Like the rumbling Bow River rapids of Alberta, Canada, that raced past me in late July in mountainous Banff, life’s quiet and meaningful moments keep rushing by.
There isn’t much any of us can do about that, except to maximize the present. That’s difficult when the human memory teases us to revisit past indelible images that we magnify through our sensory connections.
For instance, smoke-tinged skies from forest fires that shrouded Kamloops, British Columbia, when we arrived at our hotel there on July 24, 2026, will forever be sealed in my consciousness.
As will the joyful feeling of reverence for nature, as we rode on the Rocky Mountaineer train the following day, slicing through deep, green canyons on the way to Jasper.
If there is a God–and sometimes I wonder given the state of the world and American society–perhaps he, she or they reside in Canada.
That would explain the seemingly endless supply of pines, spruces and aspens north of the border.
Perhaps God plucked the trees from a celestial palette, drew them on mountains that rise from the bottom of the Thompson River’s edge to the height of a soaring eagle’s eyes.
If so, the clouds passing over the Canadian Rockies applauded in unison.
Of course, there isn’t a never-ending supply of trees, natural resources, or shared beautiful moments.
We must protect our environment, cling to the best of our days, and endure the mundane–and the madness–that exists.
Right now in the Valley of the Sun, Tom and I live in a warm (no, hot!) way station between significant summer events.
We relish our Canada adventure as we also prepare–later this month–to fly to Chicago for the wedding of my younger son, Kirk, and his future bride, Jennifer.
I’ve already advised them to reside in the magical moments of their wedding day as much as possible.
To embrace the cool waters of love from each other, from family, and from friends. To let all of it wash over them.
It will be a day that they–and I–will remember always.
Somewhere between Jasper and Banff–during the last week of July 2026 in Alberta, Canada, on a coach, on a trail, or in a hotel room–I lost my neon-yellow Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus cap.
But what I found with my husband in Canada’s astounding scenery and emerald waters is far greater, more meaningful, and certainly more lasting in the flipping pages of my memory.
Tom and I planned our Canada adventure months ago to commemorate thirty years of being together. (We met in the Chicago suburbs in August 1996.) Fresh Tracks, a Canadian tour group, helped us orchestrate our eight-day itinerary.
I told my husband, “I want to spend money in Canada in 2026.” I wanted to see the beauty above us on the map. I wanted to embrace the scenery and people, who are our northern neighbors.
I wanted them to know that many–probably most–Americans love and respect them. We admire their commitment to protect their natural resources.
Over the course of the next week, I was able to see that first-hand in the cleanliness of their national parks. No plastic bottles rattled around in rivers, lakes, or streams.
I have craved a visit to the coastline and mountains of Vancouver for years. So, we started there.
Fresh Tracks arranged an exquisite dinner for us at the Coal Harbour Cactus Club. We toasted each of with a glass of prosecco and watched the sun set over the bay. It painted a tranquil mood across a colorful canvas.
We expected to spend the following few days traveling via train on the Rocky Mountaineer through the Canadian Rockies. But fires in British Columbia limited the rail portion of our excursion to one day.
We made the best of it, traveling from Vancouver to Kamloops via coach with about thirty others. Two kind, upbeat Rocky Mountaineer staffers walked down the aisle handing out water and snacks–packages of chips, cookies, and candy.
Early on the morning of July 24, we climbed onto another coach that escorted us to the Rocky Mountaineer rail station in Kamloops a mere twenty minutes away.
Sifting through the smoke-tinged skies of Kamloops, we boarded the train and arrived on the top deck for a Gold Leaf view through a glass-encased dome.
We introduced ourselves to Mark and Kim, a fun-and-friendly couple from Abilene, Texas, who sat across the aisle. All four of us–and a train full of others–faced forward.
For the following ten hours, the welcoming, service-focused Rocky Mountaineer team entertained us with vivid stories of the landscape we would traverse together and the animals we might encounter.
At scheduled intervals, they invited us to the lower level of the train for a sumptuous, gourmet breakfast … I fell in love with the lemon cranberry bread topped with a decadent glaze.
Several hours later, we returned there for a delicious lunch/dinner, prepared magically by a team of chefs on board. The wine and drinks were free flowing.
We downed a glass of mimosa–and later pinot noir–as we traded stories with Mark and Kim and gasped at the steep river-laden mountains and canyons that brought us to Jasper … an easy-going ski-town still recovering and rebuilding after a devastating forest fire in 2024.
