’s also depressing. I’m guessing there are millions of scammers like you out there, and the only reason for your proliferation is that this approach works! How is that even possible? Who could be sad and lonely enough not to see through your masquerade?

That said, shame on you for taking advantage of those poor people. Can you even look in the mirror? Go ahead. Try it. I dare you. Are you proud of yourself after your day at the office? Or, more likely, in your mommy’s basement?

Here’s an idea. Make your own Facebook page. Let’s see what you’re about. Let’s see how many “friends” you can get sharing your own picture and interests. Methinks, not so many.

Perhaps, you now think I’m cruel, Scammer, but you deserve any derision sent your way. You use people, probably with no thought about the damage you cause.

Your mother would be appalled.

Sincerely,

Anne Montgomery

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

Sports are good for you! They keep you healthy and active!

I have heard and adhered to that mantra my entire life. I don’t remember learning to swim. I started ice skating at five and skiing at eight. When I was 24, I started officiating sports and called football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball games, an avocation I practiced for 40 years. When I was 30, I got my first health club membership and I’ve had one ever since. I’ve lifted weights, utilized aerobics equipment, practiced yoga, and been a regular lap swimmer for 35 years. I’m a scuba diver.

I will admit here, I have always been rather smug about working out, mentally tut-tutting those who eschewed exercise. But it seems they have had the last laugh.

You see, I turned 65 last year, right about the time the pandemic hit. Then, my health club shut down, after which I physically fell apart. One day my legs started to hurt for no apparent reason, so I limped off to the doctor.

“See here?” he said, pointing at myriad splotches on my MRI. “Your hamstrings look like old, twisted celery.”

While I did look, all I could see was something resembling a Rorschach test. Still, I took his word for it, which is how I happened to be face down on an examination table with my pants at my knees.

“Um…should I take off my underwear?” I knew where they needed to stick those big needles that were now filled with my very own platelets that had been spun from the blood they’d just sucked out of my arm.

“Well…I think we can work around it,” an assistant said. At which point he bunched up my underwear and gave me a wedgie.

“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said.

I wondered what he meant. Was he sorry I might be embarrassed that my mostly bare bottom was exposed to them or was he sorry to be gazing at a 65-year-old bum? “We’re all professionals here,” I muttered.

The platelets would have to be injected into the spot where my hamstrings were attached. I felt the cold needle tickle my butt. Then, I screamed. All thoughts of me as a tough girl vanished in an instant. The call for fentanyl did nothing. I yelped again as the assistant wiggled the needle about. Someone shoved a squishy football into my hand. I wanted to hit her in the head with it.

“Almost done,” the doctor chirped pleasantly.

“OW…OW…OW!”

“Okay! We’re finished”

I  relaxed despite the burning in my butt.

“Now…let’s do the other one.”

As I continued to scream, I was struck by a thought. If I was a captured a spy, I would have told them anything they wanted to know. State secrets? No problem. The names of my spy friends? Fine. Where to find my children? Probably.

When it was over, I was helped from the table. I felt like two softballs had been lodged in my bottom. I was deposited in a chair, where I squirmed so much the doctor called for more fentanyl.

“The pain will get worse before it gets better,” he said in a cheery tone. “It may take several weeks to feel better.”

I wished I had some James Bondish-type weapon on hand to stick him in the eye.

A short time later, I faced another MRI in a different office. The doctor pointed at the image of my shoulder. “See here?”

I did not, but I let it slide.

“Your rotator cuff is torn.”

“No, wait! I had rotator cuff surgery six years ago on that shoulder. Shouldn’t I have a life-time warranty?” I remembered the operation and the miserable, eight-months rehab and wanted to weep.

Next week, the surgeon will be plying his trade inside my shoulder. And let’s not forget my knees that are annually pumped full of a strange Jello-like substance so I can walk and my arthritic spine that boasts an old fracture and two bulging disks. Is it any wonder that my physical therapist recently discussed putting my name on a parking space at the rehab clinic?

The point, of course, is that most of my medical issues have been caused by sports. Falls on the ice. Twenty-plus years of crouching behind home plate as an umpire where errant foul balls made me feel like a piñata. Repetitive-motion injuries from lap swimming. Four decades of football officiating where players periodically ran me over on their way to the endzone.

Sports are good for me? Apparently, I’ve been misled. And yet, given a second chance, I would do it all again.

That said, I’ll now work on getting better acquainted with my couch.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

With Valentine’s Day approaching, many of us are filled with thoughts a of romantic love. Kissing is the natural next step, which had me wondering recently where the meeting of lips as a form of romantic expression began.

