In October 2019, I puttered in my garden as I often do.
I had already begun to assemble tongue-in-cheek and serious stories about life in the Grand Canyon State. But I needed a creative hook to link the essays and my desert fantasies to the wide-open experience of living in Arizona.
Strangely, sagging citrus tree branches provided the stimulus for my book title. While they impeded our sidewalk, identifying the obstacle cleared a path in my brain. Tom stood by as seven words flew from my mouth and tumbled into the arid Arizona air: “I Think I’ll Prune the Lemon Tree.”
***
Nearly four years have passed. In early 2021, I completed and published my book. Folks near and far have told me how much they’ve enjoyed reading it.
Of course, I hope more will discover it and find meaning in the essays, including those I wrote about living in a global community we never imagined–a place I call Coronaville.
This afternoon I found myself in the same space outside my front door, examining the same tree, realizing it needed another haircut. I grabbed the loppers, pulled on my gardening gloves, and pruned only the most problematic branches that hung low.
Sadly, there were a few lemon casualties that fell to the earth looking more like green limes than the fully matured lemons they might have become in December.
Still, I think I did a good thing for Tom and me … and our neighbors and delivery people, who pass daily on the sidewalk of our mid-twentieth-century condo community and go about their lives under the radar.
And the lemon tree? It’s now shapelier than before and has inspired me to write yet another story about the possibilities at play in nature.
Nearly half drained, September–in the valley of fiery light where tiny lizards scurry–cues the hiss of early morning sprinklers.
They spray precious droplets that pool, surround, and saturate parched succulents, palms, and citrus trees.
The latter wonder if the fruits of their labors will prove less luscious when snowbirds return to snatch and gather golden orbs from sagging January branches.
In a world of distractions, scoundrels and deceit, nature casts a sliver of shade away from the heat.
On August 16, 2023, Poly–our community cat–reappeared and inspired this brief verse and montage. To read more of my poetry, purchase A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
For the first time in a month in the Phoenix area, the high temperature failed to reach 110 degrees yesterday. (Unrelated, the kids –reluctantly or not–returned to school for a fresh start. Not my kids, but somebody’s kids.)
108 or 109 isn’t exactly pumpkin-spice latte weather, but it represents a clean-and-slightly-cooler slate for all of us Sonoran Desert rats, though the mercury is due to rise again later this week.
Coincidentally, the first day of this new month (not yet spoiled by the trauma of breaking news) is also the major league baseball (MLB) trading deadline.
MLB teams that feel they have a chance to advance to the playoffs and contend for the World Series title are adding players to their slates, who they hope will get them there.
Others (like my beloved St. Louis Cardinals who have bungled their way through the 2023 season and uncharacteristically reside in last place in their division as August begins) have decided to retool.
They have opted to prepare for a 2024 clean slate, by trading players whose contracts are about to expire for up-and-coming pitching talent that might trigger a positive outcome in the future.
Beyond the ball fields, I feel a sense of relief emotionally as we turn the page to August.
July’s heat–plus the grief of saying goodbye to my aunt, supporting my sister from afar as she recovers from surgery, and remembering the loss of my mother on her 100th birthday–has left me reeling like a rag doll cast into the corner.
While I’m healthy and vital, I think the malaise I’m feeling is probably common for those in my age range. It’s the realization that the world I once knew is shrinking and unfamiliar. Or worse yet, evaporating. That includes the people I love and the institutions I once knew.
For instance, I saw in the news that Yellow (a long-standing trucking company) has filed for bankruptcy. 30,000 employees will lose their jobs. I have no special allegiance to Yellow, but they were a client of mine when I was a consultant for Towers Perrin in the 1990s.
In 1995 and 1996, I caught a flight once a week from Chicago (where I lived) to Kansas City (near their headquarters). I met with the company’s human resources management and helped strategize their employee benefits and pay communication.
It wasn’t rocket science, but I felt I was helping people understand the options before them. Anyway, those workers that remain with the company in 2023 will now begin with a clean slate, too … whether they like it or not … as they work to parlay their pink slips into something of value that has nothing to do with Barbie-mania.
Of course, I’m thankful to be done with the traditional workforce. For Tom and me, we are fortunate to pursue our passions–the appreciation and preservation of classic films for him, the exploration of creative writing and poetry for me–on our own terms.
To close out the month of July, we manufactured our own clean slates by traveling to Flagstaff, Arizona, last week for three days and nights.
It helped me to retreat to cooler temperatures (highs in the upper eighties, lows in the upper fifties) to regain my energy.
We stayed at a lovely and contemporary B&B there: the Bespoke Inn Flagstaff.
Samantha, the manager, surprised us with a complimentary bottle of champagne (when she learned we were commemorating my mother’s milestone birthday).
I surprised her with a complimentary copy of my book of poetry as a parting gift.
Tom and I discovered a fabulous cafe in town–Tourist Home–where we did some reading and writing. The proprietors bake and sell phenomenal gluten-free crullers with sprinkles.
To counteract the calories, we also enjoyed hiking Buffalo Park in Flagstaff. It’s positioned on a plateau just a few miles from the base of the San Francisco Peaks.
Walking the path there with my husband helped me regain my creative footing as I attempt to reignite a fictionalized story that continues to rattle through my brain.
I started to write it last year, but then got derailed. It’s about a young gay man struggling to find his way and write his story in the high altitude of northern Arizona.
For now, that’s all I’ll say, but I’m open to any positive creative vibes you choose to send my way.