Along the way, eagles, elk, and big horn sheep guided us sparingly. They appeared unimpressed and unconcerned with our presence as we rode by, though we on our train cars and coaches lunged for our cameras and phones in pockets to bring home evidence that we had actually seen wildlife, unjaded and unaware of the news in any day.
Midway on our vacation, after leaving Jasper, we spent a night and morning frolicking at the iconic Chateau Lake Louise. We absorbed the privilege of simply being there and seized the moment by capturing photos of the breathtaking scenery … something Tom’s parents had done when they visited Lake Louise in 1988.
A highlight of our trip was journeying to the Columbia Icefield in Alberta. When we arrived there in our Sundog coach, we donned four layers each, including our easily packed windbreakers. They proved ideal as we ventured out to walk on a glacier.
The temperature on my phone said fifty degrees Fahrenheit. In the icy, pine-scented air it felt more like forty with a biting breeze. Of course, my blood is thinner now, living nearly all of my days in the Sonoran Desert.
By the time we arrived in Banff, it meant we were nearing the end of our Canada adventure. I did my best to “soak up the scenery” as my father said back in the 60s as we rode up and down hairpin turns in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina.
Well-appointed lodges and snazzy shops line the main streets in Banff. At times we felt the size of overflowing, late-July crowds and traffic there.
None of that deterred my fascination with the Bow River rapids–and ultimately its falls–that raced through town or the eight-minute gondola ride we took on our final Banff day beyond alpine heights to the top of Sulphur Mountain.
Through it all — as I paused to “soak up” breathtaking scenery in the form of still photos and even a few videos of waterfalls and vast mountain ranges stretching far beyond my senses — I realized the most important thing of all: I was blessed to witness the wonder of western Canada in July 2026 and to see all of it with the man I love.
I live in the Sonoran Desert and the Sonoran Desert lives in me. That’s been the case for nine years. My most prolific ones as a writer.
The language of the desert–like grains of sand that blow in through the door–is now part of my creative being.
Shimmering sunsets. Slithering lizards. Skittish quail. Stray cats. Spiky cacti and succulents. Scattering snowbirds. And those are just a sample from the letter “s”.
When I served as a “Writer in Residence” at the Scottsdale Public Library last spring, I prompted the writers in my workshop to explore the role setting plays in the stories of their lives.
I asked them to consider a place in their lives that is or was prominent and how that place might be considered a character in what they have to say. In the stories they want to show and tell.
The places I have lived or frequented have certainly provided texture to my existence and informed my perspective. The orange earth of the Carolinas. The rolling hills of Missouri. The flatlands of Illinois. The rugged buttes of the Arizona desert.
They represent distinct periods in my life, and–in hindsight–I now understand better why they each deserve their proximity across my body of literary work, six books … a lifetime of stories.
The heat here in July is intense. But it is bearable because the Sonoran Desert–even in its most torrid state–is otherworldly.
At times it feels as if I am living on the moon. The astonishing natural beauty and stately saguaros–sentinels that stand tall in valleys and on hillsides here–have led me to a creative destination outside the orbit of my midwestern sensibilities.
One where I “write on” … as I just celebrated my sixty-ninth birthday and begin this final lap in my sixties. Learning and growing. Teaching and influencing.
Standing tall as a gay man, a husband, a father, a writer. Proud as a saguaro despite my visits to the cardiologist and dermatologist to manage my personal frailties. Rooted to this vivid place, the Valley of the Sun, that is my home.
***
Note to those of you who live in the Phoenix metropolitan area: On Thursday, July 16, from 5 to 7 p.m., I will be signing and selling copies of my latest book, Sixty-Something Days, at Grounds on 2nd in Old Town Scottsdale, located at 3703 N. 69th St.
This charming neighborhood place (coffee and wine bar) is one of my favorite spots in our Scottsdale, Arizona, community. It truly is an inclusive, creative space my husband Tom and I frequent to write, read, and chill with friends. In fact, I wrote and edited a considerable portion of my latest book there.
If you are in the area, stop by to sell hello, grab a book and a glass of wine. I also will have a few copies of my other five books–memoirs, poetry, and short fiction–on hand in case you are looking for options to add to your summer reading list.
In April 2026, friends at the Scottsdale Public Library gave me this shirt after I completed my “Writer in Residence” stint there.
“But when the thermometer goes way upand the weather is sizzlin’ hot,mister man with a plan is not. ‘Cause it’s too, too, too darn hot.”
