Tag: Travel

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.

Helene and The Mousetrap

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Life repeats itself in strange and unexpected ways.

As Tom and I traveled throughout Ireland in August of 2017, some of our tour mates followed the US weather forecast with growing interest and anxiety.

Hurricane Harvey–a category 4 storm–was about to make landfall along the Texas coast.

Houston was in its path. Houston was their home.

Harvey unleashed its wrath. We never learned what impact it ultimately had on their lives.

Seven years and one month later, we were back in the United Kingdom on a tour of England and Scotland with twenty-two other tourists (plus Phil, our guide, and coach driver, John).

Two of our entourage, John and Jill of Tampa, told us they were watching the swirl of Helene–another category 4 storm–approach the Gulf coast of Florida and the vicinity of their home.

Though Tom and I knew we would return home to the Phoenix area and prolonged 110-plus temperatures, we felt lucky about our weather plight. Yes, more heat. But not John and Jill’s uncertainty.

There were no giant storm swirls for Tom and me to contend with in Phoenix.

Still–far away from pending devastation of Helene–John, Jill, Tom and I bonded in the United Kingdom.

I remember telling them when we first met in London that we were excited to see a play independently in the West End at the St. Martin’s Theatre on Saturday, September 21.

Not just any play. The longest running play in the world. It’s called The Mousetrap.

Based on an Agatha Christie story, The Mousetrap, has been performed for seventy-two years in London.

(There were no performances during the height of the pandemic from March 2020 to May 2021.)

Tom and I were in the audience for performance #29,771.

It’s a classic whodunit with a twist ending.

A young couple owns Monkswell Manor guesthouse in England in the early 1950s.

Four guests arrive, while the snow (not a hurricane) swirls outside.

There is a radio report of a woman’s murder. A suspect is loose in the area.

A police sergeant arrives on skis to warn them that a notebook was found at the crime scene.

It contains the address of Monkswell Manor and the words “three blind mice.”

Pinned to the victim’s body is a note that says, “this is the first”.

Everyone at the inn is in danger. Everyone is a suspect.

At the end of the performance, the seven actors took their curtain call.

They asked us in the audience to keep their seventy-two-year-old secret.

You’ll get no spoilers here.

***

Anyway, along our journey through England and Scotland, we shared with John and Jill from Tampa how much we enjoyed this theatrical experience.

The night before we departed Edinburgh, Scotland–to return to our respective sunbelt homes via London–John and Jill suspected their flight from London to Tampa the following morning would be cancelled due to Helene.

When it was, they had a free day in London. They texted to say they bought two tickets to see The Mousetrap as we wound our way through Heathrow Airport security.

Later, during intermission on September 26, 2024, while Tom and I were making our way home, Jill texted: “We are in intermission, and I am stumped!” Then, a few hours later, “Great show!! So glad you both recommended it.”

The next day, we were relieved to learn from Jill that their home was safe, even though there were flooding waters all around them.

What does it all mean? This story is no mystery. But, nonetheless, still meaningful I think.

You can fly seven or eight thousand miles to a place you’ve never been and make a connection with fellow travelers you didn’t know … someone who has shared a coach, watched the scenery go by … someone who chooses a similar theatrical experience … someone who dodges the mousetrap of a catastrophic storm … someone you hope to see again someday in another London or Edinburgh or in the sunbelt of your everyday lives.

Worth the Journey

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On Thursday, as I was flying home over the Atlantic Ocean at 38,000 feet with my husband on an eleven-hour, nonstop British Airways flight from London to Phoenix, I wondered “what will I choose to write about our week-long journey through England and Scotland?”

Today, it is this big picture observation. At this somewhat advanced stage of life–I am sixty-seven going on sixty-eight–traveling to previously unseen, faraway places is both the great rejuvenator and the not-so-great discombobulator.

Even so, as I shed the remnants of jet lag, I’ve gathered new memories and experiences that fire the creative and sensory synapses of my brain … reigniting splendid moments that transcend the ordinary view from the couch.

