You greet me in the morning, flying under the eaves. Serene and steady. Zooming in for nearby nectar. Always aiming to adapt.
I see how you and your cautious cousins coexist. You skitter across pebbled paths. Nest atop spiky saguaros. Hoot through dusty darkness.
You are the best among us. Feathered and unfettered advocates for organic order. If only we could soar like you in this Sonoran life.
I’ll always remember you, rolling in over the gaelic green. I felt cool comfort knowing the veiled intentions you whispered in my ear wouldn’t be denied. No matter how much I wanted to gaze beyond the moss and ferns you shrouded, you held me there. You knew I needed to stand strong above the craggy cliffs of my past. You knew I needed to feel rooted to the emerald island, thankful for the mystery of my mending heart.
Securing pink and white hollyhocks that sagged across suburban lawns.
Devouring fresh melons and spitting out seeds at barefoot picnics.
Chasing patrolling peacocks to capture feathers for the trip home.
Cornering grasshoppers that jumped and landed from nowhere.
Dodging dragonflies that flitted, then perched in shallow waters.
Tiptoeing back to school over fading July-to-September bridges.
Discovering an old empty wagon laden with summer memories.
For a few minutes last Sunday, I was up on the roof. No, I wasn’t cleaning the debris out of my gutters. My husband Tom and I, along with John and Sharon (two lifelong friends visiting from St. Louis), were on a two-day, Flagstaff sightseeing mission, seeking northern Arizona’s coolest and highest spots.
On a rare, seventy-degree-and-mostly-sunny afternoon, we boarded the Agassiz Chairlift (elevation 9,500 feet in the San Francisco Peaks) and rode above the tall pines another 2,000 feet to the top of the Arizona Snowbowl ski resort.
Of course, this excursion was just for summer thrills. There wasn’t any of the frozen white stuff in late July. In fact, if there had been snow, I would have been far away for two reasons:
#1 … Unlike our friends from St. Louis who learned to ski when they lived in Europe, I’m not a snow bunny. Though Tom and I are in good shape for guys in their sixties, neither of us has skied much. On a personal note, I don’t care to risk broken bones on slippery slopes. I’m not interested in more pain or tempting fate. I figure it’ll arrive soon enough without me paving the way for a new and expensive relationship with an orthopedic surgeon. Besides, I already have a cardiologist and wouldn’t want him to get jealous.
#2 … I’ve endured enough cold and snowy Chicago days and nights to last a lifetime. To be precise, thirty-seven winters back in the relative flatness of northeastern Illinois. Think sub-zero temperatures and howling winds in December and January and repeated rounds of snow-blowing to clear your western-exposed driveway in February and you’ll have the right mental image.
In all seriousness, Tom and I enjoyed getting reacquainted with John and Sharon. It had been nearly five years since we’d seen them. And, naturally, both the chairlift ride and the mountain scenery in our home state were breathtaking.
Hmmm … now that I think about it, perhaps our Rocky Mountain experience and my choice of adjectives have more to do with the thinner air I felt pumping in and out of my lungs at a high altitude than the actual view.
Either way, you can be sure I followed the rules on this sign. I did no running on Sunday. Just some light walking and a little heavy breathing until it was time for us to board the chairlift for the return trip, descend the mountainside, and climb down from Arizona’s magnificent and majestic roof.
Every morning you appear outside my window in the fever of July.
In the blooming blanket of a Barbara Karst bougainvillea.
A red reminder of ripe melons and ready resiliency.
Of sweet magnolia miles and pink petunias past.
Of green thumbs and blue birthday hydrangeas.
Every night you fade with each Sonoran sunset.
But you are never far away in the garden.
By Mark Johnson, July 22, 2019
We all experience ghastly days that shake us to the core. Days when our inner monologue runs on a defiant loop: “Oh, if I can just get through this … if I can just beat the odds … maybe one day the light will return.”
At least, that’s how it felt for me on July 6, 2017 … my sixtieth birthday … when I suffered a mild heart attack in St. Louis on the way west from our old home in Illinois to our new home in Arizona.
With a little luck and a lot of perseverance, two years have passed. Last Saturday–on July 6, 2019–my husband and I traveled two hours north from sizzling Scottsdale into Sedona’s red rock country for a hike to celebrate our shared sixty-second birthday (yes … it’s sweet, surreal and serendipitous) and (serendipity squared) the second anniversary of me (actually, us) surviving heart trauma.
Given the multi-layered significance of July 6 in our lives, it was only fitting that we chart a new course for the day in this geological wonderland. So, we packed plenty of water, slathered on the sunscreen, and stepped out on the trail toward one of Sedona’s gems: Bell Rock.
On the course of our hour-long journey, we stopped frequently to marvel at the spectacular scenery in our new home state … to acknowledge just how far we’d come in twenty-four months. From a familiar-and-comfortable suburban-Chicago life … to a frightening hospital stay in the city where I was born … to our 112-degree arrival in Arizona when our air conditioning faltered … to a well-earned, grateful life of wide open spaces, majestic sunsets and creative possibilities that have since bloomed.
At one point on our final approach to Bell Rock, I snapped this photo to capture the flight and magnitude of the moment. Just like this young mountain biker who wheeled past us, we’ve rounded the corner and transcended the story of An Unobstructed View. We’ve begun a new chapter in our journey here in the Grand Canyon State. We’ve welcomed the passage of time. We’ve found the gift of reflection in Arizona’s rejuvenating red rocks.
