June is the start of triple-digit season in the Sonoran Desert.
When it reaches 110 degrees–as it has for the past several days–it really feels like you’ve stepped inside an oven alongside that batch of chocolate chip cookies you crave. Or maybe, you imagine, there is a blaze approaching just over the next butte.
Tom and I escaped the oven for a few days to visit friends in the mile-high altitude and pines of Prescott, Arizona.
Watching the acrobatics and listening to the distinctive calls of a wide array of birds–bluebirds, woodpeckers, finches, tanagers, nuthatches, hummingbirds, etc.–while sipping morning coffee with John and Carolyn on their front patio, was as rejuvenating as a day at the spa.
Now we are back home. There is a quiet, reflective component tied to the intense Sonoran heat. Early swims. Late walks. More time to read. Fewer people to navigate.
We’ll be here seven years next month. In the heat and stillness of that realization, we’ve carved out a good, artistic, and whole life among Arizona friends, buttes, and dazzling sunsets.
It’s a warm (hot) life I never imagined at 30, 40 or 50 years old–but still a pleasant surprise beyond the constant push and responsibility of my Midwestern bread-winning years.
I don’t typically tackle social and political issues in my blog. I prefer to focus on the splendor of love, family, community, nature, and serendipity that runs through our lives.
But over the past weeks and months–years, really–I’ve been ruminating over what it feels like to live in the heaviness and post-Covid-social-upheaval of the United States in 2024.
Even though I am in good health and am fortunate to have the companionship of my husband and a cozy home, I often feel a gnawing, low-level anxiety.
I attribute this to worry. What will happen to disenfranchised members of our community–non-white immigrants, people of color, minority women, all women, all children, elderly people, trans people, gay people (like me), etc.–who would be especially vulnerable if our past president (the one just found guilty on thirty-four felony counts by a jury of his peers) should be elected in November?
I should tell you this blogpost isn’t intended to sway your opinion. I don’t think that is possible. I can’t imagine any American being undecided–not in this us-versus-them world exacerbated by lies and constant media attention.
Yes, I will vote for Joe Biden. It’s pretty simple for me. I’m not naive. Of course, he’s made mistakes, but he’s done a lot of good for our country economically and otherwise. I see him as a decent man–the only decent man whose name will appear on the 2024 Presidential ballot. I think he has the best interests of Americans in mind and sees the presidency as a job designed to serve the people, not his personal agendas.
If you feel differently, you are entitled to that. Just know that the democratic values and rule of law that generations of American men and women have fought for will be flushed down the toilet if enough people in swing states like Arizona vote for the other guy. I won’t include his name here.
Why did I choose to write about this today? Because I suddenly have greater clarity concerning all of the weight, which I’ve been carrying around concerning the potential loss of a safe haven–something all of us are entitled to.
The remarkable thing is my clarity came from an incident outside my front door on Sunday morning … an incident involving a feral animal Tom and I have come to love.
If you follow my blog, you know I’m talking about Poly. For the past three years, on many mornings she has appeared at our front door. Poly lives a reckless life, but at the very least is the beneficiary of food on the cool tile of our entryway (and probably others).
Her visits are a brief escape from the heat of the Sonoran Desert. Maybe her visits are also an escape for Tom and me to leave behind the worries of the world, which I’ve outlined above.
Recently, Poly has moved closer to us. Winding her way around our ankles. Sleeping in our wicker chairs. She has even decided to sleep outside on the gravel underneath our loveseat on occasion… before she moves on to explore other places, porches, and hideaways. Such is the life of a lovable, but forever-feral feline.
Anyway, on Sunday morning one of our neighbors (someone we care about who owns a sweet dog) happened to approach our front door at the same time Poly was eating with our door ajar. Normally, the dog is on a leash, but she wasn’t yesterday–though she should have been.
Poly (and I) were freaked. She ran out our door and down the sidewalk as the dog chased in hot pursuit. I feared for her safety and gave my neighbor an angry earful for not leashing her dog.
As I swam laps this morning in Scottsdale, I realized that my rightful (but intense) anger had roots. Metaphorically, in my mind and heart at least, Poly represented the plight of thousands of vulnerable Americans who might be on the run … whose lives might be in danger if we lose our democracy.
