Category: Travel

Canad-ahh

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Somewhere between Jasper and Banff–during the last week of July 2026 in Alberta, Canada, on a coach, on a trail, or in a hotel room–I lost my neon-yellow Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus cap.

But what I found with my husband in Canada’s astounding scenery and emerald waters is far greater, more meaningful, and certainly more lasting in the flipping pages of my memory.

Tom and I planned our Canada adventure months ago to commemorate thirty years of being together. (We met in the Chicago suburbs in August 1996.) Fresh Tracks, a Canadian tour group, helped us orchestrate our eight-day itinerary.

I told my husband, “I want to spend money in Canada in 2026.” I wanted to see the beauty above us on the map. I wanted to embrace the scenery and people, who are our northern neighbors.

I wanted them to know that many–probably most–Americans love and respect them. We admire their commitment to protect their natural resources.

Over the course of the next week, I was able to see that first-hand in the cleanliness of their national parks. No plastic bottles rattled around in rivers, lakes, or streams.

I have craved a visit to the coastline and mountains of Vancouver for years. So, we started there.

Fresh Tracks arranged an exquisite dinner for us at the Coal Harbour Cactus Club. We toasted each of with a glass of prosecco and watched the sun set over the bay. It painted a tranquil mood across a colorful canvas.

We expected to spend the following few days traveling via train on the Rocky Mountaineer through the Canadian Rockies. But fires in British Columbia limited the rail portion of our excursion to one day.

We made the best of it, traveling from Vancouver to Kamloops via coach with about thirty others. Two kind, upbeat Rocky Mountaineer staffers walked down the aisle handing out water and snacks–packages of chips, cookies, and candy.

Early on the morning of July 24, we climbed onto another coach that escorted us to the Rocky Mountaineer rail station in Kamloops a mere twenty minutes away.

Sifting through the smoke-tinged skies of Kamloops, we boarded the train and arrived on the top deck for a Gold Leaf view through a glass-encased dome.

We introduced ourselves to Mark and Kim, a fun-and-friendly couple from Abilene, Texas, who sat across the aisle. All four of us–and a train full of others–faced forward.

For the following ten hours, the welcoming, service-focused Rocky Mountaineer team entertained us with vivid stories of the landscape we would traverse together and the animals we might encounter.

At scheduled intervals, they invited us to the lower level of the train for a sumptuous, gourmet breakfast … I fell in love with the lemon cranberry bread topped with a decadent glaze.

Several hours later, we returned there for a delicious lunch/dinner, prepared magically by a team of chefs on board. The wine and drinks were free flowing.

We downed a glass of mimosa–and later pinot noir–as we traded stories with Mark and Kim and gasped at the steep river-laden mountains and canyons that brought us to Jasper … an easy-going ski-town still recovering and rebuilding after a devastating forest fire in 2024.

Along the way, eagles, elk, and big horn sheep guided us sparingly. They appeared unimpressed and unconcerned with our presence as we rode by, though we on our train cars and coaches lunged for our cameras and phones in pockets to bring home evidence that we had actually seen wildlife, unjaded and unaware of the news in any day.

Midway on our vacation, after leaving Jasper, we spent a night and morning frolicking at the iconic Chateau Lake Louise. We absorbed the privilege of simply being there and seized the moment by capturing photos of the breathtaking scenery … something Tom’s parents had done when they visited Lake Louise in 1988.

A highlight of our trip was journeying to the Columbia Icefield in Alberta. When we arrived there in our Sundog coach, we donned four layers each, including our easily packed windbreakers. They proved ideal as we ventured out to walk on a glacier.

The temperature on my phone said fifty degrees Fahrenheit. In the icy, pine-scented air it felt more like forty with a biting breeze. Of course, my blood is thinner now, living nearly all of my days in the Sonoran Desert.

By the time we arrived in Banff, it meant we were nearing the end of our Canada adventure. I did my best to “soak up the scenery” as my father said back in the 60s as we rode up and down hairpin turns in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina.

Well-appointed lodges and snazzy shops line the main streets in Banff. At times we felt the size of overflowing, late-July crowds and traffic there.

None of that deterred my fascination with the Bow River rapids–and ultimately its falls–that raced through town or the eight-minute gondola ride we took on our final Banff day beyond alpine heights to the top of Sulphur Mountain.

Through it all — as I paused to “soak up” breathtaking scenery in the form of still photos and even a few videos of waterfalls and vast mountain ranges stretching far beyond my senses — I realized the most important thing of all: I was blessed to witness the wonder of western Canada in July 2026 and to see all of it with the man I love.

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.

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.

