When my dad was 92, he
got sick.  With the exception of some
childhood bouts of pneumonia—the result of growing up in a house full of
chain-smoking coal miners—he’d been robustly healthy his entire life. That he
survived the twin assaults of Valley Fever and pneumonia was surprising. Before
dying just a week shy of 97, he still took ballroom dance lessons, required not
a single medication, and read the New York Times every
day.

My
father was an ice dancer until he was 80. Then he took up ballroom.

However,
my dad was not the same as he was before his illness. His mind was altered,
leaving him fuzzy in the short-term memory department. Ironically, and like
many elderly people, he has no trouble recalling in vivid detail events that
occurred many decades ago. The Japanese kamikaze that flew so close to his
destroyer escort he could see the young pilot’s eyes before the plane narrowly
missed the ship and plunged into the sea. The sailor plucked from dark,
oil-slicked water who lay in his arms and asked for a cigarette before dying.
The shipmate who worked as Mickey Rooney’s stunt double who sometimes climbed
the mast and performed swan dives into the ocean. And the bodies of downed
pilots, in a neat row on the deck, tarp covered save for their feet which
rocked rhythmically as the ship swayed beneath the night sky, waiting to be
buried at sea.

My
father served on a destroyer escort during World War II. The men of the USS
Ulvert Moore fought in numerous battles, including Iwo Jima and Okinawa.

Bright
and clear is another memory my dad carries, one of a ten-year-old growing up in
the mining town of North Irwin, Pennsylvania. The small dwelling on Penn Avenue
housed immigrants, Irish in my father’s case. But Italians, and Poles, and
Russians, and others lived on the street, as well, all sharing something in
common. They were poor.

“Dad’s
taking you to a ballgame,” his mother called.

Clad in
knickers with clasps below the knees, brown shoes and socks, and a white
button-down, my father balked when she handed him a sack lunch bearing a
chicken sandwich and a small red apple.

“I
wanna get lunch when I get there,” he said. “Everyone buys their lunch at the
ballgame.”

My
grandfather— thin, balding, blue eyes dancing beneath the brim of a fedora—smiled,
then ushered my dad to the train station. There was no money to make the trip
to Pittsburg’s Forbes Field, but my grandfather worked for the railroad, one of
the few members of the Butler clan to avoid laboring in the mines, so they rode the train for free.

My dad
still clutched his sack lunch on the street car that would drop them in front
of the stadium. “I wanted to hide it,” he said. “I put it under the seat
because I didn’t want people to see it.”

After
disembarking at Forbes Field, they were caught in an excited wave of baseball
fans rushing to get into the game. When they settled into their seats, my dad
tucked the brown bag out of sight.

The
game got underway, but then a strange murmuring swept through the crowd. My dad
turned and, up in the stands on the third-base side, he saw a couple
approaching.

“The
man was young, dashing. Black hair. Big smile. Well-dressed. She was a
beautiful lady. Blonde. She looked like a movie star. People were waving at
them.”

And
there was something else.

“He was
carrying a two-handled picnic basket.”

“What
are you looking at?” my grandfather asked. “I think there’s gonna be a squeeze
play.”

But my
dad kept staring at the couple.

“Paul,
you have to watch the game. Is there something wrong?” My grandfather turned.

“I
don’t understand why anyone would bring a picnic basket to a ballgame unless
they were real poor. He doesn’t look poor.”

“Paul,
he isn’t poor!” my grandfather said. “That’s Billy Conn, the Light Heavyweight
Champion of the World.”

Conn,
an Irish-American boxer and local favorite called The Pittsburgh Kid, was known
for being cocky and brash, his fights against Joe Louis, and his 63-11-1
record.

My dad
continued to keep his brown bag hidden beneath the seat as he watched the game
that day, taking a bite occasionally, hoping no one would notice. He wondered
about the glamorous couple, sneaking peeks as they snacked on their
picnic-basket lunch. He thought about what it meant to be poor.

A
chance sighting of world champion boxer Billy Conn had my then ten-year-old
father pondering what it meant to be poor.

