Pamela Dandurant Montgomery

I went to college late, graduating with a BA in English from (then) MWSC in 1987 at age 36. Unable to parlay that degree into a career, I went back to school at NWMSU and earned an MA in English (do I never learn my lesson?). I've spent most of my working life writing grants and administering grant programs for various education and non-profit entities and teaching part time for every college within driving distance of my long-time home in Rushville. I have published a regional magazine and a literary magazine, and have managed to publish some of my short stories and poems in national literary magazines. I currently write for and edit The Journal, the biannual magazine for the Northwest Missouri Genealogical Society, for whom I also produce a quarterly newsletter. I am currently able to enjoy a state of semi-retirement while I manage my rental property, currently a 4plex and two houses. My profile pic with the weird cat is about 2 years old. The cat's name, of course, is Zombie, abandoned by a tenant; she's a piece of work.

Having grown up without a father, I latched onto any nurturing father figure who would have me, and my LHS father figure was Mr. Potter, our band director. I was crushed when he died in the 80's. I still remember the horrible things the OTHER band members did to torture the poor man. I did, however, participate in one of those awful things: Mr. Potter always pronounced "farther" like "father." When we were practicing, he would tap his baton on the podium and say "No father! No father!" And we would all chime in chorus, very slowly, "No father, no mother, no sister, no brother!" It infuriated him, and I can still see him squinting over my head as I sat there next to Helen "Hazel" Walker with my French horn. I had started in band playing the cornet, but Mr. Potter felt that the French horn was a more suitable instrument for a girl, so I played it for my last 3 years in band. I don't know what was so suitable about it--it was much heavier than a cornet as we marched down Savannah Avenue, and worse, UP Savannah Avenue. Of all my father figures, Mr. Potter was the best. Some of us came from families too poor to own cars, so he would pick us all up one by one at our homes for any band event we needed to attend, even uniform fittings. I thought he was rich because he drove a Lincoln, and I felt mighty special getting into a Lincoln at my curb on 10th street. Thanks for the memories, Mr. Potter.