Tag: Love

You Wouldn’t Believe

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Since you’ve been gone, you

wouldn’t believe how the world

and our lives have changed.

You never knew that I married

a man I love, or that we live

in the desert where I can swim

outside in the winter, or that

I survived a heart attack on

my sixtieth birthday, in the

city where both of us

were born, or that

the grandsons you loved as

children are thriving, though

they have nearly reached

middle age, or that some people

now ride in cars with no

actual drivers, or that it’s kind

of a metaphor for our

country, which has lost

its moral compass, or that

the flag you defended and

saluted is no longer yours, or

that I am thankful to write and

sing in my late sixties, because

I was meant to do those all

along. All of this is true, and

it prompts me to worry and

hope–mostly worry–that

even though I am thankful

for good health, my kind and

compassionate husband, my

own boundless empathy, and

the relationships I’ve nurtured

with my sons, and many diverse

friends, I feel heavy uncertainty

in our country, and anticipate

more losses ahead only

to protect myself, and

of course, it reminds me of

other losses I’ve endured,

especially on the anniversary

of your passing the day after

a big Thanksgiving meal

with your sisters. By now,

you can see that the world

you knew is most definitely

gone, but you live in

my memories, and

I still love you, I grieve for you,

I grieve for me, I grieve for us.

Most of all, I still remember the

many monumental moments

–the good and bad–we shared

so long ago, Dad.

Desert Moon

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As we count our losses,

we brace for shadows

and ripples lurking

in the darkness.

The comfort of an

undeterred desert moon

shines stillness.

It conjures hope

and the ebb and flow

of constancy living

on their own cycles.

It rises with flickers

of unfulfilled promises

and etched memories

of loved ones gone

but never far away.

In the Gauzy Evening

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In the gauzy evening of our disparate lives, we stand by our loved ones and convictions. We continue to grow strong in spite of our spiky imperfections and ominous shadows on horizons beyond us.

We are not always as close as we appear, but–because we grew from the same earth–we are never too far apart from the history we share as we reach higher toward distinct patches of blue.

At times, we wonder what binds us. But–with a nudge or two–we recite lines from the pages of our youth, we remember trailblazers before us, we whisper today’s dreams and tomorrow’s travels.

Replenish

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In the base of nature’s jagged bowl, weighty wings of clouds gather and descend. Endless cascades of cleansing tears appear to wash tangled unsuspecting souls.

“Fly away” they shout. “Show us those we knew are lasting. Bathe us in revealing light and budding promise. Help us replenish and remember what has gone.”

***

This poem is dedicated to all those who have gone before us. To enjoy more of my poetry, buy my latest book–A Path I Might Have Missed–on Amazon.

Another Day, Another Story

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After my mother died on this day in 2013 at age eighty-nine, my grief took root.

With a little time, a lot of reflecting and journaling, and the support of a small circle of family and friends, I found and nurtured my own path from the branches of despair.

By 2015, I had carved out a storyteller’s life Helen Johnson would have loved. Late that year, I flew to North Carolina to visit Frances, her only sister.

Spending time with Frances in the state where both were born–and revisiting childhood memories of my grandparents’ farm in Huntersville, NC–propelled my creativity.

In March of 2016, I completed and published my first book, From Fertile Ground. It is the story of my journey and grief.

If you’ve read this story about three writers (my grandfather, mother, and me) and their love of family, you know this isn’t really the cover.

Today I’ve superimposed this photo of Helen and Frances together (in my sister’s backyard in 2003 or 2004 in northern Illinois) to remember them both.

Why? Because Frances was the last physical vestige of that rural, 1960s world for me. When she died six months ago at age ninety-one, I metaphorically waved goodbye to those years of running amok barefoot on warm summer days in the Tar Heel State.

Of course, I will always have rich memories of my wise-and-frugal mother, who wrote countless letters, and my fun-loving aunt, who traveled the world in her retirement years. In their own ways, they inspired me to tell my story.

Today–as I remember them both–I can walk into the sunroom of the Scottsdale, Arizona condo where Tom and I now live. I can pull my book off the shelf and find this passage.

“What I knew before was that the farm was a place of discovery for me and the fertile ground there was a physical and psychological refuge from the hardships of our family drama in St. Louis. What I know now is that I would need to go back to North Carolina to come to terms with my grief and integrate my southern memories with my present-day, real-life adult existence.”

I can take solace in the fact that I’ve written about Helen and Frances–who they were, who they loved.

Though they are both gone, they live on the pages.

No Walk in the Park

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On a regular basis, all of us encounter unexpected small and large obstacles.

One day, they may be as fixable as a “low tire pressure” warning light that illuminates on the dashboard.

The next, something far more unimaginable, unexplainable and unrepairable. Like learning of the apparent suicide of a forty-three-year-old friend, who seemed to embody the definition of vitality.

It was simple to stop at Discount Tire to ask an attendant to increase the air pressure in our tires. (The cooler desert temperatures must have deflated them.)

It will take much longer–time, space, and reflection–for Tom and me to process Chad’s demise.