Many believe the origination of kissing developed from a wholly unromantic source. It seems that in many ancient cultures, mothers, by necessity, chewed their food and then transferred the mashed bits directly into their babies mouths, much as mother birds do today. Historically, Mommy as food processor was a necessity, as one couldn’t just hop down to the local supermarket to pick up a case of baby peas and carrots.

The leap however to romantic kissing remains a tad vague. Originally, folks went around kissing hands and cheeks in a show of respect or fealty. The Romans, especially, were big kissers, though they had rules on how and when you kissed certain people.

Somewhere around the second century, the Kama Sutra was complied. The Indian text, that was the precursor to the best-selling, 1969 book Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex but Were Afraid to Ask, has an entire chapter—that would be Chapter 3, if you’re interested—on kissing. And it’s illustrated, just in case the verbiage confuses you.

Romantic kissing had been around for a while when, near the end of the 16^th century, Shakespeare penned what is arguable the greatest love story of all time, the tale of the doomed lovers Romeo and Juliet. “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand. To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss,” said poor Romeo. We all know how that turned out, though the demise of the young lovers didn’t seem to dissuade others from smooching their hearts out.

While romance novels can be traced back to ancient Greece, the genre as we know it today appeared in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, and anyone who has ever cracked the spine on one of those babies knows that kissing is a big deal. In fact, it’s an actual plot point: the steamier the buildup to the event the better.

It might surprise you to know that there are cultures around the world that completely eschew kissing, mainly pointing out how dirty our mouths are, since they contain between 500 to 1,000 different types of bacteria. Still, for most of us, the pleasurable aspects of kissing override the inherent ewww factor.

Today, kissing is under assault. We are in the midst of a worldwide pandemic courtesy of Covid-19, so we are tasked with holding others at arm’s length. Social distancing is keeping our lips seriously separated, and we can’t work up much kissing action from six feet away.

Perhaps, when the virus has run its course, we can return to the lip locks of yore. In the meantime, can anyone recommend a good romance novel?

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

As I’ve often mentioned, I’m a rock collector. Have been my entire life. Somewhere there is a picture of me as a toddler putting rocks in a cup, so perhaps my predilection is genetic. I mention this now, because sometimes rock-collecting trips go astray, as anyone who has ever ventured outside the confines of civilization knows.  One trip I took with my friend Alice went a bit off target.

Alice, who was in her mid 8os at the time, had us driving off-road trying to locate a mine. Arizona is awash in abandoned mine sites, with some estimates hitting one-hundred thousand, and neither Alice nor I could imagine anything more enticing than mucking about in old tailings piles in search of rock treasures. I will admit here that often we didn’t locate the sites we were looking for, but that’s part of rocking. Sometimes you find rocks, sometimes you don’t.

Alice and I were scanning the desert looking for our target when the truck stopped abruptly. I gunned the engine, but we went nowhere, except deeper into what had been an invisible sand trap. We’d broken through the rocky top layer of the desert floor and were now stuck.

We looked at one another, then got out to survey the situation. After trying several options and not succeeding, Alice squinted at the truck. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere,” she said.

I bet some of you are thinking, “Well, gosh, just grab your trusty cellphone,” but like many wilderness areas, there was no signal when Alice gave the obvious a try.

“Maybe, I can get a signal if I hike out to the road,” I suggested.

Alice handed me her phone and then retrieved one of the folding chairs from the back of the pickup. She placed it in the meager shad of a scraggly mesquite tree and nibbled on some trail mix, as I shoved off to find some bars.

I traveled on a faint trail, glad it was not the season when the desert is blistering hot, when the sun will melt the skin from your body, not to mention kill you in a frighteningly short amount of time. The walk was easy, so I wasn’t concerned.

Finally, I got a signal. I briefly considered summoning AAA, but from experience I knew their tow trucks would not venture off a paved road, so I called the sheriff’s office.

“What is your emergency?” the operator asked.

“Oh, no emergency,” I explained. “We got stuck in a sand trap.”

“And who is with you?”

“My friend is back with the truck. I hiked out to the road to get a cellphone signal.” Then, for no apparent reason, I mentioned Alice was 85.

“Where are you?”

I backtracked over our course and did my best to explain.

“Stay by the road.”

I assured her I would.

As I waited, I wondered around checking the ground, because one never knows when a nice rock might appear. Let me mention here that I wasn’t the least bit worried about Alice. She was one of the toughest people I’ve ever known. She could take care of herself.

So, imagine my surprise when a helicopter came into view. I could see it was looking for something. The aircraft seemed to be flying on a grid. And it kept getting closer. I couldn’t have been more stunned than when it touched down about fifty yards away in a great whipped-up cloud of dust.

