Thank god for women.

Before I was a man, I was a boy. I suppose I started thinking of myself as a man when my dad died. I was 13 at the time. I like to think that I became the man of the house then. I got myself a job, delivering newspapers. And I helped my mom a whole lot. Those were difficult times. But we made it. I think I became more of a man when I went away to college. And certainly when I spent 3 years in the Army. I’ve been associating with women virtually all of my life. Many, many women. And I’ve understood for a long time that there are differences between men and women. Some real interesting differences. Contrasts, one might say. But similarities, too. And I like women. Do I ever. I know some very nice women. The best woman I ever knew, of course, was my dear Jeanne. The only woman I ever loved totally and completely and unconditionally. Jeanne died last January. But I’m still in love. With Jeanne’s spirit. Anyway, I give women lots of credit for helping me feel like a man. Like a loving man. Thank god for women. –Jim Broede

Hell & paradise.

My definition of hell: For me to live with my clone.

My definition of paradise: For me to live with someone quite different.

--Jim Broede

...a huge void in their lives.

I think there’s a certain type of woman that dislikes me. I’ve come across maybe 6 to 8 of ‘em on the Alzheimer’s message boards. Some of 'em absolutely detest me. They’d like to run me off the message boards. To go away. Disappear. And I think these women have something in common. They lack adequate love in their lives. Most of ‘em, I think, have had failed or failing marriages. And I remind ‘em of it. I remind ‘em that they are unhappy. Because I tell them that I’m happy. Because I’ve loved. And been loved. Because I’ve had a fulfilling marriage. I loved my Jeanne. Totally. Completely. Unconditionally. They get sick and tired of hearing it. From me. Some have out-rightly said so. Because they want what I’ve got. They want to be loved. Romantically. Unconditionally. And they haven’t got anyone to whisper in their ear, “I love you. Forever. Totally. Completely. You are my love goddess.” That leaves a huge void in their lives. –Jim Broede

I promise to bring along all my craziness.

An anonymous contributor to broodings writes, "I am aware of at least one psychiatrist who is reading your rantings and will incorporate them in a case study of brain disorders. He said it is rare to have such a large collection of delusional thoughts and various forms of psychosis in written form. It isn't too late in life to get some help."


Dear Anonymous & psychiatrist:

That's why I sometimes sign myself as Crazy Jim. At least I know I'm crazy. Delightfully crazy. I want to be crazy. I don't want to be 'normal.' As for the psychiatrist, let it be known that he is invited to contact me directly. That way I can be analyzed up close, rather than from a distance. Most reputable psychiatrists would want to do that. I'm even available for an interview. In person. Face to face. And I promise to bring along all my craziness. --Jim Broede

Why we learned to love. Unconditionally.

I tend to draw the wrath of women. Rarely that of men. Makes me wonder if the way I think is a man versus woman thing. Maybe we have quite different perspectives on life. A natural divide. Oh, I like women. Very much so. But I like them because they are different. Delightfully different most times. I like the contrast. Maybe that’s why I fell in love with Jeanne. Not because of the similarities. But because of the differences. And the fact that we learned to accept the differences. In that sense, we brought balance into each other’s lives. I noticed that many women want to make me into something other than what I am. They want to turn me into a woman, of sorts. And I object to that. Jeanne didn’t want to remake me. She wanted to accept me. Just the way I am. And that’s how I treated Jeanne. I allowed Jeanne to be Jeanne. Yes, we let each other be ourselves. And to grow and love in our natural ways. Together. That’s why the relationship thrived. Why we learned to love. Unconditionally. –Jim Broede

Yes, round-the-clock loving.

Funny thing. On the Alzheimer's message board a woman said family members keep asking when her husband, who has early onset Alzheimer's Disease, will get a job. They think it would do him good.

I suggested that the couple spend the rest of their lives on the same job -- loving each other. Spending every day together. Taking life one day at a time. Making the most of each day. In love. That is a fulltime job. There won't be time for other things. They can tell inquiring folks that neither one of 'em can fit in another job. After all, the loving- each-other endeavor takes 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Yes, round-the-clock loving. --Jim Broede

Still do. Always will. Forever.

I think I was meant to be a care-giver. At the beginning, it was difficult. I had my doubts about being able to handle it. But then I was put to the test. And I think I became better and better and better at it. I wasn't a good care-giver at the start. But as I got closer to the finish line, I became a darn good care-giver. And now I think it was my calling. More rewarding even than my career as a newspaper reporter. Because I was caring for the love of my life. There's nothing I loved more than Jeanne. Still do. Always will. Forever. --Jim Broede

Sort of a round-about friend.

There's a woman on the Alzheimer's message board. Calls herself jqpr. Apparently, she's shy or afraid to use her real name. She doesn't like me. Sometimes has me psychoanalyzed. In negative ways. She doesn't mean to be funny. But she's really hilarious. Very entertaining. And I really owe her a debt of gratitude. Because she's promoting my blog. Encouraging people to come over and read it. Thinking they'll see the real Broede. The bad Broede. I guess she doesn't quite understand that she's doing me a favor. Bringing people to my blog. I couldn't hire a better publicity agent. And here she is, working for me. For free. Sure, some people may come and not like what they see. But others are bound to like it, and stick around. Oh, so nice. To think, I'm now counting jqpr as one of my blessings. Sort of a round-about friend. --Jim Broede

...pretending there ain't a problem.

Hey, there are some darn good Alzheimer care-givers out there. But some bad ones, too. That’s what I am saying. But some folks on the Alzheimer’s message boards are claiming that I think all care-givers are bad. Well, that’s far from the truth. But I think it’s important to acknowledge that some care-givers shouldn’t be care-givers. They are unsuited for the job. Maybe through no fault of their own. Some are just spread far too thin. They’ve become exhausted and depressed and overwhelmed. When that happens, they are potential dangers to themselves and their patients. Yes, folks, that’s all I’m saying. Not all care-givers are messing up. But some are. And it’s time to deal with the problem. By finding solutions. That's why I keep raising the issue. Why I encourage discussion. Sure, it’s nice to have empathy and sympathy for care-givers. For all care-givers. But at some point, we’ve got to do something about significant numbers of care-givers that may be doing harm. That’s better than keeping a blind eye and pretending there ain’t a problem. –Jim Broede

...and I think I'm getting better at it all the time.

I went south. To Florida. In 1962. To work. It really was a godsend. An eye-opener. Because it got me immersed in the civil rights movement. I was seeing, for the first time, up-close, on a daily basis, the worst of a racist society. This was an awakening. Surreal. Almost unbelievable. Seeing how badly white people treated black people. Just on the basis of skin color. Racism left over from the days of slavery. Blacks treated as inferiors. Denied basic civil and human rights. Denied respect. In a nation that bragged of being founded on the credo that all men (mankind) are created equal. But we weren’t practicing what we espoused. Not even coming close.

Ever since I was a kid, I imagined myself being black. Exactly the same person I am, but only with a different skin color. And I knew that it would have made a profound difference in my life. I would have been a member of the oppressed class. I would have been denied so many, many opportunities and rights that whites took for granted. No doubt about it.

Yes, I was never a racist. Never will be. But I ain't perfect. I may be discriminatory in other ways. Against political and social conservatives who deny people basic rights. Maybe against religious zealots who proclaim their way is the only way, and want to foist it on others. Lord knows, I haven’t treated everyone fairly in my life. But I try...and I think I'm getting better at it all the time. –Jim Broede

Connected in spirit...forever.

My dear sweet Jeanne always adjusted to the situation. One way or another. Despite Alzheimer's. Even to the climate changes in Minnesota. Maybe because we were used to it. For most of our lives. In Minnesota, the temperature ranges from 30 below zero in the wintertime to 100 degrees in the summertime. We dressed appropriately. And went out at the most suitable times of day or night. Outdoors virtually every day. Before and after Alzheimer's. I found that keeping Jeanne active, even when she was confined to a wheelchair, was very beneficial. It stimulated Jeanne. And I encouraged Jeanne to travel. Two years before she entered the nursing home, we spent 6 weeks in Arizona. And I'd take Jeanne with me to visit my mother, who lived 300 miles away. Jeanne would wake up in the motel in the middle of night. And wonder where she was. But she told me she'd see me in bed next to her, and that she then knew she was safe. Even when we went to Germany 16 months before she went into the nursing home, Jeanne handled it fairly well. Because we took along our granddaughter to help me care for Jeanne. And even when Jeanne was in the nursing home, I'd bring her home by wheelchair (a round-trip of 6 miles) often. But especially in the spring through autumn. Not so much in the wintertime. The fresh air and movement and my serenading her with love songs helped to stimulate her mind. And when Jeanne was still walking, I'd take her shopping and out to eat. I think that's the secret of success with Alzheimer patients. Keep 'em active. Take them out and about. Even when Jeanne couldn't walk any more, I'd pick her up and load her in the car, ever so gently, for rides out in the country. And we'd stop at Dairy Queen, for her favorite treat, a chocolate chip blizzard. And when I went for a haircut, I'd wheel the wheelchair with Jeanne, so she could watch. I think Jeanne did so relatively well right up to the end because she got special care, extra special care. Face to face stimulation. Nightly showers, too. And body massages. And a low-stress environment. Lots of tender loving care. Hey, fellow Alzheimer care-givers, it makes a difference. Take your loved one for daily wheelchair rides. I mean 8 to 10 miles daily. See if it makes a difference. And hand-feed them lunch and supper in their room instead of in the congregate dining area. Play soothing dinner music. Give 'em a kiss. A hug. Whisper sweet nothings in their ear at bedtime. Yes, even take them to Germany. Even though it's difficult. Give them one last chance to experience life. Albeit a life hampered by dementia. But still, they get something from it. Even if they don't always know where they are. At least Jeanne knew I was there. With her. Virtually every day. That made a difference. A big, big difference. Jeanne and I kept each other in our lives right up to the end. In a sense, we're still living together. Because we are connected in spirit...forever. --Jim Broede

...rather than allow others to do it for me.

