My husband is an excellent cook. He prepares our dinners with love and panache. I am more the pancake-and-egg guy in our relationship. Breakfasts are my thing.
Occasionally, we switch things up. Today is one of those days.
Our friend Jeremy has invited us to his Thanksgiving potluck this evening … a low-key gathering with friends and a few in his family.
Yesterday, I decided I would make a pot of chicken chili for Jeremy’s Friendsgiving today. It is simmering in our slow cooker as I write this. It’s a delicious, easy, non-traditional dish.
I haven’t made it in years, but the timing is right. The weather is cooler. I want to prepare something meaningful to share with our friend, who is managing his way on the road of life through a monumental year of personal growth mixed with significant detours and setbacks.
As background, Jeremy came out to his friends, family, and the world a little over a year ago. He and his wife are no longer a couple, but they continue to be loving parents to all five of their children. It’s impressive that even during this period of uncertainty they have maintained a respectful relationship.
I know fatherhood is important to Jeremy. He loves and supports his children. I remember how difficult it was for me to balance my fatherhood, demanding career, and “gay awakening” thirty years ago. I suspect it is the same in this moment for Jeremy.
All of this leads me back to this recipe for chicken chili. In the early 1990s, after Jean and I divorced, I felt broken–broke, too–and I existed in a fog, especially in the colder months.
My sons spent half their time with me in my tiny apartment. I needed to find inexpensive, flavorful dishes, which I could prepare for dinner for Nick, Kirk, and me. To feed and nourish us. To keep us close.
This chicken chili recipe is one I made frequently thirty years ago. Not so much lately. But it makes perfect sense to resurrect it today. To bridge the past of balancing my gay identity and single fatherhood with the present of Jeremy’s.
So, I am making chicken chili now for about a dozen (Jeremy’s supportive friends and a few of his children) who will gather on a coolish and likely rainy Saturday evening in the desert.
Together we will give thanks for friendships … the potluck of life that nourishes us and allows us to learn and grow during good times and bad.
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.
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.
The arc of life in my sixties–its highs and lows–has proved mostly to be an unexpected artistic one. Yet it is an uneven tapestry of co-existing emotions: fear for our eroding democracy; love for new and old friends; and boundless gratitude currently after returning to St. Louis for my Affton High School Class of ’75 reunion and reconciling my midwestern roots with my southwestern reality.
***
A trip to St. Louis would not be complete without a visit to my parents’ graves at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery. So, we began there.
On Friday, September 19, Tom and I stopped at Dierberg’s in Creve Coeur near our hotel to buy a handful of burnt orange carnations.
Twenty minutes later, we arrived in the sea of marble stones on rolling hills ten miles south of downtown St. Louis.
We parked our rented Mazda SUV and tiptoed past a veteran’s funeral in progress under a makeshift canopy. A female vocalist sang Amazing Grace. Instantly, my tears began to flow.
Each time I go to Jefferson Barracks, it is a touchstone experience. Tapping one side of the stone and then the other. Remembering the love and best intentions of Helen and Walter Johnson–both long gone but not forgotten.
Minutes later, sitting on a nearby bench with Tom under the sturdy branches of an oak tree that has lost its earliest leaves due to an especially dry Missouri summer.
Friday afternoon was also somber and reflective. We met our friend Mark, a docent at St. Louis Kaplan Feldman Holocaust Museum, for a visit there.
He guided us through horrific-then-hopeful survivor stories, images, and vintage artifacts, curated from proud Jewish St. Louis residents who lived through the awful experience. Only a few remain, but their legacies live on.
All in all, it was a chilling, relevant, immersive few hours. Cautionary evidence of hate and authoritarian evil that inundated the world in the 1930s and 40s, and now–in the US in 2025–threatens the existence of those who are not straight, Christian white men.
After deep breaths and a refreshing Friday nap in our hotel, Tom and I drove to University City for an evening with Mark and his husband David at their home. It was a celebration of our unfolding friendship.
At sunset, they lit candles and recited Shabbat blessings before we shared wine and bread. At their table, I felt our bond of friendship, which began just a few years ago, grow.
