I have moved around a lot over the course of my life. I’ve lived in eight states and another country. I’ve resided in 13 different homes. Through all of those moves – and the purging of personal goods that inherently comes along with such transitions – certain items remain.

There’s the glass mug that says LHS – Livingston High School – Senior Prom, June 1, 1973. And my Yamaha 12-string guitar which I lugged from place to place without ever playing for 35 years. And the geode with an array of blue-gray crystals that my best friends gave me for my sixteenth birthday. And the rest of my rock collection that has grown to about 400 specimens, some that I’ve had since I was in elementary school.

I think of these things now because I recently had to go through my father’s possessions. He died in June a week shy of his 96th birthday after a long and interesting life.

I faced boxes piled atop one another, taped and carefully labeled. I picked up one that had an ominous message. Do Not Open!

“Sorry, Dad,” I said as I cut through the tape. Inside I found a thick wade of money, bills from the post-World War II Philippines and Japan. Numerous coins spilled out: Indian Head pennies dating back to the turn of the 20th century that mingled with a single New York City Transit Authority subway token and a few 1960’s-era Kennedy half dollars. In an Altoid tin, my dad had another collection of coins. These apparently from some of the countries he’d visited over the years: France, England, Germany, Ireland, Canada.

Inside another box were small black-and-white photographs of my father and his shipmates on board their destroyer escort – the U.S.S. Alvert Moore – during the war, as well a a photo of my mother dating back to 1939. Mom – who is the epitome of strait-laced propriety even today at 94 – appears in a pair of white short-shorts and a halter top. When I presented the photo to her, trying to suppress a laugh, she insisted the woman in the photo was not her. Even when I pointed out her name scrawled across the top, she dismissed the picture as an obvious fashion faux pax committed by someone else.

There were also six pairs of rosary beads and some saints’ cards. Not too surprising for a life-long Catholic. And a thick but tiny book titled Useful Information for Business Men Mechanics and Engineers, with gilt-edged pages devoted to Weights of Flat-Rolled Steel, Heat Colors, and Unit Compression Stress for Main Members. (Don’t ask me. Dad was an engineer. Oddly, he was rather useless at fixing things, still he managed to design and build complicated industrial machines.)

A small cardboard tube caught my attention. Inside were three pages of rolled-up orange paper dated August 8, 1969: a letter I wrote from Girl Scout Camp. “I’ve been scubaing in the jungle,” I said of one of my earliest scuba dives in Saranac Lake, New York. “It’s got millions of water vines and plants all over the place.” The post script read as follows. “Shelly passed into blue cap,” I explained of my friend who had struggled with swimming early on. “Boy, is she happy!”

Another box held a fistful of sobriety coins courtesy of Alcoholics Anonymous. Dad earned over 35 of those awards, an achievement of which he was immensely proud. There was also a theater program from my high school production of South Pacific where I played a Navy nurse and a complicated slide rule in a black leather case with markings indicating my dad had owned it since he was in college at Penn State.

While going through the boxes – several of which were confounding since they were empty – I noticed some trends. My dad apparently collected pocket knives – there were maybe a dozen – and fingernail clippers and dental floss. I placed them in piles wondering what possessed him to keep purchasing these items. I wish I could ask. Perhaps his predilection caused my own. I too love pocket knives and have acquired more containers of dental floss then I’ll ever use. (I’ve put many dentist’s children through college.)

While clearing out my dad’s clothes, I couldn’t help but think of Jon Hamm’s character in the TV series Mad Men. Despite being raised in a family of mostly coal miners, my dad was a clothes horse who wore his Brooks Brothers suits, buffed wingtips, and rakish fedoras with pride as he ventured into New York City to work in the 1960s. I brought some of his clothes home and, as it turned out, they fit my youngest son perfectly, which has me doing double takes sometimes. My dad would have been delighted.

As I sorted through my dad’s belongings, I saved some things and discarded others. Clothing and shoes went to Goodwill. The watercolor of his ship at sea went to my brother, who will eventually pass it on to the great grand children, along with my dad’s service medals.