I’ve often thought that resiliency is one of the most important human characteristics to cultivate.

It is our ability to cope, process, manage, and emote our way through or around life’s setbacks that defines our longevity. This latest loss confirms my belief.

These observations surfaced this morning during a walk in the park in my community. At Chaparral Park in Scottsdale, Arizona to be precise.

My husband and I had just finished our yoga class. Afterwards, he wanted to lift a few weights in the gym.

I opted for stretching my legs on my own under a few puffy clouds that dotted Arizona’s wide-open October sky.

Near the midpoint of my walk a fit couple jogged up as I waited for the light to turn green at Chaparral and Hayden roads. One of them admired my shirt.

“You must be in the medical profession,” he gestured toward the beating heart I wore proudly.

“No, I’m a heart attack survivor,” I explained. “I helped raise money for the American Heart Association.”

They smiled and wished me well. Then, they dashed off when the WALK sign turned white.

It was a simple exchange, a reminder of a trauma I experienced and wrote about which now feels way off in the rearview mirror.

But those few sentences with two sympathetic strangers infused me with a renewed appreciation for my personal resiliency.

No doubt, it’s a quality I observed in my mother, a saver and survivor. She always described herself as a child of the Depression.

It’s also a trait I began to mine in my thirties after my divorce. A strength I’ve fine-tuned on countless treadmills since suffering a mild heart attack six-plus years ago on my sixtieth birthday.

I have no regrets regarding my friendship with Chad, but I wish he would have called Tom or me before he made his worst and most irreversible decision.

I would have told him that while life is no walk in the park, it is always worth the fight. To find a skilled therapist. To dig deep on the darkest days. To survive the pain. To accept our losses.

To embrace each and every day we are granted. To reach out for love and hope. To live to see tomorrow.

From Person to Memory

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This morning, Tom and I learned of the loss of a dear friend. He was only forty-three years old.

The circumstances that prompted Chad’s death are sketchy and unfathomable. All we really know is that he died September 8 or 9.

The person we loved has become a memory.

***

We met Chad several years ago at our community gym in Scottsdale. He was a strong man with a broad chest and an even broader smile and zest for life.

In short order, we began to take long hikes together at Papago Park near our home. Chad would tell us about his work adventures, his previous chapters in Wisconsin and Texas, his love for the Green Bay Packers, and his greater love for his family–particularly his mother and father.

Along the trail, we shared our life philosophies: speaking our truths, doing the right thing, following our passions, telling our stories, living for today.

I know he appreciated the listening ears Tom and I provided. I also know that Chad loved us. And we most definitely loved Chad.

Chad loved music too. One day in May a few years ago, the three of us visited the Musical Instrument Museum in north Scottsdale. We had a blast playing the drums together at an interactive exhibit.

On another occasion, Tom and I helped Chad prepare to move from one Scottsdale apartment to another when his lease was up.

Chad traveled a lot in his job and was meticulous about his car. Once–when he was out of town and his car was repaired at a body shop after an accident–he asked Tom and me to drive it to our home until he returned.

We were happy to help him. I think Tom and I were his only friends in Scottsdale he trusted enough not to hot rod on the way home.

During Covid, Chad came to visit us outside our condo. We sat across from each other at safe distances. It wasn’t ideal but seeing each other and talking in person mattered. It gave us comfort.

In 2022, Chad left Arizona. He moved to Nashville, Tennessee, for a new career opportunity. Tom and I were thrilled for him, but we missed him and our hikes together. Nonetheless, we had the sense that he was happy in his new home.

In early May of 2023, Chad visited Scottsdale again to renew his friendships here. Tom and I enjoyed talking with him for an hour or so in the chairs outside our condo. We didn’t know it would be the last time we would see our friend.

Now, four months later, we are stunned. Numb. Devastated. With time, we hope to get answers to what happened to our friend.

All we really know is that in an instant he went from being a person to becoming a memory.

Labor of Love

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My parents labored through much of their forty-five years of marriage. In that sense, it is fitting that their wedding anniversary–September 4–often coincides with Labor Day, as it does this year.

Despite their differences, struggles, and heartaches, by the late 1980s Mom and Dad seemed more content whenever I drove from Chicago to visit them in St. Louis.

Mom had retired from her stressful government job. She spent more time in her beloved garden. Dad’s mental illness had quieted. He found solace, reading his Daily Word in their wing-backed chair.

Ironically, this more even footing in their relationship appeared as their physical frailties–and risk of falling–became more obvious.

They went to church together. They cultivated deeper friendships with neighbors. They dined regularly at nearby Grone’s Cafeteria. Life was much simpler.

Comparatively, Tom and I are far more active in our “retirement” than my parents ever were. But we have discovered a similar contentment. There are fewer demands on us. We spend more time on the things we enjoy with the people–friends and family–who mean the most to us.

Today–on what would have been Helen and Walter Johnson’s 75th wedding anniversary–the two people holding hands in this photo are the ones I choose to remember.