We met Mark and David when–as snowbirds living part-time in Arizona–they first attended one of Tom’s free film screenings at the Scottsdale Public Library.
Now, they have become the newest, welcoming community component of our St. Louis connection.
She’s survived another summer in the Valley of the Sun. Living life on the lam.
Climbing walls and trees. Stalking birds, lizards, and rodents. Dodging haboobs, monsoons, and ICE agents. Ducking in and out of covered patios … sleeping on weathered blue cushions melting into wicker chairs outside our front door.
Poly is her given name. Given by me to her. No doubt, she has other assumed names from other presumed cat lovers in our Polynesian Paradise condo community.
I hardly consider her a stray anymore, because we are three years into our relationship … our parlor game of fancy treats followed by quick goodbyes.
In 2022, she wouldn’t get close enough to touch. Tom and I left kibble outside our door in the same chipped dish you see here. She ate quickly, then darted off … back into her Sonoran neverland.
But in 2025 we have reached a deeper level of closeness, intimacy, love perhaps. Maybe she’s been reading the news and needs comforting. I know I do.
Every morning around 6, Tom or I open the security door and look for her. Nine out of ten days, she hops down from that day’s pre-selected chair, meows as she glides and stretches on the mat in our foyer.
She trails around our legs, marks our shoes and furniture with the scent of her furry face, and shimmies up and down as Tom or I (we take turns) prepare her dish of Sheba cuts in gravy with sustainable salmon.
The frequency and volume of meows increase as the dish comes close to the floor. Poly purrs loudly, then polishes that off in less than a minute. Her eyes sparkle with gratitude.
Lately, she’s been staying longer after her meal. Sometimes returning later in the morning or evening for a second round of treats. Dry savory salmon-flavor Temptations for the cat that deserves the best.
On September 1, at 11:13 a.m., Poly allowed me to sit on the floor and give her love. I patted her head, back, and tail as we talked about her morning … our day.
Then, I placed brunch before her and captured this kitty-calendar portrait of Poly, our cagey Sonoran friend, modeling in the kitchen on our new, natural oak flooring.
After she consumed her meal and licked her paws, she glided and sniffed through our bedroom, den, and sunroom.
Poly then departed through the front door, left ajar for her safe departure (she is a free spirit, after all!) back into the wild of intense sun, hissing sprinklers, spiky cacti, and random critters (animals and humans) … all of us living each day, giving and taking what we can, embracing or deflecting each moment as it comes.
On August 25, 1975–fifty years, five decades, twenty-five pounds thinner, and half a century ago–I was a long-haired, idealistic college freshman hustling across campus in the rain.
It was my first day of classes at the University of Missouri in Columbia. (My mother took this photo during college break a year later.)
This naive, relatively-shy-but-often-fun-and-exuberant eighteen-year-old boy (he was not yet a young man but was an aspiring pre-journalism major) knew little about the world or himself.
But he was determined to find his way one hundred-and-twenty-five miles away from his parents and childhood home in the St. Louis suburbs.
Mom and Dad paid for my tuition, books, and room and board in Hatch Hall on campus. I vaguely recall the total bill was less than one thousand dollars per semester.
Looking back, I think I may have spent half that amount on frivolous expenses like pizza, sub sandwiches, and beer.
That money came out of my pocket. From what I earned and saved during the summer of ’75 as a rollercoaster operator at Six Flags. But I could always count on care packages and frequent small checks, which Mom sent in the mail.
John was my roommate freshman year on the fifth floor of Hatch Hall. We were good buddies, close friends from the late 1960s when we were junior high classmates.
Though we had different career aspirations which dictated non-intersecting class schedules (John was pre-med), we were inseparable in many ways from August 1975 until May 1976.
There wasn’t much to our room. Minimal clothes. Primitive, uncomfortable desks and chairs. Single beds and random posters on opposite walls.
John brought his stereo, turntable and speakers. I brought a small black-and-white TV and popcorn popper. I recall us convincing our parents to split the cost of a mini fridge.
