This is my cat.

His name is Westin.

This is my chair.

Well, it was my chair.

Now it’s Westin’s.

My kitty has purloined my favorite seat and turned it into a stuffing-shredded mess.  I find no appealing esthetic in the now-exposed wood or raked fabric. The fact that he picked a piece of furniture smack in the middle of the living room is especially galling. That he pretty much ignores the rest of the furniture is peculiar.

Then again, Westin has always been an odd beast. The story goes that he was found abandoned in a hotel room with 29 other cats. He was practically bald from illness and allergies, and though the folks at the Humane Society originally thought it might be kinder to euthanize him, they did not. After months at the shelter — and long after all the other cats had found homes — Westin’s picture appeared in the local paper. His adoption fee had dropped to 20 bucks, a sign that a needle was in his near future.

Despite a vivid description of the costs we faced, we took Westin home. After my foster son’s pronouncement that Westin was just like him — because no one had wanted him either — really, was there any other option?

That Westin is one expensive cat is a given. Three days after he came to live with us, he ruptured an eardrum and was unable to walk or eat for ten days. Every morning I expected to encounter a dead kitty sprawled on the carpet. But Westin is one tough feline.

Over the last several years, Westin has traveled to the vet so many times I’ve asked for a personal parking spot with his name on it. I always decline the offer of an itemized bill, because why would I want to know? I just hand over my American Express card and look away.

Westin is not a pretty cat. Black with gold eyes and a soft white belly. There’s a slight tilt to his head, a residual of his damaged ear. But, oh, the charm. He oozes charisma, planting himself squarely in the nearest lap and offering head bumps wherever he goes. Maybe that’s why, despite his health problems, the doctors at the shelter didn’t put Westin down.

“Nice chair,” my sweetie pie commented one recent evening as we shared a beer.

I rubbed the raw armrest. “Maybe I should get a new one.”

“Why? Then he’ll just destroy a new chair.”

Right. But, I struggle with lack of order. I can’t read the newspaper or eat dinner if there’s a crooked picture on the wall. I have to straighten it so life can go back to normal.

Note that our current predicament is not completely Westin’s fault. While the other kitties can go outside, he cannot. Westin is deaf, so inside he must remain.

I picked at the stray bits of fabric and stared around my living room, a place filled with things I’ve lovingly gathered on my adventures. The ragged chair amidst all the objects I’ve placed with such care bugs me.

But Ryan is right.

So, whenever you come to visit, be warned and don’t judge me when you see those stray bits of stuffing popping out of Westin’s chair.

You’ll just have to get used to it.

And so will I.

 

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

298 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 older I get the more things confuse me.

While en route to the farmer’s market one lovely Saturday morning, I spied a giant crane perched atop a new apartment building in downtown Phoenix. The towering machine resembled a monstrous metal bird.

“How’d they get that up there?” I asked my sweetie pie.

“What?”

“That crane.”

“In pieces,” he answered in a voice that said, Isn’t that obvious?”

In pieces. I couldn’t help but recall the weekend he put the pre-fab shed together in the backyard. He stood there proudly opening and closing the sliding doors, while I stared at the shocking number of left-over metal bits and pieces that remained on the ground.

I looked up again at the crane. “What if some of the screws are missing?” I felt an irrational desire to flee. “What if they didn’t put the parts back together correctly.”

Then, I got my car insurance bill. “Hey! How come I’m paying so much more? Did your bill go up too?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll call Vickie and ask,” he said.

Ryan returned from his chat with our insurance lady. “You’re old.”

“Pardon me?” I raised both eyebrows.

“Vicky said your rates went up because you’re an older woman.”

“But I haven’t had a ticket in almost thirty years,” I sputtered. “And, in my life, I’ve had one fender bender.”

Ryan shrugged. “That’s what she said. You’re in an age group that causes more accidents.”

I looked into the issue and found that as people age their vision, cognitive abilities, and reflexes tend to dull. I also learned that old people increasingly die in car crashes because they’re “frail”. Frail! No one has ever accused me of being frail.

Eieee!