Flag

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If you read this on August 18, 19, or 20, it is likely I will be here, hiking with my husband at Buffalo Park in Flagstaff, Arizona. (I captured this photo in late July 2023.) Or relaxing elsewhere at approximately 7,000 feet.

When we moved to Arizona eight years ago, I noticed most residents of the Grand Canyon State shorten the name of this town to Flag … an affectionate term, which locals (that now includes me) drop into conversation, before or after they come to escape Phoenix summer heat and inhale pine-scented mountain air (when there are no wildfires nearby).

In the winter, the town attracts a different crowd … skiers. Nearby Snow Bowl ascends to 11,500 feet at the top of Arizona. It is a winter wonderland from December through April or whenever there is snow.

Year-round, Flag is home to Northern Arizona University. So this dog-friendly town has a young, diverse, energetic vibe that includes a fascinating mix of bohemian free spirits, western practicality, and picturesque views of the San Francisco Peaks.

Best of all, it’s accessible from Phoenix via a dramatic climb along I-17 that normally takes just over two hours by car.

You pass thousands of saguaros that stand guard over jaw-dropping landscapes.

They suddenly vanish near a town called Bumblebee to reveal high desert plants and ponderosa pines.

Up in Flag, storms roll in, over, and around the San Francisco Peaks in every season. Unannounced. That natural spontaneity appeals to me, too.

If it didn’t snow in Flag, I could see us living here. Instead, we opt to visit for a few days each summer.

However, if the summers keep getting hotter in Phoenix, we may find ourselves spending larger blocks of time here.

Whenever Tom and I visit Flag, it ignites my sense of artistry. So much so that I have written previous essays here, as well as two or three short pieces of unpublished fiction (that include Flag characters).

They exist on my laptop in various stages of development, waiting for additional inspiration.

Maybe being “up” here again in the thinner air (Flag’s altitude is 6,910 feet as compared with Phoenix at 1,086 feet) will captivate my creativity once again.

If it does, you will be among the first to know.

Destination Unknown

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I was about to embark on a journey. But not remotely ready. Nonetheless, I was expected to begin Day One of a new job, in uniform as a United Airlines flight attendant.

A crowd of other newbies gathered around me. We lined up to have our security photos taken by a young, rather handsome cameraman with a large head. He teetered on a tiny chair with his knees protruding beyond his elbows.

When it came to be my turn, the blond figure told me to stand on an X marked on the floor. Then, he stood to reveal his true height.

His elongated body stretched for nearly eight feet before he snapped my photograph and disappeared behind a funhouse mirror.

A primitive machine spit out my image, but I don’t remember receiving my security credentials.

About this time, my husband appeared on the other side of a window that contained a metal tray below. He told me he wanted to slide cash to me under the glass. He thought I might need it on my journey. He said he would meet me on the other side. I felt disoriented and dismayed.

Moments later, I found myself standing in front of a harried female administrative assistant. She sat behind an old desk with stacks of papers and files surrounding her. She worked for United. She told me I needed to board my first flight in about thirty minutes, but that my hair was unkempt.

As she handed me a boarding pass, she spieled off a list of complicated directions that would lead me to a trusted stylist in the terminal. She insisted there was time to accomplish this necessary task, though I would need to run to catch my flight.

I felt anxious. Unprepared for my journey. Unsure of the safety protocols. Disturbed that the length of my hair was causing me trouble. Lost in a once-familiar Chicago terminal that was now foreign to me.

That’s when I woke up.

Photo by Keith Lobo on Pexels.com

Ever After

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I am a writer, gardener, and gay man. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, ever after.

Those three dimensions of my life–hardwired into my DNA–aren’t the only attributes that describe me.

But they are the ones I choose to write about today.

***

Eight or ten years ago, when Tom and I were snowbirds splitting time between Illinois and Arizona, we bought a Mexican fire barrel cactus at a Desert Botanical Garden plant sale not far from our condo.

We planted it in a yellow ceramic container. Tom’s grandfather, Sam, left it behind when he passed in the fall of 2001.

(Beginning in the early 1970s, Sam and Lucy–Tom’s grandmother–lived in the condo Tom and I now call home.)

From the start, I loved the way the fire barrel’s red spikes vibrated year-round in the desert sun. Every April, it produced spectacular orange blooms. Plus, it didn’t require much water.

When we became full-time residents in the Grand Canyon State in 2017, I paid closer attention to this cactus.

It was a grounding natural force, stationed outside our backdoor on blazing July afternoons and crisp December mornings.

In 2020, during the height of Covid-19, we passed it every morning on our way to walk the canal.

Those were walks to simply stay sane. To keep our bodies and minds moving. To get lost in the beauty of the buttes near our home.

