Tag: Sonoran Desert

Transitions and Auditions

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May is a transitional month in the Valley of the Sun.

Snowbirds have flown away to their full-time nests east and north. Tom and I are left to our creative devices.

Despite the higher temperatures coming soon–100-plus next week–I prefer these quieter, hotter days.

There is more room in our favorite coffee shop where we write and socialize. Less maneuvering through traffic merging on and off highway ramps framed by jagged mountains that remind me I am a westerner now … for nearly nine years.

This morning at the Scottsdale Community College gym Tom and I now frequent (free with our Silver Sneakers membership), Rosalind greeted me with a broad smile.

She read and loved Sixty-Something Days, my latest book and told me she is recommending it to all of her sixty-something friends.

Active-retiree Rosalind laughed when she said, “I’m your target audience.” She offered that it reminded her how important it is for all of us to be grateful for the goodness and love in our lives.

In that moment, she shared a photo of her two, beautiful, three-year-old granddaughters who are the children of her twin adult sons.

As we parted to continue our respective exercise regimens, she volunteered that she will be leaving for Flagstaff for the summer–her own transition to the beauty and cooler temps of northern Arizona–but back in the fall to resume her desert life.

Now that May has arrived, I’m shifting creative gears.

I’ve been working with another chorus member–August–to write and finalize the libretto for Broadway Lights, the next Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC) concert June 27 and 28 at Tempe Center for the Arts.

It features eight storytelling vignettes that wrap in and around our PHXGMC set of inspiring, fun/funny, and fabulous Broadway tunes.

This evening, August, Darlene (PHXGMC’s assistant artistic director), and I will watch and listen to a stream of chorus members who are auditioning for the nine speaking roles that tell stories (fictionalized ones rooted in reality) of how Broadway music has served as a beacon for our LGBTQ+ community in happy and sad times.

I am proud of my involvement with the chorus as both a second-tenor performer and librettist. At this stage of life, time moves quickly. It’s difficult for me to believe that I have been singing with the chorus for nine years, since Tom and I moved to Arizona in 2017.

As my sixty-ninth birthday fast approaches in early July, this community of friends–truly a safe haven in our chaotic country–provides an ongoing-and-meaningful oasis during these Sixty-Something Days … ones I am grateful for even on the hottest days that surely loom beyond this stretch of ground Tom and I walk along the Crosscut Canal and Papago Buttes.

Sensitivity

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I pride myself on my sensitivity.

In my book, empathy is an essential quality for writers and human beings in general. It opens the door to developing deep and trusting relationships, but it also exposes us to emotional and physical pain. In this month of April, I have experienced both.

***

On Friday, April 10, Tom and I said goodbye to my cousin Phyllis.

The day before, we flew to St. Louis and enjoyed a nostalgic salad-and-pizza dinner with family in St. Charles, Missouri.

We gathered around a round, wooden table–balancing paper plates piled with food, while sifting through dog-eared photographs of Phyllis with living and deceased members of our Johnson family from the past seventy-five years.

In that space, I felt a meaningful connection with Tom (Phyllis’ husband), Austin and Bryant (her adult sons) and their respective spouses (Amanda and Kelsey).

Meanwhile, Phyllis’ four grandchildren–ranging in age from three to eight years old–danced around the island in Bryant and Kelsey’s kitchen, occasionally patting the head of Bennelli, their large-and-lovable labrador.

Despite the grief associated with the loss of Phyllis, it was a family moment I will cherish. One Phyllis would have loved.

The next morning, Tom and I drove to the funeral at Immanuel Lutheran Church in St. Charles with my sister Diane and brother-in-law Steve.

In a large open space connected to the church, Kelsey and Bryant had carefully assembled still photos–from throughout Phyllis’ life–on boards anchored by easels. They placed them beside her closed casket adorned with sprays of colorful blooms.

Overhead, at the other end of the room on a large screen, other images of Phyllis and her family and friends faded in and out on a large screen TV.

