Category: Arizona

The Arc and The Arch: Part One

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The arc of life in my sixties–its highs and lows–has proved mostly to be an unexpected artistic one. Yet it is an uneven tapestry of co-existing emotions: fear for our eroding democracy; love for new and old friends; and boundless gratitude currently after returning to St. Louis for my Affton High School Class of ’75 reunion and reconciling my midwestern roots with my southwestern reality.

***

A trip to St. Louis would not be complete without a visit to my parents’ graves at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery. So, we began there.

On Friday, September 19, Tom and I stopped at Dierberg’s in Creve Coeur near our hotel to buy a handful of burnt orange carnations.

Twenty minutes later, we arrived in the sea of marble stones on rolling hills ten miles south of downtown St. Louis.

We parked our rented Mazda SUV and tiptoed past a veteran’s funeral in progress under a makeshift canopy. A female vocalist sang Amazing Grace. Instantly, my tears began to flow.

Each time I go to Jefferson Barracks, it is a touchstone experience. Tapping one side of the stone and then the other. Remembering the love and best intentions of Helen and Walter Johnson–both long gone but not forgotten.

Minutes later, sitting on a nearby bench with Tom under the sturdy branches of an oak tree that has lost its earliest leaves due to an especially dry Missouri summer.

Friday afternoon was also somber and reflective. We met our friend Mark, a docent at St. Louis Kaplan Feldman Holocaust Museum, for a visit there.

He guided us through horrific-then-hopeful survivor stories, images, and vintage artifacts, curated from proud Jewish St. Louis residents who lived through the awful experience. Only a few remain, but their legacies live on.

All in all, it was a chilling, relevant, immersive few hours. Cautionary evidence of hate and authoritarian evil that inundated the world in the 1930s and 40s, and now–in the US in 2025–threatens the existence of those who are not straight, Christian white men.

After deep breaths and a refreshing Friday nap in our hotel, Tom and I drove to University City for an evening with Mark and his husband David at their home. It was a celebration of our unfolding friendship.

At sunset, they lit candles and recited Shabbat blessings before we shared wine and bread. At their table, I felt our bond of friendship, which began just a few years ago, grow.

We met Mark and David when–as snowbirds living part-time in Arizona–they first attended one of Tom’s free film screenings at the Scottsdale Public Library.

Now, they have become the newest, welcoming community component of our St. Louis connection.

Beyond the Palms

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If we live long enough and look beyond the palms, we see the arc of our lives and the hint of a rainbow. We remember where we came from. Who we were. Who we are. How far we’ve come. Our best intentions. Our mistakes. Our progress. Our loves. Our losses. Our lessons learned. The connecting tissue that has made us who we are. All of it.

***

Fifty years ago, in June 1975, I graduated from Affton High School in south suburban St. Louis.

Tom and I travel back to St. Louis tomorrow for a reunion with my class of 1975 mates over the weekend.

I’m excited to see old friends. I also expect a few bittersweet moments.

Either way, the journalist inside me is sure to return with a story or two.

Because I am a writer. That’s not what I do. That’s who I am.

Survivors

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She’s survived another summer in the Valley of the Sun. Living life on the lam.

Climbing walls and trees. Stalking birds, lizards, and rodents. Dodging haboobs, monsoons, and ICE agents. Ducking in and out of covered patios … sleeping on weathered blue cushions melting into wicker chairs outside our front door.

Poly is her given name. Given by me to her. No doubt, she has other assumed names from other presumed cat lovers in our Polynesian Paradise condo community.

I hardly consider her a stray anymore, because we are three years into our relationship … our parlor game of fancy treats followed by quick goodbyes.

In 2022, she wouldn’t get close enough to touch. Tom and I left kibble outside our door in the same chipped dish you see here. She ate quickly, then darted off … back into her Sonoran neverland.

But in 2025 we have reached a deeper level of closeness, intimacy, love perhaps. Maybe she’s been reading the news and needs comforting. I know I do.

Every morning around 6, Tom or I open the security door and look for her. Nine out of ten days, she hops down from that day’s pre-selected chair, meows as she glides and stretches on the mat in our foyer.

