Gather around the fire, and I will tell you a harrowing tale.

Once upon a time, there was a young woman who aspired to be an author.

 Cue scary music: Dum, da dum, dum…

 One day, all bright eyed with ideas of fame and fortune and a New York Times best seller, she said, “I’m quitting my job to become an author!”

And so she did.

 The young woman started writing. When her manuscript was finished, she whooped with joy, visualizing those network interviews on TV morning shows and the all-expenses paid book-signing tour, where throngs of adoring readers shower her with accolades on that breakout novel. A Pulitzer was surely in her future.

Cue Wiley Coyote sliding to a dust-spewing stop.

Here’s the thing, folks, and I can’t say this too adamantly: Do not quit your day job to be an author!

The publishing world today is a black hole that, more often than not, sucks books and authors into a void. With the advent of Amazon and the Internet the entire publishing world tilted on its axis, leaving the industry in catch-up mode, a race that may never end.

To the aspiring authors out there, here’s the truth. The vast majority of us will never make any money on our books. The agents and publishers who take us in will never recoup the time and effort and publishing costs they’ve expended. Which, in turn, leads to the continual demise of independent publishers. So, when you sign that contract with a publisher, understand that, on any given day, the company might fold.

How do I know? I’ve had several publishers close their doors, leaving my books without a home. Sometimes, other publishers come along and may re-issue your orphaned books, but that is not common. The publishing business eats its young.

So, what’s an aspiring author to do? First, if you believe in your work, fight for it. That means living with the withering rejections you will receive by the thousands. I’m talking here about agents, editors, publishers, book reviewers, and media outlets who will shake their collective heads and say your manuscript is simply not worthy of publication, promotion, or praise.

And, think about this: Most of the time, they’re right.

It’s important to understand that writing one book is not enough to hone your craft. I have a couple of manuscripts in a drawer that will never see the light of day. The reason? They’re not very good. And, when you hear of best-selling authors who “came out of nowhere,” realize they didn’t. Take Colson Whitehead, who won the National Book Award in fiction, as well as the Pulitzer Prize for his novel The Underground Railroad in 2017. It was his sixth book.

If you’re the author who says, “I’m afraid to send my manuscript out, because they might not like it,” please burn all your pages now. You simply don’t have the stomach to dip your toe into the publishing waters.

I sent out queries to 100 agents for my second book and was soundly rejected by all. I decided I should give up writing. Later, I gave it one more try. The 101^st agent signed me to a contract. But did that solve my problems? No, though it’s my agent who gets to field the rejections, now. She is, however, kind enough to send them along to me for light reading. And here’s the funny thing about rejections. Sometimes, the folks doing the rejecting say nice things about your writing, and you’re so happy someone praised you, the rejection feels almost like acceptance. But, of course, it’s not.

If you think being rejected by an agent, editor, or publishing house is demoralizing, try getting a no from online book-review bloggers. Should you have the delightful opportunity to be seeking reviews for that young-adult-fiction work of genius, bear in mind you will have to play nice with 17-year-old, unicorn-loving, “my favorite color is purple” kids who somehow have 30,000 social media followers. Begging them to review your book can be, um … depressing.

So, what are aspiring authors to do? Write. A lot. Read. A lot. Study industry trends. A lot! Be brave. Smile in the face of rejection and give it another go. And, if no one likes your book, shelve it and write another.

Should you get a contract, remember it’s your job to promote your book, no matter the size of the publisher. That means, if you loathe public speaking and social media, step aside. Your book might be the best thing ever written, but publishing companies are going to check out your Internet footprint before offering you a contract. If you’re not robustly tackling social media – which includes having a website and a blog – your book will be passed over for an author who does.

For those who like a nice, tidy life – like me – understand that publishing is messy. Right now, I have two books out with one publisher. In the last month, I signed contracts with two different publishers for two other books, and I have another novel my agent is shopping around. I have no idea when these books will be released, but I must be ready to work with editors and artists and do the promotional work when my time comes. My worry is this will happen all at once, and I’ll be juggling three books simultaneously.

Here’s the thing. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be an author. I’m suggesting you write because you love to. Should the publishing world offer you an opportunity, great! Then, be courageous. Be flexible. Sport an emotional coat of Teflon. And, most importantly, don’t quit your day job.