Then, I got a letter telling me that the high blood pressure medication I’ve been taking for years might … gosh … cause cancer. “But don’t stop taking it!” the message emphatically stated.

Wait! You want me to keep taking a drug that could give me cancer?

Recently, I went to a high school football game. I arrived early, since I was serving as the referee. I’d contacted the school ahead of time, as I always do, identifying myself and my crew mates and the time they could expect us to arrive. I was escorted to the officials dressing room where I faced a sign that was prominently displayed on the door. No Females Permitted in the Locker Room after 4:00 PM. No Exceptions.

I paused. It was 5 o’clock.

The older I get the more things confuse me.

I have never cared much about cars. Never understood why people spend so much to get the newest, fastest, sleekest version with the most gadgets. The last vehicle I bought came after my mechanic pointed at my ancient Geo Prism and ordered me to drive it one last time.

“Take it to a dealership and turn it in,” he advised. “Get a new car!”

The day I abandoned my Prism in a dealer’s parking lot, I found a vehicle that spoke to me. It was a black Ford Ranger pickup. Slightly used – I think I read 14 thousand miles on the speedometer. Black paint sparkled in the Arizona sun. I drove it around the block.

“That’s the one,” I said to my sweetie pie, who’d accompanied me on my car hunt. Following what felt like half a day of paperwork, I drove my new truck home.

Later, I stood proudly by my recent purchase. My mother squinted at the pickup’s bed where I’d installed a bright silver toolbox to hold my rock collecting gear, camping equipment, and emergency rations on the off chance I might find myself stuck in the wilderness for any length of time.

She stared at me. “Aren’t you afraid of what people will think of you?”

“I am a black pickup kind of girl, Mom.”

She shook her head.

“Really.”

My truck is now going on 19. Together we’ve had countless adventures into the mountains and deserts, some wondrous, some difficult, and a few rather dangerous, in retrospect. Still, we always made it home. Eventually.

Then, my parents, in their nineties, mercifully decided to give up their car. I had been begging them for years to stop driving. Anyone who’s butted up against that major-life decision understands the complexities inherent in taking the keys away from mom and dad.

“We’ll sell the car,” my mother finally announced.

That vehicle, a blue 2010 Ford Fusion, now sits in my driveway. Though my mom continues to tell anyone who will listen that I took the car, Ryan and I wrote them a check for a little over seven grand.

A funny thing happened when I started driving the Fusion. I liked the built-in bells and whistles. Note that the vehicle is not high end, but compared to my truck, the little car is like owning a rocket ship. We call her Zippy. Now, when I drive my pickup, it feels only slightly more mobile than a covered wagon.

Then I got a letter in the mail: AIRBAG RECALL! I stared at the red triangle depicting a driver facing a steering wheel that had burst into flames. I read the section that said, “Until parts are available … your dealer is authorized to provide you with a rental vehicle.”

Today, a 2018 Ford Fusion Platinum sits in my driveway. The car boasts a power tilt/telescoping steering column with memory, dual integrated bright exhaust, premium leather-wrapped and stitched instrument panel and console rails, and myriad other extras I couldn’t possibly explain. The overall effect is … well …Wow!

I’ve had the rental for several months. It seems Ford is having a great deal of trouble getting the parts to fix the airbag that might explode and shred me with shrapnel.  Apparently, 37 million vehicles have been identified as needing the fix, and more are expected to be added to the list. Takata, the maker of the defective airbags, announced it might take five years to install all the replacements.

I wonder sometimes, especially when those comfy leather seats are hugging me in their soft embrace, when I will have to return my pretty sedan. Neither Ford nor the rental company seem to care that the $40,000 vehicle is occupying space in my driveway day after day.

I have never cared much about cars. Never understood why people spend so much to get the newest, fastest, sleekest version with the most gadgets. Until now.

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

298 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 Secret Journals of Adolf Hitler: Volume 1 – The Anointed goes where no other novel I’ve read has gone before: inside the head of the most notorious monster in the history of the human race, a man who either directly or indirecty led to the deaths of an estimated 50 and 80 million people.

