Is collecting things normal?

March 23, 2026March 24, 20264 Comments

***Rock collecting in the Carlotta Copper Mine in Arizona: Yes, it was searingly hot, but avid collectors are not easily deterred.***

Did you ever wonder why humans are so big on collecting things? Like refrigerator magnets, stamps, sports trading cards, coins, Barbie dolls, and salt and pepper shakers? Some of you will now pipe up and say, “Well, gosh, Anne, someday my collection of tiny teacups might be really valuable.” And while that may be, most of what we collect will just provide consternation for those who must clean up after we’re gone.

For me the issue is rocks. Upon entering my living room you’ll see a huge case holding about 400 mineral specimens. Myriad others are scattered in every room of my home. Which has me wondering, again, why some of us are compelled to stockpile things.

I do understand that humans are prewired to collect. Back in our hunter-gatherer days, those who could find nuts and berries and other eatable plants were the stars of our traveling villages, and their skills no doubt led to our survival as a species. But it is those objects that serve no real purpose that had me popping on my thinking cap.

According to the Psychology Today article Collecting: An Urge That’s Hard to Resist, “Around 33 to 40 percent of the American population collects one thing or another. Yet little is known about the mysterious factors that motivate these often-passionate individuals to collect.”

It’s possible that the hunt itself is a contributing factor for collectors. There is a certain exhilaration in scanning that antique shop, honing in on the perfect teapot, and adding it to the fifty you already have at home.

***There’s always room for one more rock.***

There is also a social aspect to collecting. Often, we seek out others who share our particular passion, as I did recently on a hot Saturday in Arizona. Despite record-breaking temperatures, my fellow rock collectors and I descended into a working copper mine where we hammered away at massive pieces of stone. It was sweaty, dirty work and still there were smiles all around.

“Perhaps their love of objects came first; then, somewhere along the line, they realize there are people like themselves. They may find them independently or join organizations for like-minded people. Friendships forged through these vehicles no doubt expand social lives.”

Then there’s the idea that our desire to collect might be all about a long-lost sensation, something called “anticipation.” (You younger folks can google it.). “(T)he collector’s craving allows her to imagine anything she wants about the desired returns the object will bring. We know that it is in this phase that the pleasure center burns most brightly. Once the prize is obtained, the pleasure center quiets. In other words, the anticipation of the reward is more exciting to our pleasure center than possessing it.”

Perhaps it all comes down to wanting to surround ourselves with beauty, which, as we know, is in the eye of the beholder. In any case, collecting things is a normal human pursuit, despite what my mother used to say when my rocks began taking over my bedroom.

I’ll let my AI friend have the last word. “(Collecting) is a universal behavior driven by the desire to create order, nostalgia, or passion, often providing mental health benefits like joy and social connection.”

Exactly!

THE CASTLE

ANNE MONTGOMERY

Suspense/Thriller

Ancient ruins. Haunted memories. A ruthless predator. Can Maggie survive the ghosts of her past – and the monster hiding in plain sight?

When she returns to her job as a National Park Ranger at “The Castle”—a centuried-old Native American pueblo carved into an Arizona cliff—Maggie hopes the comfort of familiar ground will help her heal. Battling trauma and the grief of unimaginable loss, Maggie’s days are carefully measured, her life held together by the thinnest of threads.

But strange things are happening at the park. A mysterious child appears and vanishes without a trace. And a predator watches her every move, planning his attack.

With the help of friends, fellow survivors, and the land itself, Maggie begins to reclaim her strength. But the danger is closer than she knows, and soon Maggie will have to face a deadly threat… and her deepest fears.

Bookstores, libraries, and other booksellers can order copies directly from the Ingram Catalog.

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Praise for The Castle

“A deftly written and riveting read from cover to cover, “The Castle” effectively showcases author Anne Montgomery’s genuine mastery of the Romantic Suspense genre.” – Midwest Book Review

“A slow burn thriller, mixed in with a touch of mystical realism…A true five-star experience!” – Sara Steven Chick Lit Central

“A beautifully considered, sumptuous novel from a skilled storyteller.” – SaraRose Auburn Writing & Reviews

“This is a novel about good rage, about channeling the injustices of the world around us and fighting to do some good with both words and deeds. Lucky for readers, it was penned by a maestra like Anne Montgomery, so that we got a tense, powerful novel in the bargain too.” – Jennifer deBie-Rosie Amber Book Reviews

“Ms. Montgomery manipulates uncomfortable subjects and dark suspense into a gripping tale with hints of romance and humor carefully guiding readers on an informative journey of survival and self-discovery.“ Tonya Mathenia InD’tale Magazine

“Soul-stirring. A brilliant book…Truly a masterpiece.” – Anu Menon Thought is Free Book Blog

“I was gripped from start to end.” – Katherine Hayward Pérez Just Katherine Blog

“Ms. Montgomery has an almost magical talent to draw the reader into the worlds she creates through her words. Her characters are interesting, vulnerable and strong. While describing the locations in which her books are set, she weaves history with vivid images, immersing the reader in a hard-to-put-down story full of history, beauty and mystery.” – Margaret Millmore Author

A trip into the Australian Outback and the best bed ever

May 10, 2025Leave a comment

***Rocks are quite lovely, unless you have to sleep on them.***

It’s just about time for those big bed sales, so today we’ll talk about beds. As in the best bed ever! Where I found it just might surprise you.