“I
should have been proud to be able to go to the ballgame,” my dad said, blinking
blue eyes that look just like mine. “I learned that I shouldn’t worry about
what other people might think of me.”

I
thought about his wise words, a lesson he learned at the tender age of ten, a
time he still recalls so vividly.

Thanks to the G.I. Bill,
my father would earn a bachelor’s degree from Penn State University. When I was
eight, I watched from the balcony as he received a master’s degree from Seton
Hall. Because of his stint in the Navy and his education, we were never poor,
something that, as a ten-year-old, he might have been comforted to know.

Here is a brief peek at Anne’s latest release.

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 the Graves Registration Service 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?

Praise for Your Forgotten Sons

“Although a defty crafted work of original fiction, “Your Forgotten Sons” by Anne Montgomery is inspired by a true story. An original and inherently interesting read from start to finish, “Your Forgotten Sons” will prove to be an immediate and enduringly appreciated pick.”  Midwest Book Review

“This was a quick, riveting read that really challenged me to think differently about our servicemen and women, especially those who take on the jobs that don’t get heroically depicted in the media or news…I really highly recommend this book to anyone that is looking for a different take on American history. I left it with a newfound appreciation for the unsung heroes.” Bekah C NetGalley 

“This is the truth. It’s gritty and painful and bittersweet – and true.  When you think you’ve read every perspective of WWII, along comes Bud to break your heart.” Bridgett Siter Former Military Reporter

“Anne Montgomery writes a strong story and I was hooked from the first page. It had a great concept and I enjoyed that this was inspired by a true story…It was written perfectly and I was invested in the story. Anne Montgomery has a great writing style and left me wanting to read more.” –  Kathryn McLeer NetGalley 

Available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Google Books, and Kobo

Anne Montgomery has worked as a television sportscaster, newspaper and magazine writer, teacher, amateur baseball umpire, and high school football referee. She worked at WRBL‐TV in Columbus, Georgia, WROC‐TV in Rochester, New York, KTSP‐TV in Phoenix, Arizona, ESPN in Bristol, Connecticut, where she anchored the Emmy and ACE award‐winning SportsCenter, and ASPN-TV as the studio host for the NBA’s Phoenix Suns. Montgomery has been a freelance and staff writer for six publications, writing sports, features, movie reviews, and archeological pieces.

When she can, Anne indulges in her passions: rock collecting, scuba diving, football refereeing, and playing her guitar.

Learn more about Anne Montgomery on her website and Wikipedia. Stay connected on Facebook, Linkedin, and Twitter.

With the advent of fresh summer vegetables cropping up in our farmers’ fields, Pasta Primavera is a perfect warm weather dinner, especially with a glass of cool, crisp white wine. 

The
word primavera means spring-like in Italian, but don’t be fooled that this dish
originated in Italy. Nope! Both Canada and the US claim the honor of creating
Pasta Primavera. No one knows for sure which country invented this delicious
dish, but the fact is that it didn’t come to be until the 1970s. 

This
recipe is for 2. If you are serving more simply increase the ingredients
accordingly. Don’t prepare extra for another meal because the veggies get mushy
when reheated. 

Pasta
Primavera

Cook
pasta per package directions al dente, no longer. Drain into a strainer,
retaining ⅔ cup of water for the sauce. Cover tortellini to keep warm. 

Slice
carrots in thirds lengthwise. You do this because carrots take so much longer
to cook. Slice red onion into thin rings, but not too thin, then cut in half. 

Remove seeds from pepper then cut into strips
lengthwise. Set aside. Freeze the extra for another recipe. 

Cut
asparagus into 1-inch pieces. Add to pepper bowl. Slice cucumber/zucchini about
¼ inch thick then add to pepper mix. 

Pour
oil into a Dutch oven set on medium-high heat. You need this size pan to
properly blend the veggies. Stir in carrots and onion, sauté until crisp
tender, 6 – 8 minutes. Stir often and adjust heat to prevent burning. 

Lower
heat to medium. Add butter, asparagus, pepper slices, and mushrooms. Season
with garlic, black pepper, and lemon juice. 

