As Dad, Mom, Diane and I approached my grandparents’ rambling farm in Huntersville, North Carolina, in 1968 in our four-door Chevy Biscayne, waves of kudzu vine blanketed the trees.
At some point during our July vacation there, I remember my stoic maternal grandfather telling me this invasive plant, this weed, was blocking the sunlight.
Bit by bit, the kudzu was smothering the native plants and large trees in the southeastern United States.
In a metaphorical sense, I feel like one of those older trees–perhaps an oak or pine–that has grown through the seasons and spread its branches only to discover that the censorship and hate of our nation’s government (said kudzu vine) has insidiously wrapped itself around my trunk.
This is not a new development. I have been feeling this way for years. Trying to remain positive in the face of ICE raids, misogynistic slurs, shuttered healthcare programs, disregard for our most vulnerable citizens, the environment, and our right to a free press. The list of losses is endless.
Recently, my husband and I have lived firsthand through the threat of censorship in our community. It is causing us both great pain. It is also prompting me to realize how far we have fallen as a nation and what I am willing to tolerate or accept.
At some point, I will have more to say about this. I don’t know when or how. Suffice it to say, this kudzu vine–the 2026 version of the McCarthy era in the United States–is out of control.
I do believe that, ultimately, historians will shine light on whatever it is we are living through. I hope I live long enough to see the return of truth and reason and the eradication of these smothering vines.
Over the weekend, I learned that one of Nick’s (my older son’s) high school buddies from the late 1990s/early 2000s, died recently of an apparent suicide. He was forty-two years old.
The timing of this devastating event for his family and friends has dredged up another dose of September sadness for me.
***
In September 2023, Tom and I received a letter in the mail from a close friend, who–less than a year before–had moved from the Phoenix area to another part of the country. I’ll call this friend Brett.
Brett’s snail-mail message was an eerie, lengthy, desperate, and personal admission–typed and folded meticulously. In it, Brett recounted a series of voluntary testosterone injections that messed with his body and mind.
He told us: ” … I had consulted with several friends in the medical field, all of whom told me there were no side effects to these testosterone injections and it would raise my numbers. Unfortunately, this did not turn out to be true … and it destroyed me forever.”
I know how much Brett cared for Tom and me, and we certainly listened and cared for him. “Our talks on our hikes always inspired me,” he went on to say. He told us he wished he had made better decisions in his new hometown.
When Tom and I finished reading the letter, we both felt dumbfounded. So much so that Tom ran a search on Brett’s full name. Brett’s obituary popped up.
Through a few subsequent texts and phone calls, we discovered Brett had committed suicide.
Evidently, Brett had left a short stack of letters to close friends in his home. Soon after he died, a member of his family mailed them.
In late September 2023, we heard from one of his brothers. He told us Brett had spoken highly of us. We told him how much we cared about Brett, and how frequently he mentioned his love for his family.
We sent him pictures of Brett, Tom and me banging on drums at the Musical Instrument Museum in Scottsdale. It was a fun day in May 2021, though you couldn’t see our smiles. We were wearing masks. It was the height of Covid.
We will never know the full detail of what happened to Brett or why he felt he had no recourse but to take his life. But, with time, Tom and I became acquainted with Brett’s mother and sister, too.
I am certain that talking with us about Brett provided much-needed comfort, but I can’t presume to know the devastation of what they feel when Brett’s birthday appears on the calendar every January … or when this day–September 8–reignites the fire of grief.
It is an endless nightmare.
***
Depression doesn’t only emanate from one man’s worries over his testosterone levels.
The division in our country in 2026 boggles the mind. So many people live in fear and isolation as our nation’s government–and many of the institutions we once trusted–breeds disarray, pain, anxiety, and uncertainty.
If you know someone who is struggling mightily, I encourage you to reach out to them and lend a listening ear.
Or, if that person in pain is you, please know that you matter. Help is available around the clock.
Call or text 988 to be connected to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Do it for yourself. Do it for Brett.