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold. 

Recently, I began watching the TV series Yellowstone, the Kevin Costner ode to a dysfunctional, Montana ranching family. The show is fascinating, disturbing, and beautifully shot with a memorable cast of characters.

While the give and take involved in trying to keep the land occupies most of the screen time, there are also scenes that portray the daily lives of ranch hands, who, as one might expect, are cowboys.

That grown men live in bunk houses, and share their meals, and rope, and ride in this day and age amazes me. Let me say here that I was raised in New Jersey, where the only cowboys I saw were on TV and in the movies, all of which harkened back to earlier times.

Which brings me to my introduction to Phoenix, Arizona when I moved to that western city for a sportscasting job.

“Let’s go out,” my new friend Abby said.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Denim & Diamonds.” She grinned.

“What’s that?” I asked, trying to figure out what to wear.

“You’ll see.”

Later that night, Abby and I entered a huge dance hall unlike anything I’d ever seen. Country music blared. A huge group of men and women swelled on the wooden dance floor. My mouth fell open for a number of reasons.

First, the men were all dressed like cowboys: long-sleeve, white button downs open at the neck, spotless, Saturday-night cowboy hats, buffed boots, and tight blue jeans held up with belts showcasing fancy silver buckles.

I giggled. “What’s with the costumes?”

“What costumes?”

“The cowboy thing. Is this a special night that they’re all dressed like that?”

Abby tilted her head. “No, they’re dressed like that because they are cowboys.”

“No they’re not,” my skeptical, Jersey self pointed out.

“OK, maybe a few aren’t cowboys in their day jobs,” Abby countered. “But many of them are.”

“I stared at the center of the room and was equally stunned by all the men dancing. Tight steps in those cute, pointy boots, as they sashayed around the room, twirling smiling women.  I’d grown up in the days when men didn’t dance and girls were left to shimmy and shake on their own while the guys watched and hugged the walls.

I couldn’t get over the feeling that I was on a movie set. I sat at a high table bordering the dance floor and sipped a beer. The men moved expertly, line dancing with their thumbs hooked in their belts. I was struck by the fact that they were wearing their hats indoors, which I assumed was rude. I’ve since learned that cowboy-hat decorum can be quite complicated.

According to Bernard Hat’s “A Guide to Cowboy Hat Etiquette,”

• Any time you enter a building, the hat should come off.
• If it is an informal occasion you may put it back on but for a formal occasion it should stay off.
• When sitting down at a table for a meal, the hat should come off unless there is nowhere to safely lay the hat.
• When sitting down at a counter for a meal, the hat can stay on.
• Out on the range however, keep your hat on while you eat. If you take your hat off, another wrangler might step on it or spill food into the rim.

I’m not sure where hats stand in regard to dancing. The gents whirling around the floor had theirs on. And I didn’t want to quibble, because they were all so dang cute.

Before you scoff at dancing cowboys, understand that they are very popular. Note that The Cowboy Dating Service, Cowboy Soul Mate, and Cowboy Chat City are just a few of the dating sites devoted to those who aspire to find their cowboy match.

And now, don’t be jealous, because I do have my own such man, though it’s been a long time since he was out on the range seeking lost cows. My sweetie pie spent two years working on a cattle ranch in Oklahoma. When I met him he still had his boots and cowboy hat. Admittedly, Ryan’s turn in the saddle was a long time ago, but I’m guessing once a cowboy always a cowboy.

Giddy up!

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold. 

 

 

 

The average person is born with about 9,000 tastebuds. Our tastebud cells have the lovely ability to replacate themselves every one-to-two weeks. Which is pretty handy when we gulp down that hot coffee or scalding pizza cheese and burn the little guys.

However, as we age, those cells do not repair themselves as easily and our tastebuds die off. On top of that, our ability to taste all foods – sweet, sour, bitter, and salty – declines after 60.

That might not be a bad thing. If you recall from when you were a child, onions and garlic and peppers and mustard made us weep and cry out for our mommies. Today, though, they make us smile.

Sometimes, we don’t like certain foods because of past bad reactions. Take Brussel sprouts, for example. I have always shunned that wee cabbage.

