Category: Community

The Arc and The Arch: Part Three

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In February 2024, John, Sharon, Tom, and I sat around a half-moon-shaped booth in Phoenix, devouring yummy, syrup-soaked, gluten-free waffles and nursing hot mugs of coffee at Jewel’s Bakery and Cafe.

They had been in town for a church retreat over a three-day weekend and were about to return their rental car to Sky Harbor Airport. Breakfast together was our sendoff before they flew home to St. Louis.

“Oh, did you see Nancy’s post on Facebook? There’s gonna be a Class of ’75, Affton High School, 50th reunion sometime, somewhere next September in St. Louis,” I reported.

“You guys should definitely do it. ” Sharon chimed in. “The four of us should go together! Don’t worry about Tom and me. We’ll keep each other company.”

“Sure. Why not!?” Tom agreed.

“I’m in if you’re in,” John stared directly at me. He and I were close junior and high school pals in Affton, though his family moved north, away to another St. Louis area school district before our senior year.

“Okay,” I concluded. “The journalist inside me is telling me we should go.”

Our scheme–hatched in Phoenix, to be realized more than a year and a half later in St. Louis–was born.

***

The sometime was 5 to 9 p.m. on September 21, 2025. The somewhere? Grant’s Farm, a rambling, forested 281-acre estate in south suburban St. Louis, named for Ulysses S. Grant and owned by the Busch family.

Specifically, our 50th reunion would occur in the Bauernhof Courtyard area there. It’s an old-world community space where–since its opening in 1954–St. Louisans have gathered to sample Anheuser-Busch products, and amble down hallways of vintage horse carriages past Clydesdale stables. It is an iconic St. Louis destination, draped in mid-twentieth-century nostalgia.

With the threat of showers in the air, John, Sharon, Tom and I arrived in the Grant’s Farm parking lot just before 5 p.m. Immediately, I began to spot familiar faces. I hugged Terri and Beth, two classmates I hadn’t seen in decades. We boarded a tram that would transport us through the woods to the Bauernhof. I inhaled the fresh-yet-familiar, dampness of the lush green forest.

The long-awaited immersion into my past Affton High School life–connecting one leg of my past as a seventeen-year-old, long-haired (remember, it was the 1970s), reserved, enterprising, unactualized gay adolescent with the other leg of my present much older, wiser, grayer, gayer, literary self–was about to commence.

When we arrived at the Bauernhof Courtyard entrance, we stepped out of the tram towards an archway. Nancy, our cheerful, detail-minded Class of ’75 organizer, greeted us with hugs.

We formed a line to check in and pick up drink tickets. Affton attendees (in this case, John and me) received name tags bearing our black-and-white high school yearbook photos. Significant others, such as Sharon and Tom, got tags with an image of a cougar beside their names. (The cougar is the Affton High School mascot.)

John and I proceeded through the line with our “cougar spouses” toward the courtyard. A photographer snapped photos as couples and singles entered. In that moment, as I turned to see the line queuing behind me, I spotted someone significant I had hoped to see. Not a fellow student, but a teacher I admired from my high school years. It was Judy Rethwisch, my drama teacher.

The high school version of me would have faded and stepped back, reticent to make a scene or a visible statement. But the confident me–the sixty-eight-year-old gay man with his husband by his side–stepped forward to reconnect with Judy.

“I want you to know what a positive difference you have made in my artistic life,” I smiled and reached forward to hug her. “With you at the helm, I found my peeps in the theatre program at Affton,” I went on. In a flash, I recounted roles I played in productions of Fiddler on the Roof and Gypsy under Judy’s dedication and tutelage.

Judy smiled and listened intently as Tom captured a few photos of us locked in conversation. She told me she is still teaching drama. Sixty-one years as an educator. Still vibrant. Still making a difference in the lives of other aspiring actors, musicians, and artists. She asked for my card and told me she is interested in reading one of my books. That was just the beginning of a stream of seminal reunion moments.