She trails around our legs, marks our shoes and furniture with the scent of her furry face, and shimmies up and down as Tom or I (we take turns) prepare her dish of Sheba cuts in gravy with sustainable salmon.

The frequency and volume of meows increase as the dish comes close to the floor. Poly purrs loudly, then polishes that off in less than a minute. Her eyes sparkle with gratitude.

Lately, she’s been staying longer after her meal. Sometimes returning later in the morning or evening for a second round of treats. Dry savory salmon-flavor Temptations for the cat that deserves the best.

On September 1, at 11:13 a.m., Poly allowed me to sit on the floor and give her love. I patted her head, back, and tail as we talked about her morning … our day.

Then, I placed brunch before her and captured this kitty-calendar portrait of Poly, our cagey Sonoran friend, modeling in the kitchen on our new, natural oak flooring.

After she consumed her meal and licked her paws, she glided and sniffed through our bedroom, den, and sunroom.

Poly then departed through the front door, left ajar for her safe departure (she is a free spirit, after all!) back into the wild of intense sun, hissing sprinklers, spiky cacti, and random critters (animals and humans) … all of us living each day, giving and taking what we can, embracing or deflecting each moment as it comes.

Because that is what survivors do.

Flag

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If you read this on August 18, 19, or 20, it is likely I will be here, hiking with my husband at Buffalo Park in Flagstaff, Arizona. (I captured this photo in late July 2023.) Or relaxing elsewhere at approximately 7,000 feet.

When we moved to Arizona eight years ago, I noticed most residents of the Grand Canyon State shorten the name of this town to Flag … an affectionate term, which locals (that now includes me) drop into conversation, before or after they come to escape Phoenix summer heat and inhale pine-scented mountain air (when there are no wildfires nearby).

In the winter, the town attracts a different crowd … skiers. Nearby Snow Bowl ascends to 11,500 feet at the top of Arizona. It is a winter wonderland from December through April or whenever there is snow.

Year-round, Flag is home to Northern Arizona University. So this dog-friendly town has a young, diverse, energetic vibe that includes a fascinating mix of bohemian free spirits, western practicality, and picturesque views of the San Francisco Peaks.

Best of all, it’s accessible from Phoenix via a dramatic climb along I-17 that normally takes just over two hours by car.

You pass thousands of saguaros that stand guard over jaw-dropping landscapes.

They suddenly vanish near a town called Bumblebee to reveal high desert plants and ponderosa pines.

Up in Flag, storms roll in, over, and around the San Francisco Peaks in every season. Unannounced. That natural spontaneity appeals to me, too.

If it didn’t snow in Flag, I could see us living here. Instead, we opt to visit for a few days each summer.

However, if the summers keep getting hotter in Phoenix, we may find ourselves spending larger blocks of time here.

Whenever Tom and I visit Flag, it ignites my sense of artistry. So much so that I have written previous essays here, as well as two or three short pieces of unpublished fiction (that include Flag characters).

They exist on my laptop in various stages of development, waiting for additional inspiration.

Maybe being “up” here again in the thinner air (Flag’s altitude is 6,910 feet as compared with Phoenix at 1,086 feet) will captivate my creativity once again.

If it does, you will be among the first to know.

Prosperity

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Photo by Chris F on Pexels.com

Jeremy’s Scottsdale boutique—southwestern decor and inspirational gifts staged under a vaulted ceiling—survived the pandemic. Barely.

Ten thousand stimulus dollars and the generosity of two tanned-and-moneyed benefactors kept his business afloat.

By August 2025, the store’s cycles—busy mild winters; slow sizzling summers—felt normal again. Jeremy did not.

Like the discarded sneaker he passed on the shoulder of Hayden Road heading to work that morning, Jeremy had no mate. At thirty-seven, he felt alone in his fortunate life.

At four p.m., Jeremy wrapped a batik hummingbird plaque for a browsing customer flowing in lavender linen.

As she left, he decided to close early, gathered artsy pillows—Serenity, Tranquility, and Prosperity inscribed in cursive—closed horizontal blinds, and shut off the lights and ceiling fans.