As people began moving into the church for the 11:30 funeral service, I felt anxious. Jumpy.

A mix of nostalgia and peace washed over me, as Tom and I found a place to sit at the far-left end of the fourth pew. Diane and Steve joined us there.

I scanned the program and saw that after readings from the old and new testaments–slotted between two church hymns–I would walk to the lectern to share “Words from the Family”. To give a eulogy. To pay tribute to my closest cousin’s life.

I’ve done a lot of public speaking, presenting, and singing on a multitude of stages in my life–but few things as personal as this. I breathed in deeply to quiet my nerves. I unfolded my prepared words and looked out over a congregation of probably two hundred: Phyllis’ family, friends, teaching colleagues, students, caregivers.

In that moment, my anxiety lifted and flew away. “I am honored today to remember Phyllis. She was my cousin. We were born a decade apart in St. Louis,” I began.

The words and phrases flowed effortlessly from there, as I looked into the tearful eyes of immediate family members–three generations side-by-side spread across the first pew.

“I admired Phyllis’ poise, her style, her intellect, her ambition, her sensibility,” I continued. Before I knew it, I was reciting verses from I poem I wrote for Phyllis: The Love We Shared.

I closed my notes. I left the lectern. I paused to pat Austin, Phyllis’ eldest son, on the shoulder for reassurance, kissed him on the forehead, then returned to the fourth pew and sat beside my husband.

I pulled a wrinkled tissue from my suit pocket, dabbed my eyes, and felt sadness and love reverberate throughout the church.

***

Tom and I returned to Arizona last Saturday.

Today I found myself dealing with another form of sensitivity … sensitivity to the sun.

This morning my dermatologist–in an out-patient procedure called MOHS surgery–removed a small patch of cancerous cells from the bicep of my right arm. As I write this, I am taped up with a sizeable patch over that area.

The good news is he removed all of the problematic tissue. There is no pain, just the anxiety (and the pinch of a few needles for numbing) that immediately preceded this morning’s appointment.

In a few weeks, the remnants of that procedure will fade. My dermatologist will extract the stitches.

I will be left with my fourth such scar–one on each limb ironically–from excisions and dermo procedures.

In a sense, these scars are “badges of honor” for having lived nearly sixty-nine years and survived a series of setbacks.

They are proof that as long as I live–as long as I write, sing, slather on sunscreen, and pause to remember the ones I love–I will also remain super sensitive to the blazing Arizona sun.

Anything But Ordinary

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On this Easter Sunday, it would be easy to pass by the emerging April blooms of a hidden succulent.

But I forced myself to stop, to welcome, to examine nature’s delicate offering outside my desert door.

Though barely visible beneath the eaves of loss and loud proclamations, it is anything but ordinary.

Looking Over My Shoulder

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Back and forth from one end of the pool to the other on this hotter-than-average, magnificent March morning. March 24, 2026, from 9:00 to 9:30 a.m. to be precise. Thirty lengths in the deep end of Eldorado Pool in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Somehow, I wrangled my own lane today. I don’t mind sharing but always feel freer on unobstructed Tuesdays and Thursdays. There are fewer swim-class participants to contend with on those days and–now that the Cactus League baseball games have ended–some of the snowbirds have begun to flock home.

Breathing every eight or ten strokes, looking over my right shoulder, swimming south to north, I spy the blazing sun that threatens my sensitive skin and the wispy-white contrail of a commercial plane flying high above.

Serendipitously, the repetitive swimming motion reminds me what I want to write about today. It is the tenth anniversary of publishing my first book: From Fertile Ground.

On March 24, 2016, Barack Obama was president. I didn’t imagine the waves of what was to come: the growing political insanity, the dismantling of once-reliable American institutions, the general implosion of our democracy in one decade. Who could?

Back then, Tom and I were snowbirds–splitting time between our homes in Mount Prospect, Illinois, and Scottsdale, Arizona.

I wrote most of my inaugural book–a three-generation writer’s mosaic about love and loss in my family–from the suburban flatness of northern Illinois.

But working online–back and forth like a swimmer logging laps between my editor and book designer in Nashville, Tennessee, and me in Scottsdale–I made my final edits in the rugged western landscape of the Grand Canyon State.

I remember the pride of holding the first physical copy of my first book later that week. I know I cried. It was a release of joy and amazement. Most definitely, a seminal moment I shared with my husband.

Sadness crept in, too, because I had written the book to process my grief after my mother’s passing. In a physical sense, I wasn’t able to celebrate that literary moment with her.

But I also know that writing about her and her wisdom-filled letters, my father and his unrealized poetry, my grandfather and fifty-three years of diary entries, and the general sense of freedom I felt visiting my grandparents in the 1960s at their rambling North Carolina farm allowed me to create a healing path out of my grief.

It was–and still is–a story I was meant to write and publish. One I wanted to share with others navigating the devastation of grief.

In the past ten years since From Fertile Ground was born, writing has become that free, unbridled swimming lane that is purely mine. Welcome waves of water and creativity running from my mid-fifties to my late sixties.

Whenever I jump into my writing in the deep end of my emotions, I find a way back to the surface with a new story. Many of them have landed on the pages of my other five books: Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator in 2017; An Unobstructed View in 2018; I Think I’ll Prune the Lemon Tree in 2021; A Path I Might Have Missed in 2023; and Sixty-Something Days in 2025.

Of course, I take pride in that body of work and–more recently–find it tremendously gratifying to share what I have learned with other writers, who need an experienced coach … and a few practical ideas … to tell their own stories.

Today, I also pause and wonder–with a touch of sadness as I write this–how many more stories lie ahead for me. Though I still feel strong, capable, creative, and alive in these golden years swimming back and forth under the Arizona sun, I also feel more vulnerable.

Part of it is the process of aging. The other is the narrowing swim lanes of American society that constrain freedom and the expression of ideas.

Having said that, I choose to end this story on a positive note. Today, I choose to relish the goodness of my life with Tom in this rugged landscape. To give thanks for all the stories that have come from fertile ground over the past ten years … as well as those I have salvaged from the depths of the pool looking over my shoulder to beloved people and places that now live on the page.

They Still Remain

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Without words, they supply sounds, scents, and texture to our everyday lives.

Their furry souls exist unconditionally, by our sides, under the table, on the coolest tile, or the warmest trail to nowhere special or somewhere sacred.

While they are present, our ever-lovable companions spread beauty, comedy, continuity, responsibility, laughter, goodness, grace, and wisdom across crowded kitchens, cozy front porches, and boundless backyards.

And, when nature calls and they pad along to another plane, they still remain family, they still inhabit our hearts forever.

***

For Mason, Katie, Poly, Maggie and all our furry friends who have gone before us.

Vivid Skies, Vivid Lives

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In mid-February, fourteen gathered around a long, rectangular table with me.

Now, as sunset approaches on this “Writer in Residence” version of my memoir-writing workshop, the group has winnowed to a tenacious, courageous ten. Eight women and two men intent upon writing and sharing stories from their vivid lives.

In less than three weeks, this talented group has bonded over personal stories of deep reflection, relationships, transformation, and wonder. These are a collection of some of the images and settings I will remember from the pages of our storied moments together:

Recalling the lingering, indelible scent of a father’s shaving creme permeating a modest 1960’s back bathroom;

Uprooting a life to care for an aging parent only to discover new love and an unanticipated chapter in an unlikely land;

Finding the energy and conviction to finish that marathon that no one in her family thought she would complete decades ago;

Channeling every ounce of strength to leave an abusive relationship and find much-needed support;

Recounting an early-in-life adventure to Los Angeles to fulfill a California dream;

Forgiving a gang of grackles for their messy transgressions;

Revisiting and releasing decades of shame and blame for the loss of a cow and calf in the barn of one’s rural past;

Celebrating the sacred space of freedom and unbridled joy forged inside a first car; and

Trudging along a circuitous trail to discover a meadow of brilliant fireflies dancing on the crest of a hill.

My role has been to provide tools, encouragement, and a safe place for these and other creative odysseys to emerge, land on the page, gain traction, and marry with the proud and animated vocal cords of these ten inspiring individuals.

On March 6, the sun sets on our journey together. Before we depart, I will encourage my newest friends to keep writing.

Together, we also will give thanks for the creative talent that lies within each of us … and the collective magic we manufactured on three consecutive Fridays in an otherwise ordinary Civic Center conference room on the first floor of a remarkable community space: the Scottsdale Public Library.

Downstream and Upstream

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While we box up our flickering, ever-tangled holiday lights, compartmentalize them with our fading democracy, shove them into insanity’s dusty attic beside our president’s latest lawless actions streaming 24/7, we also attempt to climb above and beyond accumulating ominous clouds, by feeding old-year bread to new-year geese, by examining each piece of life’s puzzle with bleary-but-thoughtful eyes, by loving ourselves, each other, and all animals, by emulating kind lives under fleeting desert candlelight, by resuming our daily quest for survivorship and unflappable wisdom, even as every institution, every once-reliable media conglomerate or teetering motherboard (like the dying one on Tom’s old phone) signals the end is near and must be replaced. So, we replace it. We move on. We give thanks. We cherish every labor of love and every hidden oasis. We welcome every petite, heartful bouquet. We marvel at one rare, exquisite, night-blooming cereus, paint-plus-provenance. It is the perfect gift on canvas from a dear friend.

The downstream darkness of January is real, but in our upstream hearts, in the serenity of nature (and now framed in splendor on our living room wall thanks to Dougal) there is a profound, constant, but private reminder: there is always beauty and hope, even when there is darkness.

Potluck

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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.

Gone Girl

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In the late 1970s, I interviewed my father’s older sister, Aunt Thelma, for a college folklore project. Sitting across the table from me in her suburban north St. Louis kitchen, she waxed on about her philosophy of life.

“Honey, we’re all just ships passing in the night,” Thelma offered with a faraway look in her eyes. “We have to make the most of the time we have together.”

My beloved, charismatic, animal-loving aunt has been gone for twenty-six years. I miss her, but I don’t think about her often. However, she is on my mind this week.

Not because she died in October 1999. Instead, it is the wisdom of her words that apply to a recent development in my life.

Poly–the gray-and-white stray cat I’ve written about frequently–has disappeared. She’s been gone for about a month. None of our neighbors have seen her recently either.

It’s possible that she has become someone’s indoor cat, but I doubt she would stand for that. She is/was a free spirit.

Instead, I fear she may be a casualty of a series of monsoon storms that swept through the Phoenix area in late September and early October. Or, perhaps, a random coyote nabbed her.

I miss our morning moments together … seeing her curled on the blue cushion of one of our wicker chairs beneath our kitchen window.

I miss watching her twirling acrobatics on our sidewalk, hearing her frantic meows as Tom or I opened another can of Sheba sustainable tuna and spooned it into a chipped ramakin for her to devour on our kitchen floor.

If Poly is gone permanently, she certainly added a playful, natural dimension of love to our Polynesian Paradise community, since early May 2021 when I first spotted her peering down at me from a neighbor’s roof.

If you follow my blog, you know Poly inspired a litany of cat tales that appeared here. They are warm and silly Arizona chapters I never would have imagined writing a decade ago.

It is ironic that Poly vanished about the time I completed the manuscript for my latest book, Sixty-Something Days, which is now in the final stages of production. I will publish it sometime in November.

The good news is several stories of my feral friend appear prominently in the book. The time we spent together, like two ships passing in the night, will have a literary life, because she has added an unexpected dimension to my Arizona sunset years.

Now–on this bewitching Friday as my book follows Poly’s example and prepares to set sail–that unlikely bond between two men and a lovable, mysterious feline character will exist on the pages for anyone who cares to read about it.

Survivors

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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.

Because that is what survivors do.