We certainly brought home a boatload of those: from performance #29,771 of The Mousetrap at the St. Martin’s Theatre in London’s West End; to fascinating tours of Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle, and the Roman baths of Bath, England; to heavy rains on the road that led us to William Shakespeare’s family home in Stratford-upon-Avon; through the Lake District of the splendid English countryside and discovering poet William Wordsworth’s grave in Grasmere; to a photographic moment with statues of The Beatles in Liverpool; to a blustery climb up the cobblestones in Scotland into the sky of the Edinburgh Castle; to winding down circuitous streets that finally led us to find the Writer’s Museum proclaiming the literary achievements of Scottish icons Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson.

And that says nothing about the fine food and acquaintances we met along the way.

I will be recounting each of these adventures and more in the coming days. But, for now, I simply want to remember this serene moment, gliding on the top deck of the Swan on Lake Windemere in England on Tuesday, September 24, 2024.

Yes, it was a short week and two long flights across the pond.

But it was worth the journey.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

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It’s been nearly forty-two years since the American TV sitcom Cheers debuted on September 30, 1982.

In its inaugural season (fall 1982 to spring 1983), Cheers ranked near the bottom in the Neilsen ratings. But by the mid-eighties, it caught fire with audiences and became “Must See” TV for millions–ultimately running for eleven seasons and 275 episodes on NBC.

If you aren’t familiar with the concept of the series, the show was set in a Boston neighborhood bar. Locals–like Norm, Cliff, and Frasier–came there to drink, socialize, unwind, and escape the grind of their day-to-day lives.

The opening theme song written by Gary Portnoy, Where Everybody Knows Your Name, captured the sense of familiarity, comfort, and community bar “regulars” knew was waiting for them every time they walked through the door and descended down the steps for a drink.

But it was the bar banter with Sam, the owner, and the escapades (sometimes sexual) of the Cheers staff over the years–Diane, Carla, Coach, Woody, and Rebecca–that drove the creative content, tickled our funny bones, and warmed the hearts of young and old viewers.

***

I write frequently–in my books and blogposts–about the importance of community connections in our lives.

To feel fulfilled, I believe we need frequent connections to people (animals and plants, too) around us, along with a balance of alone time to recharge our personal batteries.

Of course, singing with the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC) fills a portion of that need for me. (I’m excited for our first rehearsal this Tuesday evening for the 2024/2025 season. We have a new artistic director and 112 singers!)

Each week, I look forward to the musical mayhem, creative camaraderie, and safe haven we share at PHXGMC.

From a writing standpoint, Tom and I have discovered another source of community connection we cherish just a few miles from our condo.

For almost a year–two or three times each week, usually in the afternoon–we have packed up our laptops and driven to Grounds on 2nd in Old Town Scottsdale.

It’s our favorite urban market, coffee shop, wine bar, and local hangout … and a conducive spot for writing. In fact, I’m drafting this post there right now.

The owners and staff are fun, friendly, and welcoming. They and we have become fast friends. They greet us with warm smiles, iced coffee (yes, it’s still hot here!), yummy pastries, and a comfortable place to plug in so we can write our next story or plan our next creative endeavor.

It’s pretty simple. Grounds on 2nd is a welcoming, bright, lofty, contemporary neighborhood watering hole with comfy chairs and rambling plants that green up the room and soften the edges.

Best of all, when Tom and I open the glass doors and walk in … to write, or drink, or just relax with friends … everybody knows our names.

Inside the Oven

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June is the start of triple-digit season in the Sonoran Desert.

When it reaches 110 degrees–as it has for the past several days–it really feels like you’ve stepped inside an oven alongside that batch of chocolate chip cookies you crave. Or maybe, you imagine, there is a blaze approaching just over the next butte.

Tom and I escaped the oven for a few days to visit friends in the mile-high altitude and pines of Prescott, Arizona.

Watching the acrobatics and listening to the distinctive calls of a wide array of birds–bluebirds, woodpeckers, finches, tanagers, nuthatches, hummingbirds, etc.–while sipping morning coffee with John and Carolyn on their front patio, was as rejuvenating as a day at the spa.