I say that knowing that some of my LGBTQ friends–particularly those in the trans community–are considering alternative plans of where to live if Biden doesn’t win the election. That’s a daunting thought and potential reality, which you may not be aware of if you don’t have gay friends.
One thing I am certain of. It doesn’t have to be Pride month for me to remain authentic and visible. I will continue to care about those less fortunate (humans and animals) … no matter what happens in November and beyond … because we all deserve respect and kindness … no matter who we love … no matter our identity.
Meanwhile, back in our Polynesian Paradise community, my neighbor and I have repaired our relationship and regained our equilibrium. (She apologized for not having her dog on leash and told me she hoped it wouldn’t deter Poly from returning.)
Late yesterday, Poly reappeared–safe and sound–outside our front door. This morning, she had her breakfast on the cool tile of our Sonoran entryway.
An hour later, I found her tucked underneath the loveseat in her safe haven. Peeking through the cacti containers and elephant food succulent on our patio, she allowed me to take this photo.
I am thankful Poly (and I) survived our Sunday scare. I hope our nation and democracy are as fortunate in November.
Reflecting and writing meld in my brain. They often occur — in a blur — before I touch my keyboard.
Yesterday, I witnessed a graduation celebration, one table over in an outdoor cafe in Tempe, Arizona.
Today, it has morphed and merged with a blurry family photo, a 1979 memory in Columbia, Missouri.
Graduation day is just the beginning, the departure leading to unknown learnings and destinations.
We can’t really know where we will land, who we will love, or what we will do, until we make our way.
It is less about what we do, more about how we do it and the contributions we make along our journey.
That’s what determines who we become, what we recount decades later miles from where we began.
In May 1979, my extended family joined me in Columbia in front of the University of Missouri columns to celebrate my graduation from the school of journalism.
My friend Randy–baritone section leader for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus–surprised me at rehearsal on Tuesday night. He handed me this descriptive name plate, which–four years ago in the depths of Covid–felt unlikely and unreachable.
As background, this unforeseen opportunity in my writing journey emerged in 2022, when I wrote lyrics for a few original songs for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC).
Shortly after, PHXGMC’s artistic director Marc asked if I would have an interest in crafting a libretto for Born to Be Brave, the June 2023 performance.
Quickly, that led to libretto #2–Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol–performed in December 2023. Remarkably, what began as a novelty developed into a creative trend.
Over the past few months, I’ve been “noodling” and “angsting” over libretto #3. Marc, Scott (our choreographer) and I met a few times this winter to select the music and brainstorm creative approaches for Encore, our June 22-23 concert at Tempe Center for the Arts.
Randy knows I’ve been working on this behind the scenes. But what he doesn’t know (until he reads this) is I finished drafting libretto #3 on the same day he smiled and handed me his gift.
A beautiful arrangement of A Million Dreams from The Greatest Showman will open the show. That’s ironic, because–in my wildest dreams–I never imagined seeing the word “librettist” attached to my identity.
I think this is one of life’s lessons. That the person you ultimately become at 65 or beyond may not reveal itself at 20, 30, 40 or 50.
But if you hang around long enough, and allow yourself to explore outside your comfort zone, you might discover you are capable of creating something meaningful you never dreamed of.
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.
I don’t usually write film reviews. I prefer to leave the nuances of critiquing movies to my cinephile husband. However, in this case, I will break the rules. You’ll understand why in just a moment.
In American Fiction, Jeffrey Wright plays Monk, a frustrated novelist who feels his books have been lost in the bluster of less literary works that fly off the shelves on the wings of tired stereotypes about the Black community.
Against the advice of his agent, he decides to prove his point by writing a one-dimensional, inflammatory book under a pen name.
He considers it garbage, but ironically the story wins immediate acclaim. He finds himself faced with the conundrum of accepting his financial windfall and hypocrisy or coming clean.
No spoilers here. You’ll have to see the movie to understand the permutations of his dilemma.
However, the story–written and directed by Cord Jefferson–is a dazzling bit of witty screen writing, laced with well-drawn, believable characters navigating painful personal traumas.
It’s been a long time since I was so entertained watching a movie. Tom and I laughed. Out loud. And so did the fifty or so others who sat around us in the theater at Camelview Theater at Fashion Square Mall in Scottsdale on Friday night.