***
As the heat rolls into the Valley of the Sun this week–100-plus high temperatures through Saturday–this snappy tune, which Cole Porter wrote in 1948 for his Broadway show Kiss Me Kate, repeats through my brain.
It’s certainly “Too Darn Hot” to hike outside in June here, unless you do it early in the day. That’s what I–and a young woman walking her Boston terrier–did Monday around 9 a.m. Nobody else was on the Papago Park trail near my home.
This morning I opted for swimming thirty lengths in the relative cool of Chapparal Pool. How I’ve missed submerging myself underwater (thanks to a couple of dermatological procedures that kept me at bay).
In the afternoons, you’re better off holding up in the Scottsdale Public Library to escape the heat. That’s where Tom and I have sequestered ourselves today, along with a few dozen others, strategically stationed at square wooden tables, hovering over their books and laptops.
Other than the heat references, why would I be channeling an old Broadway tune? Because my next choral concert with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus–“Broadway Lights”– is fast approaching: June 27 (2 p.m. and 7 p.m.) and June 28 (2 p.m.) at Tempe Center for the Arts.
As described in our promotional materials, “It will be a spectacular celebration of some of Broadway’s most beloved musicals. From the soaring melodies of Wicked and The Sound of Music, to the show-stopping energy of Hamilton, Moulin Rouge!, Hairspray, Into the Woods, The Book of Mormon, The Wiz, and The Greatest Showman, this season finale is packed with music that has captivated audiences around the world.”
Coincidentally, “Too Darn Hot”–timed beautifully with the inevitable onset of our desert heat–is the closing number for Act One.
If you live in the Phoenix metropolitan area, step into one of the coolest concert venues around: the Tempe Center for the Arts. Get your tickets at http://www.phxgmc.org.
You may be wondering “Since it is Pride month, is there a LGBTQ Pride element to this concert?” The answer is a resounding “YES!”
My chorus mate August and I have teamed up to write the libretto for the concert. It features nine storytellers, who will describe how Broadway music has served as a beacon for the LGBTQ+ community in happy and sad times.
Together–the music, the stories, and a slate of hot dance numbers–will combine to create a full theatrical production, which our loyal audience has come to expect.
This will mark the completion of my ninth season (singing and writing for) with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
I still recall auditioning for the chorus in August 2017. Tom and I had just moved to Arizona from the Chicago area.
I was depressed and anxious, desperately trying to regain my health, to uncover an unobstructed view after surviving a heart attack on the way west in July 2017 on our sixtieth birthday.
Finding the chorus, nurturing new friendships, and reigniting my passion for singing has been a key element in my recovery. It helped me lighten my mood and smile again.
When I step onto the stage again on June 27, I know I will feel grateful for the music and the nine years of creative discovery. But also, for this safe haven. This supportive community of people.
They have helped me to realize I still have a lot to give. I still have a lot to say. I still have the ability to stand on a stage and raise my voice, especially now as we cling to the hope that–maybe someday–our democracy can be salvaged.
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.
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.
In the mid 1970s–when I controlled the levers as a rollercoaster operator at Six Flags near St. Louis on many summer days–I witnessed enthusiasm, exhilaration, and glee. That spirit of adventure and anticipation appeared on the faces of patrons as they boarded the River King Mine Train.
Inevitably, when the ride ended and they returned to the station–after the sparkle of the final plunge when they threw their hands in the air–passengers stepped out from behind the restraining bar, dusted themselves off, and walked away in search of the next wild ride.
The process of performing in a show is much the same. You feel the anticipation, the butterflies swirling in your gut as you take the stage.
The curtain comes up. You sing your first song. Then, the second, and so on. Time speeds up. The audience raves. Adrenalin races through your arteries.
Before you know it, you’re taking a bow. The curtain drops. The show is over. Sadness creeps in. The sparkle becomes a beloved, fleeting chord that echoes in your memory.
***
In my sixteen consecutive years as a performer–most recently singing with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus for the past nine years–this “Let Your Spirit Sparkle” performance was the grandest.
Nearly 2,500 attended our two shows inside the magnificent Orpheum Theatre. In the thirty-five-year-history of the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus, our audience for our Sunday, December 14, show was the largest.
I attribute that to a confluence of factors. Certainly, the high-profile venue was a plus. Also, the size of our chorus has increased dramatically. More than 130 took the stage last weekend. More members means more friends and family in attendance.