“Can’t stand them,” I said, when my sweetie pie pointed out a pile at the grocery store, identifying them as a nice vegetable for dinner.

“How can you hate Brussel sprouts?”

“I always have.”

And yet, he purchased them anyway. Note that Ryan is a fabulous cook, still I had no desire to eat even one Brussel sprout, let alone an entire serving.

Imagine my surprise then when he coaxed one into my mouth. He’d sautéed them in butter and herbs, allowing  a little bit of char to form on each tiny cabbage. My eyes widened. “That’s very good,” I said, after gulping it down.

“So you hate them, why?”  he plated me a spoonful.

I had to think. While I understood that our tastebuds change as we age, I didn’t believe that was the reason. “My mom’s Brussel sprouts didn’t taste that way. Hers were gray and mushy.”

After some discussion, we determined that mothers of a certain era cooked the crap out of everything. Meat was in the oven until it attained a shoe-leather texture. Vegetables were cooked into beige slurry. The thinking, back then, might have been to avoid any possible food poisoning, so no amount of cooking was considered too much.

Note that I am far from a picky eater. I’ve consumed rattle snake and chicken feet and the strangely named thousand-year-old egg in China. I’ve eaten wild boar, and Vegemite, and grasshoppers. Kangaroo burgers and crocodile sausage. I’ve eaten things I can’t even name, in the interest of being polite.

Lately, I’ve attempted to eat the few foods I’ve shied away from over the years. Today, only two things still make me wince: olives and pickled beets. Not sure why, since mom’s cooking had nothing to do with either one.

But I will promise you this. Since my momma raised me right, whenever you invite me to dinner, I will eat whatever you serve, without question. Even if the family specialty is pickled beets and olive salad.

All I ask is that you have plenty of wine on hand to go along with it.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold. 

 

 

 

My son came home the other night looking awful.

“Geez! What’s wrong?” I said, as I stared at him in the doorway.

“I’m sick, Mom.” He fumbled with his backpack, then headed for his room.

My brain fixed on June Cleaver, one of those 1960s TV moms, a woman who would run to the Beaver’s side and offer hugs and cold compresses, gently lifting a glass of water to his parched lips, with nary a concern for her own health.

But I  recoiled.

I’ve been a teacher for twenty years. I spend flu season dodging germy kids, backing away when they approach with rheumy eyes and runny noses. But I always get sick. Yes, I know Troy’s my child, but he’s 23, surely too old to need a mommy’s care.

Still, I forced myself to follow him. He sat on the edge of the bed looking miserable. I stood in the doorway and reached my hand to the door jamb. I swear I could feel those wee virus bugs crawling on my hand. I wiped my palm on my shirt. “Do you have a fever?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at me with blood-shot, blue eyes and swiped a hand across his nose.

“I can do this,” I muttered to myself. I took a deep breath and stepped into the room. My wrist on his forehead attested to a fever and made me feel, however briefly, rather motherly.

He coughed, a gurgling sound deep in his chest that said to me, “Run away! Run away!” So he would not think me an awful mom, I took measured steps toward the doorway, but as I was still holding my breath, I was getting a bit desperate. When I reached the hallway, I sucked in air, hoping he didn’t hear me.

“What should I do, Mom?”

There it was. He wanted my help. It didn’t matter that he’s a college junior, has a job, pays rent, volunteers at the Humane Society, and is currently in a little theater production of Annie Get Your Gun. He’s a successful young adult, but still needs my care.

Heartwarming, right? Later on, maybe, but at that moment the thought of going near him was horrifying. I calculated the number of days it took me to recover from the last bug that took up residence in my sinuses. Even when I do everything right – like rest, the definition of which apparently does not include doing laundry and vacuuming – it takes me a week to get well.

“What should I do?” he asked again.

“I’ll get you a decongestant.” Though that didn’t seem to be enough. I flashed on my own not-very-motherly mom and considered what she would do. “I’ll be right back.”

My mother believed she had a fool-proof method to combat illnesses, which she referred to as “having the quinsy.” A few minutes later, I held a steaming mug at arm’s distance. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” He sniffed the citrusy concoction.

“It’s a hot toddy. Breathe in the steam and drink it all. Then get under the covers.”