When I was finished, I wondered why my dad saved the items he packed in those boxes. I will never know. Still, I’m glad I had the opportunity to study the things that were important to him. It gave me the chance to hold onto him a little bit longer.

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.

 

 

 

 

Most people are afraid of something. For me it’s tight spaces. I’m not sure when I first fell victim to this phobia, but it might have been on a high school Friday night when a bunch of us were going to a drive-in movie. (Remember those?) I was encouraged to get into the trunk of a car before we drove through the gates – something about too many kids in a car. In any case, I freaked, and clawed the underside of the hood and yelled until they let me out.

So, I’m claustrophobic, a malady that smacked me in the head one day when I was one hundred feet below the surface of the sea staring at a hole in the ocean floor.

I’d been told about the lava tube we would encounter. I glimpsed the small opening as another diver’s fins disappeared into the darkness. I paused, sizing up the mouth of the cave. It was not much wider than my wingspan and perhaps three-feet tall.

I  turned to my sweetie pie, who was hovering by a woman who was uncomfortable diving. I pointed to the mouth of the cave and he shook his head. Then he took the woman by the hand and helped her swim above the tube.

I stared at that hole and wanted nothing to do with it. It looked so small and dark, but then I saw a light flickering inside and, without thinking, I swam to the opening and ducked inside. White sand flowed along the cave floor. I saw fins in front of me and followed. Then, suddenly, the fins and the light vanished, leaving me in total darkness.

I stopped abruptly. Then panicked and considered backing out, but turning around in that narrow space in complete darkness was problematic. The back of my tank caught on the top of the tube. The contact was slight, but was enough to make me sick to my stomach. I dropped to the floor and dug my hands into the sand in an effort to calm myself. I started sucking air, which was bad. The compressed air in a scuba tank is used up quickly on a deep dive. I had to move forward soon, but was frozen.

I raised my head and stared into the darkness. I held one hand before me but could see nothing. I dug my free hand into the sand and lifted the other, pulling myself forward, gripping the sand so hard my hands hurt. Slowly, I moved forward and down. The tube descended beneath the sea floor, angling deeper as I went.

Why had I not brought a light? And why had I been dumb enough to go in without such an important piece of equipment? I continued inching forward. How long was the tunnel? Why had I not asked? The questions swirled.  I was tempted to reach to the side to see how wide the tube was, but was afraid to know the truth.

Sometime later, I caught a glimmer piercing the top of the tube, a broken spot in the ceiling that glowed with soothing blue light. I rounded a bend and was graced with an opening. Dim light flooded the the cave, illuminating walls that were startling close. I kicked hard and exited. My sweetie pie was overhead. He knew how I felt about small places, so he was concerned.

Later, after a hot shower and a strong, grown-up beverage, we talked about that deep, dark, watery hole.

Yes, I’m glad I tried to conquer my fear, still I don’t think I’ll do anything like that ever again.

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.

 

 

 

 

First, let me say that I love animals of all kinds. I am a dog and cat rescuer and even take great care when I transport house-bound spiders outside. My sobriquet – Eco Annie – was earned, in part, because I wholly believe in saving the Earth’s endangered species.

That said, I’ve occasionally had situations with wild creatures that didn’t end well. For them.

Take, for example, the issue of the not-so-bright seagull, a creature I met dramatically on a lonely road along the Lake Ontario coastline. I came upon a whole flock of seagulls lounging on the tarmac. As I sped toward them, I watched the birds lift into the sky. Then I spied a single gull that remained on the blacktop. By the time he lifted languidly into the air, it was too late. He hit the windshield beak first and splatted, feathers flying.

I felt bad. Really bad.

Just down the road, a string of rocks appeared before me. Since my car was still shedding feathers, I slowed way down. To my surprise the rocks were moving, a long string of turtles, migrating from one side of the road to the other. Lovers of these sweet shelled beasts, be comforted. I waited patiently as the last turtle crossed the road, making it safely to the other side. So I was 1 and 1 on the kindness-to-wildlife scale.