Gently
blend in pasta and cheese. Add small amounts of reserved water to thin sauce to
your liking.

Heat through. Sprinkle on
parsley then serve.

May you enjoy all the days of your life filled with good friends, laughter, and seated around a well-laden table!

Sloane

Taylor’s cookbooks, Hot Mean Wear Aprons, Date Night Dinners, Date Night Dinners Italian Style, Sizzling Summer, and Recipes to Create Holidays Extraordinaire are released by Toque & Dagger Publishing and available at all book vendors. 

In book two of Mysterious Tales from
Fairy Falls, Blackflies and Blueberries,
I wrote about Hart Stewart—a teenage psychometrist who has no problem ‘reading’
the absorbed energy from an object like a ring or watch but struggles with the
most basic reading skills. He finds a ring that pulls him into the past to
witness a woman’s murder that has gone unsolved for over a year. That woman was
Diana MacGregor’s mother, and when Diana discovers that Hart is in possession
of the ring and shares the intimate details of her mother’s murder through his
psychic ability, Diana strikes a deal with him. She’ll teach Hart how to read
and write if he helps find her mother’s killer.

Blackflies &
Blueberries, Book 2; Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls

The only witness
left to testify against an unsolved crime in Fairy Falls isn’t a person…

City born and bred, Hart
Stewart possesses the gift of psychometry—the psychic ability to discover facts
about an event or person by touching inanimate objects associated with them.
Since his mother’s death, seventeen-year-old Hart has endured homelessness, and
has learned ways to keep his illiteracy under wraps. He eventually learns of a
great-aunt living in Fairy Falls, and decides to leave the only life he’s ever
known for an uncertain future.

Diana MacGregor lives in
Fairy Falls. Her mother was a victim of a senseless murder. Only Diana’s
unanswered questions and her grief keeps her going, until Hart finds her
mother’s lost ring and becomes a witness to her murder.

Through Hart’s psychic
power, Diana gains hope for justice. Their investigation leads them into the
corrupt world threatening Fairy Falls. To secure the town’s future, Hart and
Diana must join forces to uncover the shocking truth, or they risk losing the
true essence of Fairy Falls forever.

Excerpt: 

For over a year
now, Diana had wondered, prayed, and longed for any information regarding her
mother’s murder. And now this guy shows up, who claims he has these psychic
powers that can communicate with objects. Objects like mom’s ring. Diana
pressed her lips together. An object that had been there, at the scene of the
crime, a viable witness to a heinous act. It all seemed so far-fetched, so out
there. Yet what did Hart have to gain from all this? This wasn’t a fortune
telling session, this was real. So was Hart for real?

“Who are you,
anyway?” Brook asked. “The sorcerer’s apprentice?”

Hart threw her
a strange look. “No. My name’s Hart Stewart. I’m Gertie Ellis’s great-nephew.”

Diana snapped
out of her self-induced trance. Gertie Ellis? Not the same Gertie Ellis who
was Dan Boone’s only alibi? No. This is all too much. It was information
overload to the power of ten. Diana thought she heard Donovan mumble ‘Uh-oh’ as
he took a step back. He swung the golf club behind his back, as if anticipating
her next move, but Donovan would have never have guessed what was about to happen
next, because what came out of her mouth shocked even Diana. “Name your price,
I’ll pay you whatever you ask. You can even have my car, if you want it.”

Donovan dropped
the golf club.

Brook gasped.

Hart snapped
his head back. “Pay me? Pay me for what?”

“To find my
mother’s killer,” Diana replied. “Let’s face facts. You’re the only person who
has these special psychic connections and no one else has been able to solve
her murder. Look, I’ve got all the information on my mother’s murder, I’ve kept
impeccable files, know the suspects, and can help you get anything you’d need.
What do you say?”

“Your…your
car?” Donovan muttered.

“Are you sure
you want to do this?” Brook asked, concerned.

Diana held her
hand out toward Hart. “Do we have a deal?”