A.G. Morgan introduces us to the four-year-old Hitler the day he is rescued from drowning, after he fell though the ice of a frozen river. It was impossible not wonder what terrors might have been avoided had Hitler the child perished that day.

That the boy is troubled is obvious. He paints his father as a sadistic brute and his mother as a saint. He is self-centered, devoid of empathy, and, as he grows older, his delusions of grandeur and the belief that he is anointed to save Germany become overwhelming.

Those around the young Hitler simply laugh off his grandiose claims and bizzarre behavior. Today, such a child would be sent to therapy in order to sort out their deranged and sometimes violent actions. What’s clear is that Hitler, a puny boy who felt bullied and betrayed by most everyone he came in contact with, would carry rage and insecurity throughout the course of his life.

I have studied a great deal about Hitler’s rise and fall and, as a teacher, have had the opportunity to share my findings with my students. I am also a former reporter. I mention these facts because I am extremely impressed with Morgan’s extensive research on the dictator and his times.

It must have been difficult for Morgan to insert herself inside the mind of such a repugnant individual. Hitler’s thoughts on race issues are noxious, and are rendered even more obscene when he shares them publically, giving voice to his dream of racial purity and his belief in the superiority of the Aryan people.

In a different time and place, Hitler might have died a homeless beggar, muttering to himself in the streets. In fact, for several years after his dream of becoming a famous painter dissolved when he was not accepted into art school, Hitler was starving and destitute. But he lived in post-World War I Germany, beaten to a pulp by the unyielding Treaty of Versailles, which left the country in tatters.  Germany was the perfect breeding ground for Hitler. A nation of desperate people, distrusting of the establishment they blamed for losing the war, and eager for scapegoats they could condemn for their own failures.

The Secret Journals of Adolf Hitler: Volume 1 – The Anointed paints a chilling portrait of the molding of a megalomaniac. The book ends with Hitler in prison, following the failed Beer Hall Putsch in 1923. Book two in the series is The Struggle. I plan on reading that one, as well.

 

Here’s a look at my novel A Light in the Desert which is set for release on

November 6, 2018.

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

298 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.

 For the first half of my adult life I didn’t know any children.

I was only around kids when I officiated amateur sports, but as soon as those games ended, I went home. What children did off the fields where I blew whistles and called balls and strikes was completely out of my purview.

When you consider that I also never had any biological children – though I tried – and came from a small family devoid of any regular kid contact, you can see why I never gave much thought to children. I don’t know if I blocked young people out of my mind once I realized I would never produce any of my own, but I might have.

And yet, today, as an author, the plight of children often takes center stage in my novels.

Almost two decades ago, I walked into my first classroom as a teacher. A mid-life career change following my years as a sports reporter propelled me into a Title I high school in Phoenix, where the vast majority of students live in poverty and are often afflicted with the privations inherent in a world where there is not enough food, where drugs and alcohol run rampant, and where children are sometimes left adrift without caring adults to guide them.

I did not notice right away that children kept appearing in my books. It could have happened after the child who told me she was repeatedly raped by a relative and her family blamed her. It might have been after a 15-year-old student called me from a group foster-care facility and told me he was hungry. Or it might have been the day I chastised a student for being repeatedly late to class, only to discover he was homeless.

Whatever the catalyst, young people and their ability to adapt and thrive in severe situations have become part of the stories I tell. My upcoming release, A Light in the Desert, recounts the life of a lonely pregnant teenager, one with a facial deformity that has made her the subject of ridicule and prevented her from attending school. And yet, Kelly shows grace and grit when faced with challenges, and possesses an understanding of human nature that sometimes surpasses the adults around her.

Today, I spend my work-days surrounded by my students. And, by a quirky twist, I am a mom, as well. Though my boys – former students who came my way via the foster care system – are now in their twenties, they remain my children. (I don’t think they’ll mind if I call them that.)

So, I’m guessing, young people and the issues they face will continue to appear in my writing.

 

 

Mystery/Suspense

Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group

298 Pages

Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook

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.