I like to probe. Myself. And others. I find that fascinating. Sure, I may be wrong. And I may be right, too. I’m not afraid to speculate. To guess. To take risks. To try to figure out what makes me tick. And other people tick, too. I suppose that’s why I became a writer. For newspapers. And I like to try something new. All the time. And I like to think. Out loud. That’s what I’m doing here in broede’s broodings. I don’t always know where I’m going. It’s a little like walking into a vast wilderness. Of never being there before. And wondering what one will find in an hour or two, or the next day or the next week. That’s what some of the early explorers must have felt like. When they went into uncharted territory. Yes, I want to explore the cosmos. I want to delve into the unknown. And I like to at least try to define myself. I don’t know exactly who I am. Maybe I never will. But I sure as heck would rather define myself and the world around me rather than allow others to do it for me. –Jim Broede

I think that's fair...and wise, too.

I want broede’s broodings to be my personal domain. That’s why I’ve decided for the time-being to screen comments. This blog is my creation. Oh, I’ll listen to anyone who sends me a comment. And I’ll mull it over. And maybe I’ll even publish some of the uncivil and nasty remarks, too. But I won’t allow people to take this blog astray and make it something I don’t want it to be. I want my broodings to eventually draw a following that likes the notion of one being a romantic idealist, a religious free-thinker, a political, religious, social and economic liberal and a lover. And a relatively and reasonably happy being, too. One might say I’m at peace with myself. But I have this urge to probe people who don’t seem to be quite at peace with themselves, or with me, for that matter. All too often unhappy people. Depressed people. I’m trying to figure out why they are unhappy, and often cruel, not only to other people, but to themselves. It’s almost as if they hate themselves. And in the process they allow the hate to spill over to other people and life, in general. I’m amazed that so many people choose to be unhappy. And to be angry. A handful of them have tried to take over the comments section of this blog. To pollute it, so to speak. They act like guttersnipes. Uncouth. They’re mean and nasty. That’s not me. I’m kind. A romantic idealist. A free-thinker. A liberal. A lover. And let me repeat. I’m happy and at peace. For the most part. Yes, that’s me. And that’s how I intend to come across. In my blog. I intend to keep defining myself. I'll try to attract people of similar persuasion. And I’ll encourage chronic nay-sayers to go elsewhere. Albeit. I’ll tolerate dissenters to some extent. That is, as long as they stay somewhat polite and courteous. If they become totally ill-mannered and profane and hateful – well, then I’ll exercise my screening prerogative. I think that’s fair…and wise, too. –Jim Broede

It's as if you are still writing to me...and I, to you.

Dear Walter:

Hey, Walter, have you found Eden yet? I’m still looking. My journey has taken me to, of all places, a seminary, where I’m auditing a course called ‘Anger and its Consequences.’ The reading assignments include Kafka, Freud and the Book of Job.

Of course, you know I’m more comfortable seeking answers to philosophical questions by walking in the woods and pretending to be primitive man. I imagine I’m living before books and theories and seminary professors. Before civilization. And it’s only me and god. I’m talking to god. And I’m trying to persuade god to consider my input in fine-tuning the cosmos. I want to be god’s partner. Is that a bit presumptuous? I don’t think so. I think god wants his creatures to voice their opinions. Such as maybe god created mankind because he was lonely. And he wanted partners, associates, confidants.

Of course, god wanted places where we could confer. Meet. So he created conference rooms. Magnificent woods and seashores and mountain tops. Among other places. Where I walk and talk. With myself. And to god. Directly.

In these settings, Walter, I come closest to knowing myself. I am able to utter the words, ‘What the hell, that’s me!’ It’s a place where I shut out the rest of the world. Oh, maybe not the whole world. But at least I try to turn back the clock to the days before we were brainwashed by educators and psychologists and scientists.

It’s as if I am Adam, and my only discourse is with a god that allows me to feel like a unique being, one of a kind, and with a free will that makes me unpredictable. And here, Walter, I ponder what made us friends. Maybe it was that we were both primitives, and believers in a nonjudgmental god who, for instance, didn’t hold it against you for walking out on your first wife, Laura, for another woman, in time of Laura’s greatest need, I suppose, when she was dying of multiple sclerosis. Our kind of god proclaims, ‘What the hell, that’s Walter!’ Our kind of god accepts us despite our foibles and sins here and there. Or for that matter, a whole barrage of wrongs. Our kind of god looks at the big picture and concludes, “Walter is my kind of guy. Long live Walter!’ Our god, Walter, gives you credit for getting on with life and having never lacked passion. You sinned passionately. And you loved passionately. The loving made up for any shortcomings, 10 times over. No, make that 10,000-fold in the eyes of god.

Meanwhile, Walter, I’m thankful that you were a prolific letter writer. Because that was one way of spreading your creative and poetic spirit. Granted, occasionally your words sounded angry. But that was your fierce honesty coming to the fore. Your handwritten epistles to me, particularly the ones from the 1960s, a time of turbulence and anguish for both of us, did much to shape my spiritual being. To this day I read those letters over and over. They are timeless. It’s as if you are still writing to me...and I, to you. --Jim

...and that gets under some people's skins.

Guess I’m not surprised that some folks don’t like me because I’m different. I’m a romantic idealist, a free-thinker, a liberal and a lover. And I’m a happy fella, to boot. That’s a rare combination these days. I tend to alienate the non-romantics. They call me a Pollyanna. Also, the fundamentalist Christians call me a heathen and say I’m headed for hell. The political conservatives consider me un-American. And depressed people say I’m too happy for my own good. Makes for a difficult time because I’m the polar opposite of so many, many people. Especially here in America. I’m a square peg in a round-hole. A misfit. But I’m proud of it. Proud to be me. I grew up thinking that I would always be welcome in America. And I am, to some extent. Especially if I keep my big mouth shut. But see, I’m a writer. And I’m outspoken. By nature. I hardly ever hesitate to speak my mind. For instance, I don’t like whiners. And I let ‘em know. I ask people, “Why are you whining?” And invariably, I tell them to get over it. That’s been a primary message in this blog. I keep telling folks who lament the suicide of a family member or close friend to get over it. After all, I did. I set the example. My father took his own life when I was 13, almost 60 years ago. When I proclaim that I’m over it and that dad is my hero despite the deed, that annoys some folks. They tell me that’s not the right and proper attitude. And my dear sweet Jeanne had Alzheimer’s, and after 13 years of living and coping with it the best we could, Jeanne died. That was devastating for me. But I got over it, and I started communing with Jeanne’s spirit. Yes, I can’t stand to be sad for long. I find it necessary to be in love all the time – with life. And so I exude good vibes and I’m upbeat and a positive thinker. I’m so very happy...and that gets under some people’s skins. –Jim Broede

...to love, especially the few intimates around me.

I really can’t get mad or upset – at least not nearly to the degree of some of you. I’m referring to some of the anonymous posters on this blog, in the comments section. Where I’ve deleted some of the most scurrilous posts. Some of you have lost decorum. You use profanity with abandon. And personal insults. Incredible. You really get carried away. And over what? Mere ideas. My personal opinions. Heck, you can't control my opinions. You don’t have that power – any more than I can dictate what you should believe. Seems to me there’s no sense in becoming furious over ideas or events out of one’s control. It’s like getting upset over the weather. Might as well live with it. Make the best of it. Even if it’s raining or snowing. One can still find a way to enjoy the outdoors. Maybe by cross-country skiing or by singing in the rain. Well, I’ve been accused of being hurtful to survivors of suicide. Because I encourage them to get over it. The sooner, the better. I upset one lady because I described my father’s suicide almost 60 years ago as an heroic act, of sorts. Well, what harm can that be? I accept the fact that it happened. That it can’t be undone. So I don’t let it bother me. Hasn’t for a long, long time. So I often encourage other survivors of tragedies, from Alzheimer's to suicide, to get over it, too. I guess that seems rather callous to some. But hey, if it is, that’s my nature. No reason to take offense. No reason to make me out as evil and despicable and wrong-headed. Just accept the fact that’s the way I think. Shouldn’t matter to you, should it? All I’m doing is telling folks what works for me. People are free to take it or leave it. And to even disagree with me. But to get angry and hostile and shout epithets at me – well, that’s rather ridiculous. Anyway, there are worse things to get angry about. For instance, with George Bush over his launching an ungodly and unwarranted war in Iraq. The deaths of hundreds of thousands, including innocent women and children. Oh, what a terrible toll. On our American psyche. So many soldiers dead. So many more veterans maimed for life, physically, mentally and emotionally. That disappoints me no end. Makes me downright sad. But I don’t get angry, I guess, because so much of what happens in the world is out of my hands. I have to accept it grudgingly. And meanwhile, I focus on what I can control. My anger. My temper. And I can try to love, especially the few intimates around me. –Jim Broede

The truth...I won't stop speaking it.

Read my posts (about 75) so far in this blog. I'm not harming anyone. But some of you are harming yourselves by becoming angry and irrational and hostile. You can disagree with the likes of me and still keep your cool. No reason you can't. I, for instance, can listen to political pundit Rush Limberger and recognize that he's a crackpot, and still not get the least bit upset. Instead, I laugh at him. For being so stupid. Well, if I was stupid and a crackpot, it'd be easy to write me off. But I'm telling you something you don't want to hear. The truth. Maybe that's why you get angry and hostile. Because I've pushed a button. I got to your inner being. And you know I'm telling you the truth. And that's why it hurts. The truth hurts, doesn't it? But somebody has gotta tell it to you. And if you don't want to hear the truth, then don't plug into this blog. Don't listen to me. Don't keep coming back. Because if you do, you'll have to face the truth sooner or later. Because I won't stop speaking it. --Jim Broede

Let's have a good time. I certainly am.

Come on, folks. Lighten up. If you disagree with a premise, and you think it's dumb -- well, then just laugh it off. No need to get angry. Incidentally, I don't have the power to make any of you angry. You make yourselves angry. So lighten up. This is merely a blog. Which allows me to express my opinions. My points of view. If you think my opinions are wrongheaded and downright stupid, then just let me be wrongheaded and downright stupid. Only thing is I think I'm right and intelligent. And opinionated, too. And funny. And happy. And you can be, too. You don't have to be sourpusses. You can fall in love, too. With life. That's what we'll try to cultivate in this blog. Love. And understanding. And let's have a good time doing it. I certainly am. --Jim Broede

Beyond our little funerals and tears.