I quickly rediscovered a parade of classmates coming and going all around me. Some were fuzzy in my memory. Others, like Jon, more meaningful. He was a good friend in high school, who traveled to Colorado with John and me after our junior year of high school.

Suddenly, I was transported to August 1974. Somehow, the three of us had convinced our parents, that we–one seventeen-year-old and two sixteen-year-old boys–would be safe driving and camping together across country in John’s AMC Javelin, pulling a small trailer.

Yes, we were underage and found someone to buy us lots of Coors beer, which we swilled by the campfire at night. But we survived intact. I recall vividly shoveling down steak and eggs for breakfast in a bar somewhere in Wyoming, while in the corner of the tavern, Richard Nixon, was announcing his resignation on a beat-up black-and-white TV.

Back at the reunion, other male and female classmates trailed by to greet each under the courtyard tent. It featured a beautiful crystal chandelier that hung in the center of the space.

Soon a line formed at a barbeque buffet. We juggled our drinks and grabbed plates, before landing at one end of a long rectangular table Tom and Sharon had secured.

At one point, I turned, and Jeff appeared. He and I were pals, who shared a few classes. We ate together frequently in our high school cafeteria. Honestly, these memories are vague for me. But I remembered his handsome face. It hadn’t changed much, given the fifty-year gap in our connection.

When Jeff introduced his long-time partner Lee to Tom and me, I felt my past and present lives coalesce. Neither Jeff nor I were aware of the other’s sexual orientation in high school. Sadly, that was the norm for 1975 for unrealized, unfulfilled, budding gay adolescents.

But knowing that against the tide of social norms we had each found happiness with our male partners and had independently decided to return to the reunion was physical proof why I had come to the Class of 1975 reunion. I needed to fully reconcile my past closeted self with the authentic gay man I had become.

A little later in the evening, Tom returned to our table and said emphatically: “I can’t tell you why, but you need to go to the dessert table right now.”

Of course, I listened to my husband and followed suit. When I arrived there, I discovered Nancy and Jim (the reunion organizer and her husband) had brought two of my books–From Fertile Ground and Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator–to display there for all to see.

I don’t know that I gasped, but it felt like I did. To be appreciated for my writing that way, left me speechless in the moment. It was a lovely gesture, authored by Nancy and Jim. Another phenomenal moment, which connected one leg of my life with another.

Before the reunion came to a close and we boarded the tram, all of the Class of 1975 Affton High School classmates–about 120 of us in attendance–stood on a wobbly set of risers for a group picture. (Earlier in the evening, a large poster bearing the names and photos of our forty-nine classmates who have passed graced a corner of the same stage.)

Certainly, the wrinkles and gray hair for those of us who have survived into our late sixties were apparent on the evening of Sunday, September 21, 2025. But the smiles and fun-loving community spirit superseded all of that. Our hearts were full.

***

After treating John and Sharon to breakfast Monday morning, Tom and I had a few hours on our own before we needed to make our way to the St. Louis airport for the trip home to Arizona. There were a few loose ends for us to tie together.

First, we drove to Left Bank Books in the central west end of St. Louis to browse the stacks. It’s a renowned, LGBTQ-friendly, independent bookstore we had planned to visit on the morning of our shared sixtieth birthday. But after I suffered a mild heart attack that day–in the city where I was born–our lives took a vastly different path. Fortunately, we survived that experience together.

Appropriately, our final stop in St. Louis was the Gateway Arch. In the late 1970s, during my collegiate years, I was a National Park Service history interpreter there. Giving tours of the Museum of Westward Expansion, welcoming visitors to the top of the Arch, and–from time to time–introducing a fascinating documentary film about the construction of the Arch, called Monument to the Dream.

The film chronicles the beauty and simplicity of Eero Saarinen’s winning design, but also the herculean effort required for a diligent crew to erect the monument through all sorts of weather conditions.