Here’s my story.

So you know, I’m a life-long rock collector—there are home movies of me in diapers putting rocks in cups—and if you visit my house, the first thing you’ll see is a huge, glass case with about 400 specimens dominating my living room. If I’ve had enough wine, I’ll tell you where each and every one of them came from, whether you want to know or not, so frequent visitors make sure to steer clear of my collection if they want to avoid an earful.

A number of years ago, my sweetie pie and I traveled half way around the world to Perth, Australia, where we participated in the Australian Mineral Symposium. There we met about 40 enthusiasts—geology professors, miners, and hobbyists—who, like me, are fascinated by the rock world.

The Aussie rockers immediately took us under their wings. After a few days of speakers discussing gold—the featured mineral of the year, talks punctuated by periodic tea breaks, which for an avid tea drinker like me seemed almost heavenly—we formed a caravan and set off for the wilds of Western Australia.

Our trek took us through the towns of Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie, both centered in the area where the great gold rush of 1892 began, and another called Widgiemooltha. No, the names don’t roll easily off an American tongue, but they were fascinating places nonetheless.

While we stayed in small hotels early on, eventually we made camp under the stars. Since Ryan and I live in Arizona’s Sonoran Desert, the landscape seemed familiar, though the kangaroos and emus bouncing about made it clear we were far from home. Following dinner, we sat around a beautiful campfire that sent sparkling embers into the star-splashed night sky.

***My love of rocks sent me and my sweetie pie half way around the world to Australia.***

Later that night, Ryan wrestled my air mattresses from the car, an embarrassing accommodation for me as I’d spent quite a bit of time camping in my youth when sleeping directly on the ground posed no adverse reactions. But—in a concession to age and myriad broken body parts—we had both brought along air mattresses, even though the 90-something man who’d joined us seemed just fine sleeping on the ground.

Finally, we adjusted ourselves in our little tent and snuggled down in our sleeping bags, but a few hours later I awoke. Something wasn’t right. A rock was sticking in my back. My air mattress had failed.

“Ry,” I whispered, even though the other campers were too far away to hear.

He lifted his head, groggy with sleep and blinked. “What?”

“There’s no air in my air mattress.”

He huffed and sat up, then squinted at me. “Okay, take mine.”

Wasn’t that sweet? There was a time in my life when I would have never admitted weakness, but I was cold and tired and didn’t miss a beat. “Thank you!”

I couldn’t bring myself to say that even with the air mattress, I was uncomfortable, especially with Ryan tossing and turning, trying to find some modicum of comfort on the cold, rocky ground.

We emerged from our tent blurry-eyed and cranky the next morning, though all the other members of our group were extraordinarily chipper, so we kept our misery to ourselves. Ryan and I did our best to buck up, and while a visit to a fantastic chrysoprase mine did the trick for a while, by dusk we were exhausted.

“Now, you two be careful,” one of our leaders said as we prepared to hit the road. “The roos are out. Keep a watch.”

We’d seen the iconic Australian animals hopping about in the distance every day, but had viewed none up close.

“You scan the road while I drive,” Ryan said.

***We’d been warned that the kangaroos were out, still we couldn’t avoid hitting one with our rental car.***

I nodded and focused on the blacktop ahead.

A short time later, a red-eyed head appeared in the roadway. “Kanga…” But it was too late. We slammed into Skippy and the big marsupial went flying off into the brush. Ry got out to inspect the damage and I peered around the roadside, hoping I didn’t see the poor kangaroo lying in anguish, but he’d disappeared.

“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked hopefully.

“Not a chance,” Ry said as he inspected the front end of the rental car.

“Can we drive?” I looked up and down the empty road as dusk settled. Our friends had gone ahead, unaware that we’d had an accident. By this time we were so tired we could barely see. Luckily, the damage appeared to be mostly cosmetic. (Later, when we tried to explain to our insurance agent that we’d hit a kangaroo with a rental car, he didn’t seem to believe us. Go figure.)

When we finally arrived at our destination we were ushered across a small, rickety walkway that boasted numerous holes. The room was constructed of bare boards and held a small bed and not much else. We were to share a bathroom with another couple. The accommodations could be gently described as spartan. And yet, after a communal meal that warmed our bellies and a few rounds of wine and beer, we fell into that unassuming, lumpy-looking bed only to discover that it was the most comfortable bed we’d ever been in.