Then there was the evening on another lonely road, this one in Western Australia. We were mining in the Outback – I’m an avid mineral collector – and as we left our campsite for the delicious promise of an actual bed and a warm meal, we were warned.

“The kangaroos will be out at dusk, so be careful,” our new Aussie friends explained.

The idea of a shower and a cold grown-up beverage had us ready to roll. Perhaps, it might have been advantageous had we actually considered  those massive metal contraptions that were mounted on the front of many of the vehicles we passed, quaintly referred to as “roo bars”.

“OK! You keep an eye out and yell if you see a kangaroo,” my sweetie pie said.

“Roger that!” I squinted through the windshield at the wild desert land that was quickly vanishing with the light. I surveyed the area, knowing that kangaroos love to nibble on the grasses that sprouted beside the road.

Suddenly, a head popped into view. “Kanga …” But before I had time to utter “roo” we’d smashed into that beast, spinning it up into the air and off into the shrubs. We skidded to a halt. I jumped out and looked for the animal. Today, after all those episodes Dr. Chris Pet Vet  – which, of course, I watched only to learn about veterinary care – I wonder if I might have been able to help an injured kangaroo. But I was unable to find the poor creature. (Now, if only I could locate Dr. Chris. But I digress.)

Ryan checked the front of the rental, examining the crushed-in hood that would, in the end, cost us a cool thousand bucks. Luckily, the car was drivable. As for Mr. Skippy, I doubt he fared as well as the vehicle.

The next day, on the road back to Perth, I was in for a bit of deja vu, for there in the middle of the road was a flock of birds. Not seagulls this time, but flamboyant mccaws, big birds with long blue and gold feathers.

“Wow! Look at that, Ryan said as we approached.

“They’re beautiful!”

As before, the flock took flight. And, as before, one stayed behind.

“Crap!” Ryan applied the brake, but the bird disintegrated in an explosion of pretty feathers, bits I later picked out of the grill.

I stared at my sweetie pie. He looked despondent. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d taken out a kangaroo and a mccaw. I patted his arm. “It’s OK. You didn’t mean to do it.”

He started the car and cautiously eased onto the road, carefully surveying the view in front of us.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“A koala bear.”

“Geez! You don’t want to hit one of them!” Visions of koala meat sticking to the car made me shiver.

It took us a little longer to get back to our hotel than it should have, but, luckily, there were no koala parts to remove from the grill.

 

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 grew up in northern New Jersey, a suburb of New York City, graced with the big-city extras that location entails. I thought all kids got to see Broadway plays, peruse exhibits at the Museum of Natural History , and eat at fabulous restaurants in Little Italy. It wasn’t until I attended college that I discovered other places in the country were … different.

“Let’s go to the city,” a friend said one weekend.

So we hoped in the car and headed for Cincinnati. Upon my arrival at the spot where the Ohio and Licking rivers meet, I said, “So where’s the city?”

However, it’s not as if I was completely unfamiliar with the rural world. In fact, in the summer, my parents would load me and my two siblings into the station wagon for what my father once referred to as “the goddamned family vacation.”

Our destination? My grandparents farm in Zanesville, Ohio. While they had not lived full time on those 325 hilly acres since the Great Depression, they would spend their summers at that broken-down house where my grandmother tended a large kitchen garden and my grandfather did his Green Acres bit, playing at being a farmer, riding around on a tractor and telling us to keep away from the bull, since one did not want to make the big guy mad.

Even though we were avid campers, this change of venue was astonishing for us suburban kids. There was no plumbing at the farm. We pumped water from a well that stood in the yard. There were no toilets. One had to trek over the hill where an outhouse provided a splintery seat where one might hear strange creatures scrabbling about underneath. And, because no one wanted to make that trek in the dark, we sometimes resorted to a quaint tin pot that rested under the bed. Baths were in a big metal tub that we lugged into the kitchen. A black, pot-bellied stove had a prominent spot in the living room. You could not step anywhere in that old farm house without hearing floorboards groan. The front porch sagged, proof the dwelling’s best days had long since passed.