At one point, I began to notice that our Mexican fire barrel cactus was leaning south toward neighbors who would pass by. It was almost as if our spiky friend was listening to their conversations.

That observation inspired me to write Eavesdropping, an essay that appears in I Think I’ll Prune the Lemon Tree, my book (published in 2021) about Arizona life.

Unfortunately, as it is with all forms of life, there is an ending. A closing of one loop and the beginning of another.

Today was the end of the line for our trusty, prickly friend. The relentless summer and early fall heat of 2024 in the Valley of the Sun decimated it.

This morning, I grabbed my thick gardening gloves and trowel. I pried the decaying cactus out of our yellow pot and deposited it in the dumpster.

The good news? I salvaged (and cleaned up) our vintage container with roots to my husband’s past.

It waits outside our backdoor for a new occupant.

***

Far beyond the gardens of our backdoors, backyards, patios, and public parks, each of us–gay, straight, bi, or trans–has the right to pursue and realize a happy life … ever after.

Today, the day after National Coming Out Day, I have some additional thoughts on this topic beyond what I’ve written before in this space and in my lemon tree book.

As I’ve said in the past, coming out is not a singular process. Of course, the first time you disclose your sexual orientation to family and friends is monumental, because there is always the risk someone important in your life may not accept you for who you are … or who you love.

However–even after you pull off that bandage, feel a sense of relief, and deal with the potential consequences of having risked personal loss simply for being yourself openly–there is the realization that we live in a predominantly straight world where some may not view you in a favorable light.

Every day, we who are gay find ourselves in situations where we need to decide if we will share our authentic selves in the moment.

What I’ve discovered is that when I stifle that authenticity impulse in certain social situations, I feel like I’ve lost my voice. That’s problematic for a writer … and a singer!

Here’s an example. On Day 1 of our recent-and-fabulous tour through the United Kingdom with twenty-two other vacationers and our guide Phil, we met the entire group for a “welcome drink” in the dining room of our London hotel.

As a part of getting acquainted, Phil asked us each to quickly share a little about ourselves and who we are.

Right away, I heard a few other couples–straight, older couples about our age from places like Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Florida, etc.–say the trip was a wedding anniversary celebration for them.

About halfway around the room, it was my turn. I had two choices: to share that Tom and I were celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary; or to stifle that impulse, come up with some sort of alternative response, and withhold the joy I felt about exploring England and Scotland (two places we’d never been) with my husband.

At this stage of my life, it was an easy decision. Because, at age sixty-seven, I’m comfortable with my gay identity–and prepared for all sorts of responses–I chose the first option.

Doing so, freed me up to enjoy the trip on my terms. And you’ll be happy to know, that our fellow travelers–visibly, at least–accepted and embraced us for who we are … a married, gay couple.

Of course, I still remember the arduous times in my thirties and forties. Living in the straight Chicago suburbs. Trying to raise two boys as a single dad after a messy divorce. Coming out to my ex-wife, my mother, my sister, my sons, my coworkers, my neighbors.

The list was long. The process was painful. But I endured. Slowly, I began to love my true self … and so did most of the people around me. A few relationships fell by the wayside, but I have no regrets.

Yesterday, I took a spin through social media. One of my newer friends, who joined the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus recently, posted a video of him telling his story about coming out over the past year.

It was a story of pain, transformation, and personal fulfillment. Really, how he (with the help of a gifted counselor and close friends) loved his true self and was ready to share it with the world.

As I watched the video–and heard him say he and his wife divorced and that they and their five children have begun to move forward to find more solid footing–it nearly brought me to tears.

I am so proud of my new acquaintance, my new friend. I told him he is an inspiration for those who have yet to come out … and for those of us who already have.

Because, in this spiky world, I don’t think we can change hearts and minds, live happily ever after, or even simply be content, unless we are visible. Unless we share our whole selves.

Helene and The Mousetrap

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Life repeats itself in strange and unexpected ways.

As Tom and I traveled throughout Ireland in August of 2017, some of our tour mates followed the US weather forecast with growing interest and anxiety.

Hurricane Harvey–a category 4 storm–was about to make landfall along the Texas coast.

Houston was in its path. Houston was their home.

Harvey unleashed its wrath. We never learned what impact it ultimately had on their lives.

Seven years and one month later, we were back in the United Kingdom on a tour of England and Scotland with twenty-two other tourists (plus Phil, our guide, and coach driver, John).

Two of our entourage, John and Jill of Tampa, told us they were watching the swirl of Helene–another category 4 storm–approach the Gulf coast of Florida and the vicinity of their home.