I even shed a few tears, because there is a story thread about Monk’s mother–played by Leslie Uggams–that hit rather close to home.
But what resonated most for me was the brilliant way the film explored the world of a writer. We tell our stories, hoping our truths will land with readers.
We spill our guts (or those of our fictional characters) on the page but have no control over the tastes and proclivities of readers.
We do it because we love to write. It’s what we were meant to do. But secretly–or maybe not so much–we pine for our books to blaze a trail and rake in the royalties.
For those of us with dreams and scruples, we want our books to sell … but never want to sell out.
Here in Arizona, the Diamondbacks’ dream of winning the World Series in 2023 faded more quickly than a fleeting November sunset. But life goes on in the Valley of the Sun. Congratulations to the Texas Rangers for winning the World Series for the first time in their fifty-two-year history.
In my previous blogpost, Dad and I failed to secure bleacher tickets to the 1968 World Series. However, we did discover a parking ticket flapping on our windshield when we returned to our car. Now, as promised, on to part two of my story, also an excerpt from Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator.
***
Fourteen years later, the 1982 Cardinals returned to the World Series to face the Milwaukee Brewers.
I was living in the Chicago area and working as a copywriter at Sears Tower. My boss Dave–Sears national retail advertising department head–called me into his office late one afternoon. That had never happened before.
He told me he knew I was a die-hard St. Louis Cardinals fan working alongside dozens of Cubs and White Sox fans, who had long since lost interest in the pennant race.
Because of his position and advertising influence, the powers that be at Sports Illustrated had given Dave one complimentary ticket to game four in Milwaukee, which he couldn’t use.
When Dave handed me the ticket, my jaw dropped to the floor and out poured a stammering stream of thank yous. He told me to enjoy myself, but to keep my mouth shut.
I’m sorry Dave. I managed to keep this secret for thirty-four years (note: I wrote this in 2016). Somehow, I feel the statute of limitations on this must have expired. I hope you don’t mind that I’m breaking my vow of silence after all this time.
The following Saturday morning I headed north to Milwaukee and made my way into County Stadium. Of course, I wish Dad could have joined me. He was back at home in St. Louis and ready to watch the game on TV, while I–wearing my Cardinals cap–was seated among a sea of Brewers fans in another beer town four hundred miles north of St. Louis.
The Cardinals lost 7-5 that afternoon. They were the victims of a dramatic seventh-inning surge by Harvey’s Wall Bangers. (Harvey Kuenn was the manager of the Brewers.)
During the rally, I was doused with suds by Brewers fans sitting in the grandstands above me. They were tired of hearing me chirp about the Cardinals. Even so, I finally saw my team play a World Series game in person and a few days later got my revenge.
Led by manager Whitey Herzog, the ’82 Cardinals–Willie McGee, Ozzie Smith, Lonnie Smith, Keith Hernandez, Tom Herr, Bob Forsch, Joaquin Andujar, Bruce Sutter, and the like–won it all in the seventh and deciding game.
Win or lose, after a fourteen-year wait I could finally say I stood in the stands and watched my team play in the World Series on a crisp afternoon in Milwaukee.
Moments before the first pitch, I placed my hand on my heart and sang the national anthem with about fifty thousand Brewers fans I didn’t know … and one weary World War II veteran back at home in St. Louis.
I knew Dad would be standing in his living room, belting out the Star-Spangled Banner in front of his TV. Knowing that made it all the sweeter.
***
After sharing this story from my World Series vault with you, I can now say the 2023 baseball season is over officially. Sports allegiances are like the roots of family trees … they run deep. So, you can be sure I’ll be rooting for the St. Louis Cardinals to rebound in 2024 and add a new chapter to their rich history.
If that isn’t in the cards, maybe the young, talented Arizona Diamondbacks can produce another magical run next year to capture the crown.
I know some of you are like me. You have positive, vivid memories–as a child and adult–of visiting your local library and leaving with a few titles that piqued your interest.
My earliest library memories lead me back to suburban St. Louis, where my mother drove my sister and me to the Tesson Ferry Library on summer Saturday mornings in the 1960s. It was her attempt to sustain our thirst for learning away from the classroom.