 

 

 

Authors are often asked how they create characters. In my case, as my friends and family now realize, they are sometimes inspired by people I know.

My long-time sweetie pie seemed shocked when he read his words coming out of a character’s mouth.

“Hey! I said that!”

“Yes, you did.” I admitted. “Thank you.”

As a former reporter, I tend to think everyone’s words are fair game. If you’re going to fling them out into the universe, don’t be upset if I catch them and keep them for my own.

At other times, I’ve incorporated friends’ stories into my characters. In my upcoming book, A Light in the Desert, which is scheduled for release on November 6, 2018, I borrowed numerous times from the life of my dear late friend Don Clarkson. I have written before about how Don and I met umpiring amateur baseball, a time during which I struggled with debt, a crumbling marriage, and joblessness following what would be the end of my TV-reporting career. That I spent a great deal of time feeling sorry for myself is an understatement.

Don, on the other hand, complained very little. This was astonishing in retrospect, considering the suffering he endured. Don was a decorated Green Beret, a sergeant who served alongside South Vietnam’s ARVN soldiers in the 9^th Infantry during the war. His time in country was brutal and, like many servicemen and women, Don relived those experiences until he died at the age of 61 from a combination of Post Traumatic Stress and the myriad devastating effects of Agent Orange poisoning.

Don and I umpired baseball together for five years. During that time, he shared his stories with me. He was gravely wounded and left to die, but was saved by a South Vietnamese soldier who returned to the aftermath of a jungle fight to look for him. He was sometimes crushed by guilt, because of war-time life-and-death decisions and because – unlike many of the men he knew – he had managed to survive and come home. Tears would well in his eyes as he spoke about the soldiers – his brothers – that were lost.

And still, when we would sit in our folding chairs in a school parking lot, waiting for the second half of a double-header to begin, he sometimes spoke about the beauty of Vietnam and his love and admiration for the people who lived there.

One of the main characters in A Light in the Desert, is, like Don, a Vietnam veteran with memories that torment him. But Jason Ramm is also a sniper turned post-war governmental assassin, which Don was not. What they share is a deep desire for peace and forgiveness, which neither of them believe they deserve.

I wrote A Light in the Desert for Don. His wife Marie read the story to him before he died. I believe he understood Jason Ramm and recognized him as a brother. I also know that Don seemed appreciative that I shared some of his story and that I dedicated the book to him.

I miss my friend and the talks we used to have. Though he struggled mightily, Don always looked for the best in people and for beauty in the world.

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.

In 1995, I became intrigued by a crime. The deadly sabotage of the Amtrak Sunset Limited near remote Hyder, Arizona remains a cold-case 23 years later. The FBI continues to offer a $310,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible.

My novel, A Light in the Desert, is based on the crime and, as a former reporter, I made sure the facts surrounding the event are as they occurred.  The book was originally published in 2004. That said, I am very excited that Treehouse Publishing, a branch of the Amphorae Publishing Group – the folks who released my novel The Scent of Rain – decided to reissue the book.

But A Light in the Desert, which is set for release on November 6, 2018, is more than a detailed account of an act that could be a copy-cat crime based on a similar unsolved sabotage that killed 24 people in Harney, Nevada in 1939. My novels are always about people who struggle with events and issues in their lives and communities.

I am looking forward to sharing introductions of those characters with you over the next weeks. There’s the protagonist, a former military sniper who is succumbing to a strange form of mental illness called the Jerusalem Syndrome, the pregnant 16-year-old shunned because of a facial disfigurement, the Children of Light who have secluded themselves in the desert for decades as they wait for the rapture, and others.

Thank you for joining me on this adventure.

 

Anne Montgomery’s novel, The Scent of Rain – winner of the 2018 Independent Publisher Book Awards West-Mountain – Best Regional Fiction Bronze Medal – 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 Anomaly

Michael Rutger

Grand Central Publishing

What a romp!

I had just finished a deep, insightful, and quite frankly, difficult-to-read novel, and Michael Rutger’s The Anomaly was the perfect antidote. I am not generally a fast reader, still I finished this book in 24 hours. (OK, I was on vacation at the time, but for me, such rapid reading is quite a feat.)

