I have mentioned, lately, that I’m in a play. My first real foray onto the stage in over 40 years. The day I auditioned for the Starlight Community Theater production of Company, my first task was to fill out a form. Question 1: Rate your tap-dancing skills on a scale of one to ten. The fact that there wasn’t a zero option had me seriously overstating said abilities, when I was forced to circle one.

I have managed to avoid the tap-dancing issue over the last few months of rehearsals, but with opening night approaching, I could no longer put off the issue. I needed shoes.

I was directed to Nathalie & Co. Dancewear and Little Things for my theater shoes – strappy-heeled numbers that prevent the noisy clomping inherent with regular heels – and tap shoes. It was, as one might expect, a shop awash in pink and ruffles and leotards. The frilly atmosphere jarred me, at first. As those who know me can attest, I am confident and secure on a football field or a baseball diamond, but in a ballet/dance store not so much. I flashed on one of those unfortunate moments long past when my mother forced me to take ballet. Following a performance, the phrase, “bull in a china shop,” was bandied about. My lessons were, mercifully, curtailed after that.

But my fears were quickly allayed by the lovely Miss Nathalie herself. After a brief look at my bare feet, she produced the perfect sizes on the first try. Though I argued with her, initially, saying the shoes would never fit.

“I’ve been doing this a long time,” she said, smiling brightly.

Though I’m apprehensive, I will bring my tap shoes to rehearsal tonight. I consider that the director has deftly placed me near fabulous singers throughout the staging, which, well, makes me sound great. But I don’t think the same strategy will work for tap dancing. Then again, in a brilliant move, the choreographer has given me exactly six beats of tap. Six. That’s it. However, as Albert Einstien proved, time is relative. Thirty seconds of a massage are vastly different than thirty seconds of root-canal surgery.

How will my tap-dancing stint go? I have no idea. Either way, opening night looms. If you want to see how it all turns out, join me and the rest of the Company cast members for two-weekends of performances beginning on July 20.

https://www.starlightcommunitytheater.com/

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.

I’m in a play …

I’ll get back to that shortly.

But first, let’s talk about STEM.

As a high school teacher, I am delighted to see students becoming more interested in Science, Technology, Engineering and Math, and have great hope that today’s young people will conquer many of the problems our world currently faces.

High school is a time when kids should branch out and try new things, find what they’re good at and what they enjoy. My school has a vast array of electives, and we have more tech-based options on the way.

My concern is the obvious fact that some students are not inclined toward math and science. If I were a child today, I would not fit easily into the STEM world. Luckily, when I was growing up, there were myriad opportunities in theater and music, classes and clubs that made me want to go to school, despite my struggles in other courses.

Every student needs a bright spot in the school day, that class or club or team that excites them. With the STEM drive, it’s easy to see that other electives might get pushed aside. Note that I am not denigrating STEM, I am simply pointing out that as more students gravitate to those areas other elective classes will empty out.

What can we do? In regard to class options, not much. Children will make their choices and if not enough students sign up for choir or drama or dance or ceramics, those classes will be eliminated.

So, communities need to provide options. Now, back to the play. Starlight Community Theater in North Phoenix “is a 501c3 non-profit community theatre corporation dedicated to providing live theatre to entertain and enrich our community and to encourage youth and adult participation by providing growth and educational opportunities through a variety of theatrical experiences, both on and off stage.”

Friends talked me into auditioning for Starlight’s production of Company. I now find myself interacting on stage with mostly young people, and their drive and inspiring performances remind me of what I enjoyed about theater over 40 years ago.

What we need is your support. Eight performances of Company, the Tony Award-winning Steven Sondheim play about marriage and relationships, are scheduled for the last two weekends in July. Come and join us. Support Starlight and community-arts programs everywhere.

Let’s make sure our young people continue to have choices.

https://www.starlightcommunitytheater.com

 

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 wherever books are sold.

 

 

 

The 2018 Independent Publisher Book Awards

“The Independent Publisher Book Awards honor the year’s best independently published titles from around the world. The awards are intended to bring increased recognition to the thousands of exemplary independent, university, and self-published titles published each year.”

WEST-MOUNTAIN – BEST REGIONAL FICTION

BRONZE MEDAL

The Scent of Rain

By Anne Montgomery

(Treehouse Publishing Group)

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 wherever books are sold.