After he adjusted his visor, locked the door, walked to his parking space, and tossed his cushions next to his golf clubs in the backseat of his SUV, Jeremy drove north toward the freshly painted apricot walls of his north Scottsdale condo.

Fifty yards ahead on the shoulder of the road, Nate—a forlorn figure limping in worn flipflops and sporting a ragged, sleeveless Phoenix Suns jersey—caught Jeremy’s attention.

In the dusty desert breeze, Nate balanced a crumpled plea, “Just a Meal,” scribbled on cardboard in black marker.

A stream of drivers rode by. Jeremy did not.

He pressed a button to lower the passenger-side window and applied his brakes.

“Get outta the heat. I’ll spring for a meal,” Jeremy offered.

“Uh … okay,” Nate reached for his tattered suitcase, climbed into the air-conditioned silver interior, and wedged his bag between his knees.

Nate’s weary smile and scrawny build fooled Jeremy momentarily. He imagined his brother David had resurfaced as a ghostly hologram.

“You remind me of …” Jeremy steered through a construction zone “… someone I knew who vanished during Covid.”

Defeated at twenty-nine, Nate conceded “I’ve got my own pitiful story.”

“No judgements here.” Jeremy dodged Nate’s revelation. “Burger and fries?” They approached a drive-up window.

“Bottle of water too.” Nate craved cool liquid to soothe his blistered lips and parched throat.

Jeremy placed their order, paid a rumpled attendant, and edged forward. Another uniformed teen leaned out to hand the food and water to Jeremy. He passed them to Nate.

“Social services could help you,” Jeremy nudged.

“They’re invisible. Just like me,” Nate snapped. He tightened his grip on the sack that held his meal. “Let me out here.”

“Wait. Take one of these,” Jeremy pulled over abruptly. He reached into the backseat and tossed Prosperity in Nate’s direction. “They aren’t selling anyway. Stop by my shop … Daydreamers on Fifth Avenue. I’ll help you find a job.”

Nate paused to consider Jeremy’s offer, shielded his eyes, juggled his dinner, jammed Prosperity into his zipper-less bag next to his single sneaker, and stepped to the curb.

In the cocoon of his aloneness, Jeremy sighed. He closed the passenger door, eased into the right lane, and headed home.

Locker 8

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Ollie hated swimming lessons. But it was summer, and he promised his mother Jill that he would commit to one structured activity while school was out.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning in June and July, Ollie packed his swim trunks, towel, and goggles begrudgingly. At 8:55, his older sister Lydia, fresh from earning her driver’s license, dropped him at the curb outside Chaparral Pool.

Ollie wasn’t afraid of the water or physical activity. What bothered him was getting naked in front of the other middle school boys and showering near them when their lesson was over.

To soothe his anxiety, Ollie hatched a plan. He decided to stash one of his tiny butterfly drawings—pink wings, beady red eyes, black antenna, and blue thorax on a white sticky note—in his bag. Then, when he arrived at the pool, he would post it discreetly inside locker 8.

An hour later, when he returned to the locker room after class, he twirled the dial on his lock—16 then 8 then 32—popped open the latch and rediscovered his prized artwork hanging there. This ritual distracted him as he peeled off his wet royal blue trunks, then scampered to the nearest open shower stall.

***

Ollie’s meticulous butterfly drawings covered his desk at home. Each one was unique in size, color, and configuration, but all were Ollie’s creations.

Before dinner one night in late May, Jill passed Ollie’s bedroom door. She knocked, then peeked in to check on her son and his homework progress. Before she left, she declared, “I love your drawings, Ollie! What do you love most about butterflies?”

Caught off guard, Ollie shrugged. He couldn’t find the precise words.

Was it their fragility? Their freedom? Their gentility? Their rare ability to transform from a cocoon and flit about—unfettered—floating above a weighty world that discouraged everyone around him?

Or simply that Ollie’s preoccupation with his art quieted his nerves even as he felt excitement stir in his growing penis?

***

On July’s last Thursday after Ollie’s final swimming class, he showered quickly to avoid contact with Jake. Weeks before, he made fun of Ollie’s oversized beach towel. It featured a canary yellow smiling sun wearing funky sunglasses.