But what the farm lacked in amenities, it made up for with untamed beauty. Much of the land was forest, though there were fields that were rented to local cattle ranchers, where placid cows spent their days on pretty hillsides. There was a stream and ponds where my dad taught us to fish, showing us how to bait a hook and gently remove our sunfish from the line before returning them to their watery world. I saw my first quails perched on fenceposts, swimming copperheads, and a massive snapping turtle whose jaws were as big as my fist.

Some farm kids lived down the road and my brother, sister, and I found their accents peculiar. (In hindsight, I wonder what they thought of our New Jersey diction.) They let us ride their horse. All these years later, I still remember them laughing hysterically when said beast bolted with me on board, giving me a permanently bruised tailbone to remember them by.

All along the fence wild blackberries and raspberries boasted masses of sweet fruit. One day, I stuffed my pockets with those berries and – just for the joy of it – I ran up the hill to the house. On the way, I tripped and splatted on that one-lane road where the rare passage of a vehicle prompted people to stop what they were doing and wave. When I stood, all those smashed berries oozed from my pockets like jam.

After a week, my parents would pack us in the car and head back to Jersey. I’d watch the old farm house disappear and the one-lane road vanish between the hills. All the way home my siblings and I squabbled in the back of the station wagon, too far away for our parents to swat for misbehaving. While my dad loved the farm, I know it was the one-thousand-mile round trip to that old house that earned our yearly trek the title “the goddamned family vacation”.

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’s wrong with silence? It seems, of late, there is an all-out assault on quiet.

Take for example my recent trip to the dentist where I was excited to get a crown. (Nothing like grinding away at a damaged tooth to brighten your day.) In any case, I selected a magazine – that is an archaic news-delivery device  – and sat down to read.

There were several other dental patients waiting, all with heads firmly planted in the cellphone screens. And, yet, a TV blared reruns from the Home& Garden network. Now, I love a good international house hunt where Americans insist that they need five bedrooms and five baths on the chance that someone may come to visit. (Have they not heard of hotels?) Still, no one was paying the least attention to the TV. It was just making noise. So, I considered asking that the volume be turned off, but wondered if I might upset the fragile dental waiting-room applecart with such a request. Luckily, my name was called and I was off for an hour of hearing nothing but drilling.

Later, I headed to my health club for a swim and a steam, which would surely make me feel superior – Hey, I worked out! – and pleasantly relaxed. But no. I had to listen to some guy’s music which boomed from his headphones in that steamy environment. I wondered if he was hard of hearing. Clearly, if I waited long enough, he would be.

Then, I went to put gas in my car. Imagine my surprise when the pump called to me. I punched the button for Regular and jumped when an anchor-type woman – all coifed and pretty – started telling me about products I just had to have. I wanted to say, “Honey, was this your dream? Did you aspire to talk to people from a screen on a gas pump?”  Later, I looked up gas-station advertising and found this: Advertising at a fuel station is a great way to reach drivers in a captive setting. And that is exactly what I felt like: a captive, an animal in a zoo. It’s not like I could leave without filling my tank. I was trapped.

My question is whatever happened to quiet? When did silence become the enemy? When did it become a good idea to fill every waking moment with man-made sound? Perhaps, if the trend continues, we might someday be unable to abide silence.

I worry about that.

Is there a solution? I actually found a product that says it will solve the noise problem. You can order a DVD for $29.95. It’s silent. All you have to do is “turn the volume all the way up to drown out all that extraneous noise.”

I’ve got to think about that for a while. Now, if I could only find a quiet place to ruminate.

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.

 

 

 

 

A while back, I needed my shower fixed. I hired a contractor and, while reinstalling the decorative panels, the glass broke, shattering in thousands of sparkling pieces. I was not a happy girl when I found the box of glittery bits and was less enthused when I realized I could not take a shower.

I notified the contractor and asked that the requisite repairs be made, but when that did not occur in a timely fashion, I stopped payment on the fifteen-hundred-dollar check.