But, even during the troubles and heavy lifting of their younger years, I’m grateful for the many things they taught me. How to respect the elderly. How to save for a rainy day. How to be kind to neighbors and care for animals. How to put people before material things. How to be a loyal friend. How to work hard and earn my keep. How to show compassion.

Most important of all, how to love my family, warts and all.

Certainly, by watching Helen and Walter struggle, I learned lessons about how to endure in a world that can often feel unendurable. That may feel like a strange way to pay tribute to my parents on their diamond wedding anniversary. But it’s honest and true.

Though Dad has been gone thirty years and Mom ten, the love I feel for them endures.

In the summer of 1988, Helen and Walter Johnson enjoyed their suburban St. Louis backyard. Mom was 65; Dad was 74.

July’s Serendipity

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I received a sad text message on July 2 from Lu, my cousin’s wife in North Carolina. She told me Frances, my beloved ninety-one-year-old aunt, is in her final stages of life, suffering with the effects of Alzheimer’s.

Frances is my mother’s smart and sassy younger sister–the only one remaining from that generation of my Ferrell family. Her passing–whenever it occurs–will mark the end of a significant chapter in my life … one I wrote about in From Fertile Ground after my mother’s death ten years ago.

When I last visited Frances in September 2015, I sat beside her on the couch of her Davidson, North Carolina living room. It was an important and healing moment for both of us. The loss of her only sister and my only mother was still relatively fresh.

I realized then that returning to North Carolina (where my mother was born) was my way of putting to rest Helen Ferrell Johnson’s earliest life experiences–and some of mine, which included Frances, her sons, warm summer days, and barefoot adventures exploring my grandparents’ Huntersville, North Carolina farm in the 1960s.

Now–just a day away from my sixty-sixth birthday and three weeks from what would have been my mother’s 100th–the knock of grief in July appears once again on the other side of the door.

It ushers me back to July 6, 1974, (my seventeenth birthday) when I stood beside Frances at my grandmother’s (her mother’s) funeral.

We leaned into one another that day in the Asbury Methodist Church cemetery in Huntersville. I needed to feel her love and reassurance, just as I would in September of 2015.

Back in July 2023, my wish is that my aunt’s transition moves swiftly.

In my mind and heart, Frances Ferrell Rogers Christenbury (forever the first child born in High Point, North Carolina, on New Year’s Day 1932) will always be that spunky adventurer.

Frances loved me for who I am … saw and accepted the handwriting on my gay wall before most of the rest of my family … brought joy to my frolicking on the farm … and ordered extra copies of From Fertile Ground to share.

I think it was because reading it helped her heal after the loss of Helen. More than that, because it tells the story of our family’s survival across the generations.

One that will live forever on the pages with Frances and the fertile ground of grief.

“Are You Guys Brothers?”

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Tom and I get this question a few times a month–sometimes more often. In Arizona, Illinois, or anywhere in between.

We could be at the check-out counter of a grocery store, a restaurant as we wait to be seated, or on the treadmill at the gym we frequent in Scottsdale as we were on Monday.

That’s when a friendly man, wearing a San Francisco Giants ball cap, popped the question. (No, he didn’t ask me to marry him.)

In 2023, I generally smile and respond as I did Monday with “No, we aren’t, though we get that question a lot.” And the conversation ends there.

Depending on my mood–and how much I choose to share my personal story (after all, I am a memoir writer)–I have often gone on to say, “Tom and I are married.” Or “Tom and I are partners.” Or “Tom and I have been together for more than twenty-five years.”

Along the way, we have never received any open backlash concerning our relationship (nor should we). Quite the opposite. We have made more friends of all kinds because of our openness and comfort in our skins. (By the way, it took me decades to get here and I’m not going back.)

With time and reflection, I’ve realized that the question is more of an observation in the world of people we contact who aren’t able to classify the intimacy or closeness they identify between two men standing before them.

Or maybe it’s an acknowledgment on a less significant level that we have picked up some mannerisms from one another that two brothers might have in common. However, we really don’t look alike.

At any rate, I will continue to live my open life as a gay man–proudly–in my community. I will continue writing about my experiences–positive and negative–as a gay man, a husband, a father of two adult sons, a neighbor, a friend.

I will continue singing on stage with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus. As I write this, I have just completed drafting a script about five fictionalized characters living in the Phoenix LGBTQ community in 2023. Their dialogue will be the glue that ties together the music of our next concert: “Born To Be Brave”, June 3 and 4 at Tempe Center for the Arts.

I feel it is my duty to demonstrate that two men–a gay, married couple–don’t have to be blood brothers to love each other.

Especially in a country where some want to remove the books of gay authors from the shelves. Or try to erase the checkered history of our country on race relations because the truth is threatening to some. Or ban drag shows, because they view them as recruitment activities for current or future generations.

Okay, I’ll get off my soapbox now. But Tom and I aren’t brothers. We’re a gay couple living happily in 2023, and there are lots of us out in the world.

We’re making significant contributions. Loving our families. Loving our neighbors. Loving our friends. Loving the legacy, which we are leaving for future generations of children who need to know the truth about the past and the present. That there are all kinds of people in the world loving each other. And that’s just as it should be.