Beyond that, I also felt an out-pouring of love from the audience. In a world of frightfully bad news, they found their way to a safe haven of stirring profound music, phenomenal choreography, unbridled laughter, punctuated with six inspiring stories.
Near the end of the show, I had the honor of telling one of those stories … a testimonial to the open, upbeat, unapologetic community all of us in the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus have created.
Of course, I feel the dip, the letdown, now. But the sparkling light of our singing community will continue to burn bright until our spring concert in mid-March in Phoenix.
For now, I pause, rest, reflect, and relish the golden musical moments that reverberated at the Orpheum Theatre on December 13 and 14, 2025 … the sparkle we shared.
Photo of the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus performing at the Orpheum Theatre on December 13, 2025, captured by Carolyn Bettes.
This weekend–Saturday and Sunday, December 13 and 14–I will sing from this stage at the historic Orpheum Theatre in Phoenix with my mates in the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
Not in the ordinary orange sweatshirt and pale blue jeans I wore a few weeks ago when husband Tom, friend Glenn, and I toured this dazzling, ninety-six-year-old, beautifully restored performing palace.
Instead, I will stand proudly in my sparkly blue vest (over black shirt and trousers) for our “Let Your Spirit Sparkle” holiday show.
More than 130 of us chorus members will gaze from the stage into the audience with this spectacular view before us.
We’ve sold about 1,500 tickets … and expect to sell another 500 by Saturday. Friends, family, allies, and acquaintances–all music lovers–will hear and see us perform Saturday at 7 p.m. or Sunday at 2 p.m.
Our concert will feature a sparkling set of holiday songs and dance, sprinkled with heartfelt, fun, personal stories that will shine a light on six meaningful moments in the lives we lead.
This is my sixteenth consecutive year performing in holiday concerts: seven with the Windy City Gay Chorus in Chicago; nine here with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.
Each show has its own sparkle. The music, the laughter, the friendships that keep deepening over time.
We will surely shimmer in our sexy, sparkly vests. But what really glitters is underneath. The love, the respect, the community we’ve built together.
If you live in the Valley of the Sun, come see one of our inspiring shows. Just go to http://www.phxgmc.org/concerts for ticketing information.
You’ll be glad you did. Because with every rehearsal, every concert, every note, we’re adding another light to create something bigger than ourselves.
At the Orpheum Theatre or anywhere, that’s what community sounds like.
Spotty storm clouds gathered in the distance on the morning of Saturday, September 20. Tom and I drove northwest twenty miles, across the Missouri River.
Our destination was Breeze Park in Weldon Spring, Missouri. My cousin Phyllis–a retired teacher–is convalescing there, hoping to regain her strength after a series of health complications.
Phyllis’ mother Violet and my father Walter were twins born in St. Louis. It was 1913. More than fifty years later, the Gateway Arch would rise and transform the St. Louis riverfront. Teetering warehouses once stood on cobblestone streets there, in this fur-trading town founded just west of the Mississippi River in 1764.
In the arc of life, Phyllis and I (both Baby Boomers) also arrived–she in 1947, I in 1957–before the historic completion of the Arch, our nation’s tallest monument, on October 28, 1965.
But today I reflect on our personal connection. Like me, Phyllis and her husband Tom also raised two sons born in the 1980s. Austin and Bryant are now in their early forties and late thirties respectively. A touch younger than my son Nick; a shade older than my son Kirk.
Now in their late seventies, Tom and Phyllis are meeting the healthcare challenges of life head on. Negotiating the unpleasantness of aging and inherent losses (their lovable golden retriever Truman passed recently). They are doing their best to push ahead. To stay hopeful. Or as my mother–a child of the Depression–would have said “trying to keep a stiff upper lip.”
Given these developments, I wanted to spend time with them while we were in the St. Louis area. Especially because–beyond my sister Diane who now lives in northern Illinois–they are the closest remaining strands of family from my Missouri years: 1957 to 1980 … my Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator years.
On Saturday, when my husband and I arrived just past 9:30, we wound our way down halls, past friendly staff and other visitors, to Phyllis’ room. She was delighted to see us. So was her Tom. He arrived a few minutes later with a big smile and box of gooey pastries for us to share.
The next two hours were a heart-warming oasis of conversation and listening between the four of us. We spent our time commiserating over the latest news, but–more importantly–strengthening our family bond during a challenging period for them personally.