“Did your mommy buy that big, beautiful towel for you, Ollie?” Jake chided.

What would Jake say if he found my butterfly tucked inside my locker door? Ollie wondered.

Undeterred, Ollie wiggled into his gym shorts, threw on his Arizona Diamondbacks jersey, slipped into his flipflops, and folded his belongings in his bag.

Rather than plucking his prized butterfly drawing from locker 8 and bringing it home to cluster with his other creations, Ollie left it hanging there. He left it clinging inside the metal wall for unknown days, weeks, or years.

Ollie left his art—his reassuring beauty—for another boy who might one day appear and appreciate it. For another boy who might feel threatened by a world of ominous clouds that surrounded him and what he didn’t yet understand about himself.

***

Lately, I have been writing short fiction, exploring and developing stories with a social statement that fit within the realm of my reality. It helps me feel I am making a small difference in this country I live in and still love … even as the madness within and outside our borders continues to spin out of control.

Visual prompts (like this photo I captured in July at my community pool in Scottsdale, Arizona) open an alternative world of creative possibilities for me. This is a technique I recommend to participants in my memoir writing workshops. So, in this instance, you might say I am wearing several hats … student, teacher, writer, gay man, concerned citizen.

I’d love to know what you think of this story. How does it make you feel? As always, I appreciate your insights and feedback.

In my memoirs, I’ve written about discovering and embracing my gayness later in life … remembering that horrific feeling of squashing my true self to fit into a prescribed notion of “all-American” masculinity.

I worry about the Ollies in the United States … the poets, artists, visionaries … the young, emerging, gay, lesbian and trans members of our society … all who face growing up in our country that is turning a blind eye toward anyone who isn’t a straight, white, MAGA male.

I worry for them. I worry for us. Every day.

Between

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In the latter half of July, Scottsdale transforms into a forgotten destination for many, who escape triple digits. But this blistering period is my refuge. A few clicks on the calendar beyond another birthday. A quiet space between the high of choral performances and planning for upcoming literary endeavors.

At sixty-eight now, I need this time to recharge and replenish. To submerge body and soul in Chaparral Pool’s cooling waters. To pause for a brief stroll and acknowledge that the rugged scenery and tangerine sunsets where I live are pretty cool, even when summer’s forecast and reality are ridiculously hot.

In This July

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Wednesday night–in this July–actual raindrops fell from the Arizona sky. They pinged–hypnotic, soothing, and steady–on the roof of our metal carport.

Our mini monsoon was enough to wash away the dust and scrub the air, but not Thursday’s dastardly news of puffy politicians selling unfortunate souls down the river.

Away from the madness, Poly found a dry patch of concrete beyond the storm and platitudes. She rolled side to side, then flicked her tail, as if to say:

“I may be a stray, but I’m not stupid. I know how to get by. I know when to stop by your door. When to come in out the heat. Stick with me. You and I are survivors in this and every July.”

Home

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On June 2, 2025–as Tom and I returned to Arizona on an American Airlines flight after a blissful five days with family in the Chicago area–I closed my eyes in the semi-comfort of my aisle seat.

I leaned into my husband and said, “It feels good to be heading home.” I was referring to Scottsdale, Arizona. That is where we live … in a kitschy, mid-century condo community. It has been our home now for nearly eight years.

I’m not sure this is the life I dreamed of as a youngster in St. Louis. Or a middle-aged-man in the Chicago suburbs, who earned a good wage, raised two sons, and was fortunate enough to meet a man I would love and one day marry.

Let’s just say it is a warmer, lighter, literary life, which I had hoped for but didn’t imagine I would realize.

***

On June 30, 2017, we had just sold our three-bedroom home in Mount Prospect, Illinois. Handed over the keys to a pleasant couple and their young son.

As Tom and I approached our sixtieth birthday, we were excited about the prospects of creating a new life in the Grand Canyon State. But Illinois still felt like home.

Looking back, I suppose I underestimated the significance of this change … the loss of familiarity even when it wasn’t necessarily positive and growth producing.