When I was a kid, my mom swore by the powers of the hot toddy. Her mixology methods included bourbon, which, to this day, I’m unable to stomach, as it tastes like medicine. My version includes tea, Grand Marnier, and a large dollop of honey.

“You also need a cheddar cheese and onion sandwich,” I said, again channeling my mother.

Two days later, Troy was healed. I was astounded and rather jealous at the robustness of his youthful immune system and wondered whether my mom’s remedies were really that magical.

“All better?” I asked, when he was headed out to work.

“Yep.” Then he coughed and reached to hug me goodbye.

I scurried away. “You know I love you, right?”

He nodded.

“Just don’t touch me. Not yet.”

Does that make me a bad mom?

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.

The summer following my freshman year in college, I went home to New Jersey.

“You need a job,” my mother said. “You have an interview tomorrow.”

I’d been living on my own, making my own decisions, and my mom’s pronouncement rankled. Still, one did not cross Mary Anne. So, I acquiesced.

The next day, I drove to a two-story red-brick home in an old section of West Caldwell, a street with neatly-trimmed lawns and potted flowers fronting houses that were probably built in the 1920s.

I took a breath and reached for the gold door knocker. Then, I waited.

When the door finally opened, I faced a plump, sixtyish woman wearing a dark-flowered dress and sensible shoes. She ushered me into the foyer and pointed to a long staircase. “He’s upstairs.”

I nodded. As I ascended, I heard a voice. “Come in!” The tone was clipped, verging on cranky.

I stepped inside a spacious room, where morning sunlight dappled an old oriental rug. He sat in a dark, wingback chair. A wooden cane rested by his right hand. Thick glasses framed milky blue eyes. We stared at one another. “Sit there.” He motioned to a smaller chair.

Frank Towey, in his early eighties, was going blind. I was expected to do some light cleaning. I would prepare his lunch and drive him to his various appointments.

“Eight o’clock sharp!” He tapped the cane on the floor.

On the drive back to my house, I cursed my mother. I had no desire to spend my summer with a crabby old man. I was not a morning person. There was a reason I didn’t schedule early college classes. And I’d gotten in the habit of staying up late. Had my mother arranged the job to prevent me from going out in the evening? In retrospect, she probably did.

The first week, I performed my tasks as requested. Mr. Towey and I didn’t converse much. Then, one day, he asked, “What are you studying at school? What do you want to be?”

“I want to be a sportscaster on TV,” I blurted out, immediately wanting the words back, ones which only garnered me laughs back in the 1970s when women sportscasters were practically nonexistent.

But Mr. Towey didn’t laugh. He asked me why. After that, our conversations expanded. I learned he’d been a lawyer, a state senator, and a congressman. He was widowed and had no children. He’d traveled extensively, visiting countries on almost every continent. And, though he’d graduated from Holy Cross, he was secretly a Buddhist.

One morning, I came in with a bit of a hangover. He teased me. Then, he started calling me Dizzy. In retaliation, I called him Commander. Both names stuck. Even when I was driving him around town in his 1955, black Cadillac convertible with red-leather seats, he’d call out,”Dizzy! Park here!”

“Yes, sir, Commander!” I’d bark back. And he’d smile.

When it was time to return to school, he said, “I’ll write.”

We traded letters and visits whenever I was home. He’d been especially excited when I decided to spend a semester abroad in Luxembourg. “Pick a country,” he’d say. Then he’d tell me about the people, and the places I should go, and the foods I must try.

For six years, the Commander and I were friends. I was living in Washington, D.C. when he called. “I’m dying, Diz.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. But don’t worry. I’m curious to see what happens next. Why don’t you come home for a visit?”

“OK,” I said, trying to figure out how to rearrange my schedule.

But I didn’t make it in time. Frank Towey died before I got there.

I did attend the funeral. I wore a snug red dress and black high heels, which had all those other folks in attendance wondering who I was. He would have liked that. I had searched for a Buddha to place in his casket, but wasn’t able to find one.

Years later, a Buddha stared at me from a shelf at Goodwill. I took the statue home and placed it by a burbling fountain in my kitchen. I sometimes think of the Commander when I see it.

He has been gone over forty years. Still, some of the things we talked about are only now making sense.

“You know the strange thing about getting old?” he said to me one day.

I shook my head.