Praise for The Scent of Rain

Midwest Book Review

“A deftly crafted and compelling read from cover to cover.”

Childishly Passionate Reviews

“Essential reading for both young adults and adults alike. There is literally nothing else I can say, except buy this book.”

 The Haunted Reading Room

“A heartrending, heart-wrenching fictional narrative … Even in the midst of tribulations, The Scent of Rain celebrates the resilience and persistence of the human spirit.”

YABOOKSCENTRAL

“The characters in ‘The Scent of Rain’ added to an already amazing storyline.”

The Book Return

“I loved ‘The Scent of Rain’.  It is very apparent that Montgomery did extensive amounts of research … I absolutely think everyone should read it.”

Hasty Book List

“Whew. What a whirlwind. The story had been building and building and it all came to a tumbling end.”

 

 

 

I don’t recall the last time someone asked for my measurements. But, since I’m performing in a community theater production of Company, the producer contacted me with the following message: “We are continuing to source vintage costumes, please send your measurements …”

So, I searched for the tape measure I had seen once or twice over the last four decades, and, when it failed to appear, I had to purchase a new one.

In the interest of not having to squeeze myself into a costume that might cause me to beg for a fainting couch, I figured I had best go on line and make sure I was measuring myself correctly. Along the way I was not surprised to note that 36-24-36 – or the Barbie shape – remains the ideal, and has been considered such since the 1960s. Those of us who grew up during that time understand the bewilderment caused by staring at those naked dolls and then looking in the mirror.

After fussing with the tape, I couldn’t help but pop my measurements into a Body Type Calculator that claimed it would define my shape.  I needn’t have taken the time. I am relatively curveless, so the fact that my physique is described as straight or rectangular was no shock. As a teen, my mother once looked me up and down in a dressing room and announced, “You are built just like your father.” Then she emitted the tiniest of disappointed sighs. As I was growing up, I sometimes recalled that comment with some understandable confusion.

The Barbie architype had its roots in the 1910s, when Gibson Girls like Camille Clifford were in vogue. Then, like now, the female ideal was almost impossible to achieve.

In the sports world, where I spent a good chunk of my life as a reporter, the “tale of the tape” is an expression from boxing that refers to the pre-fight measurement of two opponents, a bit of pugilistic pageantry the point of which is to compare and contrast boxers physical attributes to one another.

And that, of course, is what we women do when viewing pictures and videos of the “perfect” people. We compare ourselves to them and, like my youthful Barbie musings, we rarely come out thinking positively about ourselves.

So, as I am older and presumably wiser, and believe in only optimistic thoughts … I am now cutting my new tape measure into itty bits.

 

Tickets are on sale now for the

Starlight Community Theater production of Company

https://www.starlightcommunitytheater.com/

 

 

I have a couple of freshman classes where I teach communications skills. My high school students dabble in public speaking and share stories and messages via print, radio, video, and digital design.

Recently, they were working on video commercials, projects that required them to identify their target audience, pick a product, design an original advertisement by creating scripts and storyboards, direct, shoot, and act, then edit their video into 30-second spots that incorporate music and graphics.

The project is a long and complicated process. As an enticement, I explain that people who can create successful marketing campaigns are in high demand and do extremely well, as far as their bank accounts are concerned. (The money angle is one that often motivates my students, and I am not shy about using the method.)

Part of the project’s process consists of my student teams convincing me that they recognize what the target audience wants. That’s what I had in mind when I saw the Versace Bright Crystal perfume ad. A very young-looking blond, preternaturally thin, clad in a silver-sequined sheath, enters a darkened room clutching a cut-glass bottle filled with amber liquid. She stares into the container as if searching for all the answers in the universe. Then, she reclines on a silky couch, where we are treated to a close-up of her strappy silver spikes, as she rubs her legs together. After which, in an apparent orgasmic frenzy, she caresses her face and neck with the bottle.

Hummmm?

I get that the target audience is supposed to be young women, since they wear the stuff. But the ad seems directed at men, who perhaps might be enticed to purchase the potion in the hope of transforming their significant other into the lovely, writhing, nymph. (Sure, gentlemen, that’ll work.)

I popped on my reporter’s cap and looked into who perfumers are selling to, which led me to a whole bunch of weird fragrance advertisements, all containing the prerequisite slim, stunning women and big blast of sexual innuendo.