Walter Ralph was my best friend, my mentor and a Christian clergyman with a reputation for being a rogish and outspoken fellow. Some might call him a wonderfully crazy man. Above all else, he lived life to the fullest. Passionately. He died at 72 on Dec. 6, 1996.

But Walter's spirit lives in many ways, not the least being in the letters he penned to me during turbulent times in our lives, in the 1960s.

Walter also was a poet, and today I happened across one of his poems titled "Automation."


Imagine remembering everything
That we ever did and thought
Without embarrassment
And in the very presence of
The Being of Light
Now a reality to thousands
Of people who somehow came back
From death with the same story.

Obviously we are alive in an
Extraordinary way, immune
From oblivion by a phenomena
So instantaneous and beautiful
In a world just an inch beyond where
We now live and worry
That we are seeing into it
Through the eyes of those who
Have been there
But either were brought back
Or decided they still
Were honestly needed and came back
To help out.

We are each indestructible.

Some live with this knowledge
And fear nothing at all.

The Being of Light is a better word
For God because it is as friendly
As the sun, without judgment
And hostility, simply
Reassuring us that life always grows
Even when we can't believe
Beyond our little funerals and tears.

-Walter Ralph
July 1979

I find it easy to laugh.

I just refuse to be offended over humor. I like certain kinds of humor. Humor that some people find insensitive. And offensive. I think it's even all right to laugh over Alzheimer-related jokes. Unfortunately, some people lack a sense of humor, period. I like put-on humor. And some people take it so seriously. Makes me laugh. Even happens on the Alzheimer's message boards. And right here in this blog. In the comments section. Literary critic Norman Cousins wrote a book about how laughter cured him of a so-called incurable illness. He decided to watch videos of comedians and humorists. Day after day. From his hospital bed. Just immersed himself in bounteous laughter. And what do you know? It made him well again. When people poke fun at me or call me names, I find it easy to laugh. Because it's funny. Really funny. I can't take it seriously. --Jim Broede

Yes, that's my act of kindness...not cruelty.

I’m intrigued by the notion that some of you folks think I’m cruel. Perish the thought, please. I think of myself as a rather kindly gentleman. I have no intent of harming anyone. Just the opposite. I try to help people. By thinking positively and upbeat. Happy thoughts. Like with the very idea of suicide. Or with Alzheimer’s. With about anything that has the potential to put one in the doldrums. Yes, I look for silver linings in the proverbial cloud. I’ve discovered that attitude makes a big, big difference. A positive attitude. Even in the worst of times. I think of myself as sort of a spin doctor. Or philosopher. I invariably look for the good spin. The good angle. The good perception. Like right now. My Chicago Cubs are locked in a tight pennant race with the Milwaukee Brewers and the St. Louis Cardinals. I passionately want the Cubs to win it all. But I’m programming myself for the possibility that the Cubs don’t make it. That they fall short of their goal. And so I’m preparing for that disappointment in a positive way – by acknowledging that it’s a pleasant experience just to see the Cubs contending this late in the baseball season. Last year, they finished last. So they’ve made tremendous improvement. So, if the Cubs fall short, it’s still been an interesting and thrilling season. Enough to make me reasonably happy – that is, if I adopt a positive attitude. Being grateful even for something short of complete success. I tell myself that I have to learn to accept happiness in whatever dose I can find it. Big or small. Especially when I really can’t affect the outcome of an event. I’m just a sideline observer, not a player or manager. Whether I exist or not won’t make a difference in what the Cubs end up doing this season. So I have to learn to accept it. Gracefully. And preferably, happily. In a way, that’s how I coped with Jeanne’s Alzheimer’s. I had to accept the fact of Jeanne’s dementia, and that it would get worse and lead to physical and mental decline and death. But still, I could do something positive about it. Something kind. I could make life better and happier for Jeanne during the 13-year siege with Alzheimer’s. I could make Jeanne feel loved. I implemented my so-called good vibes therapy. And I comforted Jeanne. Made Jeanne’s life more bearable, despite Alzheimer’s. And I discovered that in helping Jeanne, I also helped myself. Love does that. And now, when I talk about my dad’s suicide almost 60 years later, I do it, in part, to let people know how I coped with such a tragedy. When I was a youngster. I didn’t have to let it get me down. I think I’m being helpful and kind. I tell other survivors of suicides of family members and close personal friends that it’s possible to get over it and to get on with happy living. I tell them that, yes, all is forgiven. That one can learn from the experience in positive ways. That from the seeds of a personal tragedy one can cultivate a bountiful and happy life. Yes, that’s my act of kindness…not cruelty. –Jim Broede

Makes a guy wonder.

Lori asked me why I'm "obsessed" with suicide. Well, that's the wrong word. I'm not obsessed. There's a difference between fascination and curiosity and obsession. I'm fascinated by the cosmos. And by god. And by philosophy. I'm fascinated by the game of baseball. I'm fascinated by nature. And the concept of unconditional love. I'm fascinated on what causes people and nations to go to war. I'm fascinated by my two cats, Lover Boy and Chenuska, and how they interact with each other. And I'm fascinated by Alzheimer's and how people deal and cope with it. And that's really how I got onto the subject of suicide. I'm fascinated by Deborah's take on her brother's suicide, and the fact that she initially brought it up on the message boards. And that's what prompted me to talk about my dad's suicide. And it prompted in January 2006 an exchange of interesting emails with Deborah. In which we shared our views, and in which Deborah took issue with my views, and by the way, misconstrued them to some extent, and still does. So that's how things got around to the topic of suicide. And several care-givers have talked about suicide during my 4 years or so on the message boards. Believe me, I'm not obsessed with the topic of suicide. But I find it interesting. I'm more obsessed with the Chicago Cubs at this time. Because they are in a close pennant race with the Milwaukee Brewers and the St. Louis Cardinals. And it would be a thrill for me if the Cubs got into the World Series this October. Then I would be truly obsessed with something. The World Series, and the possibility of the Cubs winning it all. I have so many interests, so many potential obsessions, I suppose. In politics. In religion. In social matters. In world affairs. I'm in love, you know. And love can be sort of an obsession. A rather positive obsession. That happens when one is a romantic idealist. And a free-thinker. And a liberal. And a lover. Oh, so much of life I love. I'd like to live forever...and that makes me wonder why folks choose to commit suicide. Why can't they fall in love with life? With being alive? Seems kind of strange to me. That's why I'm fascinated by the subject of suicide. Why don't people want to live, and to be happy and joyful? And just so very thrilled to be alive. To feel the pulse of life. There's no greater gift than the gift of life. Yet we have people rejecting it. All the time. Even my own dad. I suppose I have many of my dad's genes. And here I am, savoring life. The very thing that he rejected. Makes a guy wonder. --Jim Broede

Just my god-given right. My choice.

Here’s the way I look at suicide, folks. Virtually every suicide could have been prevented. With the right kind of intervention. With the right kind of treatment. The unfortunate thing is that we don’t always know what’s right. Not even the experts can agree. There are so many opinions. So many theories and concepts. But if we take a suicide, individually, and analyze it with the benefit of hindsight, we almost always can come up with a practical way it could have been prevented. Maybe some sort of intervention by friends or associates – in recognizing the signs of what was just about to happen. Or maybe it’s astute psychiatric treatment and counseling. Maybe it’s addressing issues of conflict in his/her life. Maybe it’s forcible commitment in a treatment facility. Oh, so many things. I could come up with 100 ways that my dad’s suicide could have been prevented. Even things I could have done as a 13-year-old youngster, when it happened. But hey, that was 58 years ago, and I’ve forgiven myself and my dad long, long ago. It happened. It can’t be undone. I’ve learned to live with the suicide as just another event in my life. And I even dare to give the suicide a good twist, a good spin. For my sake. For dad’s sake. Maybe dad did the right thing. For him. We all have to make our decisions. Sometimes, whether to live or die. Hard decisions. I guess I don’t consider it a sin to take one’s own life. Only if one takes another’s life. Yes, my dad made a choice. Not the choice I would have made. I’d encourage every suicidal person to try to find happiness – something that makes life worth living. I think it’s wonderful to be alive and fully conscious and able to enjoy and savor moment after moment after moment. If some day I can’t find happiness no matter how hard I try, and if I am in unbearable mental and physical pain – well, then I might reconsider. And if I did choose to take my own life, I wouldn’t consider it a sin. Just my god-given right. My choice. –Jim Broede

Learn to cool it. Then we can talk. Sensibly.

I'm not the problem. At least not alone. We're all the problem. Read the vitriol in the comments section of this blog. Some of you don't know how to carry on a civil and polite and coureteous discussion. Of issues. You blame me. Entirely. That is, some of you do. As if you aren't contributors to the problem. Well, start reflecting folks. We're all part of the problem. You, me, everyone. Some of you have let your anger get out of control. You've lost your manners. Your self-respect. I suggest we all calm down. And start carrying on meaningful dialogues. Let's talk things out. Sensibly. Let's learn a little more respect for each other. This could become a nice, civil debating society. But first, you've got to park your anger at the door. I'm not making you angry. You're making yourselves angry. You have to learn to control yourselves. Your anger. I controlled my anger long ago. And I don't really get angry any more. I just voice my opinions, my thoughts, in a reasonably nice way. At least I don't get angry. That's a move in the right direction, folks. You can do it, too. It's much easier listening to a calm and thoughtful person than it is to an angry and irrational one. Now, learn to cool it. Then we can talk. Sensibly. --Jim Broede

Let me have my say, please.

Really, folks, I'm trying to address issues here. And for those of you who don't like the way they are addressed -- well, you don't have to plug into this blog. Coming here is optional. And if you don't like what you read, I still give you free rein to express your opinions. And even to call me names and to level insults. That's fair, isn't it? I've even been criticized for my posts on the Alzheimer's message boards. But I have over 6,000 undeleted posts on the message boards. All of which meet the Alzheimer's Association guidelines. Virtually all of 'em laudatory and supportive of my fellow care-givers. That's why they remain undeleted. They meet the guidelines. Some of you who are criticizing me here have been deleted on the message boards. For good reason. You didn't meet the guidelines. Sometimes you used profanity. Other times you called me disparaging names. Meanwhile, as you can see in my blog, I'm a pretty tolerant fella. I allow you more freedom of expression here than you would have on the Alzheimer's message boards. I let you have your say. Now let me have my say, please. --Jim Broede

...a pleasurable and rewarding experience.