“It’s that your body ages but your brain does not. In my mind, I’m still a young man.”

I didn’t really understand what he meant at the time.

But now that I’m approaching 65, I understand perfectly.

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.

Sometimes, we make snap decisions. These course changes can happen without warning. One such life-changing moment occurred recently in my livingroom.

I’m done!” my sweetie pie exclaimed.

I almost jumped from my chair. “Done!”

“Yep, I’m never eating meat again.”

I gulped. We had just watched a program that pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that meat is our enemy and any foodstuffs associated with animals are just as bad. “What about eggs and cheese?”

He shook his head.

“Chicken?”

“No!”

My head spun. This proclamation came from one of the world’s most avowed carnivores. A guy who can think of no greater joy than standing over the smoker in the yard, one that routinely drenches our neighborhood in irrestible, meaty aromas. A man who – love me though he does – once announced that if I ever became a vegetarian, he’d leave me. (Interestingly, he has since rescinded that statement and now claims he never meant it in the first place.)

I have long struggled with the meat question, because of the treatment of animals in factory farms. Over the years, I have given up lamb and veal.  I will not patronize restaurants that serve fois gras. I don’t eat much red meat. But, every once in a while, I find myself craving a big fat cheese burger with a short stack of crisp bacon. I also like beefy chili and Thai Pad Prik King with a bit of spicy cow.

So, I struggled with Ryan’s pronouncement.

“Not sure I can give up eggs and cheese.” Our eyes met.

“You don’t have to give up anything,” he said.

“I think this should be a family effort,” I said, mostly to be polite.

And so, we went to the grocery store, where we stood staring at a small, tucked-away selection of manufactured- meat substitutes. I rotated my head looking for Terry, wondering how we would explain our sudden conversion.

“I don’t think he’s here,” I whispered.

Ryan didn’t respond, as he studied a package of faux meat. Though, I’m sure he didn’t want to face our favorite butcher, a man who has been saving Ry special cuts of meat for over a decade.

Still, for the last few weeks, we have remained on course, though the parameters have changed. We determined that eggs and cheese and chicken would remain on the familial menu, for now. We eat more fish and are trying to expand our vegetable choices. Chicken sausage was a hit, though we are still struggling with ground-beef substitute, which both looks and smells like dog food. Tofu is on the to-do list.

However, it’s awfully hard to banish the carnivor. We do have those four, pointy canines for a reason. Nature gave us those little daggers, in part, to rip meat into swallowable chunks.

There is no denying that the mostly meatless diet is better for us. Ry lost ten pounds in two weeks. But the cravings remain.

Yesterday, as we left Petsmart, pushing a cart loaded with cat and dog food, Ryan paused and stood motionless in the parking lot. He stared into the sky and took a deep breath. The smell wafted over us: mouth-watering smoke that eminated from a nearby IN-N-OUT BURGER.

For a moment, I thought my big, tough guy might be weeping.

“Want a burger?” I asked.

“I do.” He enhaled deeply again. “I do.”

“Then get one. No one said we had to do this.”

But he shook his head and just stared at that enticing red and yellow sign. Then he turned away, looking like a broken-hearted lover.

And so our quest continues. I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.

 

 

 

“What did you think you were doing?” My soon-to-be boss squinted from beneath a ball cap. The hat wear,  jeans, and sneakers were quite a departure from our formal meeting in his news director’s office where he’d donned a suit and tie.

His face was red, lips pressed into a thin line. He was clearly angry with me, but why? I was in Rochester, New York, looking for a place to live, since he’d recently offered me a contract to be a TV sportscaster.

Here’s where I admit I was also hungover. I had freely imbibed with a friend the night before. We’d attended a minor-league baseball game. Who does that without quaffing a grown-up beverage or two?

“You had no right to announce yourself at the game like that!”

“I didn’t announce myself. I just said hello to some of the other sports reporters.” I blinked, suddenly worried that the job was no longer mine.

He gripped his coffee cup and stared at me like I was the dumbest person on the planet. “Why the hell did you go to the baseball game?”

I fiddled with my mug of tea. “I like baseball,” I said rather lamely.

His eyes snapped onto mine. “And you introduced yourself to other media people telling them your name is Anne Butler.”