Whether you are facing mental health struggles, emotional distress, alcohol or drug related concerns, or just need to talk with someone, a caring counselor will provide confidential emotional support.
Remember, you are not alone.
A lone blue heron stands at the water’s edge at Chaparral Lake in Scottsdale, Arizona.
Lately, I feel like an anxious hummingbird, flitting about from one branch to another. Zooming in and out, searching for creative inspiration. Trying to find sweet nectar that will help me link one idea to the next.
Maybe it’s the late-summer desert doldrums. The intense Sonoran heat has worn me down. I don’t feel the impetus to write here as frequently as I once did.
Even so, I have experienced two moments of writing bliss in the past week. Both led me to draft deeply personal poems for members of my family–chosen and otherwise. At some point, I may decide to share them publicly, but not now.
Maybe this is simply what it feels like to be living in my “late sixties going on seventy” (sounds like a parody of a song from The Sound of Music) in a world gone mad.
All the while, I try to nourish myself.
I try to help others I love who have lost jobs or are battling cancer.
I play word games on my phone when I wake up each day.
I recall the stunning scenes and pine scents of western Canada.
I pack for my younger son’s wedding in Chicago this weekend.
I squeeze in another trip to the gym.
I watch the young-and-promising St. Louis Cardinals I root for self-destruct again in the late innings.
I download the music for my December choral concert and prepare for my next rehearsal.
I socialize with friends away from the heat produced in the Valley of the Sun.
I take afternoon naps to reboot my brain.
I prepare to lead another memoir writing workshop in October.
I recoup with my husband at home. We enjoy quieter moments in the confines of our Arizona abode.
Through it all, I wonder when or if I will rediscover the time and energy to complete another book.
Like the rumbling Bow River rapids of Alberta, Canada, that raced past me in late July in mountainous Banff, life’s quiet and meaningful moments keep rushing by.
There isn’t much any of us can do about that, except to maximize the present. That’s difficult when the human memory teases us to revisit past indelible images that we magnify through our sensory connections.
For instance, smoke-tinged skies from forest fires that shrouded Kamloops, British Columbia, when we arrived at our hotel there on July 24, 2026, will forever be sealed in my consciousness.
As will the joyful feeling of reverence for nature, as we rode on the Rocky Mountaineer train the following day, slicing through deep, green canyons on the way to Jasper.
If there is a God–and sometimes I wonder given the state of the world and American society–perhaps he, she or they reside in Canada.
That would explain the seemingly endless supply of pines, spruces and aspens north of the border.
Perhaps God plucked the trees from a celestial palette, drew them on mountains that rise from the bottom of the Thompson River’s edge to the height of a soaring eagle’s eyes.
If so, the clouds passing over the Canadian Rockies applauded in unison.
Of course, there isn’t a never-ending supply of trees, natural resources, or shared beautiful moments.
We must protect our environment, cling to the best of our days, and endure the mundane–and the madness–that exists.
Right now in the Valley of the Sun, Tom and I live in a warm (no, hot!) way station between significant summer events.
We relish our Canada adventure as we also prepare–later this month–to fly to Chicago for the wedding of my younger son, Kirk, and his future bride, Jennifer.
I’ve already advised them to reside in the magical moments of their wedding day as much as possible.
To embrace the cool waters of love from each other, from family, and from friends. To let all of it wash over them.
It will be a day that they–and I–will remember always.
I live in the Sonoran Desert and the Sonoran Desert lives in me. That’s been the case for nine years. My most prolific ones as a writer.
The language of the desert–like grains of sand that blow in through the door–is now part of my creative being.
Shimmering sunsets. Slithering lizards. Skittish quail. Stray cats. Spiky cacti and succulents. Scattering snowbirds. And those are just a sample from the letter “s”.
When I served as a “Writer in Residence” at the Scottsdale Public Library last spring, I prompted the writers in my workshop to explore the role setting plays in the stories of their lives.
I asked them to consider a place in their lives that is or was prominent and how that place might be considered a character in what they have to say. In the stories they want to show and tell.