End of story? Not so fast. Six months later, a fifteen-hundred-dollar withdrawal was made from my account by said contractor, an unexpected deduction that sent me into a tailspin. By the time I understood what was happening, I’d bounced some checks and was understandably horrified.

So, I contacted the bank, explaining that they had made some kind of accounting error.

“No, there’s no mistake,” a bank employee explained breezily. “The fifteen-hundred-dollar check went through two weeks ago.”

“But … I put a stop on that check! He’s not allowed to cash it!”

“Well, yes … he can.”

“How is that possible?”

She sighed. “A check hold is only good for six months.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!” I’m sure I said calmly. “You’re telling me that, for the rest of my life, I have to keep renewing my hold on that check every six months?” There was a slight pause, so perhaps I wasn’t as calm as I thought.

“Yes.”

“I want my money back.”

“I’m sorry, that is our policy.”

Back when this happened, I was still a new teacher, making new-teacher pay. So, fifteen-hundred dollars was a ton of money. I asked to speak to a manager. When I got the same answer from him, I asked to see the bank president. As you might expect, he was busy. In fact, every time I tried to get in touch, he was unavailable.

“What are you going to do?” My sweetie-pie asked.

“I don’t know.” I frowned. “There are no options.”

“Are you sure?”

“You know, if I was still a member of the media, I’d march right in and …” That’s when the lightbulb went off.

I called the editor of a paper I used to write for and asked if I could borrow my old reporter cap for a few days. I explained my plan and he agreed.

I called the bank and told the president’s secretary that I was a reporter doing a story on bank regulations and policies. Would her boss mind being interviewed for my piece? (Here’s what I know about most people. They like being interviewed. Are impressed that someone might be interested in their thoughts and opinions.)

After placing me on hold, she said, “Yes! He would love to have you come in.”

Bingo!

I was escorted to the big guy’s office, introduced myself, and sat in a plush chair. I smiled and asked him to discuss the policy involving stopped checks being just temporary.

Without skipping a beat, he launched into the spiel I had already heard several times.

“Do you think that’s fair?” I asked.

He spread both hands. “That is our policy.” Then he squinted, perhaps suddenly aware that reporters report on things publicly.

I made a point of adjusting my recorder. “So, what would you say to people who have lost money in this way?

“Um …”

“In fact, what would you say to me, since I’m out fifteen-hundred dollars because of your policy?”

He froze. Our eyes met across his desk. Slowly, he picked up the phone. After a long conversation, he hung up. Then he described the very convoluted journey my money had taken through another bank and the difficulties involved in getting it back.

I folded my hands in my lap and waited.

“I’m not sure there’s anything we can do.” Now he looked nervous. The recorder kept whirring.

Perhaps it will come as no surprise that, relatively quickly, my fifteen-hundred dollars magically reappeared in my account. Would I have received a refund had I not been a reporter? I think not. As a bonus, my editor ran the story in which I advised those who place holds on checks to make sure they read the fine print.

So – all together now – let’s hear it for the power of the press! Hip hip hooray!

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 wanted to be a sportscaster from the time I was a teenager. And that is exactly what I eventually got to do. But back in those nascent days, I thought I understood the requirements of the job. However, I would learn that I did not.

While sportscasting requires the skills one might expect – being able to ask concise, relevant questions, having a good eye for B-roll, the ability to tell a good story, and the adept application of make-up – Yes, I’m a chick, so that too mattered! – there were other obligations about which no one informed me.

Take, for example, the day I was called to my boss’s office when I was working for a station in Rochester, New York.

“Go to the race track.” My news director – a man of few words, many of which were loud and angry – directed.

I considered whether I should ask why, but just said, “Sure!”

Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the horse track, where I generally expected to see horses, only to find a flock of ostriches. I noted that all the other local sportscasters were there, as well.

“What are we doing?” I asked the assemblage of on-camera sports folks.

“Racing ostriches,” someone called out.