I think success of anything is based on a gut feel. That's how I gauge things. On a gut feel. Deep down. In my heart. My soul. My total being. And I also consult with god. And with the spirits. With Jeanne's spirit. You know, I have conversations with god. I find that being a more practical alternative to praying. I like a give and take with god. A real dialogue. The same goes with my friends. And people in general. When there's genuine dialogue, we come to terms. To understanding. To empathy. We learn to like each other. Or at least tolerate and accept each other. Despite our differences. We become polite and courteous. It's really a pleasurable and rewarding experience. --Jim Broede

Bonnie made me do it.

I've gotta give a woman named Bonnie (a regular on the Alzheimer's message board) credit for not coming to my blog. By ignoring it up to this point. That's a wise decision. That's how one becomes a recovering Broedeaholic. One leaves the booze -- er, I mean Broede alone. You don't come back to him. You ignore him. If a handful of guttersnipes in the comments section of this blog could do that, they'd have happier lives. They'd then qualify as recovering Broedeaholics. Anyway, that's why Bonnie isn't upset with me any more. She hasn't seen the blog. She's ignored it. And that's good for Bonnie. She's setting a good example for the Broede addicted guttersnipes. Now, they should learn from Bonnie. Bonnie is in a better state of mind because of it. Meanwhile, Bonnie probably will have to take some abuse from some for initially encouraging me to create the blog. I can always say that the devil -- no, I mean nice Bonnie -- made me do it. --Jim Broede

'We loved.'

I became a darn good Alzheimer’s care-giver when I stopped whining. When I stopped feeling sorry for myself. When I finally understood that I loved dear Jeanne unconditionally. Then the care-giving task became easy. No longer work. It was pure pleasure.

That’s why I encourage care-givers to stop whining. Not to bash them, but to get across the message that everything becomes easier when one ceases the whining and the feeling sorry for one’s self. And, of course, it helps immensely if the care-giving becomes an act of love.

I’m really showing empathy for care-givers when I talk like this. I’m doing them a favor. I’m revealing the secret of success. How to cope with dreaded Alzheimer’s. It’s in the attitude. Positive thinking. One must learn to love and get one’s sustenance from an act of unconditional love.

Yes, one is to love one’s spouse. No matter what. Unconditionally. Despite Alzheimer’s.

That’s a pretty difficult assignment. Imagine. No more whining. No more feeling sorry for one’s self. And yes, unconditional love. The total package. Some folks don’t believe in any of this. Some purport that all love is conditional.

But I know better. I know there’s unconditional love because I’m living it. Feeling it. My love for Jeanne is total. Unconditional. Forever. When I die, my ashes will be mixed with Jeanne’s. Buried in the old Pioneer Cemetery in rural Forest Lake. Our names on the tombstone. The years we lived. And two simple words that say it all, ‘We loved.’ –Jim Broede

Have you folks noticed?

I like to define myself rather than allow others to define me. I'm a romantic idealist, a free-thinker, a liberal and a lover. And proud of it. Makes me a happy man. Oh, yes, I'm also rather outspoken. Have you folks noticed? --Jim Broede

Sad. Sad. Sad.

I find so many, many unhappy people on the Alzheimer's message boards. Mostly, they are overworked, over-stressed care-givers. Almost all of 'em women. They're depressed. Some even talk about suicide. They're really in bad, bad shape. Some of 'em, that is. They really have no business being care-givers. Because they are in worse shape than their patients. But it's as if they see no practical alternative. No solution. Well, I sometimes tell them they'd be better off placing their loved one in assisted living or a nursing home. And then visit often. But get daily respite. Yes, sometimes it's far better to be a relatively rested quality care-giver than a beleaguered quantity care-giver on duty 24/7. But so many of 'em tell me they're trapped, they can't do it. So they continue to harm themselves and their patients. Sad. Sad. Sad. --Jim Broede

I've been blessed. By a woman.

Another thing that sort of intrigues me. Why are women almost exclusively attracted to this blog? That might be something to discuss in a psychology class. I have a sense that virtually all of the contributors to the comments section of the blog are women. Maybe it's because they have floated over here from the Alzheimer's message boards. The boards are dominated by women. Seems to me a lot of the men have been scared away. But not me. I'm a strong-willed guy. Women don't scare me. I find it easier to love 'em, than to be scared. You women are really quite loveable, and often funny. And I even found a goddess, my dear Jeanne. I'll be forever grateful for that. Yes, I've been blessed. By a woman. --Jim Broede

Well, so be it.

The way I see it, folks, is that eventually the negative thinkers that hide their identities will go away. And the blog will attract more polite and courteous and relatively thoughtful people. Yes, people who make sense and seem a bit refined. Truth be told, there are some people I don't mind alienating to some degree. I can garner respect for some, especially those that sign their names. Because some of 'em truly seem to want a dialogue. They tell me what's wrong with me, but they tell me in a relatively nice way. They are civil. It's the uncivil people that I alienate. The truly mean-spirited people. And so many of 'em are or have been Alzheimer care-givers. And it's just my opinion that -- well, they're ill-suited for care-giving. And I say it. I think their patients need to be protected from them. Because they are in worse shape than their patients. Just my opinion. And yes, I understand that can and does alienate some. They don't like to hear that. If someone calls me unsuited for the care-giving role, I take it in stride. I don't get angry. Because I know better. I've learned how to be a darn good care-giver, and I'm proud of it. Maybe that makes me sound condescending. Well, so be it. --Jim

Seems rather absurd to me.

I’m fascinated by this whole notion of hate. Why do people hate? Nazis hate the Jews. Some whites hate blacks. The Ladies Aid Society from the Alzheimer's message boards hates Jim Broede. I guess we’re hated because we’re different. And we alienate people. Rightly or wrongly. And we’re stereotyped. We’re blamed for causing the world’s problems. We’re blamed for society’s ills. For lack of empathy. For being inconsiderate. And lazy. And evil. We’re hated for not following society’s norms. For not fitting in. For being different. And difficult. Which apparently makes us inferior. We’re all supposed to blend into the majority. Be like the majority. And if we go along with the majority – well, then we’re all right. We’re accepted. So many, many people hate those who aren’t like themselves. Makes them leery. Fearful. I think I pose a threat. I question people’s beliefs. I’m not a Christian. I’m a free-thinker. And I’m happy as a romantic idealist. And a liberal. And a lover. And I’m opinionated. I speak my mind. My piece. Oh, so many reasons to be disliked. Even hated. Right here in the comments section of broede’s broodings, people have outrightly declared that they hate me. Yes, I’m fascinated by it all. I’m trying to understand why I’m hated. Seems rather absurd to me. --Jim Broede

Which I have every right to do.

I'm not sure where the broede's broodings blog is going. I'll just let it evolve. Over time. Just like me. I'm evolving all the time. That's the way I like to take life. One day at a time. Whatever moves me. Each day. I don't have a set plan. I don't tell myself that I have to be here or there tomorrow or next week. Sometimes, we have a tendency to get too far ahead of ourselves, don't we? I deal with my blog on a day to day basis. Just the way I deal with my life. I don't form judgments about what I'm going to be tomorrow. I may say on Thursday that I'm through with the Cubs. But on Friday I may be back on the bandwagon again. I may treat one of you one way today, and quite another way tomorrow. And by the way, it's some of you who dislike, or even hate me. You become obsessed. I don't hate. And I'm not obsessed. Really, with anything. I'm involved. Living each day. That ain't obsession. And that ain't hate. It's called being in love with life. Some days, I don't feel like being browbeat by anyone. So, I put people in their place. At some point, I don't allow people to push me around. I'm the one that takes over. I intimidate. But I don't hate. I take charge. Of my life. Which I have every right to do. --Jim Broede

As if living a blessed adventure.

When I’m honest about it, I have to admit to failure. Daily. I don’t live a day without failure. Because I live by trial and error. Care-giving is a prime example. One must learn from mistakes. Daily. Much of the time I don’t know what I’m doing. In life, period. Because I have been born into a world that I’m just learning to comprehend. I’m feeling my way. Yes, I don’t know it all. And that is precisely what makes life so wonderful – not knowing what’s to come in the next moment, the next episode. Not knowing the future. That’s super wonderful. Yes, not only living the moment. But the anticipation of what’s coming. What’s around the corner, or just over the visible horizon. Not knowing what to expect. Oh, that may make some people nervous and scared. Anticipating the worst. Dreading the unknown. But I’ve always felt that there’s something wonderful on the other side. Maybe because life so far has been far more wonderful than disappointing. Yes, life has been worth living. As if living a blessed adventure. --Jim Broede

I've managed to love.

Maybe the problem runs deep – we just don’t know how to get along with each other. We don’t know how to be tolerant. To accept each other in an unconditional sense. To live and let live. When I see all the hostility in the world, why should I be surprised by the racial divide? Even within our own biological families there’s hostility. I see it daily on the Alzheimer Association message board. Care-givers complain about their siblings. Not doing their share. Not being sensitive enough. And those that complain – well, they often take a holier-than-thou attitude. Instead of loving even those closest to us – those that we know intimately and see on an almost daily basis -- we too often hate and despise and reject. Look at the general state of marriages. More than half of ‘em end in divorce. With acrimony. Hostility. Seems that we just don’t know how to cultivate intimate one-on-one relationships. With the people we live with. When we learn to accept each other despite our differences, we’ll have made inroads. Progress. We reject each other over relatively minor differences, it seems to me. Because we are perceived as not doing our share. Our share of caring for a loved one. We are, oh, so judgmental. Yes, I’m sounding negative. But maybe I’m just being real. At this very moment. I’m seeing the state of humanity from the dark side.

Meanwhile, I tell myself, “Jim, you are a romantic idealist. You know how to love. You’ve actually loved your dear, dear Jeanne. And that makes life worthwhile.” Yes, because I’ve managed to love one other, I know it can be done. I know it’s possible. That’s my greatest, most satisfying achievement. My inspiration. My salvation. Despite all the hate and turmoil and bickering in the world, I’ve managed to love. --Jim Broede

...the highest form of happiness.