The places I have lived or frequented have certainly provided texture to my existence and informed my perspective. The orange earth of the Carolinas. The rolling hills of Missouri. The flatlands of Illinois. The rugged buttes of the Arizona desert.
They represent distinct periods in my life, and–in hindsight–I now understand better why they each deserve their proximity across my body of literary work, six books … a lifetime of stories.
The heat here in July is intense. But it is bearable because the Sonoran Desert–even in its most torrid state–is otherworldly.
At times it feels as if I am living on the moon. The astonishing natural beauty and stately saguaros–sentinels that stand tall in valleys and on hillsides here–have led me to a creative destination outside the orbit of my midwestern sensibilities.
One where I “write on” … as I just celebrated my sixty-ninth birthday and begin this final lap in my sixties. Learning and growing. Teaching and influencing.
Standing tall as a gay man, a husband, a father, a writer. Proud as a saguaro despite my visits to the cardiologist and dermatologist to manage my personal frailties. Rooted to this vivid place, the Valley of the Sun, that is my home.
***
Note to those of you who live in the Phoenix metropolitan area: On Thursday, July 16, from 5 to 7 p.m., I will be signing and selling copies of my latest book, Sixty-Something Days, at Grounds on 2nd in Old Town Scottsdale, located at 3703 N. 69th St.
This charming neighborhood place (coffee and wine bar) is one of my favorite spots in our Scottsdale, Arizona, community. It truly is an inclusive, creative space my husband Tom and I frequent to write, read, and chill with friends. In fact, I wrote and edited a considerable portion of my latest book there.
If you are in the area, stop by to sell hello, grab a book and a glass of wine. I also will have a few copies of my other five books–memoirs, poetry, and short fiction–on hand in case you are looking for options to add to your summer reading list.
In April 2026, friends at the Scottsdale Public Library gave me this shirt after I completed my “Writer in Residence” stint there.
Uncertainty exists in every day, in every life. I try not to dwell on it, but on this day–the 250th anniversary of the United States adopting our Declaration of Independence–uncertainty is our next-door neighbor.
I certainly remember our 200th anniversary, our bi-centennial celebration, in 1976. I was a bright-eyed, long-haired, eighteen-year-old, idealistic American.
Living in suburban St. Louis, I recall seeing the tall ships grace New York Harbor on our console TV on July 4, 1976.
That summer I worked at Six Flags Over Mid-America near St. Louis. As a tribute to the bicentennial, the Screamin’ Eagle rollercoaster roared across the sky. It was the newest, tallest, fastest ride in the park. Teens rode it again and again just for the thrill of it.
Even though the corruption of Watergate and the devastation of the Vietnam War were still fresh in the American psyche, in 1976 it felt like all Americans lived under and abided by one set of rules. That we aspired to one vision.
That the United States of America–the collective red, white and blue–was one nation and indivisible. A beacon of hope and freedom. That we believed, honored, and protected the notion of life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and justice. For all.
Over the past several years, like a rollercoaster that has jumped the tracks, we have been derailed by a malicious force. I don’t need to–or want to–speak their names. They have fostered twenty-four-hour-a-day uncertainty and anxiety in this nation I still love.
What I choose to celebrate today are the American citizens who still hold fast to the principle our nation was founded under: freedom and justice for all Americans, no matter your skin color, ethnicity, religious beliefs, sexual orientation, gender, social or economic status.
That is the memory of the United States of America I am proud of.
That is the country my father and thousands of other true patriots have bravely fought for and defended.
That is the country I knew and lived in yesterday.
That is the country I still dream of and worry over.
That is the country I cling to and pray for on July 4, 2026.
That is the country I want to live in today and tomorrow.
Nine days ago, I wasn’t sure I would be well enough to take the stage with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus for our fabulous Broadway Lightsshow June 27 and 28 at Tempe Center for the Arts.
I contracted some sort of viral infection (not Covid) that pounded my head, ravaged my gut, kept me queasy, and spurred me to take a quick Saturday visit with my husband to an urgent care facility in south Scottsdale.
This all happened while my chorus mates sang and danced their way through an all-day Saturday rehearsal.