I had the sudden urge to flee, quickly realizing that there’d been a bit of an overreaction. Then, out of that swirl of dust, a man appeared. A living, breathing Ken doll clad in the cutest flyboy jumpsuit I’d ever seen.

I’m embarrassed to admit that my first thought was my hair, which was sweatily squashed beneath my ball cap. He strode toward me, all pretty purpose and determination. He looked concerned. I wanted to hide.

“Where is the elderly woman?” he asked surveying the area.

“She’s back at the truck,” I said, tugging at my dirty shirt. The guy could have been a GQ model.

He nodded, displaying a jawbone that could cut diamonds. “Okay, ma’am—”

I now felt my age and realized no amount of makeup would have made the least bit of difference. I quickly explained that I was sure Alice was fine, still he seemed incredulous.

Then a truck appeared from the direction in which I’d come. Two hunters waved us over and explained that they had happened on my stuck truck and pulled it to safety. I smiled and thanked them.

“And how is the elderly woman?” the Ken doll asked.

I’m glad Alice wasn’t around the hear his question. The hunters answered that she was fine and was sitting in a folding chair awaiting my return. I thanked them and waved as they drove off.

The pilot turned to me. “Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am?”

I thought of several options, but kept them to myself. Then, I smiled and thanked him for dropping from the sky on my behalf. I watched as he walked back to the helicopter, admiring the view. As he lifted off, I wondered briefly if I would be getting a bill from the county, quickly calculating the cost of mustering the man and his aircraft.

Then, I walked back to retrieve Alice, where the word elderly was never mentioned.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

I spent twenty years teaching in a high school in Phoenix’s inner city. During that time, my students and I had constant battles concerning the dress code. I did understand their frustration. We all, myself included, want to wear what we like and what’s comfortable. But the point of the dress code, I explained, was to prepare students for the fact that in the real world they would often be asked to wear certain clothing to work.

Choruses of, “That’s not fair!” and “I’ll wear what I want!” often drowned me out.

“Look,” I would say. “When I was in television, every time I moved to a new TV station, I was immediately sent to a consultant, where my clothing, hair, makeup, and jewelry were scrutinized. I’d then be informed that my “look” would need to be updated.”

“You could’ve said no,” some child would share.

“And then what do you think might have happen?”

“You be fired?” someone would say.

“Exactly! So, when they asked me to change my look, I did. I never argued or complained.”

However, on one occasion I did protest in a not-so-subtle way. It was when I first got to ESPN in 1990. I’d been hired to anchor SportsCenter, a venue predominately peopled by men, most of whom had no idea what a woman should wear on camera.

“You need to go into New York. Your appointment’s at noon tomorrow,” my boss informed me. “You’ll be meeting with some people at Burgdorf’s.”

My ears perked up at the mention of the fabled Fifth Avenue department store known for its high fashion and even higher prices.

The next morning, I surveyed my closet. I knew exactly what to expect at Burgdorf’s. Think Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, when snooty sales people refused to wait on her and intimated that she should leave because she was not their type of client.

Despite knowing better, I pulled out a pair of black jeans, a black turtleneck and a black leather jacket. Keeping with the theme, I donned a pair of soft black boots. While I did put on black-and-silver earrings, the overall look was that of, well, a biker chick.

Why I did I do this? ESPN was the fourth TV station to hire me as a sportscaster, so perhaps I was just tired of all the fuss. Or maybe it was the memory of the station that insisted I perm my hair. I battled those Shirley Temple-esque corkscrews for months. Or maybe I was just obstinate.

I felt fine on my Amtrak trip into the city and as I walked up Fifth Avenue past all the pretty store windows. But, when I stood before Bergdorf’s, I stopped and considered my appearance.  There was no doubt my sartorial choices were not in Bergdorf’s ballpark. Still, I took a deep breath and entered those hallowed halls. Chandeliers sparkled from above, lighting goods arrayed like artwork in a museum. A hush descended, as if I’d entered a church. Pretty saleswomen spoke softly as they hovered around well-dressed customers.

I stood for a while, unsure of where to go. I thought someone might offer to help me, but no one did. In fact, they didn’t even look at me. Eventually, I located the right floor and approached a saleswoman. “I’m here for an appointment.” The woman scanned me from head to toe, but I don’t recall her speaking.

“I’m from ESPN. I have an appointment.”

“Just a moment.” She walked away, her face blank.

I busied myself looking through a rack of jackets and gasped at the prices.

“You are Anne Montgomery?” A voice behind me sounded incredulous.