It was about 90 degrees at 7 o’clock when I grabbed my broad-brimmed hat, a tall bottle of water, and a cool, damp towel to cover the back of my neck. My husband and I were heading to Vista del Camino Park for our early morning walk before the temperatures escalated past 100. Such is life in July in Arizona’s Sonoran Desert.
The elephant foot succulents on the north side of our condo don’t seem to mind. They are coping just fine. Under the eaves. Resting in the shade most of the day. We decided to move our container of gladiolas next to them. They were getting torched on the south side in the all-day sun. Maybe the American flags will help boost their spirits as Independence Day approaches.
I’ve learned to accept and adapt to July’s torrid temperatures here … since that day nearly two years ago when I survived to tell the story of An Unobstructed View. As long as you keep a ready supply of water nearby and stay indoors during the spike in the afternoon heat, it’s manageable.
This year we’ve planned a few strategic July escapes, as well. One to the stunning red rocks of Sedona a few hours north. Another further up Interstate 17 into the fragrant, tall pines and mountains of Flagstaff, where the air is thinner and the temperatures are twenty-five degrees cooler.
Truly, life in Arizona is a story of extremes … and remarkable beauty.
A look skyward this morning carried me back. In an instant, I jettisoned one freshly trimmed Scottsdale palm and a barely-detectable sliver of the moon for an unscheduled trip to my 1969 St. Louis summer crew cut and pubescent, eleven-year-old body.
When I landed in a black-and-white TV world, it was three weeks before two men walked on the moon. To gather my wits, I twirled the knobs of my transistor radio. Past the dollar bleacher seats of my Cardinals’ baseball childhood. I searched frantically up and down the dial for an empty channel in the frequency. For coverage of Dorothy’s fond farewell before she clicked her heels. For a flashpoint on Christopher Street that took us from Stonewall to somewhere over the rainbow. But it wasn’t meant to be. I left without finding them there.
Now, fifty years have passed. I’m nearly sixty two. I’m living in the Sonoran heat with a fresh summer haircut. I lead a full and open life with my husband. Together we share all the scars and joys of being gay. Every omission. Every discovery. Every hurt. Every realization. Every victory. Every monsoon. Every full moon. It’s as it should be. They are all a part of our journey.
Though darkness abounds,
There is an opening in the aftermath.
An ever-widening aperture of love and hope.
It reminds us to focus on who we are at the center.
Able captains of our bodies, minds and spirits.
Imperfect, yet free and unencumbered.
Seekers of light and truth.
By Mark Johnson
May 17, 2019
The world has gone mad. Last week, I felt it personally.
***
On Monday at the gym, bully #1 sprayed venomous, hateful words at me in a weight-lifting room. He claimed I had usurped his space on a bench. He was wrong. It was vacant when I stepped in briefly. At any rate, I was smart enough to walk away from someone far more muscular.
I was also scared enough to recognize old wounds from my adolescence … bullying and humiliation in middle school hallways and locker rooms by larger, straighter, nastier boys who wielded the “F” word and ruled by physical intimidation without adult supervision.
Before I left the gym, I reported the incident to an employee. A few minutes later the reality of what had happened hit me. I cried in the car with my husband Tom by my side.
***
On Saturday at the local market, Tom and I had just bought scented soaps from a vendor. She’s a friend and single mother. I hugged her, knowing her children will be leaving soon for the summer to spend time with their dad.
Before we left, I stopped at a booth to enter my friend’s name in a Mother’s Day drawing. That’s when it happened. “Are you a mother?” bully #2 asked rhetorically. She covered the entry box with both hands and shook her head.
“No, I’m not,” I replied. “But a friend is. I’d like to enter her name in the contest.”
She scolded me. “Vendors aren’t allowed to participate.”
With all the sarcasm I could muster, I glared back and thanked her for “the pleasurable experience of meeting her.” My hair was on fire. I stomped away. Tom stayed long enough to tell bully #2 and her manager how rude they were. We both wondered if they would have treated us the same if we’d been a straight couple.
***
On Sunday, Tom and I missed our mothers. They both died several years ago. Naturally, we still feel the weight of grief. We always will on Mother’s Day. To find solace, we hiked to the Desert Botanical Garden in the morning. It’s one of our favorite spots to be alone with our thoughts. To see the cacti and succulents bloom. To watch the quail and ground squirrels skitter. To escape our worries and get lost in nature.
As we walked along a path, a six-or-seven-year-old boy and his extended family approached us. “Happy Mother’s Day,” he shouted gleefully. “Thank you. Same to you,” I responded with gusto. Instantly, the child stole my heart on a garden path in the desert. At least for a few moments, he renewed my faith in humanity.
Before Tom and I left the garden, we stopped to buy a desert rose. I wanted to pay tribute to my wise, garden-loving mother by planting new life in the sun on our back patio with two similar roses. I wanted to give us hope that one day we’ll live in a world with stronger leaders, who have greater compassion and desire to help protect young children like the one who greeted us with unbridled joy. Leaders who will fight against bullying, rather than foster it.
Until then, I need this third desert rose to remind me to remain true to myself. To continue performing with the Phoenix Metropolitan Men’s Chorus, as I did on Saturday night at a benefit for the Arizona Coalition to End Sexual and Domestic Violence. To speak my mind as a concerned American, husband, father, son, neighbor, and gay man. To stand tall in a world gone mad.
Mark Johnson Stories 