Now we are back home. There is a quiet, reflective component tied to the intense Sonoran heat. Early swims. Late walks. More time to read. Fewer people to navigate.

We’ll be here seven years next month. In the heat and stillness of that realization, we’ve carved out a good, artistic, and whole life among Arizona friends, buttes, and dazzling sunsets.

It’s a warm (hot) life I never imagined at 30, 40 or 50 years old–but still a pleasant surprise beyond the constant push and responsibility of my Midwestern bread-winning years.

Safe Haven

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I don’t typically tackle social and political issues in my blog. I prefer to focus on the splendor of love, family, community, nature, and serendipity that runs through our lives.

But over the past weeks and months–years, really–I’ve been ruminating over what it feels like to live in the heaviness and post-Covid-social-upheaval of the United States in 2024.

Even though I am in good health and am fortunate to have the companionship of my husband and a cozy home, I often feel a gnawing, low-level anxiety.

I attribute this to worry. What will happen to disenfranchised members of our community–non-white immigrants, people of color, minority women, all women, all children, elderly people, trans people, gay people (like me), etc.–who would be especially vulnerable if our past president (the one just found guilty on thirty-four felony counts by a jury of his peers) should be elected in November?

I should tell you this blogpost isn’t intended to sway your opinion. I don’t think that is possible. I can’t imagine any American being undecided–not in this us-versus-them world exacerbated by lies and constant media attention.

Yes, I will vote for Joe Biden. It’s pretty simple for me. I’m not naive. Of course, he’s made mistakes, but he’s done a lot of good for our country economically and otherwise. I see him as a decent man–the only decent man whose name will appear on the 2024 Presidential ballot. I think he has the best interests of Americans in mind and sees the presidency as a job designed to serve the people, not his personal agendas.

If you feel differently, you are entitled to that. Just know that the democratic values and rule of law that generations of American men and women have fought for will be flushed down the toilet if enough people in swing states like Arizona vote for the other guy. I won’t include his name here.

Why did I choose to write about this today? Because I suddenly have greater clarity concerning all of the weight, which I’ve been carrying around concerning the potential loss of a safe haven–something all of us are entitled to.

The remarkable thing is my clarity came from an incident outside my front door on Sunday morning … an incident involving a feral animal Tom and I have come to love.

If you follow my blog, you know I’m talking about Poly. For the past three years, on many mornings she has appeared at our front door. Poly lives a reckless life, but at the very least is the beneficiary of food on the cool tile of our entryway (and probably others).

Her visits are a brief escape from the heat of the Sonoran Desert. Maybe her visits are also an escape for Tom and me to leave behind the worries of the world, which I’ve outlined above.

Recently, Poly has moved closer to us. Winding her way around our ankles. Sleeping in our wicker chairs. She has even decided to sleep outside on the gravel underneath our loveseat on occasion… before she moves on to explore other places, porches, and hideaways. Such is the life of a lovable, but forever-feral feline.

Anyway, on Sunday morning one of our neighbors (someone we care about who owns a sweet dog) happened to approach our front door at the same time Poly was eating with our door ajar. Normally, the dog is on a leash, but she wasn’t yesterday–though she should have been.

Poly (and I) were freaked. She ran out our door and down the sidewalk as the dog chased in hot pursuit. I feared for her safety and gave my neighbor an angry earful for not leashing her dog.

As I swam laps this morning in Scottsdale, I realized that my rightful (but intense) anger had roots. Metaphorically, in my mind and heart at least, Poly represented the plight of thousands of vulnerable Americans who might be on the run … whose lives might be in danger if we lose our democracy.

I say that knowing that some of my LGBTQ friends–particularly those in the trans community–are considering alternative plans of where to live if Biden doesn’t win the election. That’s a daunting thought and potential reality, which you may not be aware of if you don’t have gay friends.

One thing I am certain of. It doesn’t have to be Pride month for me to remain authentic and visible. I will continue to care about those less fortunate (humans and animals) … no matter what happens in November and beyond … because we all deserve respect and kindness … no matter who we love … no matter our identity.