Then I paused and wondered why these ads were annoying me.

Here’s the thing. We live in a bright new age where we are supposed to value girls and women for their minds and achievements. Then there’s the Me Too movement that points a big bad finger at those who have perpetrated sexual abuse against our sisters, wives, mothers, and daughters. And yet, we still have ads like Versace’s flooding our media feeds. Messages often displaying terribly young-looking hyper-sexualized actors, besotted with a product that insinuates they are easily infatuated with mindless pursuits, ads that imply females are worthy only in regard to their beauty and sexiness.

The problem is, and I hate to say this, these advertisements work. The U.S. fragrance industry brings in $5.2 billion annually. The advertisers creating these commercials are getting paid a ton of money for their ability to identify just what that target audience wants.

Ugh! How do I explain this to my students?

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh! Just a minute,” my vet said. A few moments later he returned with a squeeze bottle filled with amber liquid. “Give him a bath.”

“Him” would be my problem-child cat, Westin, an unlucky feline who was abandoned in a hotel room with 29 other cats. Westin was the last of the group to be adopted from the Arizona Humane Society – all named after hotels in an homage to their discovery – because of myriad health issues.

But when my foster son announced, “He’s just like me, Mom. No one wanted me either,” our fates became entwined. Poor kitty ruptured an eardrum the week after we brought him home. He didn’t eat for ten days. Every morning, I expected to find a sad, lifeless, little body. But then, one day, rather miraculously, Westin dug into a dish of food and he hasn’t stopped eating since.

He’s a big boy now, but allergies and infections continue to plague him, despite my ministrations. In fact, I do believe after the last year and a half of ear cleaning and drug dispensing, I should have at least a few credits in veterinary medicine.

I stared at my vet. I like him. He’s a hockey fan. So we talk about hockey and Westin.

“What do you mean give him a bath?” I tried to picture the event. For some reason, a cat wearing a shower cap popped into my head, no doubt courtesy of some silly web meme.

“Make sure you don’t get any soap in his eyes. And, let the suds stay on him for five minutes, before you rinse it off. Take him in the shower so he can’t get away.”

My vet said this so matter-of-factly, he might have been describing a process as effortless as making a cup of tea. I wondered just where I should hold on to Westin during his watery excursion, but I didn’t ask.

As I sometimes do when perplexed, I consulted my sweetie pie. After all, he was the one who assisted in the creation of the kitty purrito, the roll-the-cat-in-a-towel-device that allowed us to deposit drugs into Westin’s ears and mouth without incurring a trip to the emergency room.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” was Ryan’s initial response. Then, more thoughtfully, “I’ve heard some cats like water.”

We stared at one another, clearly understanding that Westin was probably not one of those rare beasts.

When I assured Ryan that a bath was required and that we were the bathees, he started his research. He asked the guys at work if they had ever bathed a cat. Seems there was quite a bit of laughing at that point.

“Maybe we could get Westin some booties,” Ryan recommended. “I don’t want to get all scratched up.”

Since I too did not relish the thought of my flesh being sliced into bloody streamers, I hit the Internet. I found a lovely pink and yellow kitty-bathing bag that didn’t look very practical and a black face mask called a cat muzzle that appeared to be something the Marquis de Sade might have fancied. And while there were kitty booties for cold weather, there didn’t seem to be any for the humane protection of humans. There was also a product called nail caps, a glue-on invention that the conscientious cat owner can apply to each kitty nail to prevent the scratching of furniture. As most non-crazy cat owners realize, you have two choices. Love you cats or your furniture. One can’t have both.

Tonight, we will tackle our sudsy assignment. Stay tuned for Act Two of A Cat in the Bath.

 

Anne Butler 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.

It is Memorial Day, a time which always reminds me of my favorite soldier. Don Clarkson taught me a lot about life during the years we umpired baseball together. And though I’ve run the story about our friendship before, I hope you’ll forgive me for sharing it again.

I miss you, Don.

__________________________________________________________________________

I was a reporter for a long time and so, like most of my brethren, I carry a skeptical gene. What this means is we need proof, concrete verification from unimpeachable sources. Prove it or I simply cannot believe.

I’m older now, and though perhaps not wiser, have softened up that gene a bit, so that I can sometimes see unexplained light glowing around its edges. What changed me? A strange encounter one day in a classroom at the school where I teach.