Though Tom and I knew we would return home to the Phoenix area and prolonged 110-plus temperatures, we felt lucky about our weather plight. Yes, more heat. But not John and Jill’s uncertainty.

There were no giant storm swirls for Tom and me to contend with in Phoenix.

Still–far away from pending devastation of Helene–John, Jill, Tom and I bonded in the United Kingdom.

I remember telling them when we first met in London that we were excited to see a play independently in the West End at the St. Martin’s Theatre on Saturday, September 21.

Not just any play. The longest running play in the world. It’s called The Mousetrap.

Based on an Agatha Christie story, The Mousetrap, has been performed for seventy-two years in London.

(There were no performances during the height of the pandemic from March 2020 to May 2021.)

Tom and I were in the audience for performance #29,771.

It’s a classic whodunit with a twist ending.

A young couple owns Monkswell Manor guesthouse in England in the early 1950s.

Four guests arrive, while the snow (not a hurricane) swirls outside.

There is a radio report of a woman’s murder. A suspect is loose in the area.

A police sergeant arrives on skis to warn them that a notebook was found at the crime scene.

It contains the address of Monkswell Manor and the words “three blind mice.”

Pinned to the victim’s body is a note that says, “this is the first”.

Everyone at the inn is in danger. Everyone is a suspect.

At the end of the performance, the seven actors took their curtain call.

They asked us in the audience to keep their seventy-two-year-old secret.

You’ll get no spoilers here.

***

Anyway, along our journey through England and Scotland, we shared with John and Jill from Tampa how much we enjoyed this theatrical experience.

The night before we departed Edinburgh, Scotland–to return to our respective sunbelt homes via London–John and Jill suspected their flight from London to Tampa the following morning would be cancelled due to Helene.

When it was, they had a free day in London. They texted to say they bought two tickets to see The Mousetrap as we wound our way through Heathrow Airport security.

Later, during intermission on September 26, 2024, while Tom and I were making our way home, Jill texted: “We are in intermission, and I am stumped!” Then, a few hours later, “Great show!! So glad you both recommended it.”

The next day, we were relieved to learn from Jill that their home was safe, even though there were flooding waters all around them.

What does it all mean? This story is no mystery. But, nonetheless, still meaningful I think.

You can fly seven or eight thousand miles to a place you’ve never been and make a connection with fellow travelers you didn’t know … someone who has shared a coach, watched the scenery go by … someone who chooses a similar theatrical experience … someone who dodges the mousetrap of a catastrophic storm … someone you hope to see again someday in another London or Edinburgh or in the sunbelt of your everyday lives.

Worth the Journey

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On Thursday, as I was flying home over the Atlantic Ocean at 38,000 feet with my husband on an eleven-hour, nonstop British Airways flight from London to Phoenix, I wondered “what will I choose to write about our week-long journey through England and Scotland?”

Today, it is this big picture observation. At this somewhat advanced stage of life–I am sixty-seven going on sixty-eight–traveling to previously unseen, faraway places is both the great rejuvenator and the not-so-great discombobulator.

Even so, as I shed the remnants of jet lag, I’ve gathered new memories and experiences that fire the creative and sensory synapses of my brain … reigniting splendid moments that transcend the ordinary view from the couch.

We certainly brought home a boatload of those: from performance #29,771 of The Mousetrap at the St. Martin’s Theatre in London’s West End; to fascinating tours of Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle, and the Roman baths of Bath, England; to heavy rains on the road that led us to William Shakespeare’s family home in Stratford-upon-Avon; through the Lake District of the splendid English countryside and discovering poet William Wordsworth’s grave in Grasmere; to a photographic moment with statues of The Beatles in Liverpool; to a blustery climb up the cobblestones in Scotland into the sky of the Edinburgh Castle; to winding down circuitous streets that finally led us to find the Writer’s Museum proclaiming the literary achievements of Scottish icons Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson.

And that says nothing about the fine food and acquaintances we met along the way.

I will be recounting each of these adventures and more in the coming days. But, for now, I simply want to remember this serene moment, gliding on the top deck of the Swan on Lake Windemere in England on Tuesday, September 24, 2024.

Yes, it was a short week and two long flights across the pond.

But it was worth the journey.

Shadows and Memories

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Our funhouse shadows

lead us on new adventures

that unfold and stretch

in September’s sharp light.

We depart on weightless legs,

newborn colts

weaving and wandering,

ready to gallop

in the golden glow,

transformed with

magical memories

to carry home and savor.

***

I’ll be traveling for the rest of September. While I’m away, purchase my latest book, A Path I Might Have Missed, and enjoy more of my poetry.