Phyllis is hoping to return to their home soon in nearby St. Charles. As anyone would, she is missing the familiarity and comfort of her life. Longing for peace away from medical equipment and disruptive procedures. Her kind, caregiving husband is also searching for peace.
Before Tom and I left, we hugged and took photos together outside on a beautiful, flower-laden patio at Breeze Park. I kissed Phyllis on the cheek. A few tears materialized for both of us, not knowing what tomorrow will bring.
At the least, we shared those upbeat Saturday moments, built upon our 1960s memories of our once-vital, long-gone boisterous St. Louis relatives gathering around us every Christmas, Easter, and Independence Day.
To our credit, in our later years, long after our sons became adults, we have formed reciprocal connections. Most notably, Phyllis, Tom and their family joined Tom and me for an Italian dinner in St. Louis in route to our new home in Arizona in July 2017.
Now they share stories and photos via text of their four growing grandchildren, and I write stories about my St. Louis origins, which she has encouraged, helped inspire, read, and followed diligently.
All of this, through a period of uncertainty, sustains us in our sixty-and-seventy-something years across the miles.
***
Just after noon Saturday, Tom and I returned to Creve Coeur. We landed in the driveway of our friends John and Sharon.
We were about to share the rest of the weekend with them and their loyal eight-year-old-shepherd-beagle-mix Nickel at their stylish, mid-century home … hike with John through a dense forested area overlooking Creve Coeur Lake, then get caught in the rain in historic downtown St. Charles … drive into St. Louis for a Cardinals/Brewers game at Busch Stadium Saturday night … and still later, on Sunday evening, attend our Class of 1975 Affton High School reunion together at Grant’s Farm.
The clouds cleared Saturday evening and ushered in cooler temperatures. Seated together with close friends at Busch Stadium, three levels up directly behind home plate, it didn’t seem to matter that my beloved Cardinals lost 3-2.
Yes, it was the latest evidence in a disappointing sub-par year. But on the horizon, beyond the stadium’s outfield walls, the twilight of a blue sky and puffy clouds perfectly framed the Gateway Arch at the center.
Architect Eero Saarinen’s monument to a dream is still standing, rising above the cobblestones and the fray, as it approaches its sixtieth birthday.
The arc of life in my sixties–its highs and lows–has proved mostly to be an unexpected artistic one. Yet it is an uneven tapestry of co-existing emotions: fear for our eroding democracy; love for new and old friends; and boundless gratitude currently after returning to St. Louis for my Affton High School Class of ’75 reunion and reconciling my midwestern roots with my southwestern reality.
***
A trip to St. Louis would not be complete without a visit to my parents’ graves at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery. So, we began there.
On Friday, September 19, Tom and I stopped at Dierberg’s in Creve Coeur near our hotel to buy a handful of burnt orange carnations.
Twenty minutes later, we arrived in the sea of marble stones on rolling hills ten miles south of downtown St. Louis.
We parked our rented Mazda SUV and tiptoed past a veteran’s funeral in progress under a makeshift canopy. A female vocalist sang Amazing Grace. Instantly, my tears began to flow.
Each time I go to Jefferson Barracks, it is a touchstone experience. Tapping one side of the stone and then the other. Remembering the love and best intentions of Helen and Walter Johnson–both long gone but not forgotten.
Minutes later, sitting on a nearby bench with Tom under the sturdy branches of an oak tree that has lost its earliest leaves due to an especially dry Missouri summer.
Friday afternoon was also somber and reflective. We met our friend Mark, a docent at St. Louis Kaplan Feldman Holocaust Museum, for a visit there.
He guided us through horrific-then-hopeful survivor stories, images, and vintage artifacts, curated from proud Jewish St. Louis residents who lived through the awful experience. Only a few remain, but their legacies live on.
All in all, it was a chilling, relevant, immersive few hours. Cautionary evidence of hate and authoritarian evil that inundated the world in the 1930s and 40s, and now–in the US in 2025–threatens the existence of those who are not straight, Christian white men.
After deep breaths and a refreshing Friday nap in our hotel, Tom and I drove to University City for an evening with Mark and his husband David at their home. It was a celebration of our unfolding friendship.
At sunset, they lit candles and recited Shabbat blessings before we shared wine and bread. At their table, I felt our bond of friendship, which began just a few years ago, grow.
We met Mark and David when–as snowbirds living part-time in Arizona–they first attended one of Tom’s free film screenings at the Scottsdale Public Library.
Now, they have become the newest, welcoming community component of our St. Louis connection.