“What?” I was flummoxed. Then I saw a harness and sulky being attached to a giant bird. I’d spent some time around standard bred race horses, so I was familiar with the get up and had, in fact, previously had the opportunity to warm up a racehorse on a track. But now I was looking at a nine-foot bird that looked none to happy about being strapped to the two-wheeled cart.

Still, after donning a helmet and easing myself into the seat, I, along with my sportscasting brethren, did indeed race those big, feathered beasts and lived to tell about it.

At a station in Phoenix, I received another summons. “Go to the state fair!”

“Aye Aye, Cap’n.” That was in my head. I did not address the news director in such fashion. It was probably more like, “Yes, Great Leader!”

My cameraman and I arrived at the state fairgrounds where we walked past myriad stands selling all things fried. Oreos, Twinkies, Bananas, Corn Dogs, and Indian Fry Bread. (Mercifully, this was before they started serving fried butter, a “delicacy” I have never been able to wrap my head around.)

We were escorted to a barn-like shed, which was, in fact, I big-ass barn. Farm animals bleated and squealed and mooed, as we walked by. We stopped in front of a pen filled with goats. I stared at the multi-colored beasts and they stared back. “Are we here to watch them race,” I asked, wondering how such an event might play on my evening sportscast.

As it turned out, there would be no goat racing, because I was there to milk a goat, a competitive event that pitted me against others of my ilk. Now, I don’t like milk unless it comes in the form of cheese or ice cream, so the idea of eliciting warm milk from a goat udder made me a bit queasy. And, the fact that I was supposed to perform said act on camera – looking fabulous, makeup perfect, hair in place – was something else entirely.

Did I milk the goat? Yes. Do I have any desire to touch those velvety teats ever again? Not in the slightest.

Another time I was directed to a drag strip. There, I was positioned in the front seat of a fast car and told to drive … fast. “Put the pedal to the metal when the green light flashes.” I was instructed.

My cameraman in the backseat looked dubious. I’m not really into speed, but I did as I was told and was shocked at how quickly the end of the track came into view. Terrified, I slammed on the brakes, a little too early perhaps. But we didn’t die. And no, like milking the goat, I never want to do that again either.

Over the course of my sportscasting career, as one might expect, I reported on sports. But I also took a horse through a jumping course, ice danced, and played an awkward match of polo. I guess all those extracurriculars are just part of the playbook. Still, I wish someone had told me ahead of time.

Perhaps I might have been more prepared.

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.

 

 

 

When I head back to school this year, something will be different. South Mountain High School, where I have been teaching for almost two decades, will no longer have a student newspaper. The Southwinds journalism classes, which have been in existence since the school was founded back in 1954, have been cancelled.

I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. After all, professional publications all over the country are folding under the weight of the Internet, where social media “reporters” can post anything anonymously and without regard for reliable sources and veracity. As a former journalist, the thought is almost physically painful.

I will now show my age by saying that when I was a reporter one had to verify facts by obtaining three separate sources who would agree that the information was accurate. (Imagine that!) It was also necessary to write a balanced story, meaning that those with opposing viewpoints needed to be given equal time. Reporters did not take sides, except in instances where stories were clearly labeled as commentary.

Today, the networks force reporters to opine in order to fill commercial slots and to make sure their listeners hear only what they already believe to be true. We wouldn’t want folks to make their own decisions based on fair and balanced reporting, now would we?

But back to the demise of school newspapers. Note that I am not blaming my school administrators. They have allowed my journalism classes to exists for years with just a small number of students. Unfortunately, the word journalism implies that students must write and, sadly, most have no interest. I suppose I should be grateful that the Southwinds has managed to survive this long.

Still, while I realize I am biased, I can think of nothing more valuable than producing well-rounded adults who can think for themselves. What that requires is the ability to discern whether a story is true or a fabrication. My journalism classes did just that: identify a source, determine their bias by reading their mission statement or biography, and read their comments carefully before deciding if they are worthy of your trust. My motto in regard to using sources in stories is, “When in doubt, leave them out.”