“Yes, I am.” I beamed her a smile.

What followed was hours of putting things on and taking things off. The number of saleswomen multiplied over the course of the afternoon. Then, a serious-looking lady approached. “We’ve had a call from ESPN.” (Yes, this was before most people had cellphones.) “There might be a story you have to cover and they want you available for a live shot.”

I felt queasy. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail. I had no makeup with me. And, of course, there was my biker-chick attire.

In an instant, those women were on me. I felt like Cinderella preparing for the ball, only with a host of fairy godmothers. They’d dress me in one outfit, shake their heads, and pick another. Then another, all while I continually checked the clock. No one said when the live shot might be.

Then someone tut-tutted at my hair and a stylist appeared. My silver earrings weren’t right and someone arrived with a handful of jewelry. I recall my nails were atrocious–a constant state with me–but there was no time for a manicure. “If you can hide your hands, do.” Someone suggested.

When they finally spun me around for a look in the mirror, I might have laughed, had a live shot not been looming. I was still brand new to ESPN and I didn’t even know what the story was about. The thought of going live on camera under the circumstances was making me ill.

“Ms. Montgomery.” I turned from the mirror. “Your news director just called. Your live shot has been cancelled.”

I let out a long breath and noticed that all the women looked a bit deflated that their handiwork would not be on broadcast display. As I changed back into my biker gear, they bagged up my purchases. The women all smiled sweetly as a left.

The price tag for my afternoon at Bergdorf’s came to just over five thousand dollars, which today is almost ten grand.

It’s funny, don’t you think, that no one seemed to mind my attire on my way out the door.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

Fifty-five years ago, the original Star Trek TV series was launched. The show survived just three seasons, still that does nothing to diminish the impact the program had. If you don’t believe me, take a look at your cellphone. Then, glance at Captain James T. Kirk as he flips open his communicator. Looks familiar, doesn’t it?

Kirk and his crew were tasked with exploring the universe. The opening voiceover still gives me chills. Space: the final frontier; These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no man has gone before!

While I was just a kid at the time the series came out, I was enthralled by the situations the Enterprise crew endured. I know what you’re thinking. The show today looks cheesy, with sometimes silly special effects and actors routinely chewing scenery. But back in the mid-1960s it was mesmerizing. And often the stories had deep sociological meaning.

While there are several episodes dealing with planetary pandemics, I will skip those since I, at least, need some rest from that particular subject. Instead, the one that sticks in my head is “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield.” The story centers around the planet Cheron whose people have been fighting a civil war for 50,000 years. Kirk and his crew attempt to negotiate a peace with two ambassadors who are so embittered by their hatred toward one another that no one on the Enterprise can get through to them.

The ambassadors insist that their people are too different to get along. Finally, Spock—Kirk’s Vulcan second-in-command—points out, “The obvious visual evidence, Commissioner, is that he is of the same breed as yourself.” What Spock is alluding to is the fact that all the people of Cheron are black on one side and white on the other.

I was 14 when this episode aired in 1969. Race riots had plagued the US for several years, including those in Newark, New Jersey, not far from where I lived. The TV images of the anger and destruction were frightening. Though I will admit here that I was raised in a predominately white suburb, I camped every summer with girls of all kinds—black, white, brown. We spent our days together, slept in the same tents every night, and never gave it a second thought. So, the violence I watched on the news was confusing.

Kirk has no idea why the ambassadors of Cheron hate one another. Finally, in exasperation, he looks at them and says, “You’re black on one side and white on the other.”

One man puffs up his chest. “I am black on the right side.”

When I heard that line, something clicked in my brain. I now understood the idiocy of racism. And—don’t laugh—I truly believed that soon everyone would realize the stupidity of demeaning others because of what they looked like. In my misguided innocence, I thought that very soon racism would be relegated to the past and that we would all get along. Cue “Kumbaya”.

Of course, that didn’t happen. Today, at 65, I wonder what went wrong? How did so many people of my generation not get the message?

I’d like to think we can still repair the damage we’ve done to one another, but maybe we can’t. Perhaps, if we’re not careful, we’ll end up like the people of Cheron, who annihilated themselves and destroyed their planet because of their hate. My 14-year-old self found it hard to feel sorry for them. After all, they were the instrument of their own destruction.

We might be too.

Here’s hoping we come to our senses in time.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

Recently, the high school sports governing body here in Arizona—the Arizona Interscholastic Association—voted to cancel the winter sports season, a cautionary measure taken due to the alarming prevalence of Covid-19 cases in the state.