But first, I have to tell you about Don.

When I was nearing 40, I was fired from the TV station where I worked. I’d been a sports reporter and anchor for five stations at both the local and national levels. Surely, I’d get another job soon. As the months passed, then the years, and my hopes for a reporting job dimmed, I started applying for all kinds of positions. Despite a college degree and a resume that included a stint anchoring SportsCenter at ESPN, I couldn’t even get a job bartending. One night, I faced the prospect of an early morning gig standing on an assembly line, courtesy of a temp agency.

I cried.

I did have other skills, though it had been years since I’d spent my time officiating year round. Still, I’d called football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball games in the past, and faced with the prospect of standing Lucy-like before a conveyor belt, I’d take a whistle anytime.

One sunny afternoon, I walked toward a baseball field where young players were warming up for a Babe Ruth League contest. As a woman official, I took my uniform and equipment very seriously, not wanting to give the fans and coaches anything extra to harangue me about. So, I was shocked by the appearance of the man behind the plate. Was he really wearing red sweatpants? And using an old-fashioned outside chest protector like the umps in Norman Rockwell paintings?

One week ago …

I’m now leaving to do something I haven’t done in over 40 years. I’ll be back.

Later …

How did I allow my friends to talk me into this? I love them both dearly, and have gently pushed aside their suggestions over the years, using all kinds of excuses: I have to work. We’ll be on vacation. It’s football season. 

But, this time, I had absolutely no logical reason to refuse. And so, I entered the rear door of a small theater, where I was handed several forms the fill out. One asked me to rate myself from 1 to 10 in a number of areas. The first question: What is your tap- dancing skill level? At that point, I considered fleeing for the door. Tap dancing? Embarrassed, I circled 1, only because zero wasn’t an option.

A short time later, I stood alone on stage at the Starlight Community Theater in north Phoenix, waiting for the lead-in to “As Long As He Needs Me” from the musical Oliver. An orange and white sticker identified me as the second person to audition for the upcoming production of Company.

I know I said it had been over four decades since I’ve been in a play. I’m not counting my turn as the angry wrestling coach in Footloose, a play produced at the school where I teach. No audition was required. The drama folks just thought it would be cool to have teachers play the adults in the show. I had six lines and some chorus singing. It was fun and not too taxing. And I even got a gold Oscaresque trophy from my sweetie that says Anne Montgomery – Best Performance by a Teacher in a Supporting Role.

But today’s audition was wildly different. As I stood there, searching for notes and words, my knees started to shake rather violently. I tried to calm myself. Come on, when you were a sportscaster, you were on live TV probably 2,000 times. You swim with big ass sharks that might bite you, if you don’t behave properly in their watery world. You face down angry coaches as a referee on the football field. You’re a high school teacher.

R-E-L-A-X!

But nothing worked. As I fought to curtail my shaking, I choked on the high notes. The polite clapping when I finished was just that … polite.

We auditioners were told that the director would be in touch to let us know if we would be invited to the next day’s call backs. So, I went home to wait.

“Did you get a part?” Ryan asked.

I looked at my watch. It was almost 6:00 PM. “They haven’t called.”

“Should we go get ice cream?”

Ryan knew of my failure forays to Dairy Queen when I was a struggling young ice dancer. I would have to skate before three judges and then wait for the dreaded list of those who passed their tests to be posted for everyone to read. Whenever my name didn’t appear, my father would hand me a few dollars and send me across the street for a Hot Fudge Brownie Delight to soothe my wounded spirit.

While we did drive past Dairy Queen, we didn’t stop. I wasn’t ready for ice cream.

Later that night, after checking my e-mail and finding nothing new, I went to bed and reconfigured my summer plans as I fell asleep.

The next day …

Holy crap! I read the e-mail again. My call back was set for 1:00 PM. Now I would have to sing “These Are the Ladies Who Lunch.” I was being asked to audition for the part of Joanne, the thrice-married, acerbic, unhappy alcoholic.

There were four of us, clandestinely eyeing one another, sizing up our chances. I’d heard them sing the day before. All had lovely voices.

A little over 24 hours earlier, I’d faced that frightening audition. Strangely, this time felt different. I’m not sure how it happened. But, rather magically, my nerves had fled. I think, something stirred long ago memories of being comfortable on a stage. Enjoying the tension and the audience. When my turn came, I sang, just for the joy of it.