On a warm autumn day when the Arch was completed–October 28, 1965–the crew sprayed a steady stream of water on the south leg, which was expanding in the heat, to allow the capstone–the final piece at the top between the two legs–to be wedged in and joined permanently.

In a symbolic sense, that is what this later-in-life St. Louis reunion with friends and family means to me.

Call it the arc of life or the Arch of life. Either way these sixty-something years began in Missouri, brought me to Chicago for a long career and life as a single father, and carried me to Arizona with my husband. There we have discovered a rewarding artistic life together among new and old friends–our chosen family–even as our freedoms and institutions in the America we still love are threatened by fascism.

Along the way, the highs and lows have transported me to a profound place of greater gratitude and understanding, which I have earned.

It is a welcome destination that once felt out of reach.

On Monday, September 22, 2025, Tom captured this photo of me leaning against the base of the north leg of the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Missouri.

The Arc and The Arch: Part Two

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Spotty storm clouds gathered in the distance on the morning of Saturday, September 20. Tom and I drove northwest twenty miles, across the Missouri River.

Our destination was Breeze Park in Weldon Spring, Missouri. My cousin Phyllis–a retired teacher–is convalescing there, hoping to regain her strength after a series of health complications.

Phyllis’ mother Violet and my father Walter were twins born in St. Louis. It was 1913. More than fifty years later, the Gateway Arch would rise and transform the St. Louis riverfront. Teetering warehouses once stood on cobblestone streets there, in this fur-trading town founded just west of the Mississippi River in 1764.

In the arc of life, Phyllis and I (both Baby Boomers) also arrived–she in 1947, I in 1957–before the historic completion of the Arch, our nation’s tallest monument, on October 28, 1965.

But today I reflect on our personal connection. Like me, Phyllis and her husband Tom also raised two sons born in the 1980s. Austin and Bryant are now in their early forties and late thirties respectively. A touch younger than my son Nick; a shade older than my son Kirk.

Now in their late seventies, Tom and Phyllis are meeting the healthcare challenges of life head on. Negotiating the unpleasantness of aging and inherent losses (their lovable golden retriever Truman passed recently). They are doing their best to push ahead. To stay hopeful. Or as my mother–a child of the Depression–would have said “trying to keep a stiff upper lip.”

Given these developments, I wanted to spend time with them while we were in the St. Louis area. Especially because–beyond my sister Diane who now lives in northern Illinois–they are the closest remaining strands of family from my Missouri years: 1957 to 1980 … my Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator years.

On Saturday, when my husband and I arrived just past 9:30, we wound our way down halls, past friendly staff and other visitors, to Phyllis’ room. She was delighted to see us. So was her Tom. He arrived a few minutes later with a big smile and box of gooey pastries for us to share.

The next two hours were a heart-warming oasis of conversation and listening between the four of us. We spent our time commiserating over the latest news, but–more importantly–strengthening our family bond during a challenging period for them personally.

Phyllis is hoping to return to their home soon in nearby St. Charles. As anyone would, she is missing the familiarity and comfort of her life. Longing for peace away from medical equipment and disruptive procedures. Her kind, caregiving husband is also searching for peace.

Before Tom and I left, we hugged and took photos together outside on a beautiful, flower-laden patio at Breeze Park. I kissed Phyllis on the cheek. A few tears materialized for both of us, not knowing what tomorrow will bring.

At the least, we shared those upbeat Saturday moments, built upon our 1960s memories of our once-vital, long-gone boisterous St. Louis relatives gathering around us every Christmas, Easter, and Independence Day.

To our credit, in our later years, long after our sons became adults, we have formed reciprocal connections. Most notably, Phyllis, Tom and their family joined Tom and me for an Italian dinner in St. Louis in route to our new home in Arizona in July 2017.

Now they share stories and photos via text of their four growing grandchildren, and I write stories about my St. Louis origins, which she has encouraged, helped inspire, read, and followed diligently.

All of this, through a period of uncertainty, sustains us in our sixty-and-seventy-something years across the miles.