Near the top of my immoral acts list would be to live an unhappy life. That's a sin. A major sin. If one is unhappy, one must find a way to become happy. God wants everyone to pursue happiness. If one can't be happy, there's no sense in living. In a sense, if one is chronically unhappy, one is already living in hell. Yes, hell is being unhappy. Depressed. Despondent. In despair. Anyway, that's why god promotes love. Unconditional love. Quite possibly that's the highest form of happiness. --Jim Broede

A god that helps me get over it.

Whenever tragedy strikes in my life, I’ve always told myself, “Get over it.” Happened when my dad committed suicide. Happened when dear sweet wife Jeanne was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. And happened when Jeanne died last January. One doesn’t get through life without some very bad times. But I’ve always coped. I’ve told myself, “Get over it.” That’s because there’s only one way I can live – happily. My mission in life is the pursuit of happiness. I do that largely with attitude. Doesn’t ever do much good to feel sorry for one's self. So I find ways to make the best of situations in the worst of times. When people need consoling, I inevitably advise them, “Get over it.” Maybe that’s why I occasionally alienate some folks on the Alzheimer’s message boards. They aren’t quite ready to get over it. They would rather hold pity parties. I prefer happy parties, not a bunch of folks sitting around lamenting woe is me. It’s like after the death of a dear friend or a true love. I’m more likely to reminisce about the happy times we had together. That sure beats mourning. I’m ready to celebrate his/her ascension to the spirit world. Yes, I believe in an afterlife. I have no proof that we survive our Earthly demise. But I instinctively want to believe it. So, yes, I do believe. It’s that simple. Just like my belief in god. I can’t prove god’s existence. But hey, that doesn’t stop me from believing. Because I have to. I can’t accept the world and life any other way. I believe in a god of love…and happiness. A god that helps me get over it. –Jim Broede

...how we deal with personal tragedies in our lives.

Think about it. Deborah is exploiting personal tragedies in her immediate family life into books. She’s already written “Into the Mist,” about her personal coping and dealings and experiences with dreaded Alzheimer’s and now she’s announced that she’s taking time out to write a book about suicide. It’s not like she’s trying to keep secret her highly personal encounters with Alzheimer’s and suicide. They’ve been a big part of her life. And she’s been promoting herself and her self-published book. And she’s let it be known there’s another to come. Seems to me what Deborah wants is to reserve this domain – public talk of suicide and our personal experiences with it – for herself. In the way she wants it handled. And she doesn’t want any interference from me. She doesn’t want me to challenge some of her assumptions. Well, if she’s going to be an author and a self-styled expert on the subjects of Alzheimer’s and suicide, she had better get used to critics – that is, critics that occasionally challenge her points of view. Rather than just endorsements from friends and family members. Deborah should be willing to publicly debate issues pertaining to suicide. Hey, Deborah has had no reluctance to take me on in the public domain (various message boards and blogs) and even question my character and integrity publicly. And now she’s crying foul? Give me a break. I have as much grounds for a lawsuit as does Deborah. Which ain't much. My blog gives me an outlet through which I can take on Deborah and deal with the issues in a relatively free and open manner. I’m expressing opinions. And I’m not maligning or defaming Deborah’s character. I’m trying to debate the issues of Alzheimer’s and suicide, and the ways we deal with these highly personal tragedies in our lives –Jim Broede

...a very unhappy woman.

I know of a woman. She's an interesting study. A sick woman, I think. And I suspect it’s that she never got over her bad and failed marriage. If my recollection is correct, it broke up after 21 years. And she remains bitter over it. She hasn’t gotten on with life. Fully. She harbors the bitterness. And I think she dislikes me because I had a good marriage. Some people are like that. Unhappy people see happy people, and they can’t stand it. Because it reminds them of their failure. Their inability to achieve genuine happiness. They want to be pitied. They get their solace from pity parties. They like being around fellow mourners. If somebody encourages them to "don’t worry, be happy," they resent it. Because they don’t want to be happy. They feel wronged. They want to be pitied. They want to be told, “Oh, you poor thing. I feel so bad for you. You’ve been mistreated. You’ve been abused.” I suspect she will forever hold a grudge against men, in general, because of the act of one man. Her ex-husband. She’ll never be able to forgive him. And she sees her ex-husband in other men. From her perspective, all men are bad. They cannot be trusted. They are inherently evil. I give her ex-husband the benefit of the doubt. I have to ask, how could he have put up with her for 21 years? That was a remarkable feat in itself. When a marriage breaks up, I suspect that both parties are to blame, to varying degrees. Usually, it doesn’t come down to one spouse being 100 percent at fault. Maybe it’s not a 50-50 sharing the blame thing. But let’s say, 80-20, or something like that. She has to learn to accept some of the blame. And to forgive. She hasn’t been able to do that. And until she does, she’s gonna remain a very unhappy woman. --Jim Broede

For Keith's sake.

----- Original Message -----
From: "Jim Broede" jbbroede@hotmail.com
To: n2themist@charter.net
Sent: Saturday, January 14, 2006 12:36 AM
Subject: For Keith's sake

Deborah:

My dad did what he did. And your brother Keith did what he did. They both chose to die. By their own hand. Before their time, so to speak. Nothing we can do about it. But we can control how we react to their deaths. Their suicides. Maybe what I've done is show my father how to live. To be happy. Joyful. To love. To love life. I think that's the positive approach. You, too, dear Deborah, can show Keith how to live. Despite your depression. Oh, you'll need help. But help's there. From the likes of me. Oh, from so many others who really care. But mostly, you've got to help yourself. By digging deep. Within. To find good reason to savor the life you've got. To be happy. Continue to focus on Keith. But in a happy, positive manner. Believe that Keith is still alive. With you. In spirit. That he lives in another dimension. A spirit world. I'm convinced that's so. That my dad lives. That I may see him again. I talk to him now the same way I talk to god. Direct. In thought. I let him know that he shouldn't feel guilty. About his suicide. About leaving his family and friends behind. I tell him that things worked out pretty good. Even in his absence. That the rest of us, for the most part, have gone on to happy and rewarding lives. That I, in particular, have a passion, a zest for life. I tell dad, kind of strange, isn't it? Here you chose to cash out at age 38. And I'm at 70, and I'm happy and joyful. Yes, despite dear Jeanne's dementia. I still feel blessed. And honored to be Jeanne's primary care-giver. Blessed because I'm in love. And I'd like to live forever.

Oh, Deborah, in a way, my father's suicide awakened me to the wonders of life. In that sense, my father did me a favor. He set off a chain reaction that resulted in much good. Deborah, do you understand what I'm saying? It is, get on with life. Show Keith how to live. Don't follow in his footsteps. Get out of your funk. For Keith's sake. --Jim Broede

We're open to unscreened comments again.

I've opened the broodings blog to unscreened comments again. On reflection, I decided it would be a mistake to stifle discussion and comments. Everything is acceptable. Good and bad. Positive and negative. Praise and criticism. But I'd wish that everyone would try to be reasonably polite and courteous. Even in disagreement. --Jim Broede

Just for the hell of it.

Three boys (maybe 8 to 10 years old) came into the yard with a b-b gun. Taking turns. Shooting at songbirds. I asked them what they were doing. “Killing birds,” one of ‘em said. “Why?” I asked. “Because there’s nothing else to kill,” he said. I suggested that the boys think about it. “Those birds are mothers and fathers,” I said. “They have babies to feed.” I reminded the boys that they had mothers and fathers, too. They’d hate to see them killed, right? “What if I shot your dog?” I asked. “How’d you feel?” Later, I saw the boys again. They thought they had shot and killed a bird. And they were busily looking for the body – so they could confirm the kill. “Do your parents know you’re out shooting birds?” I asked. I wondered. Who bought the b-b gun? I asked one of the boys if his parents were home. “I think so,” he said. I asked him to get his mom or dad – that I’d like to talk to ’em. He returned in a little while. “They’re resting,” he said. “Get ‘em up,” I said. “Tell them that Jim Broede wants to talk to ‘em. Now.” The dad came to the door. “Your son is shooting birds, just for the hell of it,” I said. “I think that’s wrong.” The father promised to talk to his kid about it. “I don’t want them killing birds,” he said. “They’re only supposed to be taking target practice.” A couple years ago, I saw youngsters clubbing chipmunks to death. Just for the hell of it. And I saw an adult motorist intentionally run over a turtle. Just for the hell of it --Jim Broede

And once you've loved, you love forever.

The oppressed need a friend. Someone they can commiserate with daily. Someone on the scene. Someone that can take them out of their doldrums and give them hope. Daily. The friend can be a man, a woman, maybe even an animal. A cat. A dog. A bird. An iguana. Someone, something alive – that helps them feel the pulse of life. A physical present friend. Or as I have, a spiritual friend. I still have Jeanne. That enables me to survive. Because I am what I am. A romantic idealist, a free-thinker and a liberal. The other day, someone called me a poet. Which amuses me. But it’s true. That’s what keeps me going. Life is poetry. I live like a poet. I don’t necessarily write poems. I try to live poems. I like to feel alive. And happy. And in love. I like to dream. All poets dream. I love being alive and conscious and passionate. I overcome sadness. By thinking. About having loved. And about feeling love at the moment. And by projecting love into the future. By acknowledging the existence of a spirit world. Based solely on faith. Because I want to believe. Even if I’ve deceived myself. That’s acceptable. Because I’m allowed to dream. That’s part of being a poet. Anyway, someone else called me a lover of words. I’m more than that. I’m a lover, period. I’ve loved. And once you’ve loved, you love forever. --Jim

I'll allow Bob to define himself.

I wonder if it’s up to each of us to define ourselves. On the first day of my racial dialogue class at the seminary, I got right to the point. I defined myself as a romantic idealist, a free-thinker and a liberal – in that order of importance. That’s what I want to be known as. And I’m wondering if many of us never bother to define ourselves. Because we don’t know who we are. And maybe that’s why we have a racist society. We allow other people to define us. So maybe that’s a primary lesson I’ve learned in life. Know who I am. And proudly proclaim it. If I don’t want to be known or categorized as a white or a black or a colored – well, then tell the world who I am. And what I want to be called. I’m not James or Mr. Broede. I’m Jim. Sometimes I don’t mind being called Crazy Jim. Or, when I was growing up, the family dubbed me the Czech words for “Big Mouth.” And I accepted that because it was done good-naturedly. It was meant in fun. And then I became a writer, in part, because it gave me opportunities to define myself. In words. Well, in the racial dialogue class, I inadvertently called Bob “colored” because I wasn’t fully listening to Bob. That’s my problem and generally that’s the problem of so-called whites in a white supremacy society. We don’t always listen to each other. We don't even understand sometimes that “colored” has a negative connotation to Bob. Because – well, he’s “colored,” designated as such when he was growing up in a racist society. He had to drink from the “colored” drinking fountain and had to sit in the “colored” section at the movie theater and had to attend the “colored” school and had to eat in the “colored” restaurant and had to swim at the “colored” beach. Yes, Bob was being defined by the white supremacy society. And now Bob objects to being called “colored” and I understand why. For very legitimate reasons. If I listen to Bob and respect Bob, I won’t ever call him “colored” again. I’ll allow Bob to define himself. --Jim Broede

I don't whine.

