On this Easter Sunday, it would be easy to pass by the emerging April blooms of a hidden succulent.
But I forced myself to stop, to welcome, to examine nature’s delicate offering outside my desert door.
Though barely visible beneath the eaves of loss and loud proclamations, it is anything but ordinary.
Without words, they supply sounds, scents, and texture to our everyday lives.
Their furry souls exist unconditionally, by our sides, under the table, on the coolest tile, or the warmest trail to nowhere special or somewhere sacred.
While they are present, our ever-lovable companions spread beauty, comedy, continuity, responsibility, laughter, goodness, grace, and wisdom across crowded kitchens, cozy front porches, and boundless backyards.
And, when nature calls and they pad along to another plane, they still remain family, they still inhabit our hearts forever.
***
For Mason, Katie, Poly, Maggie and all our furry friends who have gone before us.
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.
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.
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.”
Tom and I are heading to Chicago to celebrate two family milestones:
Kirk’s and Jen’s (my son and future daughter-in-law) engagement and Sharon’s (my sister-in-law) retirement from teaching.
While we are away, Poly is sure to keep an eye on things.
See you in June with more stories.
I haven’t stopped in lately.
I won’t apologize for that.
I’ve had important things to do.
Pressing places to go.
Unexpected treats to devour.
Birds to stalk. Make sense?
I know you’re busy.
New flooring tomorrow?
But it’s Easter, right?
Like my grand entrance?
Anyway, just dropping by,
To shake your tree,
Add a little levity,
Which only I deliver,
And then I’m outta here,
Cause that is what I do best.
Why do we gravitate toward
an idealized arrangement
of natural design and beauty,
heaping layer upon layer
of flat stones separated
from orderly round ones?
Do these walls stand
compressed in architectural
tribute to planned selection
over the stew of spontaneity?
Why does man’s comfort
with the squashing power
of conformity supersede
the messy-but-meaningful
marrow of our diverse story
… our diverse history?
Sunday through Monday–when desert winds blow freely or not at all–I prefer nature’s ever-present sweet, sunny and determined backyard faces to yesterday’s and today’s front-page disgraces.
In early March, while Glenn was away, Tom and I (along with an assist from St. Francis) cared for our friend’s lovable Newfoundland dogs–Katie and Mason–in their peaceful backyard.
I thought I’d seen it all,
towering above,
connecting parched earth
to every blazing sky
with few monsoon
storms racing by.
But something sinister stirs,
threatening those who dare
to gaze high and pass my
lofty four-generation station
to seek aid and find shade.
I can’t bear the crash,
our tumbling down
never again
to stretch or grow
in our forever dreams.
Yet my weary branches ache,
because I suspect
without our canopy
of truth, strength, and justice
our best days together
will have come and gone.
***
According to the Arizona Forestry and Fire Management Agency, “Mr. Big” is the largest red gum eucalyptus in the U.S. Located in the picturesque desert confines of Boyce Thompson Arboretum in Superior, Arizona, he stands 117 feet tall with a circumference of 22 feet. He was planted here as a three-year-old sapling in 1926. A wooden fence and security camera surrounding the base of the tree are designed to discourage thoughtless people from carving their initials in the trunk. On February 6, 2025, I captured this photo of Mr. Big with my husband Tom during our Boyce Thompson visit. Mr. Big’s presence, threats to nature from global warming, and the upheaval in our country have inspired me to write this poem.
Mark Johnson Stories 