***

Just after noon Saturday, Tom and I returned to Creve Coeur. We landed in the driveway of our friends John and Sharon.

We were about to share the rest of the weekend with them and their loyal eight-year-old-shepherd-beagle-mix Nickel at their stylish, mid-century home … hike with John through a dense forested area overlooking Creve Coeur Lake, then get caught in the rain in historic downtown St. Charles … drive into St. Louis for a Cardinals/Brewers game at Busch Stadium Saturday night … and still later, on Sunday evening, attend our Class of 1975 Affton High School reunion together at Grant’s Farm.

The clouds cleared Saturday evening and ushered in cooler temperatures. Seated together with close friends at Busch Stadium, three levels up directly behind home plate, it didn’t seem to matter that my beloved Cardinals lost 3-2.

Yes, it was the latest evidence in a disappointing sub-par year. But on the horizon, beyond the stadium’s outfield walls, the twilight of a blue sky and puffy clouds perfectly framed the Gateway Arch at the center.

Architect Eero Saarinen’s monument to a dream is still standing, rising above the cobblestones and the fray, as it approaches its sixtieth birthday.

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.

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.

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.

Unpacking

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In my late sixties, I am more aware of what remains in my gas tank.

Not the fuel gauge on our 2012 Hyundai Sonata. I’m talking about the physical and mental energy needed to maneuver life … while keeping a little extra for the seminal moments.

In the span of one week, I am celebrating Kirk’s and Jen’s (my younger son and future-daughter-in-law) engagement with family in Illinois (it already happened June 1) and taking the stage with my chosen Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus family (June 6 and 7 is our raucous Rhinestone Rodeo show) at Tempe Center for the Arts in Arizona.

Both are deeply personal and rewarding.

Seeing my thirty-six-year-old son and his future bride beaming and greeting loved ones on the second floor of a popular neighborhood eatery on Chicago’s northwest side touched me. But there was more to it than that.

Because, there was a culmination of lives … past, present, and future.

Like Tom and me, my older son Nick and his girlfriend Anastasia flew in from Arizona for the festivities … and my sister Diane and brother-in-law Steve were there, too.

Though they live in the Chicago area, they each have difficulty managing stairs. Even so, diligently, they found a way to make the climb to a private dining room inside Zia’s Social. One small step at a time for the sake of a milestone moment with family.

There was another significant emotional layer to the event for me.

Jean, my ex, planned the party. Over the past few decades, we have been in the same room just a few times. At my mother’s funeral. At Kirk’s graduation. Our communication has been sparse at best.

But, at this stage of life, it feels life much of the animosity that existed between us after our divorce in 1992 has dissipated. We have both moved on. We have found vastly different lives with our respective husbands. Ironically, both of them are named Tom.

Bottom line, this engagement party was a joyous and healing experience for me … and I suspect others. There will be another one on August 29, 2026, at Kirk’s and Jen’s wedding. Also, in Chicago.

Now that my Tom and I are back in Scottsdale, I have been rehearsing each night this week. Conserving my energy while putting the smoothing touches on our music.

More than thirty of our Arizona friends–many of them straight allies–will be in the audience this weekend. They will fill the seats you see here alongside hundreds of others.

Smiling. Cheering. Laughing. Crying. Phenomenal music has a way of spurring it all. Touching our hearts and souls in ways we … gay or straight … never imagined.

Make no mistake. The nearly 1,500 who attend our shows this weekend will be entertained by our mix of past and present country western hits … coalescing with our brand of giant gay swirls thrown in for good measure.

Naturally, the pink fringe vest and new black boots I’ve bought for the shows … and will be wearing … will be made for more than walking and singing.

They’ll be carrying me through the two-steppin’ choralography … anchoring me on the top riser (through Pink Pony Club, Ya’ll Means All, Texas Hold ‘Em and much more) with love, gratitude, and pride for a week in June 2025 that will always be dear to me.