Not everyone likes me. Especially the whiners. On the Alzheimer's message boards. I tell them, get over it. They seek pity. I decline. Make the best of your bad situation, I say. Even in the worst of times. Find solace. Focus on loving thoughts. Jeanne and I did that. During our 13 year siege with Jeanne's Alzheimer’s. Devastating at first. Thinking. A bleak future. But we come around. To the notion that we have much to savor. Become more deeply in love. With each other. Happy. Despite Alzheimer’s. I, the devoted care-giver. For those last 38 months. Jeanne enters a nursing home. The right decision. Spend 8-10 hours a day with Jeanne. Don't miss a single day. Give quality care. Loving care. Much better care than before the nursing home. Not good at 24/7 care-giving. Tired. Depressed. Stretched thin. No respite. Now, daily breaks. Upbeat. Positive. Finally. Finally. A darn good care-giver. Revitalized. Able to wheelchair Jeanne 8-10 miles a day. Miss maybe five outings in three years. Outdoors even in the middle of Minnesota winters. Jeanne wrapped in a thermal sleeping bag. Toasty warm. Indoors again. Hand-feed Jeanne lunch and supper. In her room. Soothing music. Dusk. The soft glow of an amber light. Just before bedtime. Jeanne down to the shower room. A bath. A body massage. A goodnight kiss. Jeanne improves. In meaningful ways. As if an answer to a prayer. No cure. Far from it. Still cognitively impaired. But able to smile. And call me Jim and sweetheart. Then the inevitable. Death. Last January. Holding Jeanne's hand. A whisper. Over and over. “I love you, Jeanne.” The last breath. I cry and scream. I don't whine. –Jim Broede

I'm gonna give dad the benefit of any doubt.

My dad’s suicide. I like talking about it. Makes me feel good. But when it happened almost 60 years ago, it was hush-hush. The family pretended for a while that it didn’t happen. The local newspaper just reported that dad was found dead. Dead all right. Found hanging in the basement. He even left a suicide note. A neighbor fetched the missive and burned it. Because suicide was deemed shameful. A sin. Dad wasn’t supposed to be buried in a Catholic cemetery. Because he committed an unpardonable sin. He took his own life. Only god is supposed to do that. So, as a youngster, I was being taught to look at dad as a bad man, not even worthy of being buried in sacred ground. Yes, the family was supposed to live in disgrace for the “sin” of our father. Well, that’s bull crap. Dad merely made his own independent decision. He didn’t want to live any more. He wanted to cash in his chips, at age 38. Oh, yes, I’d have wished that he had chosen to live another 50 years, 'til 88, like mom did. But I don’t begrudge dad for his decision. He was unhappy. An habitual gambler. Presiding over a somewhat dysfunctional family. And in a marriage that wasn’t working. Certainly, these are problems that can be overcome. But apparently dad was feeling hopeless. I wish the neighbor had saved the suicide note. I’d love to read it. For clues. But I don’t have to see the note to tell dad that I respect him, and his decision, and that he’s one of my heroes for refusing to live unhappily. Meanwhile, I’m a product of my dad. I have some of his genes. And I want happiness, too. But unlike dad, I’ve found it. Because I’ve always insisted on it. I have resolve. Determination. Maybe if dad had become a writer and a romantic idealist and a free-thinker and a liberal and a lover, he would never have put the rope around his neck. And embraced life instead. But I’m not ashamed of dad for what he did. It wasn't a sin. Instead, he made a choice. To leave this Earthly world. And who knows? Maybe in pursuit of happiness. In paradise. In a spirit world. I’m gonna give dad the benefit of any doubt. –Jim Broede

Unshackled...and happy...and good.

How does a loner deal with life? I suppose that is a question for me to try to answer. I’m a loner, essentially. I don’t join organizations. My associates consist of a handful of one-on-one contacts. I don’t readily cultivate friends. I’m not a joiner. Not a churchgoer. Not an avid social being in the conventional sense. I write. A daily journal. And lots of letters. E-mail letters. And so I’ve become a lover of words. Rather than pictures. I like to think in words. I write to strangers. And I try to get to know them that way. Through words. Rather than visual pictures. So, physical appearance doesn't play a big role in my getting to know someone initially. Two of the people I currently know best (as friends, of sort), I’ve come to know without seeing. Oh, I have a picture of them in my mind. But I’ve not seen so much as a photograph of them. And I think that’s an advantage. What if suddenly I met them face-to-face? Would my attitude toward them change? No, I don't think so. And another thing I do, I read books. And magazines. And newspapers. I watch very little television. And in recent years, I haven’t gone to movies. I write. And I read. That’s how “pictures” come into my mind. Through words. Mostly written words. And I’ve made my living with the written word. More so than the spoken word. And maybe that makes me an oddity. Oh, the spoken word was instrumental with the love of my life. Jeanne. But since Jeanne died, I’ve resorted more to the written word. And just plain thought. Reflection. I carry on spiritual conversations. I talk to Jeanne as I talk to god. And I listen to Jeanne. Jeanne helps me fine tune my imagination. And I dream. Day dreams. And night dreams. And I see things. In my mind and my heart and my gut and my soul. I talk to myself. Maybe I’m my own best friend. Every day I communicate with myself. I’ve learned to listen to me. To know what I feel. I find ways to put it into words. I feel like a poet. I feel alive and conscious and free. Unshackled...and happy…and good. --Jim Broede

...being married to a goddess.

I think unconditional love is cultivated. It’s not something that occurs instantaneously. It took me the better part of a lifetime to feel unconditional love for Jeanne. It took shared experiences. And a gradual building of trust. Finally, I understood that Jeanne was my soul mate. And in the end it came down to understanding the singleness of purpose in my life. Nothing became more important than caring for Jeanne. Loving Jeanne. Unconditionally. I became consciously aware that this was my mission in life. And so I focused on it. I loved daily. And I lived in the moment. I stopped worrying about tomorrow. I lived today. For Jeanne. And for myself. To be with Jeanne. To get my sustenance from Jeanne. And to give Jeanne everything I had. By caring. By loving. And it felt, oh, so very good. Still does. I still love Jeanne. In spirit. In the depths of my soul. Jeanne, more than anyone or anything, made my life worthwhile. Because Jeanne made me feel love. Real love. True love. Jeanne made me feel alive. Yes, it’s almost as if Jeanne was a goddess. That’s what pure love feels like…being married to a goddess. --Jim Broede

God is a good conversationalist.

Whenever I have any doubts over what I should do in a particular situation, I generally strike up an imaginary conversation with god. Or at least that’s the way it starts. In my imagination. But usually, it ends up feeling real. Like I’m in direct contact with god. And god tells me he welcomes dialogue. And that makes me feel good. Like god is my friend, my buddy. My confidante. And I try to be objective and polite and respectful in the conversations. I tell god the truth, as I see it. Exactly what I’m feeling. And then I listen intently, to see if god is sending me a message. And invariably he tells me to do the kind thing, the loving thing. And that if it involves other people, I’m supposed to give the others the benefit of the doubt. And not to be too judgmental. My conversations with god can come at almost any time. But mostly they occur when I’m walking, when I’m beginning to fall asleep and just after I wake. When I’m most relaxed. Maybe that’s a good time to strike up a confab with god. Maybe god is putting me at ease. So that my mind and spirit are better able to grasp the gist of things. And lately, dear Jeanne has been my conduit to god. It’s as if Jeanne is my goodwill ambassador to paradise. Jeanne tells me god is real. That it’s very easy to feel his presence in the spiritual realm, where she has lived since last January. Jeanne also tells me she has a stunning view of all of creation from her perch in paradise…and that god is a good conversationalist. --Jim Broede

That's all I can do...

We don’t ever really fix the economic, social and political problems that plague our society. We just make minor alterations. The whites remain the privileged. And the fact that we made a token concession salves our white consciences. We tell ourselves that we have moved a little bit in the right direction. But that’s hogwash. We never come close to achieving a society where true equality prevails. Because we whites relish being privileged. Many of us really think that we deserve to be privileged. Because of the fact that we are privileged. That makes us superior. Because we’ve learned to dominate. To survive. Survival of the fittest. We’ve crawled to the top of the heap, so to speak. Doesn’t matter how we did it. Doesn’t matter that on the way we enslaved dark-skinned people and doesn’t matter that when we so gallantly “freed” the oppressed we still denied them basic civil and human rights, and still do to some significant degree. And doesn’t matter that when we established our grand America, which we so resolutely brag as a shining example of democracy and goodness for all – well, we don’t stop to think that we did it all by essentially wiping out the entire Native American population. And we justify that act by saying that we are the bringers of good. Yes, onward. We Christian soldiers. Fighting for goodness. Even today we think of ourselves as god’s gift to humanity. We pat ourselves on the back for civilizing the world. For bringing good white values to mankind. For being kind and loving. So, forgive me if I don’t buy all that crap. All I can say is that from my perspective we as a society as a whole have dreadfully failed. We have a long, long way to go to achieve what the likes of Jesus and god had in mind for us. Meanwhile, I’ll retreat to my cocoon and practice loving my fellow human beings one by one. Individually. That’s all I can do...try to respect and love the limited number of people that come directly into my life. --Jim Broede

Why I'm a free-thinker.