Dumbfounded,
Hart looked at Diana’s offered hand, then glanced back to her face, searching
for a hint of sincerity. He nodded. “I’ll help you, if you help me.”

Startled, Diana
arched her thin, fair brows. “Help you? How?”

Hart took a
deep breath. “My mother was murdered too. In Toronto, just over a year ago, in
our apartment. Nothing was taken. She had no enemies to speak of and we weren’t
rich. All I have is a letter my great-aunt kept from when mom was my age. Maybe
it will help answer some questions, maybe it won’t.”

Diana nodded.
“So what does it say?”

Hart cast his
eyes to the ground. His face reddened, his hands balled at his sides. He took
another deep breath. “I…I don’t know,” he replied, his voice cracking. “I
can’t—”

Diana inclined
her head. “Can’t what?”

Hart’s eyes
locked with Diana’s. His chin trembled as he whispered, “Read.”

Silence, except
for the sudden, chilly gust of wind coming off of the lake.

Donovan broke
it. “Dude, did you just that say you can’t—”

“Donovan!”
Brook elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t be so insensitive!”

Donovan rubbed
his side, and nodded. “Dude, you’re illiterate?”

Brook rolled
her eyes. “That’s not what I meant, you bonehead.”

Diana ignored
her friends and got straight to the heart of the matter. “Then I’ll teach you
to read. We’ll help each other. That way, I’ll get what I want, and you’ll get
what you want.”

Blackflies
& Blueberries, Book Two Buy
Links:

PANDAMONIUM
PUBLISHING HOUSE ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES
& NOBLE
׀

Summertime is always welcome in our house because my family loves fresh
vegetables and fruits. The following recipe is one we especially enjoy as a side-dish or spread on
toasted bread or crackers. It’s easy to make and lasts several days in the
fridge.

Eggplant Salad 

Preheat
oven to 350° F. 

Prick
eggplants with a fork all over, then place on a baking sheet. Bake 2 hours in
the oven. You can grill the eggplants if you prefer. Be sure your grill is
heated to medium temperature. Check the softness often, and turn eggplants over
every 5 min. 

After 2
hours, check eggplants for softness. They should be very soft. Remove from oven and let eggplants completely cool. 

Clean the
skin off with the knife, chop coarsely, and scoop into a bowl. 

Finely
chop red onion and green pepper. Sprinkle on salt, pepper, and paprika. Add
olive oil. Mix well, then pour over eggplant mixture.

In a
separate bowl smash the tomatoes with a fork. Add them to the above mixture. You can also use small or grape tomatoes and leave the skin on.

Cascade
fresh herbs over bowl, stir gently, then serve.

A jaded CEO. A fiercely focused ballerina. A love that defies all society’s rules.

SoHo,
1962

JJ
Morris, successful CEO, leads a secret double life, playing saxophone to his heart’s
content in his hole-in-the-wall dive bar. Yet he can’t escape the feeling he’s
slowly petrifying into just another jaded millionaire. 

Then a
gorgeous blonde steps into his bar and shakes up his world. Certain this fierce
little swan of a woman is exactly what’s missing in his life, he maps out a
plan to wed her by Christmas. With or without his snobby mother’s approval.

Most
women would be thrilled to learn that the tall, handsome bar musician is, in
fact, a wealthy prince charming. Verochka Osipoff is less than impressed. She’s
focused on becoming a prima ballerina, and everything hinges on her next audition.
She can’t afford distractions, especially a rich playboy slumming it in SoHo.

Talented author Stella May is the penname for Marina Sardarova who has a fascinating history you should read on her website. 

If you had the ability to talk to your pet, would
you? Most people would probably jump on board and say YES! Some maybe not so on
board. It all depends on the person and their relationship with animals. In Lost and Found, the first book of my
teen psychic mystery series, Mysterious Tales from Fairy Falls, I introduce
Meagan Walsh, a fifteen-year-old rebel without a cause. She has the ability to
communicate with animals telepathically. However, she’d buried this psychic gift
after her mother died tragically in an auto accident and was only stirred to
use it when confronted with a crusty shelter cat named Whiskey.