Meanwhile, back in our Polynesian Paradise community, my neighbor and I have repaired our relationship and regained our equilibrium. (She apologized for not having her dog on leash and told me she hoped it wouldn’t deter Poly from returning.)

Late yesterday, Poly reappeared–safe and sound–outside our front door. This morning, she had her breakfast on the cool tile of our Sonoran entryway.

An hour later, I found her tucked underneath the loveseat in her safe haven. Peeking through the cacti containers and elephant food succulent on our patio, she allowed me to take this photo.

I am thankful Poly (and I) survived our Sunday scare. I hope our nation and democracy are as fortunate in November.

The Soldier on the Hill

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I last visited my father’s grave at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery in September 2021.

If there is such a thing as beauty to behold in a final resting place for those who served, it exists there just south of St. Louis on the banks of the Mississippi River–fourteen hundred miles east of where I live and write today.

On this Memorial Day, I remember Dad–and the thousands of fallen soldiers gathered around him–with twelve lines I wrote on August 27, 1996 … almost three years after he died.

This poem and forty-one others appear in my book A Path I Might Have Missed.

***

The Soldier on the Hill

I talked with the soldier on the hill today.

We sat, we cried, we laughed, we prayed.

The bells rang true, the trees stood free.

A breeze swept past to welcome me.

Shadows filled the landscape then.

Tempers rose without his pen.

Snowflakes fell, the grass turned green.

All without a change of scene.

Now the soldier rests with them,

Hand-in-hand–all blessed again.

They greet another trailing soul.

Who makes the journey past the knoll.

April in Scottsdale

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My title doesn’t quite have the ring, rhythm and dreamy sway of April in Paris (the 1932 song composed by Vernon Duke with lyrics by Yip Harburg).

But then the Sonoran Desert, which we in Scottsdale inhabit in the Valley of the Sun, is nothing like the iconic French city (or so I’ve heard).

Late March rains and chillier-than-normal temperatures have produced a green early April in central Arizona. Perhaps the greenest I can recall, since Tom and I moved here in 2017. We hope this is a trend and precursor to a cooler, wetter summer.

As snowbirds fly (or drive) east and north to return to their predominant nests, we full-time desert dwellers are left with more space to roam and the promise of new life that will sustain us.

Even in the desert, April colors and possibilities burst forth from cacti, succulents, and containers. But most notably from the earth where newly planted trees such as our Red Push Pistache–those we’ve only just begun to know–prepare to dip the tips of their leaves in ink and write their own stories.

Libretto #3

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My friend Randy–baritone section leader for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus–surprised me at rehearsal on Tuesday night. He handed me this descriptive name plate, which–four years ago in the depths of Covid–felt unlikely and unreachable.

As background, this unforeseen opportunity in my writing journey emerged in 2022, when I wrote lyrics for a few original songs for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC).

Shortly after, PHXGMC’s artistic director Marc asked if I would have an interest in crafting a libretto for Born to Be Brave, the June 2023 performance.

Quickly, that led to libretto #2–Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol–performed in December 2023. Remarkably, what began as a novelty developed into a creative trend.

Over the past few months, I’ve been “noodling” and “angsting” over libretto #3. Marc, Scott (our choreographer) and I met a few times this winter to select the music and brainstorm creative approaches for Encore, our June 22-23 concert at Tempe Center for the Arts.

Randy knows I’ve been working on this behind the scenes. But what he doesn’t know (until he reads this) is I finished drafting libretto #3 on the same day he smiled and handed me his gift.

A beautiful arrangement of A Million Dreams from The Greatest Showman will open the show. That’s ironic, because–in my wildest dreams–I never imagined seeing the word “librettist” attached to my identity.

Son, student, graduate, husband, father, writer, gay man, friend, consultant, author, tenor, teacher, mentor, citizen, democrat, neighbor, dreamer, idealist, survivor, poet … yes. But lyricist and librettist? No.