Rutgers’s tale centers around the often hysterical and periodically terrifying story of Nolan Moore, one of those supposed “experts” we are often introduced to on those TV shows that purport to prove that aliens do exist, the pyramids were built by extra-terrestrials, and monsters walk among us. That Moore is very intelligent and well-spoken does little to boost his self-esteem. He’s pretty sure he’s a boob, which makes both his internal and external dialogue hilarious.

The basis of the book can be found in a 1909 article published in the Phoenix Gazette documenting a strange set of Grand Canyon caves and relics, supposedly linking the American Southwest with ancient Egypt. Moore, with his camera crew in tow, is on a quest to locate the caves, though he doesn’t really expect to find anything. That’s his shtick.

The story, which can be labeled as mystery, suspense, and horror with some comedy thrown in, borrows liberally from well-known films. Which makes sense since Rutger is a screenwriter. There’s actually a giant, rolling stone ball – à la Indian Jones – and a horrid monster clawing its way out of an unfortunate reporter’s belly – think Alien – still, as silly as that sounds, it works.

The hunt takes the crew down the Colorado River, up the Canyon walls, and into the cave system. Note that this is not a story for the claustrophobic. Lots of squeezing though tight tunnels and brushes with bizarre creatures in the dark. What they find is … really not the point. It is the journey that matters and who is alive at the end to recount the tale.

I will admit here to being an avowed Trekkie and a lover of the original X-Files. And I read all of Eric von Daniken’s books about the mysteries of the unexplained as a teenager. So, I am probably right smack in the middle of Rutger’s target audience. But, even if your not part of that crew, read The Anomaly, just for the fun of it.

 

Anne Montgomery’s latest 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 93-year-old mom insisted on having hip-replacement surgery.

“You might die on the table,” the doctor said.

“I don’t care!” She jutted her chin at the man. “I’m sick of the pain.”

That my mother would eventually win the argument was no surprise. People who know Mary Anne stopped disagreeing with her years ago. There’s simply no point. She’s always right.

She’d had the other hip done 11 years earlier with no complications, so she was shocked when she recovered from the anesthesia and was overwhelmed with pain and nausea. She refused to take pain medication and claimed that the surgery had been botched.

I explained that recovery would take time and she needed to reconsider the pain meds. She had in-home nursing and physical therapy, professionals who repeatedly reminded her that it might be months before she would feel better.

Prior to the operation, I had tried out for a play. When I got a part, I explained to my mom that I would be required to attend rehearsals. She insisted that I not let her surgery get in the way. So, I went home.

Mom struggled. Not only with the pain but with my 95-year-old dad. He’s in perfect health, and can tell you vivid stories about World War II and growing up in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania. But he can’t recall what you asked him to do ten seconds earlier.

The caregivers knew to call me, if I could be of some assistance. I spoke with my mom and dad on the phone. My brother came down to help out for a while. Still, I felt guilty for not being there.

Last weekend, the Starlight Community Theater production of the musical comedy Company ended its eight-show run. Both my mom and dad were in the audience, the first time they’ve seen me perform in a play in over 40 years.

It was not until I returned to their home in Tucson that I would learn how the play helped my mother heal. As I was leaving the independent-living facility, a woman stopped me.

“How’s your mom doing?” she smiled.

“Feisty as ever. I just brought them home. They came up to Phoenix to see me perform in a show.”

“The play. Yes, I know.” She stared for a moment. “When your mom first started rehab she was depressed and stopped eating.”

“Really?”  No one had told me.

“Then she announced that she would be attending your play. And she started eating again and doing her exercises.”

“I had no idea.”

On the drive home, I wondered whether my mom would have rebounded had she not had the play to look forward to. While I don’t know the answer, I realized the importance of looking ahead to something that gives us joy. Anticipation is a dying art in our instant-gratification world. Perhaps, we should practice the emotion more often.

 

Anne Montgomery’s latest 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.