William Carl Montgomery was born to migrant orchard workers in the San Fernando Valley on an unusually cold summer’s day in 1839. His childhood was inconsequential, other than a nasty fight with polio. And a bear. After graduating from his high school first in his class (out of two), he joined the United States Calvary and opted to begin the long trek to help fight for the Union Army in the Civil War. His specialty was man-to-bear combat. However, since maps were a luxury at that time, and not having realized California was about as far away from the southern United States as one could get, he dejectedly turned around near Reno, Nevada. (Yes, we’re surprised he made it that far, too.)
Having returned home, and despondent over his seemingly hopeless future, a friend suggested that he take up the new and exciting recreation of kite-flying. After 22 years of honing his craft, he turned professional and would travel the world. Places like Salt Lake City, Billings, and Boise were just a few of the destinations that would witness his kite-flying acumen. Before a trip to Albuquerque, New Mexico, the same friend who suggested kite-flying, Jennings C. Jennings, again made a suggestion that would alter all of human history as we know it. Jennings advised his friend of the benefits and joys of “journaling” his travels and experiences. With that, a love of writing was born and a talent the world had never seen before.
After 11 years in high school, a four-day stint in the military, and a 47 year career as a kite-flyer, Montgomery began his passionate pursuit of perfect prose. He would write his first book, The Polar Bear in 1924 at the age of 85 and his now-famous blog a few years after that. His poetry was widely panned by critics, thus is not available for public viewing. Finally, after a long and storied career of penned brilliance, Montgomery succumbed to a fight with a bear, who, coincidentally, was stricken with polio. (Yes, we didn’t know bears could have polio, either.) Montgomery passed away on an unusually warm winter’s morn in 1975. He was 136 years young. He was survived by pretty much no one he knew (since 136 is a long time to live). But what has survived, however, is the written word he…well, wrote. Enjoy…
In case you didn’t buy that, my name is Will. I love Jesus. I love the Lakers. I love you (was that too soon?).