Wearing tube socks and denim cutoffs like all the other guys, we tossed Frisbees in the quad under the columns and played tennis across the street from our dorm. Through it all, we made friends of all sorts who lived up and down our hall and across campus.
After a full week of mostly boring, required classes, fall Friday nights included parties at Hinkson Creek (an abandoned quarry mine close to our dorm) where all the kids drank and many swam.
Football Saturdays in the fall of ’75 were fun, rooting for the Tigers in the student section. More often than not, the final score spelled defeat.
We wandered home to our dorm rooms aimlessly to sleep off the beer and prepare for Saturday nights … disco dancing to Donna Summer and roller keggars (drinking more beer while roller skating).
I remember zooming around a rickety indoor skating rink, dodging wooden pillars and puddles of beer. What a mess and what a stupid idea … and I didn’t even like the taste of beer!
By this time, John had a steady girlfriend … Sharon. (They met soon after John and his family moved to the northern St. Louis suburbs before his senior year of high school.) Sharon attended a different in-state college in Kirksville, Missouri.
I dated lots of girls my freshman year … but never for long. I was trying to live up to some ridiculous notion of masculinity that never felt like the true me.
The one exception was Carol. We were close in high school. She was sweet. That relationship lasted into college, but it quickly fizzled. I needed my freedom and time to learn who I would become.
Operating on a protected, fearful level, I remember feeling attracted to many of the cute boys in my classes and at Hatch Hall. But my gay identity and secret desires lived only in my subconscious.
I remember feeling anxious and alone. Constantly.
It would be three years before I would meet Jean at Mizzou. We were both Journalism students. There were sparks between us that developed into love and marriage in 1980 after she graduated.
Underneath it all, the attraction I felt for men grew stronger. But without a healthy avenue for my personal discovery, my depression deepened.
The reality is that from 1975 through 1979–my college years–there was no productive way for me to experiment with my sexuality and date other men. Whatever happened had to come under the cover of darkness.
***
If we live long enough, time, age, mistakes, and transformation … like the constant tumbling of water over rocks … can produce smoother edges and actual wisdom.
In spite of living a closeted, unfulfilled sexual life in my college years, I got a good education at the University of Missouri. I earned my Bachelor of Journalism degree in 1979. It opened many doors for me professionally.
The good news is I eventually found my way personally in my thirties and forties. Tom and I have been together twenty-nine years. I’m proud of the trusting, loving relationship we have created together.
There is irony in all of this. While he was a freshman trying to find his way–at the University of Iowa in Iowa City in August of 1975–I was doing the same a few hundred miles south of him.
We wouldn’t meet until we were thirty-nine … twenty-one years later … but that would also happen in the midwestern humidity of August.
***
Postscript: Next month, Tom will join me on a trip to St. Louis. We will attend my fiftieth high schoolreunion, where I will reconnect with a few hundred of my Affton High School classmates … the class of ’75 … most of whom I haven’t seen for at least thirty years.
My college roommate–John–and his wife Sharon will also join us. Somehow, over fifty years, five decades and more than half a century–we have sustained our friendship across the miles and supported each other in the important moments.
Raising children … and, in their case, grandchildren. Being there for my mother’s funeral at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery in 2013. Coming to Chicago for my marriage to Tom in September 2014.
Each time we see each other (now it’s mostly winter visits here in Arizona), John and I are able to pick up where we left off.
Even though our lives have grown and changed in innumerable ways, we have maintained a mutual sense of love, respect, and continuity.
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.
Sunday through Monday–when desert winds blow freely or not at all–I prefer nature’s ever-present sweet, sunny and determined backyard faces to yesterday’s and today’s front-page disgraces.
Katie’s sweet faceArizona’s sunny faceMason’s determined faceSt. Francis watches over nature in Glenn’s backyard
In early March, while Glenn was away, Tom and I (along with an assist from St. Francis) cared for our friend’s lovable Newfoundland dogs–Katie and Mason–in their peaceful backyard.
Mark Johnson Stories 