But, remarkably, after plenty of fluids and rest, I reemerged a week ago more like myself, five pounds lighter, and ready to embrace another dazzling concert experience.
There is something mysterious about the process of coming together with a group of friends to create a great show. You endure the frustrating moments when the energy isn’t quite there. When the mics aren’t working properly. When the entrances are slow. When you turn the wrong way or sing the wrong note.
But eventually if you work long and hard enough–and all goes well enough–the magic appears. The doubts fade away. The voices and spirits rise. The lights come up and the audience appears in large numbers. They applaud, laugh and cry when they are supposed to. They even stand up and cheer with abandon.
In those moments, as you gaze into the throngs from the top riser you are reminded again why you love to sing. Why you love live theatre. Why you are thankful for Being Alive (a Stephen Sondheim number we performed from his musical, Company).
In addition to singing in this concert, I co-wrote the libretto for Broadway Lights and coached nine storytellers. They channeled their acting chops to fuse the swells of Broadway music with stories that illuminated the joys and heartaches of our LGBTQ+ lives … angsting about a first date, obsessing over a “crush”, remembering a beloved uncle who died of AIDS, returning home for a grandparent’s birthday as the person you were meant to be, celebrating a joyous wedding day, standing up against the injustices of life, and embracing the beacon of Broadway music that soars through our souls.
It’s a lot of work, but a labor of love. Love for the music. Love for the singing. Love for the community of people I perform with. Love for the audience who probably needed to be there to hear beautiful, powerful voices that transcend the ever-present noise of our American lives.
***
A few years ago, our chorus tried something new. For a small donation to the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus, we invited our loyal patrons to write a few words of encouragement on a “Bravo” notecard to be delivered backstage to someone in the chorus they love, or know, or simply want to support.
I was honored to receive several “Bravo” messages over the weekend. The loving, handwritten words from my husband, chosen family, community friends, and new acquaintances touched me deeply.
Today, tomorrow, and beyond I will treasure them and the memory of standing and singing once more … side-by-side … with my chorus friends. My chosen family.
In the metaphoric scrapbook of life, fatherhood is a life-long accumulation, an amalgamation of significant and insignificant moments, encounters and touchstones.
The day-to-day physical and financial responsibilities of fatherhood are long gone for me. That equates to a mix of heavy lifting, unconditional love, sincere relief, treasured memories, heartfelt celebrations, and a few episodes of painful regrets.
But that is all in the rearview mirror now. At this age (just a few weeks from my sixty-ninth birthday), my moments of fatherhood with my sons–Nick is forty-two, Kirk is thirty-seven–have morphed into fewer-but-sweeter encounters. A few shared dinners here with Nick. An exchange of “check-in” text messages with Kirk there, punctuated by bi-monthly, thirty-minute phone conversations.
It makes me happy to see how Nick and Kirk have built independent lives with meaningful relationships and sustaining jobs. My constant availability is no longer essential to their lives, but my love for them only continues to grow … and their love and appreciation for me and my life experiences does, too.
***
In June 2019, as Father’s Day approached, I wrote a piece about a conversation I had with Jacob. He was a new father and EKG technician who cared for me in Barnes-Jewish Hospital in 2017 in St. Louis, as I reclined on a gurney and dealt with the pain and uncertainty of a mild heart attack.
I remember how I provided encouragement for Jacob’s new status as a young dad as he attended to me. It took my mind off the trauma of those moments. So, in a sense, we helped each other navigate unchartered waters.
Our paths haven’t crossed since that inauspicious July day. But by now Jacob’s son is nine years old. I wonder how he and his dad are faring.
If I could speak with Jacob again, my advice–listed below in italics and pulled directly from my June 2019 essay–would include the same ten unsolicited bits of advice from seven years ago, but with a few additions.