But, perhaps, my time has passed. Maybe people are more comfortable thinking that whatever they already believe is right. And that, conversely, everyone else must be wrong. Certainly, the networks have determined that this is an extremely profitable methodology. So, why mess with success.

Oh, wait! If no one is willing to change their opinion based on truth, where are we headed? If that idea doesn’t give you an uncomfortable chill down your spine, I don’t know what will. But I am afraid for our future.

I’ll give you an example. My classes often begin with a discussion on what’s happening in the news. No subject is out of bounds. Every year the same topic emerges. Mermaids. I am not kidding here. I always have numerous students who argue with me claiming half-human/half fish creatures exist. I then provide the facts: Even warm sea water is too cold for humans.  They would die of hypothermia. Our skin would slough off after being in the water too long. Why are there no mermaid remains?

Yet, invariably, they smile and shake their Disney fairytale-infested heads. “But I saw one on the Internet, Ms. Montgomery.”

Eiee! Even when I explain that I’m a scuba diver and have spent a great deal of time searching for sea life around the world and have witnessed nary a sign of a mermaid, they disagree. Because they want to believe in mermaids, they do. Facts don’t matter. Not even when I point out the obvious fakery in their YouTube mermaid videos.

However, by the end of the school year, after pounding them on their sweet heads about verifying sources and having a healthy dose of skepticism when faced with dubious news stories, many do come into the light.

But my journalism classes are done. Who will teach them about truth now?

 

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 stories behind the books. Recruiting beta readers. Authors and social media. And some quirky facts about me. These topics and more are discussed in my interview with the folks at The Cosy Dragon book blog.

Take a look.

Interview with Anne Montgomery

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.

 

“Ms. Montgomery, do you believe in aliens?”

Every year, at least one of my high school students asks the question.

“Of course, I do!” I say as if there could be no other reasonable response.

That confession is generally followed by giggles and a few nods here and there, confirming that I am not the only one who believes we are not alone.  I mean, come on, I grew up on the original Star Trek, enthralled by Captain Kirk and his pals, never noticing the cheesy effects and reveling in the idea that fascinating worlds exist “out there.”

Sometimes, I tell my students that if I were to see an interstellar alien craft I would wave my arms and shout, “Take me! Take me!” all the while recalling that long walk Richard Dreyfus took as Ray Neary in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, when he stepped up the ramp and into a strange new future escorted by wee, big- headed creatures.

But, as it turns out, I was all wrong. Because one day I was in just such a situation, and let’s just say I did not react the way I had always envisioned.

Here’s my story.

One sunny afternoon in Phoenix, I returned home from school. I got out of my truck, closed the door, and happened to glance up at the sky. And there it was. The flat black object hovered in the distance. I watched for a few moments, trying to discern what I was seeing. Then my mouth fell open. I turned, looking for other people, but I was alone. I watched the object move silently,  looking unlike any conventional flying machine.

Remember now that my city is famous for the Phoenix Lights, the 1997 UFO incident witnessed by thousands of people, perhaps the largest mass sighting of such an event in history, an occurrence that has never had a creditable explanation.

I was unable to move as the object traveled slowly toward me, getting larger as it approached. I half expected fighter jets to appear, but the sky was otherwise empty, save for some puffy white clouds.

Soon, I thought, I would have my moment. I might be offered the opportunity  “to go where no man has gone before.” Then I considered the alternative. Perhaps the aeronauts of said craft might just be hungry and grilled, red-headed human might be their favorite repast.

I am appalled to tell the truth here, but as a former reporter I find I must. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach and in the immortal words of King Arthur in Monte Python and the Holy Grail my brain screamed, “Run away! Run Away!”

Despite the fact that I was never blessed with running skills — ask anyone who knows me — I was poised to sprint faster than the aptly-named Usain Bolt. Then, the “alien ship” drifted down.

A black plastic bag blowing in the wind.

Later, after analyzing my response to this optical illusion, I was horrified by my cowardice. I wonder if Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock would ever forgive me?

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.