Fairy Falls
was bores-ville from the get-go. Then the animals started talking.

The Fairy Falls Animal Shelter is in trouble. Money trouble. It’s up to an old calico
cat named Whiskey—a shelter
cat who has mastered the skill of observation—to find a new human pack leader so that their home will
be saved. With the help of Nobel, the leader of the shelter dogs, the animals
set out to use the ancient skill of telepathy to contact any human who bothers
to listen to them. Unfortunately for fifteen-year-old Meagan Walsh, she hears
them, loud and clear.

Forced to live with her Aunt Izzy in the safe and quiet town of
Fairy Falls, Meagan is caught stealing and is sentenced to do community hours
at the animal shelter where her aunt works. Realizing Meagan can hear her,
Whiskey realizes that Meagan just might have the pack leader qualities
necessary to save the animals. Avoiding Whiskey and the rest of shelter animals
becomes impossible for Meagan, so she finally gives in and promises to help
them. Meagan, along with her newfound friends, Reid Robertson and Natalie
Knight, discover that someone in Fairy Falls is not only out to destroy the
shelter, but the animals as well. Can Meagan convince her aunt and co-workers
that the animals are in danger? If she fails, then all the animals’ voices will
be silenced forever.

Excerpt:

Beep, beep, the front door sounded again. Sighing, Whiskey lifted a
back leg in the middle of the hallway and proceeded to groom herself. She heard
a familiar voice. The Kind One is here. Good. I’ll get my litter box done
first. She stopped grooming and instantly regretted the extra mess she’d
made. Then Whiskey heard another voice. This one belonged to a human who was
younger and female, yet there was a rough edge to her voice, like she had just
swallowed a handful of litter. Curious, Whiskey sauntered over to the reception
area, jumped on the grey chair that waited there for her, and proceeded to do
what she did best—observe.

“Stop whining
about it, Meagan, or suck it up, as you would say. You’re doing these hours and
there’s no getting out of it.”

“Isn’t there a
child labour law on this?” the younger human asked.

“You’re not
being paid.”

“Okay, isn’t
this considered some kind of abuse, then?”

The Kind One
smiled. “Only if I feed you to Mary Jane.”

“Mary…who?”

Whiskey snorted
in laughter, but to a human, it would sound more like a strangled meow. The
Kind One jumped and turned around. She giggled, and then moved to scratch
Whiskey under the chin. “Good morning, Whiskey-girl. I hope you didn’t leave
too much of a mess for me this morning.”

The girl’s face
twitched. “That cat is named after booze? Nice.”

“She was found
near the liquor store,” the Kind One said, smiling. “It seemed appropriate.”

Whiskey
sneezed, causing her collar bells to jingle, and purred to appease the Kind
One. She was Whiskey’s favourite human and she didn’t like it when the felines
of the shelter made more of a mess than usual for her to clean up. However,
last night, a full moon had graced the skies. Tempers were higher at this time
of the month, so it wasn’t unusual to find upturned litter boxes, vomit in the
cages, or clumps of fur all over the floor. The pull and power the moon had
over animals was out of their control, so when it waned, things got calmer, and
their home was kept cleaner.

“Mary Jane is
our pit bull,” the Kind One was saying. “She’s the last one left in the shelter
since the government banned the breed. I wish we could find her a suitable
home. I think she’s going a bit bonkers being in the shelter twenty-four
seven.”

The girl’s
mouth fell open. “I don’t do dogs.”

The Kind One
shrugged. “Fine. There are over seventy cats that need attention and care. I’m
sure you won’t be bored.”

The girl
frowned. “I don’t do cats, either. I’m…I’m allergic.”

“Oh, haven’t
you heard, my dear? There are pills for that,” the Kind One said, laughing. “Go
into my car’s glove compartment and grab a couple of allergy pills, and then
get your lily-white butt back here so you can help me start cleaning.”

The girl
moaned. She pulled at the oversized pink scrub top she wore as if protesting
the Kind One’s orders, and then opened the door to go outside. Beep, beep.