The hue and cry were immediate. AIA board members were harassed and threatened, while athletes marched outside the association’s headquarters protesting the decision. Parents pushed back, demanding that their children be allowed to play, saying that the kids had the right to participate in sports.

But that’s not true. As a high school teacher of twenty years, I often had to correct my students in this regard. Sports— as well as all extracurricular activities— are a privilege not a right.

Now, before you jump to conclusions, understand that I spent forty years of my working life in sports, both as a journalist and an official, where I called football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball games. (As a disclaimer, note that I worked baseball and football for the AIA.) That said, I agree wholeheartedly that children glean important life skills from participating in sports, like being part of a team, understanding the need to win and lose graciously, and learning how to get up and try again after they’ve been knocked down. I always encouraged my students to participate in sports.

However, we are in the midst of a worldwide pandemic that has killed close to 380,000 people in the U.S. alone and almost two million worldwide. Over 90 million people have had the disease, some of whom may have debilitating side effects for the rest of their lives. And the virus shows no hint of waning.

Arizona is currently the worst hot spot in the country. So, when a host of doctors proclaimed that it would be dangerous for school sports to continue at this time, the AIA board made its decision.

“Unfortunately, it is expected that the state will see a continued rise in Covid-19 hospitalizations for some time,” Dr. Kristina Wilson, the chairwoman of the AIA’s Sports Medicine Advisory Committee, said in a recent article in the Arizona Republic. “As medical professionals we cannot in good conscience recommend that students engage in a winter season under the current conditions.”

It was not surprising then that the board members decided against having winter sports, though the 5-4 vote shocked me. With our hospitals verging on full occupancy and infection rates ravaging the populace, I would have expected a 9-0 vote.

But what really stunned me was that, following hysterical online bashing and wailing about the terrible damage this decision would do to kids, the board backtracked. A second vote was taken and the winter season was reinstated.

The parents of these athletes should be ashamed, especially those claiming that their children’s mental health is at stake. Kids are tougher than you think. Yes, there will be disappointment, but that’s part of life and dealing with it is a lesson that can’t come too soon. And let’s not forget patience, perseverance, and perspective.

This reminds me of the lyrics to that old Rolling Stones song. “You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, well, you might find, you get what you need.” It’s time we imparted that message to our kids, not the one that says you should bully people into submission to get your way.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

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A long time ago, back when I hoped to earn a paycheck in front of a TV camera, I had what I thought was a moment of brilliance. Why, I opined, wouldn’t TV networks want to hire sports officials and put them in the broadcast booth? The idea seemed like a win-win.

Of course, I was a tad biased. I had taken five years and learned to officiate five sports: football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball. All with the hope that my new-found on-field expertise might wrangle me a job as a sportscaster. While blowing whistles and calling balls and strikes did eventually help me get my foot in the sports journalism world, I never in 15 years as a reporter met any other broadcasters from the officiating ranks.

Fast forward to today, where former officials are now miced up and sharing their thoughts on calls with the viewing public. That makes me want to hop into Mr. Peabody’s Wayback Machine and confront my old colleagues at ESPN.

“It would be great,” I explained in the newsroom back in 1990. “You could put officials in the booth and they could explain why certain calls were made.”

Crickets.

“You know, clear up confusion for the viewers.”

My remarks, as I recall, were met by head shakes indicating that I was certainly out of my mind. Who would ever want to listen to sports officials speak? They intimated.

Fast forward thirty years and there they are, with the NFL leading the way. Former officials and now rules analysts Mike Pereira, Dean Blandino, and Terry McAulay, among others. Then there’s Gene Steratore, who along with his 15-year NFL career spent 20 years calling college basketball games and is now an analyst for both sports.

The question is, what took the networks so long? Sports rules are complicated. Don’t believe me? Ask someone to explain what constitutes a catch is in football. Or the reasoning behind and execution of an infield fly in baseball. Or the difference between a foul ball and a foul tip. Or when icing is waved off in hockey. Or how to tell a charge from a block in basketball. Or what constitutes traveling. Oh, wait. No one calls that anymore.

Anyway, if you don’t believe me, pick up a rule book. Just read one page. I dare you. Rules and their corresponding diagrams can sometimes look like hieroglyphics with descriptions written by folks from MENSA. So why not hire people who study those books for a living? Then they can dumb down the rules to make them more digestible to the viewing public.

Then again, many fans thrive on controversy and arguing about calls is high on their list of entertaining things to do. Maybe if they actually understood the rules, some of the fun might be drained out of sports fandom.

As a purist, I think it’s better to truly understand the rules, but since I spent four decades as an amateur official, I’m clearly more than a little biased.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb