Tag: Sonoran Desert

Wrist-banding Together

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When you’re living through a full-blown constitutional crisis–and feeling vulnerable–you need to find ways of coping and caring for the ones you love.

So, I bought two of these beaded rainbow wristbands from the Human Rights Campaign for Tom and me to wear.

We are wrist-banding together.

This is a symbolic gesture. I want the world to know that this gay couple isn’t going anywhere, though it is a period in the United States where some would prefer that those of us who are different would go away.

But I–we–remain visible.

As I write this blogpost, I realize it is number 500 … a true milestone for any writer.

When I began blogging in May 2018, I had no illusions of where it might lead.

I simply wanted to give my books and literary voice more room to grow, more visibility.

For that reason, I suppose it is fitting that today I choose to write about my gay identity and continue to exercise personal aspects of my voice … visibly.

In many respects, the life my husband and I lead is not all that different from any couple.

We shop for groceries together. Go to the gym together. Enjoy quiet moments and meals together. Love and nurture each other.

We do our best to support each other and our family members during highs and lows.

We spend time with our friends. They are young and old, straight and gay, black and white.

We love and respect them, and they love and respect us.

I think it’s accurate to say this about our friends: we enrich each other’s lives, no matter our skin color, religious beliefs, cultural perspectives, gender identities, or sexual orientations.

It is a personal jolt to realize–and read on trusted news sources each day–that our differences are under attack and being eroded in my home country … the country I still love.

I don’t think I’m depressed. But I am definitely sad and angry. Definitely grieving. Me and a boatload of others of all backgrounds and persuasions.

There are times when I want to scream from the top of a mountain. “This is my country, too. How dare you try to take that away from me!” But then I wonder, “Is anybody listening?”

So, I bring this here, instead and I type these words in blogpost number 500.

At any rate, thank you for joining me–possibly even enduring me at times–on this blogging journey since May 2018.

As long as I continue to feel I have something important and relevant to say (to shed light on the topics of the day … to celebrate a literary success or the latest Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus performance … to pay tribute to those I love … to tell a funny story about our stray cat Poly … to observe and honor the beauty of nature … to share a vivid, meaningful memory about my childhood … or to pen a poem that is in need of artistic space and oxygen) you will find me here.

I hope you have been informed or entertained and will continue to tag along with me on this organic literary odyssey, wherever it may lead.

As I walked the treadmill at the gym this morning–on Abraham Lincoln’s two-hundred-sixteenth birthday–a weird, dark, and discomforting question swirled through my brain.

What if we–all the diverse people in this country, all the people of color, all the LGBTQ folks–were gone?

That fearful quandary led me to write this poem.

****

If We Were Gone

If we were gone,

you would miss

our minds, our hearts,

our beauty, our tenacity,

our sensitivity,

our sensibility,

our kindness, our love,

our compassion, our humor,

our leadership, our style,

our guidance, our wisdom,

our friendship, our support,

our joy, our pain, our truth,

our sun, our moon, our stars,

our books, our movies,

our artistry,

our contributions,

our serendipitous stories.

But, most of all, you

would miss us.

You would miss

the clarity and

strength of our

distinctive lives

and beautiful voices.

That would be

the greatest loss of all.

In the Old Days

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In the old days (the pre-Covid days)–just five years ago this week–I hawked my books with my husband by my side at a local author book fair at the Scottsdale Public Library.

We didn’t know about the dark days ahead. Holed up in our cozy condo. Wondering if we and our closest family and friends would survive. Wondering if the race to create a viable vaccine might save us.

Fortunately, science did produce a vaccine that saved lives (for those of us who had the gumption to protect ourselves and others).

We did survive and Tom and I have gone on to create new chapters at the library … him leading several successful film series; me guiding those intent upon writing their own memoirs.

Strangely, those Covid years feel quaint now as our nation disintegrates daily. Tom and I cling to one other, as our nation turns a blind eye toward anyone who is different.

Yes, we have many friends and family who love us. But, to put it bluntly, I don’t feel safe. This experience of living in 2025 in the United States (we aren’t really united) has cued old tapes in my psyche that remind me that–once again–I am living in a straight, white world of shallow masculinity.

I will keep trudging along. Loving my husband. Guiding my adult sons. Speaking my mind. Telling my stories. Holding my closest friends close. Giving to organizations that might make a difference. Advocating for those less fortunate. Donating my time, talents, and voice to the Scottsdale Public Library and the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.

Most of all–like many of you–I just need to keep breathing today. And, for tomorrow and the next day, I need to save any reserves of energy and sanity I have to fight the good fight.

On Days Like These

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When I feel frayed

and afraid,

on days like these,

I dig deeper,

look closer,

to find beauty

in the corner

of the room.

Maybe this late bloomer

is a natural sign

that what I believe,

what I value most,

what I love,

what I hope for,

still exists on the edges,

beyond the madness,

even if it appears

later than I wish …

even if I have to search

high and low to find it.

O Christmas Tree

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What I share here always comes from my heart and the firing (sometimes misfiring) synapses of my brain.

Lately, I have been drawn to writing more poetry. It helps me to process the pain–personal and national–which I have been wearing like a cape that shrouds my best impulses and intentions.

Today, as Christmas and the end of the year approach, I am taking a different path.

Before I take the stage next weekend for my holiday concert with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus, I want to reflect on bright-and-shiny moments–present and past–which have been tempered by devastating-and-unavoidable losses in 2024.

***

Tom and I are among the dwindling few, who continue to send Christmas cards in the mail to our closest friends and loved ones.

It’s something that brings both of us joy, and in my book that means it’s something worth doing–no matter what other Americans do.

I know that practice places us in the minority (rather like the disastrous outcome of our presidential election), but I don’t care.

Since childhood, I have always identified as “different” or–more specifically–as an outsider. Maybe it was my brain’s subconscious attempt at preparing me for the obstacles I would face as a gay man.

At any rate, conformity is for the faint of heart. It takes courage to stand by your differences, and I have a feeling I will need to muster a boatload of courage as we head into 2025.

Maybe that approaching storm is why I have taken comfort recently in an old Christmas memory.

For several years in the late 1950s and early 1960s, before Dad had his first heart attack, he took Diane (my sister) and me in our old, green Plymouth to search for our family Christmas tree.

We didn’t have much money, so he usually drove us to a tree lot adjacent to a Site filling station. Strangely, I remember the price of gas was 29 cents a gallon on the sign that swayed in winter’s wind.

Dad was a tall man–six feet, two inches. One day I would reach that same stature, but going back sixty-five years, I was a little tyke with a wool stocking cap covering my crew cut.

Dad wanted to select a natural tree (usually balsam, because they were cheaper than Scotch Pine) that was at least his height, so when it was placed in a tree stand all of us (he, Mom, Diane, and I) could gaze up at the beauty of its lights, ornaments, and tinsel hanging on every branch.

In the cold and damp St. Louis air, it usually took us several rounds up and down the aisles of the tree lot to find the best shaped tree. But we always found one to our liking and–with heavy twine–somehow tied it to the roof of our sedan.

When we got home on December 4 or 5, our family practice was to cut a small notch off the bottom of the tree trunk, then deposit it into a metal bucket of water to keep it fresh.

Inevitably, the water in the bucket froze, but with a little heat from the Midwestern sun, around the middle of December we were able to pry it out of the bucket, screw it into our stand, and decorate our family Christmas tree in our living room.

***

Back to reality. We lost a few friends in 2024. Peggy’s passing in mid-November is the most recent.

I was touched and honored when Glenn–our dear friend, neighbor and one of the kindest and most dependable people I know–asked me to write his wife’s obituary.

Peggy’s memorial service last week was a beautiful reflection on her meaningful life as a teacher, wife, mother, grandmother, animal-lover, and upstanding citizen. I will miss her.

In general, I am aware of the “shrinkage” (and greater vulnerability) that comes with age–the loss of friends and family one by one, the institutions that close their doors, the connections that fray (literal or otherwise), the visits to the dentist to replace crowns and teeth that wear down and require repairs.

I experienced all of those in 2024. But there were inspiring moments, too.

Tom and I traveled to Minneapolis in July for the quadrennial GALA chorus festival. The singing, listening, bonding, and carousing with other LGBTQ friends and chorus members filled our cups and our hearts.

It was also a privilege to share England and Scotland with my husband in late September. That week-long tour–from London, to Bath, to Lake Windermere, to Shakespeare’s home, to Liverpool, and the cobblestone streets of Edinburgh–was our tenth wedding anniversary gift to each other.

And 2024 was the year I began to teach again. I had fun in October and November coaching a dozen aspiring and diverse writers in my first memoir writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library. I will do it again in January 2025 with a new batch of students.

***

It feels like the best way to end this meandering post is on a high note. So, why not share a photo of the pre-lit artificial Christmas tree Tom and I decorated and adore in our Arizona home?

On Christmas Eve, we will sit together in front of our tree, open our presents, and give thanks for the love we share and the diverse branches of family and friends in our lives who adorn our world.

For me, one of those branches is sharing ideas and stories with all of you.

Happy Holidays!

***

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,

How lovely are your branches!

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,

How lovely are your branches!

Not only green in summer’s heat,

But also winter’s snow and sleet.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,

How lovely are your branches!

Hello Yellow

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Hello Yellow, how good of you

to make an appearance before

Santa and his reindeer land.

I’ve missed you and your

colorful red and orange cousins,

your crunchy-yet-sunny

disposition, your earthly scent

as you hang, glide and tumble

to be collected by the magical

metallic click and swoosh of

yesterday’s backyard garden

rake. Didn’t we once gather

with your friends in a pile or

several for one last heavenly

autumnal celebration before

carols and flurries cascaded and

winter’s drifts and desolation

froze us in our tracks?

Now I remember us together,

surviving in a simpler, more

defined, orderly civilization.

You don’t need to worry.

As long as I am here, you

and your seasonal friends

will remain alive, constant,

distinguishable, and everlasting

… at least in my imagination.

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.

Four-Letter Words

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When they appear side-by-side

on the same written page,

cope and hope may appear

to be close cousins.

In truth, these four-letter words

on the winding highway of life

are miles apart emotionally.

As Thanksgiving approaches,

on another sun-swept

Sonoran November day,

I realize I reside

somewhere in between

the harsh, heavy realities of c

and the lofty prospects of h.

Maybe the best I can do

in my numbness

is to stand tall and

keep breathing,

to extend my gifts

to those I love,

trust, and respect,

while protecting

the passions and ideals

in the strands of my DNA

from greedy, heedless fools

in this broken, foreign land.

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.

Inside the U

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I have a passion for learning, teaching, and uncovering the truth. So much so, that in another lifetime, I might have pursued a career as a full-time educator.

While that never happened, over the past thirty years, I’ve discovered episodic ways to teach … sharing my communication expertise as an adjunct PR instructor, opening minds as a diversity trainer and consultant, and–now–encouraging others to write and share their stories.

***

On Monday, October 21, fourteen people walked through the door of The Loft on the second floor of the Scottsdale Public Library. Each found a place at the table around a U-shaped configuration.

Lisanne, the library’s program supervisor, welcomed them, introduced me, and described each of my books (which she propped on easels at the far end of the room).

I sat–inside the U–smiling and ready to share my tips and guide them on their memoir-writing journey.

First, I asked each writer to introduce themselves. Some told me they have been writing in various forms for years.

Others have fought the impulse to do so or simply have never found the time or place but have always wanted to write.

“This is a safe space for you to begin,” I told them.

To mine vivid memories. To spin them into previously unwritten sentences. To shape them into stories that one day they may want to share with the world or simply pass along to immediate family and friends.

By the end of our first session together, we got to know each other better. I walked them through a “prompting” exercise.

Each person selected a random image–fanned out in my hands like a deck of playing cards–and then proceeded to write a paragraph or two relating to it.

One selected a photo of a tiger lily. She wrote (and shared) an especially sad, but poignant and revealing story about her flower-loving mother.

Another recalled a funny encounter with a monarch butterfly. All of the stories written and shared had merit.

During the last part of the class, they completed a three-page “Telling Your Story” Worksheet I prepared. It will be the baseline for each participant to begin to write their memoirs.

I asked each person to write one to two manuscript pages for next Monday’s session. I will offer constructive feedback at that time, and they will share insights with each other.

We will meet one final time to discuss another round of writing on Monday, November 4.

Already, this workshop is proving to be a meaningful experience for me.

I hope it is a catalyst for each of my fourteen fellow writers.

If I can make even a small difference as a library volunteer to help them on their storytelling journeys, my time–inside and outside the U–will be time well spent.

Ever After

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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.