Category: Weather

Oh, Hummingbird

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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.

Rushing By

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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.

Not Like the Others

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As a kid of the 1960s and 70s, I knew I was not like the other boys. It didn’t mean I was special. It just meant I was different.

While I was more verbal, intuitive, and sensitive than most boys at ten, twelve, fourteen, and so on, I didn’t have the language, understanding, or role models to help me explain how I was different.

Instead, I craved the word games and visual puzzles in Highlights magazines in doctor and dentist office waiting rooms, which prompted me to find the differences–the missing pieces–among a pageful of images.

All the while, I subverted my attractions for other boys–my genuine feelings for other people in general–to conform with the suburban norm. I didn’t dare to be different, but I always admired the kids who did.

Decades later, I’m comfortable in my body. As a visible member of the LGBTQ+ community in the Phoenix metropolitan area, I have no difficulty wearing goofy socks, pastel colors, or bold rainbow-colored sneakers.

During the first half of May, I captured these ten photos of items close to home that caught my attention or grabbed my interest. Each is beautiful in its own way. The final one–like me–is clearly not like the others.

As the summer heat settles in here in Scottsdale, Tom and I will apply our Scooby-Doo sunshade (replacing the plain old silver one we bought nine years ago) to the windshield of our Hyundai Sonata whenever we park our vehicle under flaming blue skies.

It’s our way of protecting ourselves (and our hands when we reenter our sedan and grab the steering wheel), while telling the world it’s okay to remember the light-hearted moments of our past lives … to be playful no matter our age … to take pride in being different in these Sixty-Something Days.

Later Than Ever

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As dusk descends, confused trees whisper,

“How did it become later than ever?”

They pause and ache for lingering leaves,

Heroic January lives that fell too soon,

Brilliant ones yet to fade and fall,

On unforgiving February concrete,

Certain militant Marches,

Angry Aprils, unimaginable Mays,

To come and go without reason.

They stand and wonder when and if,

More sensible seasons, brighter days,

Truer hearts, freer minds,

Will return and reign supreme.

Loss in St. Louis

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Photo by Matthias Cooper on Pexels.com

If you follow the weather news in the United States, you know that on Friday, May 16, parts of St. Louis, Missouri–where I was born in 1957 and reborn in 2017–suffered an estimated $1 billion in damages from an EF3 tornado.

The powerful storm tore through central and north St. Louis, killing five people while damaging or destroying 5,000 buildings and countless trees … including many majestic ones in and around one of the city’s gems: Forest Park.

I have no doubt that over the coming days, weeks, months, and years, the citizens of St. Louis will heal and recover. But it will be a tall mountain to climb for many financially and emotionally.

I have made a donation to the American Red Cross disaster relief efforts. But I want to do more for the city I love, which appears in all five of my books. It is hardwired into my prose and poems in large and small ways …

In memories of my hard-working family, our suburban midwestern existence, humid summer days, learning to operator a rollercoaster at Six Flags, working at the top of the Gateway Arch (pictured here) in the late 1970s, rooting for the St. Louis Cardinals, boating on the Mississippi River, visiting the St. Louis Zoo, frequenting the aforementioned Forest Park, and much more.

In addition to making a donation of your own to your favorite relief charity, here’s another way you can help. Buy any of my five books during May and June.

https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B01DCYIAD4

I will donate $10 for each book I sell (paperback, Kindle, or audiobook) during that period to Forest Park Forever. It is a private nonprofit conservancy.

As described on their website, the organization “partners with the City of St. Louis to restore, maintain and sustain Forest Park as one of America’s great urban public parks for a diverse community of visitors to enjoy, now and forever.”

Thank you in advance for your support of my literary efforts and the city of St. Louis … as well as its beautiful urban greenspace in the middle of town, which I still love and remember.

***

Incidentally, Tom and I will travel to St. Louis in September to attend a Class of 1975 reunion with my Affton High School classmates. Yikes, fifty years! More to come on that.

Mr. Big

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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.

What I’ve Learned, What I’ve Earned

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It’s a rainy, blustery afternoon in Scottsdale, Arizona. Windbreaker weather.

Nothing like the norm. Nothing like this photo I captured two days ago as Tom and I made our way around Chaparral Park.

But measurable rain is welcome here, and–if the weather forecasters are right–more is in the offing this week with heavy snow in Arizona’s higher elevations north and east of us.

Now that I’ve lived here nearly seven years (that anniversary arrives in July), I’ve learned that we will have plenty of blistering hot days between June and September.

So, I will embrace this cool, short-term, winter-in-Arizona anomaly. Maybe it will help build our reserves in the Colorado River basin.

As the raindrops fall, Tom and I celebrate a personal milestone. Today–February 6, 2024–we reached our full retirement age (FRA)–66 years and 7 months for those born in 1957–as defined by Social Security.

Basically, that means we are eligible to receive 100 percent of our Social Security retirement benefits–benefits we each accrued by paying into the system and working all those years, commuting to and from an array of jobs on mostly cloudy, windy and often-snowy Chicago days.

If you are unfamiliar with the U.S. Social Security Administration regulations, the Social Security Act was signed by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1935.

The idea then–and still today, fortunately, though the program is under scrutiny–is that a small portion of Person A’s wages goes toward helping to support senior citizens with a financial lifeline.

Then, when Person A reaches senior status, he or she has earned the right to Social Security retirement benefits. As the rules exist today, those who log at least 40 quarters (the equivalent of 10 years) in the United States workforce are entitled to some sort of retirement benefit.

Those eligible can start taking their benefit as early as age 62 (but receive only about 70 percent of their benefit) or as late as age 70 (and receive more than 100 percent).

Of course, this is a decision laced with all sorts of permutations and “what ifs.” None of us knows how long we will live. But I opted to begin drawing on my accrued benefits–what I earned during all those years–now.

Looking way back in time … when I was in my twenties and thirties … I hoped this day would come. But I was never sure I could rely on it.

So, I did my best along the way to save in other ways to protect myself. It was an awareness that came from my hard-working father and mother, who lived through the Great Depression. They probably cheered when the measure became law.

With time, I imagine the Social Security Administration will need to push the FRA to age 70, because of our aging population–and the sheer number of us Baby Boomers who will receive payouts and deplete the reserves.

But I hope younger Americans in the workforce one day also will realize the same sort of accrued retirement benefit.

Certainly, like me, they will have earned it and will deserve it.

No Big Deal

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Two weeks and counting.

I hear you moan and sigh.

You scurry in sunglasses and sandals.

You hide away from July’s heat.

But nothing ruffles my fur.

I pad place to place.

I pause in the shade of cool tile.

I curl and twirl.

I inch closer to appease you.

I take what you leave me.

I move on to the next door.

Don’t worry about me.

I’ll get by.

The sun and stars are my home.

It’s no big deal.

It’s just who I am.

***

To read more of my poetry, look for my latest book, A Path I Might Have Missed, on Amazon.