I paused, puzzled by his inquiry. “That is my name.” My head pounded. I scrambled to make sense of the mysterious error that caused me to receive an angry, early-morning call, one ordering me be to a diner at 7:00 AM. Surely, I wouldn’t have had that last beer, had I realized I’d be facing my new boss at the crack of dawn.

“I got calls!” He leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms over his chest.

It seems the media folks I’d casually bantered with at the game were flummoxed. A woman sportscaster would be working in Rochester. Shock waves were rippling through town. I was big news.

My boss clasped his hands on the table and leaned toward me “If you want to work here, you’ll have to change your name.” His tone was clipped.  “You have 24-hours to get that done.”

“Why?”

“You’ll be anchoring with a woman whose last name is Butler. You two look alike. You’ll confuse our viewers.”

I wanted to argue that I liked my name just fine and would prefer to keep it. But I’d spent a long time trying to land a sporstcasting job. Very few TV stations were willing to take a chance on a woman sportscaster back in the mid-80s.

I nodded. I needed a nap, as well as a new name.

That evening, I rounded up three friends and opened a bottle of wine. “Here are the options. My father’s mother’s name was McCarthy. My mother’s mom’s name was Montgomery.” After we finished the wine, they voted and I became Anne Montgomery.

Changing one’s name is a bit disconcerting. I struggled introducing myself, for a while, but eventually got used to being Anne Montgomery.

Two-and-a-half years later, I was headed for a bigger TV market, Phoenix, Arizona, where I was told there would be no problem if I wanted to return to being Anne Butler.  I considered the possibility, but then I thought about my grandmother.

She’d been delighted when I’d taken her maiden name, and, as she got older and more confused, she’d sometimes say, “Tell me again why you took my name?” So, I’d repeat the story and she would always smile.

Then, my grandmother died.

After considering my options, I decided to keep my new name. Montgomery was a family name, after all. My grandmother would have liked that.

 

 

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.

I could not have been more surprised when the news broke. Major League Baseball took a stand, resulting in the firing of Houston Astros general manager Jeff Luhnow and skipper A.J. Hinch.

They’re crime? Cheating.

I know. I almost fell on the floor. Imagine a professional sports organization that actually cares about dishonesty. On top of losing their two top guys – MLB suspended the men for a year, after which the Astros fired them both – the team was fined $5 million dollars and forced to forfeit their first-and second-round draft picks the next two years. The Red Sox then canned skipper Alexa Cora and the Mets parted ways with new manager Carlos Beltran, both of whom were involved in the Astros scandal.

Their crime revolved around the stealing of signs. Baseball purists have long ignored players decoding opponents signals to get an edge, but Houston’s use of electronic gear to systematically capture signs was way over the top.

Sadly, for too long, rabid sports fans have accepted cheating, as long as their teams keep winning. The most notorious cheaters, of course, are the New England Patriots. The NFL’s response to the repeated scandals involving head coach Bill Belichick and golden-boy quarterback Tom Brady are pathetic by any standards. Spygate, Deflategate, the supposed bugging of opponent’s locker rooms and scrambling of headset signals, and the filming of the field area to steal signs during the recent contest with the Cincinnati Bengals show a level of cheating that is equally disturbing and unprecedented.

And all completely unnecessary. Did the Patriots really need subterfuge to beat the 1-12 Bengals? Did they really need to soften up footballs in the 2014 AFC Championship game, a contest they won easily 45-7? It seems as if the Pats cheat simply because they can. The NFL has fined the team piddly amounts of cash. What’s one million to a team valued at a little over four billion dollars? Brady served a four-game suspension, but still wears those Super Bowl rings with pride.

One wonders how they look in the mirror.

As a former amateur sports official, the adage “It’s only cheating if you get caught,” always left me disheartened, especially when uttered by young athletes. Sports are supposed to teach us positive qualities that can help us in life: teamwork, leadership skills, punctuality, and the ability to win and lose gracefully. Cheating was never supposed to be part of the package.

Baseball’s smack down of the Astros makes the National Football League’s response to cheating pitiful. The NFL clearly doesn’t care how teams win, as long as the money keeps pouring in.

I wish the league would consider the message that sends to young athletes who idolize those who play in the pros. Kids who watch closely and do all they can to emulate their heroes.