That evening, I got a call from the director inviting me to play Joanne.

“Yes!” I said, for the first time, realizing just how much I wanted the part.

Today …

Rehearsals begin this afternoon. I’ll let you know how that goes.

 

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.

 

When I first set my sights on being a sportscaster, I considered the five main team spectator sports I might be asked to cover: football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball. Then, I became a certified amateur official in each one, so that I might better understand the games.

What I never considered were the myriad other sports I might be asked to report upon. I recall the day my news director in Rochester, N.Y. – a cranky sort who didn’t allow much in the way of discussion – informed me that I would be driving about 60 miles to do a story on curling. I considered asking him what curling was, but decided against that approach. Today, of course, a quick search on Google would clarify the ins and outs of the strange ice sport that involves little brooms and a “rock” resembling a squashed bowling bowl, but back then there was nowhere to turn for enlightenment. And so, after driving many miles along the barren edge of Lake Ontario, I threw myself at the slider shoes of the curling club members and admitted my ignorance.

Later, when I worked in Phoenix, I was asked to do a series on local athletes who would be competing in the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, South Korea. And so, one bright morning, I faced archer Jay Barrs who would go on to win an individual gold medal at the Games. Had I understood his exceptional skill-level, I might have felt just a little less uncomfortable about my stand-up. (A stand-up, for the uniformed, is the moment in a TV story when the reporter can be seen on camera. It’s the glory shot for we folks with big egos – and generally most of us can’t get our heads through a door.)

The thing about a stand-up is that it should be creative and memorable. I pondered my options. Then, without really thinking it through, I positioned myself just in front of the edge of the target.

My cameraman eyed me.

“Go ahead and shoot, Jay. I’ll stay right here,” I called as as he wondered off with his bow.

His walk to the shooting line seemed to take an extremely long time, during which I considered the possible outcomes. Of course, as he was on the Olympic team, he couldn’t possibly miss, right? But what if he sneezed or became distracted? Might I be wearing an errant arrow in my forehead?

“Ready?” My cameraman asked.

The good news was that Jay Barrs slammed those arrows into the target with picture-perfect accuracy and I managed to perform my stand-up without losing my breakfast.

Then there was the Olympic equestrian, a man whose name escapes me, but whose attitude lingers. I interviewed him, then watched as he took his horse through the jumps, the two gliding artfully over numerous raised rails and once up and over a high bar and down into a water feature. When he finished, he slid gracefully off the beast.

“I like to ride,” I said, only to make conversation.

He cocked an eyebrow, then tossed me the reins. “Go ahead.” He smirked.

What I wanted to say was that I liked to ride through a pretty forest and walk a horse through gentle streams, and, on rare occasions, gallop a bit, if there’s a clear, unimpeded path on which to travel.

He crossed his arms and stared at me.

I know a dare when I see one. So, stupidly, I pulled myself up onto that beautiful animal, and was immediately horrified to discover there was no pommel on the saddle. The rounded appendage one can grip should they be in danger of taking a giant header was nowhere to be found. Seems they don’t use them on British saddles.

Equestrian Man glared at me, a look that said I’d never ride the course.

And, he was almost right, because when I dug my heels into that horse’s sides and went hurtling toward that first jump, I panicked and pulled hard on the reins just a few feet short of the barrier.

I eyed my cameraman, who was shaking his head, acknowledging what I already knew. This was a bad idea. But, I couldn’t let it go. I walked the horse back to the starting point and took a breath.

Moments later, we were flying over that first jump. And then the next. I grabbed a big hunk of that horse’s mane and held on as we went up and over the last barrier and splashed down into the water. A long straightaway at a hard gallop completed the course.

When we stopped, I couldn’t dismount. I was shaking and thought I might be ill. When I finally slipped to the ground, my unsteady legs threatened to deposit me in the dirt. The equestrian, without saying a word, took the reins and led the beast away.

“You OK?” my cameraman asked.

“Give me a minute.”

Later, in the newsroom, after viewing my decidedly inelegant ride, my news director was the one who would need a minute. He looked as if he might have a stroke. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

He walked off shaking his head.

After that, I got to go back to covering safe sports. Like football.

 

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.