I think there's good in virtually all religions. Some stuff that's not so good, too. That's why I'm a free-thinker. I don't link myself to one particular organized or orthodox religion. I like to be free to think in a way that seems natural. About god. I like to carry on conversations with god. Directly. One on one. I think of god as a buddy. As a friend. God tells me there are many ways to salvation. Many, many ways. That it's all right to be a Christian or a Jew or a Muslim or a Hindu or a Buddhist. Even an atheist. God saves 'em all. Believers and non-believers. Anyway, I'm sort of a free-lance monotheist. I like Christians. I was one for a while. I was brought up as a Christian. I was even a church deacon (in a Congregational Church). I graduated from a church-related college. I like to talk to theologians and professors at Christian seminaries. I like Jesus. I see him as one of the greatest people who ever lived. Not divine. But inspiring. A great teacher. A great philosopher. I often ask myself, "What would Jesus do?" It helps me make decisions. I think Jesus was more a free-thinker than a "Christian" per se. I think Jesus would be disappointed in modern-day Christianity. He'd be disappointed in the church. I think Jesus would encourage more of us to become free-thinkers. To learn to think for ourselves. And to become lovers. Genuine lovers. Of life. And each other. --Jim Broede

That's my nature...loyal to the end.

Boy, I tell you, some days it’s rough being a romantic idealist, a free-thinker, a liberal and a lover. Makes me happy. But for being myself, right here in this blog, I was called (see the comments section) evil and an atheist and told, “screw you.” I guess I got all that for speaking my mind. For brooding honestly.

I try to be kind and understanding. And not offensive. I think that’s generally reflected in this blog. But hey, maybe I'm wrong. I'm open to dissenting views. I like it that the blog has had almost 1,000 hits since it debuted last Sunday. Not a bad start. Keep spreading the word, folks. It would make me happy if visitors to this site would read me from beginning to end – to get an idea of what I’m all about. That’s better than just scanning here and there. I don't like being taken out of context

I’m really a nice guy. Maybe some would consider calling me an old coot. I don't mind. I’m 71. But I’m still very active physically and mentally. I walk 10 miles a day. I write this blog, and my intent is to post on it daily. Trying to keep it fresh. I also write a daily journal. And I’ve got another web site called the Broede Bugle (http://www.broede.org/), which tells of a highly successful search for my ancestors. I’ve traced my father’s side of the family back to the 1600s in Germany and Switzerland.

It’s also worth mentioning that I’m in love. With life, period. I’m alive and very conscious of that fact. And I spent the past 13 years as care-giver to the love of my life, dear Jeanne. She died Jan. 18. Alzheimer’s. A devastating loss. We were together for almost 40 years, and in that time we were separated for only 10 days.

Contrary to a report here that I’m an atheist, I’m really a free-thinker. Like Thomas Jefferson. You might call me a free-lance monotheist. I even attend a liberal Christian seminary from time to time. To stimulate my spiritual mind. I believe in an after-life and a spirit world. I commune with Jeanne’s spirit daily. I’m still in love with Jeanne. Unconditionally. And I expect that love to last forever. That's my nature...loyal to the end.

I’m a writer. Have been all my life. Mostly for newspapers. I retired after 29 years with the daily St. Paul Pioneer Press in Minnesota. --Jim Broede

Better than getting all wrapped up in a ball game...

Yes, the Cubs are in a funk. A very bad time. A losing streak. They can’t do anything right. Now, if I allow that to affect me in a negative way, I’d go into a funk, too. I can’t control how the Cubs play. But I can control the way I react to it. I can choose to keep the Cubs at a relatively safe distance. By not watching the games. And by not even checking the scores, at least until the games are safely over. Then I will not have invested the time and the emotions in wishing for an outcome as the game progresses. I’m much wiser investing that time in some activity over which I have some semblance of control. For instance, I can go for a walk and enjoy the sunny weather and observe nature or listen to music or read a book or the newspaper or converse with a friend. That gives me a sense of taking control of my life in a positive, upbeat way. I sit down at my computer and stimulate my mind. By jotting down this thought and making myself reasonably happy. And relaxed. Better than getting all wrapped up in a ball game that would leave me disappointed and, yes, maybe even a little depressed. --Jim Broede

Maybe he took the ultimate gamble.

I like to level with the spirits. Whether it be with god. Or with Jeanne. Or with my dad. And when I address my dad's spirit, I don't criticize or castigate him for his suicide. He made a choice. His choice. Did he do the wrong thing? Or the right thing? I don't know. That's for him to decide. Maybe he's residing in a spirit world, and maybe he's happy there. Then it was a good choice. Maybe the right choice. Maybe in this earthly life he was miserable and unhappy, and he wanted a change. Maybe he wanted nothingness. Obliteration. No consciousness. Or maybe he believed in a spirit world, and that's where he wanted to go. To get closer to god. So many possibilities. Maybe dad thought suicide was his route to happiness. He was a gambler. Willing to take chances. Well, maybe he was betting on the existence of a spiritual realm. Maybe he took the ultimate gamble. Maybe he really believed he would finally become the big winner. Maybe at this very moment he's in Nirvana. In paradise. And happy to be there. Joyful. And maybe he's looking down on some of us, wondering why we create little hells. Hating each other. Rather than loving each other. Maybe dad is looking down at all the religious strife and the discord and the senseless wars. And he's feeling blessed. For arriving in the spirit world ahead of his time. If that's the case, maybe dad is smarter than the rest of us. And happier. --Jim Broede

...maybe there would be fewer suicides.

I know a woman who just can’t get over the suicide of her brother. It happened several years ago. She feels guilty. Maybe because she didn’t or couldn’t do anything to stop it. I find that sad. I wish I could console her. I’ve tried. But she becomes hostile. In part, I suppose, because I told her that I overcame the suicide of my father long ago. By thinking of it as sort of a heroic act. Dad was unhappy. A habitual gambler. And in those days (it was 1949) there were no pills for depression. Anyway, dad’s absence improved the atmosphere in the household. Far less stress. More peace and harmony. As a family, we learned how to cope and not feel guilty. After all, the event happened. And no way could we change it. No need to let dad’s suicide ruin our lives.

But this woman is allowing her brother’s suicide to wreck her life. Emotionally. With overwhelming guilt. With depression. With hostility toward people like me who tell her to get over it, and get on with life. I tell her that maybe it’s best to help other survivors learn that suicide can be prevented. Almost always. If only we had better treatment and recognized the symptoms. Her brother had obvious signs. He tried suicide once before by taking an overdose of sleeping pills. And when that didn’t do the trick, he said he’d find a better way. Even told her how he’d do it. By sticking a gun in his mouth. Sure enough, he blew his head off. Came as no surprise. Really. I can imagine the sister’s horror. She was devastated. And remains so to this very day.

But I keep telling the sister, don’t let it ruin your life. Demonstrate to your brother’s spirit how one can lead a happy life despite tragic events. Fall in love. With anyone. With life. Don’t lament or anguish. There are some things one can’t change. But one can still choose to be happy.

The woman tells me she was often frustrated with her brother. Because he tended to be argumentative. He’d take issue with her and everybody over just about anything. In that way, she said, I remind her of him. We’re so similar in our make-ups. Yes, I guess I frustrate the woman. The way the brother did.

Well, I need understanding, too. Just like the brother. We all need understanding. If we get it…maybe there would be fewer suicides. --Jim Broede

But first, you've gotta believe.

A woman named Sky wrote to me in January 2006 and said:

Jim, I used to believe that Alzheimer's patients just entered a "fantasy land" and if one just agreed with them on things then they would be blissfully happy, because they wouldn't know any better. Maybe that happens, I don't know. No one I have ever talked to other than you seem to think people with Alzheimer's live in a wonderful fantasy land they can enjoy. My dad is often scared and confused. He knows he should be able to fix things, but they only tear up....He knows he should be able to know what is going on, or know people, and it is devastating to him when he can't. He believes he should be able to drive and be independent and "people won't let him." I agree that talking to "dead people" is not harmful to them, and we don't need to argue with them on that. My dad has been talking some with my mother who died 34 years ago. I sometimes envy him that. But make no mistake, this is not a fun amusement park he has entered. --Sky


Here's my reply:

Sky, there is so very much positive fantasy that I see at Birchwood, the nursing home where Jeanne stays. Take Leona. I’ve appointed her director of happiness. And she takes the bit seriously. She goes around and tries to cheer up people. And she’s proud of it. And in the process, she cheers up herself. She feels useful. Ardeth comes down the hallway in her wheelchair, looking for her (long dead) brother Warren. And I talk to her about Warren. She loves Warren. And hey, I talk as if he’s very much alive. Because in Ardeth’s reality, he lives. I say, let her believe it. Because that makes Ardeth happy. And I praise so many, many of the residents to the sky. I talked about Frank recently. He died last week. Well, I used to joke with Frank. Made up stories. About him having a moonshine business, a distillery in the mop closet down the hall. Yes, fantasy. Fantasy used by me, in this instance, to stimulate Frank’s mind. His imagination. Make him laugh. And Frank saw the humor and the conviviality in the pretend world. That it’s all right to create a happy world. A funny world. I do this with Jeanne. And oh, so many others, at Birchwood. On a daily basis. It’s like magic. I can turn a seemingly sad situation into a happy one. I can make people think. That hey, the weather outside ain’t so bad. Sure, it’s cold. But hey, the sun is shining. Or look at those wonderful snowflakes. And the blanket of white snow. And breathe the crisp, fresh air. Even in a thunderstorm Jeanne and I venture out. In our ponchos. We make the best of bad situations. With the power of our minds. Even the dementia-afflicted mind. We find ways to make bad seem good. Yes, Sky, I enjoy my days at Birchwood. Maybe because I see a reality that inspires me. That makes me feel good. Makes me feel useful. Makes me feel alive. That’s what I try to do for Jeanne, and others. Make them feel alive. And happy. Even if that requires entering a fantasy world. Their fantasy. Or sometimes my fantasy. To me, Birchwood is a paradise. And I try to get others to see it that way, too. Tell me, who’s reality is real? Believe me, mine is real. I feel it. I savor it. Life is wonderful. Sky, you‘re invited into my reality. Into my world. But first, you've gotta believe. --Jim Broede

...because we tolerate this stuff.

