Tag: Valley of the Sun

Be Happy

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At 10:30 a.m. today, after I dismounted my treadmill at the Scottsdale Community College fitness center, I turned left. This primitive, but meaningful, message scrawled on a nearby whiteboard captured my attention.

Yes, I am relieved and happy about the blue tsunami that made landfall in the United States last Tuesday. (If you squint, you can detect blue glimmers of it in the reflection of my photograph. Well, not really. Actually, those are the blue skies of Arizona bouncing through western-facing windows.)

The full effects of our political sea change–a true mandate from the American people cast across red, blue, and purple states–won’t become clear until January 2027. That’s when a newly elected, eager-and-diverse slate of Democrats take their seats in Washington, D.C., before a mountain of problems to solve.

But in this period of a landmark transition, we should Be Happy as individuals and as a nation. It feels like we finally may be stepping away from the precipice of our demise, like we have turned a treacherous corner, like we have come to our senses and rediscovered our best intentions before the stroke of midnight.

In this month of Thanksgiving, this seismic-and-hopeful political shift is something to celebrate and truly be thankful for.

Pivot Point

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That day has come. It is the eve of a frightful pivot point in American history. Will we salvage our democracy at the polls or hand over the last keys of liberty with a whimper? I hold my breath and hope for the former.

Like much of America, my husband and I cast our votes early. Now, amidst raging flood waters that swamped much of Arizona over our unusually soggy weekend, I pray for an early November blue wave. To stop the madness. To flip the script. To calm this exhausting social and economic quagmire. To welcome common sense and human decency back in the front door.

Meanwhile, I give thanks for the successful completion of my sixth memoir writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library. For three consecutive Fridays in October, I bonded with eleven diverse and talented writers–seven women; four men–around a rectangular table at Mustang Library.

They trusted me to help jumpstart or embellish their literary journeys. To open their hearts. To share their stories and give them voice. Along the way, we shared a few laughs and several cascades of cathartic tears as they collected constructive feedback and encouragement like hungry trick-or-treaters trolling for their favorite candies.

In a nutshell, together we fostered and nurtured an organic community of storytelling. One I imagine they will carry forward with passion and persistence.

As we parted last Friday, one member shepherded the creation of a email contact list, so that they can discuss ways to continue on this literary journey together.

Though I feel I need time to refill my creative tank, I know in my heart I have contributed to the well-being of eleven other lives … eleven who strive to share their pain, their light, their wisdom, their voices with a world desperate for truth and greater goodness.

On This Wet October Day

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Waves of random showers soak once-parched plants on this wet October day. Some soothe forgotten succulents, while others cue autumnal chapters of bubbling baked apples, laced with sugar and cinnamon, brimming with melted butter, delivered simply and securely, without a dog-eared recipe, directly from her heart and Midwestern oven.

The sweet, fruity aroma stirs my creative spirit, fires my tired fingers, fuels my ever-willing voice, and ignites tomorrow’s best intentions to nurture seedlings of songs and stories that otherwise might never grow, never emerge, never be written.

Last Light

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We spend precious seconds, minutes, hours, days,

And nights of our lives angling for the next fish.

We rush from place to place, moment to moment,

Often derailed and distracted by constant noise,

Often unfulfilled as the day’s last light descends.

Maybe, to catch the one we dream of catching,

It’s best to pause in silence at the water’s edge,

To give thanks for what passes before us,

To be still beside the simple silhouette cast.

At dusk, on Sunday, October 4, 2026, I captured this silhouette of a boy waiting patiently for his next fish along the Crosscut Canal in Scottsdale, Arizona.

If you enjoyed reading my poem, check out my book of poetry, A Path I Might Have Missed. It (and all six of my books) are available on Amazon.

Elder Gay

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I met a new friend for lunch yesterday. It’s a rather unusual, sweet story. For that reason, I need to write about it.

About three months ago, a young reporter sent me a message via my contact page. He saw a nostalgic piece I wrote about my college years at the University of Missouri.

It included a reference to Hinkson Creek and an abandoned quarry there, which I and many other college freshmen and freshwomen frequented on Friday nights to swim and party.

Apparently, the creek is now polluted–has been for more than thirty years–with an array of contaminants, but there is a push by various environmental groups to salvage it.