If you follow me, you know how difficult our shared sixtieth birthday would be. If not, you should read about our harrowing journey and personal detour in St. Louis. It was great fodder for my third book, An Unobstructed View.

Once we finally arrived in Scottsdale, Arizona, on July 12, 2017, we both needed time to recuperate.

Our two-bedroom condo (which had once been Tom’s grandparents’ home starting in the early 1970s) was comfortable enough … especially after our new air conditioning unit, windows, and exterior doors were installed.

But we decided not to make too many dramatic interior changes right away. That really wasn’t a conscious decision as much as a reasonable one.

Soon we made new friends in our community: through our yoga class in Scottsdale and my chorus connections in Phoenix. With time there were other creative ripples before, during and after Covid.

We each wrote and published books. I wrote three librettos for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus. Tom’s film classes materialized and compounded magically. Spurred by his passion for classic cinema and a library contact from our friend Glenn, that seed has grown into a legitimate, bountiful following.

Somewhere in that mix, we crossed over the tipping point of flux … knowing that we had truly found our new home. Feeling that we had become full-fledged, full-time Arizona residents and advocates.

And now–in June 2025, eight years after we said goodbye to our first home together and spent the past three months painting and remodeling–the interior of our Arizona home is finally a reflection of the color, comfort, and humanity we imagined.

It is–like we are–fully transformed. It is our desert lodge with a decent splash of soft apricot, western warmth, and comfy chairs.

It is our refuge with and without family and friends. It is our nesting place away from triple-digit heat and authoritarian regimes.

It is our home.

Protests and Poetry

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“Are you guys going to the protests this Saturday?” Nick wondered last Wednesday via a text.

“No. We aren’t planning to. It’s just too hot,” I responded to my son.

But as the week wore on, I began to regain my energy following three phenomenal concerts with my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus pals.

On Friday, I reconsidered Nick’s question. I told him Tom and I would do it. A few of our chorus friends wanted to join us too at a No Kings protest in Scottsdale.

I should tell you that I don’t consider myself an activist, though I have marched for various causes on several occasions in my life. I prefer to share my voice and perspective through my writing.

But I also recognize the dire state of our democracy. I decided if my World War II veteran father (he defended democracy in Europe with the allied forces during the Battle of the Bulge in late 1944) could endure frozen feet in foxholes with his buddies and risk his life as an army sergeant, I could certainly endure the 90-plus desert temperatures in Arizona for two hours, wave my American flag and “We the People” sign, and join forces with family and friends to raise my voice. To make sure it was heard.

So, Saturday came, and we did it … Mark, Tom, Nick, Kim, Dougal, George and one to two thousand others represented democracy in Old Town Scottsdale. We were a dot in a map of some five million in the U.S. and abroad who took to the streets in big cities and small towns. All of us deeply concerned.

Locally, it was an inspiring and peaceful No Kings protest consisting of angry but well-behaved women and men. Young and old. A few children with parents and grandparents. Couples. Singles. Straight. Gay. Multi-cultural. Dogs, too. Dare I say diverse?

At one point, Tom and I chatted with a fifty-something mother from San Diego. She was visiting her daughter who lives in Scottsdale. They took turns chanting “No Kings” while cradling their adorable, slightly overwhelmed dachshund.

The dog’s benevolent eyes seemed to say, “what are we all doing here?” All I could do was shrug and smile. There is no explaining all we have endured in this country over the past six months. Not to mention the previous eight or nine years.

A short while later, I turned to discover a man holding a profoundly-funny-and-literary sign. A parody of American poet Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken. I imagine Frost would have loved it, if he had been alive and standing beside me.

I asked the man if I could take his picture. I told him it spoke to my wordsmithing sensibilities. He surprised me by saying he was a math guy.

I’ll likely never cross paths with him again. He’ll never know that my book of poetry, A Path I Might Have Missed, was inspired by my love for Robert Frost’s verses. But on June 14, 2025, we stood on the same page … on the same street corner … on the same shared path.

Together–close friends, like-minded acquaintances, and distant strangers–we proclaimed our desire and hope to rescue American democracy from the clutches of fascism.