“Well, Whiskey,
shall we get this party started?”

Whiskey meowed,
and then stretched before getting down off the chair. She ran straight to the
door and let out a long-winded meow. She wanted out so she could roll on the
driveway to loosen any fur the Loud One had not purged from her. Two beeps
accompanied her departure. Whiskey heard a car door slam and looked across the
lot. The young girl had a white stick stuck in her mouth and was heading for
the side of the building, near to the dog runs. Whiskey watched as she snuck
behind the lone shed and sat down.

Interesting,
she thought. I wonder if the Kind One trusts her?

Whiskey decided
to observe this young human. Carefully, she skulked over to the tall grass that
was never cut and pushed her way through it. Closer, closer, closer she got,
until she was about a stone’s throw away. The dogs were barking like the
lunatics they were. Louis was in the run closest to the forest that backed onto
the building, while a new dog, a Lab mix, she guessed, was in the middle. The
run next to the driveway had always been reserved for Mary Jane. Whiskey
glanced back at the girl who was sucking on her white glowing stick. Whiskey
sniffed, and then sneezed. Her bells tinkled. Poison, she thought,
pawing her face to dissipate the stench.

“Who’s that?”
the girl asked, quickly removing the white stick from her mouth.

Whiskey sneezed
again, sounding off her bells as she jumped out of the long grass. She gave the
young human a long look of disdain, like one a cat might make while having the
squirts in a litter box.

“Oh, it’s just
you,” the girl mumbled, and then resumed sucking on her white glowing stick.

Silly,
stupid human, Whiskey thought. She turned to saunter away.

“I’m not silly,
and I’m certainly not stupid,” the girl responded nastily.

Whiskey froze
and then sat down. She turned her head around to watch the girl blow smoke out
of her mouth. Her long legs were stretched out in front of her and she seemed
relatively relaxed. Whiskey shook her head. Had she imagined it? Did this girl
really pick up her thoughts? This was a real conundrum. No human had ever come
as close as this one to understanding her; to actually communicating with her.
The exception, of course, had been the Kind One’s instinct to know when a cat
was ill and take care of the matter, but instinct was instinct and this was
something more.

“What’s the matter, Whiskey?” the girl
asked, sucking on the white stick once more before rubbing it into the ground.
She blew out ringlets of smoke. “Cat got your tongue?”

Lost & Found, Book One Buy Links:

PANDAMONIUM
PUBLISHING HOUSE ׀ AMAZON ׀ BARNES
& NOBLE
׀

There
was nothing extraordinary about the cat that stared at me from the pages of my
local newspaper. He was black. Gold eyes. His name was Westin. He’d been at the
Humane Society way too long. His $20 price tag a clear indication that if he
did not find a home soon, well…

I
called my son to come look at the picture. I told him about
Westin. “Should we go get him?” I asked. His eyes lit up.

Within
the hour we bounded through the door at the shelter, waving the newspaper
article. “We’re here for Westin.” We grinned at the receptionist. A woman
standing nearby frowned. I pointed at the picture again, wondering at her odd
reaction.

“The
story did not tell you everything,” she said, leading us toward a glassed-in
enclosure, a place called the Campus for Compassion, where hard-to-adopt
animals are placed for one last push to find them a forever home.

My son
and I glimpsed Westin briefly through a large window as the woman ushered us
through a doorway, around a corner, and through another door.  We somehow
missed the sign that would have tipped us off that Westin was no ordinary
kitty. The woman escorted us into the tidy room scattered with cat toys and
shelves ascending one wall, where Westin quickly displayed his climbing skills.
I sat on a small couch. Westin stared at me, then bounded into my lap.

“You
get acquainted. I’ll get Westin’s records.” She left, closing the door behind
her. A short time later, a young volunteer appeared, bearing a thick folder.

“Where
did he come from?” I asked, as Westin head-butted my hand for a rub.

“He was
one of thirty cats found abandoned in a hotel room,” she said. “We named them
all after hotels.”

The
thought that there were kitties nearby named Radisson, Hilton, Sheraton, and
Howard Johnson made me want to laugh. Perhaps she read my mind.