In his note, this earnest reporter–a journalism student at the same university I graduated from in 1979–wanted to talk with me to include a few comments about my recollections of Hinkson Creek. He wanted to give the story some texture and a touch of humanity.

As background, I don’t always respond to these sorts of messages. Too many of them are generated by bots or feel exploitive. But this one felt different. So, I responded.

A few days later, we had a pleasant phone conversation. I shared information about the fun I had with friends at Hinkson Creek in the mid 1970s and how sad it was for me to learn that Hinkson Creek is now unsafe due to the presence of E. coli in the water (according to data on the EPA website).

Before I said goodbye to the reporter, he told me how ironic it was that I lived in the Phoenix area, because he would be moving to the Valley of the Sun in July to be with his partner. I suggested he contact me again once he got situated here.

Last week, I received a text from this young man, this recent Mizzou journalism graduate who is forty-eight years younger than me.

He now lives in Phoenix and is looking for a writing job here. He included a link to the story he wrote which appeared in the Columbia Missourian with a few quotes from me.

It’s a thorough, well-researched story, but that’s not the point of my story.

Anyway, I thanked him for sending the link to me. He asked if I was still interested in meeting for lunch. I responded with a definite YES.

Yesterday afternoon–one day before the rain finally arrived to ease our parched earth here–we met in person.

This smart, enterprising, young gay man and I talked about his job search, my writing and my husband’s passion for films, how he and his partner met, his love of writing and music, his early impressions of Phoenix, and my recommendation that he find his place in the LGBTQA community here.

I told him that at this point in my life it is especially meaningful for me to help a younger man–a young gay man–by offering a little guidance in a harsh world.

He smiled when I told him I would pick up the check and–before we parted ways, but after I invited him and his partner to come to the next Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus concert in December–he said jokingly that meeting me is kind of like having an “elder gay” to talk with.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t want to be referred to as an “elder” anything. But in this case, it was a term of endearment. So, I laughed and accepted it that way.

***

My wise, sassy, and “elderly” Aunt Thelma once told me when she was in her late sixties, and I was about this young reporter’s age, that “we are all like ships passing in the night.”

I have always taken that to mean that life is fleeting, and that we should try to help each other around every turn. That we should try to do the right thing, because we never know what tomorrow may bring.

I think Thelma would have been proud of me yesterday.

Who could have imagined that a story about a polluted creek would lead to a pleasant lunch?

More important, that I might reach forward to help a young gay man, while looking back to remember that unrealized twenty-one-year-old-gay version of me who most certainly would have loved a little advice from an “elder gay” friend.

Oh, Hummingbird

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Lately, I feel like an anxious hummingbird, flitting about from one branch to another. Zooming in and out, searching for creative inspiration. Trying to find sweet nectar that will help me link one idea to the next.

Maybe it’s the late-summer desert doldrums. The intense Sonoran heat has worn me down. I don’t feel the impetus to write here as frequently as I once did.

Even so, I have experienced two moments of writing bliss in the past week. Both led me to draft deeply personal poems for members of my family–chosen and otherwise. At some point, I may decide to share them publicly, but not now.

Maybe this is simply what it feels like to be living in my “late sixties going on seventy” (sounds like a parody of a song from The Sound of Music) in a world gone mad.

All the while, I try to nourish myself.

I try to help others I love who have lost jobs or are battling cancer.

I play word games on my phone when I wake up each day.

I recall the stunning scenes and pine scents of western Canada.

I pack for my younger son’s wedding in Chicago this weekend.

I squeeze in another trip to the gym.

I watch the young-and-promising St. Louis Cardinals I root for self-destruct again in the late innings.

I download the music for my December choral concert and prepare for my next rehearsal.

I socialize with friends away from the heat produced in the Valley of the Sun.

I take afternoon naps to reboot my brain.

I prepare to lead another memoir writing workshop in October.

I recoup with my husband at home. We enjoy quieter moments in the confines of our Arizona abode.

Through it all, I wonder when or if I will rediscover the time and energy to complete another book.

Rushing By

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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.

The Language of the Desert

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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.

Too Darn Hot

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“But when the thermometer goes way up and 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.