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.”
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.
“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.
I began this blogging odyssey seven years ago today. That’s longer than I stayed in all but one of my jobs during my communication career, and the most obvious measure I can think of to show and tell you how important this is to me.
The crux of it is this. I continue to write here and trade comments with you, because it is the best way I know to express my individual voice at a malignant time in our country. I don’t want our voices to be denied.
But, from a purely literary standpoint, I write and publish my thoughts at least once a week to keep me sharp and centered–despite the rust that has gathered around my edges.
Tom and I gave this angel to my mother many Mays ago when she lived in Winfield, Illinois. It anchored the container garden on her balcony patio.
I remember how much she loved it.
When we moved to Arizona in 2017–four years after she passed–I knew I had to bring it west with us. I knew it needed to adorn our patio in Scottsdale.
So, the angel and her companion bird rest there on this Sunday morning … blowing wishes into the universe and hoping for a better day tomorrow.
Thank you for being my companion on this long-and-winding road.
Our beloved Brokeback Mountain poster–which Tom and I purchased in Evanston, Illinois, more than fifteen years ago–leans against one of our Scottsdale walls. It waits to see which wall it will grace in our newly remodeled condo.
In a natural sense, it produces turmoil in the Northern Hemisphere … growth and beauty laced with intense storms and wild swings in temperatures.
Of course, those meteorological transitions pale when you compare them with the societal turmoil, which I feel daily living in the United States in 2025.
My only recourse is to try to make a difference in my own way: stay visible, protest beside like-minded friends …”Hands OFF our Social Security” … all the while remodeling my home with Tom, singing, writing, and leading my memoir writing workshops. (Twelve aspiring writers are meeting with me later today in the middle of three workshop sessions at the Scottsdale Public Library.)
It’s appropriate that my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus comrades and I will perform an inspiring arrangement of Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are A-Changin’ at our Rhinestone Rodeo concert on June 6 and 7 at Tempe Center for the Arts.
Because they most definitely are … and you better start swimmin’, or you’ll sink like a stone, for the times, they are a-changin’ …
On to more personal transitions that fly under the radar. It is the grimy stuff of life. A friend’s mother dies. Another grieves the loss of his wife. A third deals with a cancer diagnosis. I will do my best to continue to be there for all of them.
If you live in the Phoenix area, come in from the heat and attend one of our June concerts. We will entertain and energize you … make you smile, laugh, shed a few tears, too … as we lift our voices.
No one can stop me from being who I am … who I love … who I care for … who I sing with.
Sculpted or not, spectacular public art soothes the sharp edges of our daily lives. For just a few moments in the center of any city, it frees our minds of responsibility and replenishes our spirits … especially when it pays tribute to local nature and history.
Mark Rossi’s Three Blacktail Jackrabbits, located at 700 S. Mill Avenue in downtown Tempe, Arizona, reflect the natural history of the Phoenix Salt River Valley. His Groomer Rabbit, Guard Rabbit, and Restful Rabbit (built in 1993) welcome passersby with whimsy and provide a year-round oasis.
Mark Johnson Stories 