***
1. Love your son … and tell him you do.
2. Listen to and validate his dreams.
3. Provide him with an honest and safe home.
4. Buy him nutritious food and encourage him to exercise.
5. Cheer him on when he succeeds. Encourage him when he fails.
6. Don’t spend a lot of money buying him new things. Spend it on shared experiences instead.
7. Teach him the importance of learning and saving for a rainy day.
8. Show him what it means to respect animals, nature, and diverse people.
9. Explain to him that it’s a sign of strength for a man to ask questions and show vulnerability.
10. Love your son no matter who he loves. Remind him that you will always be his dad.
***
Of course, the world has changed dramatically in the past seven years. It’s a more fearful place.
I still cling to hope that our country will find its way out of the abyss. For that to happen, the onus will be on dads (and moms) to give more of themselves. So, I have added these five caveats to my list:
11. Teach your son to honor equality and respect the past and present contributions of women and minorities.
12. Always seek the truth and beware of false idols.
13. Own your mistakes and learn from them.
14. Be a good neighbor and kind citizen.
15. Do the right thing. Stand up for your convictions. Your son is watching.
“But when the thermometer goes way upand the weather is sizzlin’ hot,mister man with a plan is not. ‘Cause it’s too, too, too darn hot.”
***
As the heat rolls into the Valley of the Sun this week–100-plus high temperatures through Saturday–this snappy tune, which Cole Porter wrote in 1948 for his Broadway show Kiss Me Kate, repeats through my brain.
It’s certainly “Too Darn Hot” to hike outside in June here, unless you do it early in the day. That’s what I–and a young woman walking her Boston terrier–did Monday around 9 a.m. Nobody else was on the Papago Park trail near my home.
This morning I opted for swimming thirty lengths in the relative cool of Chapparal Pool. How I’ve missed submerging myself underwater (thanks to a couple of dermatological procedures that kept me at bay).
In the afternoons, you’re better off holding up in the Scottsdale Public Library to escape the heat. That’s where Tom and I have sequestered ourselves today, along with a few dozen others, strategically stationed at square wooden tables, hovering over their books and laptops.
Other than the heat references, why would I be channeling an old Broadway tune? Because my next choral concert with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus–“Broadway Lights”– is fast approaching: June 27 (2 p.m. and 7 p.m.) and June 28 (2 p.m.) at Tempe Center for the Arts.
As described in our promotional materials, “It will be a spectacular celebration of some of Broadway’s most beloved musicals. From the soaring melodies of Wicked and The Sound of Music, to the show-stopping energy of Hamilton, Moulin Rouge!, Hairspray, Into the Woods, The Book of Mormon, The Wiz, and The Greatest Showman, this season finale is packed with music that has captivated audiences around the world.”
Coincidentally, “Too Darn Hot”–timed beautifully with the inevitable onset of our desert heat–is the closing number for Act One.
If you live in the Phoenix metropolitan area, step into one of the coolest concert venues around: the Tempe Center for the Arts. Get your tickets at http://www.phxgmc.org.
You may be wondering “Since it is Pride month, is there a LGBTQ Pride element to this concert?” The answer is a resounding “YES!”
My chorus mate August and I have teamed up to write the libretto for the concert. It features nine storytellers, who will describe how Broadway music has served as a beacon for the LGBTQ+ community in happy and sad times.
Together–the music, the stories, and a slate of hot dance numbers–will combine to create a full theatrical production, which our loyal audience has come to expect.
This will mark the completion of my ninth season (singing and writing for) with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
I still recall auditioning for the chorus in August 2017. Tom and I had just moved to Arizona from the Chicago area.
I was depressed and anxious, desperately trying to regain my health, to uncover an unobstructed view after surviving a heart attack on the way west in July 2017 on our sixtieth birthday.
Finding the chorus, nurturing new friendships, and reigniting my passion for singing has been a key element in my recovery. It helped me lighten my mood and smile again.
When I step onto the stage again on June 27, I know I will feel grateful for the music and the nine years of creative discovery. But also, for this safe haven. This supportive community of people.
They have helped me to realize I still have a lot to give. I still have a lot to say. I still have the ability to stand on a stage and raise my voice, especially now as we cling to the hope that–maybe someday–our democracy can be salvaged.