More recently, now that I am in my 60s and living in Arizona, Tom and I stop by our local library in Scottsdale to discover books. Sometimes they are contemporary novels, sometimes they are classics.
For instance, I had never read any of the writings by Willa Cather, so I picked up her book, The Song of the Lark. It probably won’t surprise you to learn that I’m enjoying reading her mostly autobiographical tale about a character’s quest for artistic excellence in the desert southwest.
Meanwhile, back to this blogpost … I’ve found that local libraries (in Mount Prospect, Illinois, where I lived for many years and now here in Arizona) offer important opportunities for me as a writer–agreeing to place my memoirs and poetry on their shelves and (when the time is right, and pandemics aren’t running rampant) share my stories with those who may connect to their themes of love, loss, transformation, truth, and triumph.
For instance, on this day four years ago, I hawked my books at the Mesa Public Library’s Local Author Fair at Dobson Ranch here in the Valley of the Sun. It was the perfect opportunity to talk with readers, sign a few books, and compare notes with other writers.
Just a few months after that experience, a little thing called Covid-19 emerged and paralyzed the world. Of course, face-to-face opportunities to do anything became impossible for all of us. Even though I continue to write, I’ve felt my literary presence shrink during the past four years.
Since 2019, I’ve exhibited my books on a few occasions, but the opportunities have become less frequent. For instance, the Scottsdale Public Library decided to discontinue their annual author event permanently. However, there is a silver lining for me to report.
On Saturday, December 2 (noon to 4 p.m.), I’ll be selling and signing my latest two books (completed between 2019 and 2023) at the Mesa Public Library again … this time at the Red Mountain Library location, 635 N. Power Road, Mesa, Arizona 85205 … for their 2023 installment of the Local Author Fair.
Arizona authors across all genres–memoirs, mysteries, science fiction, thrillers, westerns, children’s books–will be there.
If you live in Arizona–or plan to visit the greater Phoenix area in early December to escape the cold in other parts of the country–I hope to see you there, too!
Me sans glasses, standing outside the Mesa Public Library at Dobson Ranch for the Local Author Fair on October 24, 2019.Me on October 24, 2023 in Scottsdale, Arizona preparing for the Mesa Public Library Local Author Fair on December 2, 2023.
In this world of perpetual social upheaval, being who I am-openlygay–isn’t always easy. But I persist.
I decided more than twenty-five years ago that coming out was the only healthy way to live.
With the assistance of two amazing therapists (thank you, Barry and Valerie!) and the love of a small circle of friends and family, I discovered that authenticity was my way out of denial, depression, and anxiety.
Over the years, I’ve written frequently on this topic in my books and here in my blog. Today, on National Coming Out Day in the United States, I’m here to remind you once again that I am a proud gay man.
This one aspect of my identity–the fact that I am attracted to the same sex and married happily to another man–certainly defines the way I see the world. It gives me compassion and empathy for others who are different … no matter their skin color, religious beliefs, economic status, or capabilities.
All my life, I have been protective of those who are disenfranchised and less fortunate. I came from a modest background and have survived personal and family hardships.
As a teenager and young man, I didn’t understand or love myself, but now that I do I feel it is my obligation to remain visible. To pave the way for queer teens and adults who may not yet feel comfortable enough to come out.
In 2023, I think most Americans are supportive of their gay friends, family members, and neighbors. Of course, there is a vocal minority that would prefer we don’t exist. I have no control over their beliefs.
No doubt, a handful of haters will be demonstrating at the end of the Phoenix Pride Parade route on October 22, when I sing and march with my friends in the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
But they will be overshadowed by the thousands of LGBTQ supporters–gay and straight–who will line the parade route with their parents and children, cheer, and wave their rainbow flags.
We are a country that was founded on the notion of “liberty and justice for all.” At times, we have failed miserably at fulfilling our mission as a democratic society.
But I’m not ready to give up. I still have hope–as a sixty-six-year-old gay man, husband, father, brother, writer, singer, friend, neighbor, voter, and citizen of the United States–that we will find our way out of the political divisiveness that exists.
I’m not sure how we’ll get there, but today–and everyday–all of us who are different must continue to come out, be ourselves, love each other, and remind the world that LGBTQ citizens are valuable, kind, contributing, and responsible Americans. We will not be denied.
Mark Johnson Stories 