What ailed me for three years–2013 to 2016–was grief spawned by the loss of my mother.
Listening to Annie Lennox’ soaring voice–her Nostalgia--pulled me through and beckoned me to complete my first book From Fertile Ground.
You see, Annie’s rendition of twelve stirring and mostly southern-sometimes-smoldering tunes written in the 1930s and 1940s primed the pump of my southern sensory memories.
Sometime in 2015, I unearthed a tender memory of making homemade peach ice cream with my grandmother Georgia on the rickety porch of my grandparents’ North Carolina farm.
It was Annie who reminded me that I had Georgia on My Mind. Sherrell Richardson Ferrell, too–S.R. for short. He was my farming grandfather who left behind more than fifty years of diary entries.
Annie’s music, Georgia’s love, S.R.’s spartan stories (primitive blog entries really), and Helen’s litany of letters (she was my wise mother) gave me all the creative inspiration I needed to finish and publish my first book in 2016.
Why is this all relevant today? Because I have Helen on my mind. She died twelve years ago on January 26, 2013.
For the most part, my writing and the constant love and support from my husband Tom have helped soften the grief as the years continue to roll by.
Helen would have been happy for me on both counts. She suspected Tom and I would retire in Arizona one day.
However, I doubt she would have imagined the entirety of this literary chapter for me, which lately includes teaching memoir writing at our local library. (I’ve been asked to lead a third workshop in April.)
Or the growing community of loyal followers Tom has inspired with every immersive movie series he hosts (also at the Scottsdale Public Library). His next series–Movies That Matter: The 1970s (a tribute to six film directors)–begins tomorrow and continues on most Mondays until early April.
I firmly believe it is the arts and the artists–like Annie Lennox, even the less renowned ones like Mark Johnson and Tom Samp–who through their music, writing, painting, poetry, and true cultural perspectives will help pull us through this dark and uber-turbulent period in our once-proud country.
For now, that is the hope I cling to. Along with the memories of love and gratitude–the nostalgia–framed by indelible moments with family and friends past and present, who I love dearly.
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.
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.
In summer’s flurry of joyful singing, record-breaking heat, Covid resurgence, political revelations, and Olympics coverage, June is gone. July is close behind.
Until now, my Covid recovery, birthday revelry, and travels to and from Minneapolis for the 2024 GALA Festival prevented me from posting highlights from Encore, our Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus concert in late June.
Suffice it to say Encore was a musical review of favorite chorus moments and tunes (A Million Dreams, Some Nights, What Was I Made For?, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Proud, I’m Still Standing, For Me and ten more.)
Beyond that, it was also a reflective celebration of Marc Gaston’s twenty-two years as our artistic director–laced with storytelling vignettes (I wrote), LGBTQ anthems, and dazzling dance routines.
As a singer and one of several storytellers, I couldn’t be prouder of the program we created and performed for three exuberant audiences at Tempe Center for the Arts.
I will leave you with a snippet of dialogue … along with four images from the concert … that represents the joy, energy, rainbow colors, and love, which reverberated in the room away from the summer heat.
“When I sing with this chorus–these amazing people–and I absorb all the music and camaraderie, it feels like the sky is the limit. It feels like I could rule the world.” Mark Johnson, Storyteller #1, in Encore.
I’m back home. Inside the furnace, better known as the Valley of the Sun.
I have begun to reemerge from an affirming, magical, inspiring five days of LGBTQ bonding and music with my chosen family at the 2024 GALA Festival in Minneapolis.
From July 10-14, 7,000 singers (representing nearly 300 choruses and presenters from around the world) inhabited the Twin Cities.
We owned the stages. Occupied the hotels. Flooded the restaurants, bars, shops and streets with gaiety and glee.
But it was more than the magnitude of this quadrennial event that has left an indelible imprint on my creativity and identity. It was the sense of joy, kindness, support, and human possibilities that dazzled me most.
At a time in this country and our world where so much hatred abounds, I was reminded that when love is present–when people truly come together to care for one another and cheer each other on–we can be that Bridge Over Troubled Water (one of the songs my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus mates and I performed) of hope for one another.
This was my third GALA. I shared all of them with my husband Tom: 2012 and 2016 in Denver; 2024 in Minneapolis. Each one has nurtured me, deepened my sense of artistry and compassion, and reinforced the importance of rekindling/kindling old and new relationships.
In this 2024 installment, over a five-day period I was able to reconnect and celebrate with friends from Chicago (who perform with the Windy City Gay Chorus and the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus), Washington, Seattle, and–of course–Phoenix.
A friend and ex-colleague (from my past consulting career) who lives in the Minneapolis area, also surprised and delighted me by attending our performance on July 12. It was a treat seeing her again.
If you follow my blog, you know I have written five books. One is a book of poetry; the other four are memoirs or creative nonfiction. I’ve also written lyrics and librettos for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
Already, I have begun to scribble ideas in a spiral notebook that were sparked by my latest GALA experience. Who knows? This may lead me to a stream of poems or lyrics I have yet to compose.
For now, I will leave you with an idea and image that captured my attention on Saturday as Tom and I watched a series of choruses perform inside the auditorium of the Minneapolis Convention Center.
A few rows in front of us, a couple neither of us knows relaxed and leaned in. Away from the heat and fire in the world, they rested their heads against one another. They held each other. They listened to beautiful music in a safe space.
Many of us in the LGBTQ community have spent large portions of our lives searching for answers, longing for love and understanding.
The beauty of the GALA Festival is that–through the power of music, relationships, and community–we can move from longing to belonging.
Moving beyond this amazing and affirming five days in the upper Midwest, we will continue to raise our voices inside our choruses and be our authentic selves outside in the everyday world.
Truly, we are much more than a large collection of singers. Together, we represent a movement of kind, talented, and diverse humans with the power to change hearts, minds, and attitudes.
The smaller one opened the door for me this morning … sometimes it’s the taller one. That made me happy … they were happy, too … I needed to feel the cool tile on my parched paws.
I was hungry … I didn’t catch a bird or a rat yesterday. Today I twirled around the taller one’s legs … the smaller one’s legs, too. They gave me something fishy and yummy … a little crunchy, too.
The taller one watched me as I ate … said something about a gold-framed mirror (I think) from his mom (I think)? He was happy he and the smaller one kept it when they came here 7 years ago … I guess, like me, they came from some other place.
They were opening lots of bottles … taking lots of pills … washing them down with water … their voices were scratchy … I think the smaller one and the taller one like each other.
I heard the taller one say that he was happy with the success (I think) of his concerts (I think) … but that it sucks (I think) that both of them (the taller one and smaller one) have to fight off Covid (I think) … again.
Hmmm, what is Covid?
The smaller one said it was like having a vacation (I think) at home together … that doesn’t sound so bad.
The smaller one and the taller one are nice to me every morning … and they keep feeding me. So, I want them to always be here when I stretch out on their mat … or under their bench while I eye the birds.
I want them … the smaller one and the taller one … to never go away.
I will keep coming back as long as they … the smaller one and the taller one … are here to rub my back and feed me.
I last visited my father’s grave at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery in September 2021.
If there is such a thing as beauty to behold in a final resting place for those who served, it exists there just south of St. Louis on the banks of the Mississippi River–fourteen hundred miles east of where I live and write today.
On this Memorial Day, I remember Dad–and the thousands of fallen soldiers gathered around him–with twelve lines I wrote on August 27, 1996 … almost three years after he died.
Mark Johnson Stories 