On Friday, July 28, 2023, a swatch of sunflowers lined the path at Buffalo Park in Flagstaff, Arizona.
This is not that June I used to know of lush eastern or midwestern gardens in better neighborhoods or blushing brides posing on the covers of magazines that used to be familiar.
It is an under-the-radar, sun-soaked, almost-summer, alternative universe of early-bird lizards, spiky saguaros, freshly trimmed palms, empty pool chairs, and fiery sunsets.
All of them wait in triple digits for a hint of the season’s first monsoon, an uncertain wet chapter and swirling desert drama that has yet to unfold in a land where the clocks never change.
I captured these images in my south Scottsdale-Arizona community between June 17 and 20, 2023.
Yesterday, after a trip to Walgreens for our latest Covid boosters, Tom and I enjoyed thirty minutes walking through Vista del Camino Park in south Scottsdale.
It’s one of many washes and greenspaces that run north and south, connecting walkways and bike paths throughout our community.
After parking our 2012 indigo Hyundai Sonata–our same faithful friend that carried us west from Illinois in July 2017 after I suffered a mild heart attack–we followed the path.
We smiled as ducks paddled through a meandering creek. It is adorned with a wild splash of lavender lilies that climb the bank in one small section.
We waved to a few disc golfers, and watched a few others wade through murky water to fish out errant throws.
We admired a thicket of tall reeds, flourishing near the northern edge of the park thanks to our wetter-than-normal winter.
But the highlight came as we made our way back to the car. We paused under this enormous eucalyptus tree. It’s one of our favorite Scottsdale nature spots–a place we have visited many times over the past nearly six years.
I was compelled to capture the strength and shade of the tree, because I wanted to savor the memory and carry it home.
In that moment, I also realized I needed to write about the tree–its enduring status–and what it represents on the fifth anniversary of my blogging adventure.
Back on May 4, 2018, when I wrote my first blog post, I was looking for a way to carve my initials into the blogosphere. (Incidentally, I never considered carving my initials into the trunk of this beautiful tree. Sadly, over the decades, vandals have had different ideas. Whatever happened to the notion of respecting property and nature?)
Anyway, through my books and blog, it has been my goal to leave a trail of my thoughts and observations for anyone who might want to follow the late-in-life stories of a sixty-five-year-old heart-attack survivor living a warmer, lighter, and gayer existence in the Sonoran Desert with his husband.
This odyssey has helped me connect with all sorts of people all around the world. To voice my opinions. To learn more about yours. And, to frequently step back to marvel at the beauty of nature in Arizona and how I desperately need it.
Perhaps most important of all, blogging has helped me stay sane, vital, and relevant. We’ve all had to look for ways to navigate a raging pandemic and try to come out the other side as relatively whole human beings.
Last night, Tom and I watched a program about Gordon Lightfoot, the prolific Canadian singer and songwriter who died recently. In one particular clip, he talked about the salvation his music provided–allowing him to work out his emotions (perhaps, his demons) through song.
My writing serves that same purpose. On my saddest, most anxious, happiest, and most triumphant days–all of it–writing down my ideas and preparing them into something artful and reasonably coherent helps me make sense of the idiosyncrasies and madness in the world. In other words, my writing helps me rise above the fray … and we all know there is plenty of fray today.
It helps me feel less afraid about a whole host of things … growing older in a more vulnerable and less safe society … seeing previously recognizable American institutions (like truth, honor, and decency) vanish … cringing as my favorite baseball team from the sepia-tone recollections of my 1960s childhood (the St. Louis Cardinals) coughs up another game and sinks further into the abyss of last place (something they have seldom seen in their rich history) … and shedding a few more tears to say goodbye to old friends and Polynesian Paradise neighbors. (Another of our desert-loving flock, Bill, died yesterday after a hard-fought battle.)
While all of this happens around me and is out of my control, I feel as if I am like the eucalyptus tree in Vista del Camino Park. Despite the increasing number of wrinkles and imperfections on my skin, I’m still strong enough to smear ointments on the rough patches and move ahead along this path I might have missed. To live, love, sing, swim, and survive. To write more poems and tell more stories.
Specifically, along the banks of whatever may come next, I’ll continue to strive to produce some degree of shade for the ones I love: my husband, my sons, my friends, my neighbors, and my followers.
It’s a sizzling Saturday in the Phoenix area … 97, 98, and climbing. Hats and water bottles for protection and hydration are in order. They are now regulation gear for the next several months.
When Tom and I left the Phoenix Farmer’s Market mid-morning–clutching a clump of chard, a few red peppers, and a bouquet of snapdragons–I could feel the crackle and pop of heat bouncing off the sidewalks. Pulsating through the air.
Tom has since trimmed the pink and magenta snapdragons. He arranged them in a cobalt-blue-glazed ceramic pitcher I treasure. My mother left it behind.
We began buying fresh-cut flowers three years ago as Covid raged and tightened its grip on the world. It was our way of bringing natural beauty into our home, while we worked to avoid the bombardment of fear and disease.
Thirty-six months later, you might say this practice has taken root and grown into a full-fledged tradition.
Certainly, there is beauty outside in the surrounding rugged buttes, startling sunsets, chirping birds, and April cactus blooms.
But this bouquet (featured on a table beneath our Brokeback Mountain poster we bought when we lived in the Chicago area) provides us with a more private splash of color. Tucked away from the heat of the day both meteorologically and metaphorically.
Mark Johnson Stories 