How is that possible? I guess we could only compare it to the previous evening when we’d slept on rocks in the cold.

“Ain’t this grand?” I said as I snuggled under the covers.

But Ry was already fast asleep.

Your Forgotten Sons

Inspired by a true story

Anne Montgomery

Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to a Graves Registration Company, where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Lorraine, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?

Release Date: June 6, 2024

Bookstores, libraries, and other booksellers can order copies directly from the Ingram Catalog.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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Waiting for Bigfoot: A Christmas Story

December 21, 2024December 22, 20242 Comments

I have just returned from a trip to the Pacific Northwest, which considering that I’ve lived in Phoenix, Arizona for the last three decades was quite a different experience. It was cold and wet. And this was not the kind rain we get in Phoenix. No! This was freezing cold rain, the kind that trickles down the back of your neck and makes you shiver. And gosh, it was constantly dark. It felt like dinnertime all day long.

We’d been staying with Ryan’s stepmom who’d been living alone since his dad died unexpectedly on Christmas day last year. After a nice, week-long visit, we headed south in his father’s car, a vehicle we purchased since it had been sitting unused in the garage since Stanley died.

Despite the dark skies and threat of rain, we marked some rock-collecting sites to visit along the 1,400 mile journey home. I’m a rocker and no amount of inclement weather will stop me from going on a good rock hunt. And Ryan agrees. Okay, that last part was a lie. Ry, good sport that he is, humors me in regard to my obsession with rocks. So he just sighed a little when I directed him toward Quartzville Creek, Oregon, a place I could collected agates and jasper and petrified wood. “It’s only raining a little.” I smiled.

With pretty rocks dancing in my head, I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to the topography or the dark, low-hanging clouds when I pointed Ry toward the Cascade Mountains. We were about 20 miles into a high, thick forest when fat snowflakes started smacking into the windshield.

“I saw a sign that said this leads to the 5,” Ry said. “So let’s just stay on it.”

The road began to zig and zag and Ry clutched the wheel like a Formula One driver. Then, a few miles later, he shouted, “Shit! I think we have a flat tire!” He stared at the warning light on the dashboard.

“How’s that possible? We bought brand new tires less than 48-hours ago.” I didn’t wait for his reply. “Don’t worry! I have AAA!” I said in the cheeriest voice I could muster. Then I pulled out my phone and discovered…egads…no bars.

Ry pulled off the road. “I’m going to check the tires.” Then he jumped out and left the door wide open so the wind and snow whipped into the car.

I waited.

Then I waited some more.

But Ry had disappeared.

If you’ve never been in that part of the world, note that those murky forests can be rather forbidding. Trees are densely packed, some covered with thick green moss, skeletal branches reaching out as if ready to grab an unsuspecting passerby. For some reason, I pictured Brad and Janet on that stormy night they found themselves on Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s doorstep. And we know how that ended.

Then, I remembered Bigfoot, beacuse we were stalled right smack in the middle of his stomping grounds. Might the big guy appear, reach into the open door, and carry me off to his bachelor pad? Before I could ponder that scenario, Ry reappeared.

***While I was looking for rocks, I’m pretty sure Ry was thinking how happy he was to be on that cold rainy Oregon beach with me.***

“Where’d you go?” I said, sounding a bit desperate.

“The tires are fine. There was a guy parked down the road. He said to turn around and go back.”

So, we did.

It was two days after we’d survived our ordeal in the mountains that we stood in a parking lot unpacking the car. We were weary from a day of collecting on Oregon’s rugged beaches and looking forward to a warm bed and some dinner. That’s when a man hurried by. I only saw him for an instant. Well-built in a dark T-shirt and jeans. Something about him was familiar, but he quickly vanished into the night.

I forgot about the man until the next morning. Ry and I were having breakfast when I looked up and there he was at the Holiday Inn Express buffet getting a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, Santa!” I called, marveling at the way the guy with the hot bod had transformed into the Jolly Old Elf. Clearly, he must have been traveling incognito the previous night.

“Ho Ho Ho!” Santa looked at me and smiled. “Merry Christmas!”

Ryan turned around. “Hey, Santa! I’ve been a very naughty boy. How can I get back on the Good List?”

And there it was. The twinkle in his eye. It really was Santa! He clutched his drink, which I was now pretty sure was actually hot cocoa with whipped cream and a candy cane.

“Be nice to people,” he said. Then Santa winked and walked away. “Ho, ho, ho!” he called as he slipped past the front desk and out the door.

I looked at Ry for a moment. Didn’t he rescue me from the snowy Cascades and Bigfoot? Didn’t he take me to five cold rainy Oregon beaches so I could hunt for rocks. That’s pretty nice, don’t you think?

Here’s hoping that gets him a little closer to Santa’s Good List.