“They’re
all gone. They’ve been adopted. Westin is the only one left.”

I
stared at the cat, now happily ensconced in my son’s lap. “Why?”

“Westin
is sick.”

My son
and I simultaneously stared at the cat, who appeared quite healthy and
happy.

“When
he came to us, he had lost a lot of his hair. We almost put him down. The
vets here did a lot of testing and, well, Westin has horrible allergies. He’s
on daily medication and will be for the rest of his life. He has to be fed
special food that’s about $60 a bag.”

I
stared at my son, a first-year college student who’s living at home while he
studies to be a chef.

“I’ll
leave you two to think about it,” she said, a hint of sadness in her voice.
“He’s been here a long time.”

“It’s a
lot of money,” I said when my son and I were alone. “And a lot of
responsibility.” We already had three cats, two of which came to us as strays
and which live on the front porch, just wild enough still that being inside
upsets them. We also have an indoor cat that my son raised from a kitten. And a
cattle dog.

When
the volunteer came back, I asked if anyone else had ever wanted to adopt
Westin.

“Oh,
yes,” she said. “Until they found out about his problems.”

I
turned to my son. “You said we’d split the costs,” I reminded him. He nodded,
considering.

The boy
with the blue eyes stroked Westin’s head. “He’s just like me, Mom. No one
wanted me either.”

I
stared at the ground. Troy is my third son. All of my boys spent time in the
foster care system, before entering my life when they were teenagers, having
been shuttled between group facilities and foster homes too many times to
count, clearly understanding that there didn’t seem to be a family that wanted
them.

I can’t
say it hasn’t been a struggle. Westin suffered a ruptured ear drum and only
wants to eat food that he’s allergic to. Still, he gets along fine with
the other animals and is under the watchful eye of our vet. We are hoping that,
someday, he can go without the daily doses of medication and the special
expensive food. In the meantime, Troy takes care of Westin. They seem to have
an understanding.

My son Troy takes care of Westin, a cat found abandoned with 29
others in a hotel room. They seem to have an understanding.

Here is a brief peek at Anne’s Historical Fiction novel base on a real soldier.

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 the Graves Registration Service 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?

Praise for Your Forgotten Sons

“Although a defty crafted work of original fiction, “Your Forgotten Sons” by Anne Montgomery is inspired by a true story. An original and inherently interesting read from start to finish, “Your Forgotten Sons” will prove to be an immediate and enduringly appreciated pick.”  Midwest Book Review

“This was a quick, riveting read that really challenged me to think differently about our servicemen and women, especially those who take on the jobs that don’t get heroically depicted in the media or news…I really highly recommend this book to anyone that is looking for a different take on American history. I left it with a newfound appreciation for the unsung heroes.” Bekah C NetGalley 

“This is the truth. It’s gritty and painful and bittersweet – and true.  When you think you’ve read every perspective of WWII, along comes Bud to break your heart.” Bridgett Siter Former Military Reporter

“Anne Montgomery writes a strong story and I was hooked from the first page. It had a great concept and I enjoyed that this was inspired by a true story…It was written perfectly and I was invested in the story. Anne Montgomery has a great writing style and left me wanting to read more.” –  Kathryn McLeer NetGalley 

Available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Google Books, and Kobo

 Anne Montgomery has worked as a television sportscaster, newspaper and magazine writer, teacher, amateur baseball umpire, and high school football referee. She worked at WRBL‐TV in Columbus, Georgia, WROC‐TV in Rochester, New York, KTSP‐TV in Phoenix, Arizona, ESPN in Bristol, Connecticut, where she anchored the Emmy and ACE award‐winning SportsCenter, and ASPN-TV as the studio host for the NBA’s Phoenix Suns. Montgomery has been a freelance and staff writer for six publications, writing sports, features, movie reviews, and archeological pieces.

When she can, Anne indulges in her passions: rock collecting, scuba diving, football refereeing, and playing her guitar.

Learn more about Anne on her website, Wikipedia, Facebook, Linkedin, and Twitter.