No wonder they think cheating is just fine as long as you don’t get caught.

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.

Don’t get me wrong. I do not own a cat that tips the scales at one-thousand pounds. But, every now and again, that’s how it feels.

There’s an expression we use in our household when one is providing seating for a cat or two. Under those circumstances – when our fury friends have plopped into our laps – it is extremely difficult to get up.

But not because the feline beasts weigh a lot. It’s more complicated than that. These lovely creatures, warm and silky soft, curled in a ball or draped across the nearest shoulder, exude something that makes the thought of disturbing them hard to consider.

According to John Amodeo, Ph.D. in his Psychology Today article “If You Love Cats, This May Be Why,” “These beautiful creatures have a rare quality that humans would do well to cultivate: a large capacity to receive affection.”

Cat lovers know this to be true.

“Delighting in our physical presence, they may begin to purr and perhaps roll on their backs, exposing their vulnerability. As if to say, ‘I trust you. Give me some love and make me feel good,’” Amodeo said. “Their gift to us is that they receive us deeply, without any troubling cognitions or disturbing memories of less savory moments, such as when we forgot to feed them or clean their litter box. They let all of that go. They’re just here with us right now.”

Now imagine if we humans could do the same. If we could forget why we are annoyed with someone. No grudges. No animosity. No bitterness. If we could, we’d be more like cats.

The good news is that all this kitty contentment is a beneficial thing.

“Research has shown that cats can be very healing for us,” Amodeo said. “A 10-year research study suggests that cat owners were less likely to die of heart attacks than people who have never owned one … Other studies confirm that cats can lower our blood pressure and release dopamine and serotonin, which reduce stress and improve immune functioning.”

Amodeo also explained that cats help us release a substance called oxytocin, which is a substance that helps us care about others. “(O)oxytocin … is associated with the feeling of being in love. As we know, love heals, and perhaps an important aspect of this healing is the bonding created by their ability to receive us deeply.”

I know there are those who dislike cats. But I’m hoping they might reconsider. Perhaps all they need is the delicious weight of a feline in their lap. In our house, that is all the excuse one needs to avoid moving.

“Sorry, I can’t get up. I’m being held down by one-thousand pounds of cat.” And while you might think it strange, everyone here immediately understands. That’s when they get up to clean the kitchen.

Yet another reason to love my cats.

 

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some words just don’t work. Take boyfriend, for example. I’ve been dating the same man for a quarter of a century. He is far from being a boy and I am approaching my mid- sixties. Yet, this is the term society gives us. So, introductions can be a bit awkward. In fact, just mentioning that I have a boyfriend often has my high school students rolling with laughter. (I think kids believe teachers sleep under their desks and we have no lives outside of the classroom. Sigh…)

By definition, a boyfriend is “a male friend or acquaintance, often specifying a regular male companion with whom one is platonic, romantically or sexually involved. This is normally a short-term committed relationship, where other titles (e.g., husband, partner) are more commonly used for long-term committed relationships.”

Now let’s talk about those other titles. There is a plethora of possibilities and I have tried most of them. While my sweetie pie Ryan is my “friend” that description doesn’t say enough. Lover is a bit too continental: “Here is my love-ah,” I hear myself saying like an aging movie siren. Mi amour, as well, sounds pretentious.

Then there’s significant other. Hate it. The term lacks warmth and has way too many syllables.

Partner is OK. Still the word rings of a professional relationship, as in my “business” partner.

“What should I call you?” I asked Ryan one day when he was reading.

He pursed his lips and stared at me. “What do I prefer? Call me Poopie Head.”

“Really?” I rolled my eyes. “I’m asking how to introduce you to other people.”

“How about love muffin?”

“Main squeez?” I countered.

He shook his head. “I don’t like main squeeze.”

“OK, so what should I call you?

“How about love of my life?” He grinned.

“And that’s how you want me to introduce you?

“Yes! I am the love of your life, I hope. If not, we have a problem.”

“This is the love of my life,” I practice saying. “Just doesn’t roll off the tongue.”

Ryan shrugged. “Does it really matter?”

“Perhaps not. I guess I could call you . . . Ryan.”

“I still like love of my life.”

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

286 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955

As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.