I think this is one of life’s lessons. That the person you ultimately become at 65 or beyond may not reveal itself at 20, 30, 40 or 50.

But if you hang around long enough, and allow yourself to explore outside your comfort zone, you might discover you are capable of creating something meaningful you never dreamed of.

Wide and Deep

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My heart raced and jaw clenched. Like thousands of Americans, on Tuesday I tuned in to watch true patriots from Arizona and Georgia do the right thing.

The 2020 election numbers–votes counted and recounted numerous times–don’t lie. Neither did Arizona House Speaker Rusty Bowers, Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger and his deputy Gabe Sterling, and Georgia election worker, Shaye Moss.

At a defining moment in American history, on June 21, 2022, they delivered their testimony before the U.S. House Select Committee investigating the January 6, 2021, attack on the U.S. Capitol.

They sat before the nation. They breathed deeply, mopped their brows, and somehow maintained their composure. They told us how they kept their fingers in the dike to keep a corrupt president and his allies from breaking through the dam and cheating the American people. They upheld the law and the letter of the U.S. Constitution.

Over three hours of testimony, we heard heart-stopping stories. Each witness detailed how some of those who still support the ex-president have threatened and targeted their professional and personal lives. All in an effort to illegally change the outcome of the 2020 election.

In this one blog post, it is impossible to address the sense of fear, anxiety, and division that exists in our current culture. But suffice it to say, this insurrection and its related tentacles run wide and deep. It appears there is much more evidence to come. Each day we brace ourselves for more of the ugly truth about the targeting of public servants and slates of fake electors.

What will happen next in this drama? Who knows? But the biggest question of all looms on the horizon: Will the U.S. Department of Justice pursue criminal charges against the forty-fifth President of the United States and others who apparently have violated the rule of law?

Young and old alike, we watch and wait. Our nation’s future is at stake. Our sense of freedom hangs in the balance.

***

Tuesday’s hearing occurred fifty years and four days after five men were arrested for breaking into the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C.

Soon after, the Watergate political scandal dominated our lives. Our nation was thrust into the pain and complexity of a constitutional crisis and investigation that would expose President Richard Nixon and members of his administration.

I was a teenager at the time. I didn’t understand the gravity of the Watergate scandal. But I remember the anxiety of uncertainty that pervaded our country and how outraged I felt that our president would lie and cheat and do all he could to try to cover up his deceit. That pain has resurfaced today.

I also remember pausing for breakfast with my friends John and Jon in the middle of our western camping adventure on August 9, 1974. It was the day Nixon finally resigned after two years of political denial and trauma.

John, Jon and I chowed down on steak and eggs in a dark tavern/diner somewhere in Wyoming, while on the other side of the room, through the tube of a grainy black-and-white TV, we watched Nixon break the news in an address to the nation.

Before and after that moment, my buddies and I drove through miles and miles of magnificent western landscapes–mostly through the Rocky Mountains in Colorado and Wyoming. But we also ventured through the beauty and desolation of Arizona and New Mexico.

Imagine three sets of parents of three teenagers, permitting one seventeen-year-old and two sixteen-year-old boys to pack up a beat-up AMC Javelin without adult supervision. Somehow, we convinced them to let us go.

Over a ten-day period, the three of us towed a small camper more than a thousand miles each way from St. Louis to the Rockies and back again. We had fun, drank Coors beer, exercised our freedom, cooked over a Coleman stove, slept in a tent, and managed to stay out of trouble. Those were simpler and safer days. That trip wouldn’t happen today.

As a young man about to begin my senior year of high school, the possibilities of life surrounding me traveled as wide and deep as the terrain you see in this photo of Shiprock, New Mexico, which I captured and saved from our 1974 journey.

Little did I know that one day nearly five decades down the road–as I approached my sixty-fifth birthday in this western literary chapter of my life–our nation would face a much darker and historic challenge.

We must find a way to restore some semblance of sanity to our culture and political process … we must punish the perpetrators to resurrect our democracy from the jaws of an insurrection that continue to haunt us.