I know a woman whose brother committed suicide. And it’s left her devastated. Even years later. And I’ve told the woman that the whole system failed her brother. Everyone. And that includes society as a whole. It was obvious that her brother was hell bent on suicide. He tried it once, unsuccessfully. And he told his sister and others how he’d do it next time. He’d become more efficient. Hey, even I share in the blame. Because I haven't done more to make society more aware of the perils that lead someone to suicide. And that all too often there isn’t help out there. Not the kind of help that’s needed to deal with mental health problems. To deal with people bent on suicide. It makes me sad. But it also makes me pissed. Pissed because we’re all to blame. For lots of things. You, me, society as a whole. Because we don’t pursue the common good. And we stop short of adequate care. Not only for that woman’s brother. But for, oh, so many, many others.

It was a year or two ago that a fella went to a hospital in Minneapolis and said he was in dire need of help. That he felt like he was going nuts. But he was turned away. Because there were no spare beds. So the guy went home. Where he killed his mother and chopped her head off. Now, tell me, if the guy had checked into the hospital having a heart attack, he’d be treated, wouldn't he? And they’d find a bed. They’d admit him pronto. But when he’s got mental problems, he’s turned away. That’s the way it is, folks. That’s why I’m sad and downright pissed. And we’re all to blame…because we tolerate this stuff. –Jim Broede

Learn to persevere a while longer...maybe forever.

Things have turned bad for the Chicago Cubs after two months of playing good baseball. Posting the best record in the major leagues during that momentous stretch. They’ve lost 9 of their last 16 games. Yes, they’ve gone 7-9. Fortunately, first-place Milwaukee has slumped, too. So the Cubs are only one game out of first. But one of the Cubs' best hitters, Alfonso Soriano, tore a quadriceps muscle in his leg Sunday, and he’ll be out for up to six weeks. The Cubs missed Soriano’s bat and lost 2-1 to Houston in 10 innings last night. Things are starting to go sour. The vibes aren’t good. Yes, so-called shit happens. In baseball. In life. Some of us let that get us down. Others find a way to cope. I’m not sure the Cubs as a team will learn to compensate, and make up for the loss of a key player. The team, as a whole, may begin to feel sorry for itself. The Cubs did that last season, when perhaps the team’s best hitter, Derrek Lee, broke his wrist and sat out for two months. Yes, the Cubs have to learn to tell themselves that a good team finds a way to not only survive, but to succeed. To cope. To make the best of bad situations. To overcome adversity. But I don’t personally get my hopes built up over the Cubs’ future. Because I have no control over how the Cubs play. Oh, yes, I wish this were the year that the Cubs win the World Series for the first time in 99 years. But alas, it may not happen because the baseball gods choose to not let it happen. It ain’t time yet for Cubs fans to be jubilant. To get a feel for Nirvana. The baseball gods may be teaching Cubs fans a lesson. Learn to persevere a while longer…maybe forever. –Jim Broede

...being married to a goddess.

I think unconditional love is cultivated. It’s not something that occurs instantaneously. It took me the better part of a lifetime to feel unconditional love for Jeanne. It took shared experiences. And a gradual building of trust. Finally, I understood that Jeanne was my soul mate. And in the end it came down to understanding the singleness of purpose in my life. Nothing became more important than caring for Jeanne. Loving Jeanne. Unconditionally. I became consciously aware that this was my mission in life. And so I focused on it. I loved daily. And I lived in the moment. I stopped worrying about tomorrow. I lived today. For Jeanne. And for myself. To be with Jeanne. To get my sustenance from Jeanne. And to give Jeanne everything I had. By caring. By loving. And it felt, oh, so very good. Still does. I still love Jeanne. In spirit. In the depths of my soul. Jeanne, more than anyone or anything, made my life worthwhile. Because Jeanne made me feel love. Real love. True love. Jeanne made me feel alive. Yes, it’s almost as if Jeanne was a goddess. That’s what pure love feels like…being married to a goddess. --Jim Broede

The widening gap between the rich and poor.

Something to think about. The gap between the rich and poor is the largest it has ever been and is rapidly growing. It is also the largest of any industrialized nation. The 10 percent wealthiest own 73 percent of the wealth in the United States. The top 1 percent own about 39 percent. Between 1979 and 1994, family income fell 14 percent for those in the lowest quintile (20 percent) and rose 83 percent for the top 1 percent. In contrast, between 1947 and 1979, all quintiles grew between 86 percent and 116 percent, with the bottom quintile growing the most and the top quintile growing the least. In 1965, the average chief executive officer's income was 44 times that of the average U.S. worker's income. In 1995, that was up to 212 times as much -- a ratio hgher than of any other industrialized nation. Between 1990 and 1995, corporate profits rose 50 percent, and CEO pay rose 65 percent. During the same period, worker layoffs were up 39 percent, and workers pay was down 1 percent. Such disparities undermine democracy because fewer people have access to full and equitable participation and decision making in our society. --Jim Broede

We've sold our collective soul...and it ain't to god.

I reject what I perceive to be our societal values. Here in America. I feel a bit ashamed to be an American. I don’t particularly like the American political, economic and social systems. Does that make me un-American? Well, it makes me a liberal, so to speak. That’s what I call myself. That’s how I define myself. An unabashed liberal. I’m a liberal in a conservative-dominated system. A white supremacy system. Pretty much a white male supremacy system. As a nation, we were founded on the basis of white supremacy, and we’ve never really rid ourselves of that shameful legacy. Oh, we’ve played a shell game. We’ve pat ourselves on the back for making inroads. For bringing about more equality. But in terms of politics and economics, we are still far, far from a system of equal opportunity and equal privilege. We keep widening the gap between the rich and poor, between the haves and the have-nots. We talk a good ball game. Good platitudes. But we don’t play the same ball game that we talk. As conservatives, we want to protect and preserve the status quo. We want little, if any, change. As a liberal, I want change. Dramatic, far-reaching change. A revolution maybe. Maybe liberal is a misnomer. Maybe I’m a radical. Yes, compared to the existing prevailing thought in America, I suppose I’m a radical. I want change. Lots of change. Not mere token change. I want to throw the rascals out and start all over. And you know what? I see so many of the existing institutions participating in the corruption of our society. Even the church. The Christian religion. That’s why I’m no longer a Christian. I’ve become a free-thinker in an attempt to throw off the shackles. Christianity tends to talk the talk, and not walk the walk. Christianity is for the status quo. So many, many Christians call America god’s gift to humanity. Yes, we’re touted as the good people, the good Americans, going off to war like good Christian soldiers. Glory, glory Hallelujah! Only thing is I don’t see much glory these days in the American way. Or the Christian way, for that matter. As a nation, we’ve sold our collective soul...and it ain’t to god. --Jim Broede

And Deloris said, "Thank you."

I still visit Jeanne's old roommate at the nursing home. Deloris still yells and screams. A lot. Maybe it’s best described as an anguished cry. Loud and long. We could hear Deloris coming down the hallway, in her wheelchair, which she propelled with her feet, in a walking motion. And of course, once she entered the room, earplugs were helpful. Anyway, Jeanne and I tolerated the cries. I think it was a relief valve for Deloris. A way for her to vent. To release her frustrations of living with dementia. Some folks found Deloris’ cries disturbing. They wished she’d shut up. But I was nice to Deloris. Always. I told her that she sounded like an opera singer. And Deloris took that as a compliment. “Somebody else told me that the other day,” Deloris said. Actually, it was me. I gave Deloris that pitch often. Maybe I meant it initially in a kidding way. But Deloris took it seriously. I think it made her feel good. But some folks at Birchwood told me that maybe I was encouraging Deloris to continue to make those anguished cries. With the compliment. Maybe that’s so. I don’t really know what’s right or wrong in this instance. On one hand, it’s disturbing behavior. Mostly disturbing to people who have to listen. But then, the anguished cries may be the only practical relief valve for Deloris’ frustrations. A natural way to vent. And that may be doing some good. For Deloris. Sort of like when some dementia patients swear a blue streak. My inclination is to enter Deloris’ reality. And make her feel good about herself. By telling a white lie. That maybe she’s a natural born diva. An opera singer. One night, I asked Deloris if she wanted applause. “Yes,” she said. So I applauded, and yelled “Bravo!” And Deloris said, “Thank you.” --Jim Broede

...because it's god-awful wrong.

I'm 71, and I'm not stupid. Therefore, I know that if I had spent my life as a black man rather than a white man, my life would have been markedly different. Probably not for the better. Because I would have lived my life in a racist society. I would have been one of the oppressed. I would have been denied basic civil and human rights. I would have received an inferior education in segregated schools. I would have been blatantly told by many whites that I was inferior. And I would have been treated as inferior. With lack of respect. And nowadays I’d be told you blacks have come a long way. You are treated better today than you were treated when you were a young man. And I’d tell the white folks that ain’t good enough. I want full equality of opportunity and privilege. Just as if I were white. And I’d remind the white folks that I’ve been disadvantaged all my life because I was denied my basic rights as a human being from the very beginning. It hampered me. Sure, I overcame in many, many ways. But still, it was much more of a struggle than if I had been born white. I was discriminated against solely because of my skin color. And hey, that’s arbitrary. And it’s unfair. And if you tell me that things have changed for the better and that blacks are now on equal footing with the whites, then I’d say you are either blind to reality, or you’re a liar.

Meanwhile, I know that I’m white. And I know that gives me a distinct advantage. Very much so. And I’m one of those whites who admits that’s wrong. It’s downright immoral. And I aim to do something about it. By becoming a traitor to the white supremacy cause. I hereby renounce the practice of white supremacy, and I’ll try my best to do something about it. I don’t want to be a privileged white anymore…because it’s god-awful wrong. --Jim Broede

A waste of good lives.

We Americans have become a fearful lot, haven't we? It wasn’t always that way. I seem to remember a time when we trusted each other. We felt safe and secure. Now we are, oh, so fearful. Fearful of the people around us. Fearful of strangers. Fearful that somebody is going to harm us. We go to war. Out of fear. Fear that an “enemy” will strike us before we can strike him.

Maybe we turned into a fearful society the day after 9/11. We’re so fearful – to the point of willingly giving up so many freedoms. Just so we can feel a bit more secure. Safe. And we declare war against a perceived enemy – so-called enemy combatants. That’s the new definition we give to our enemies. Enemy combatants. Not soldiers any more. When really they are criminals. We shouldn’t have to go to war. Instead, we should prosecute them as criminals. Inside our judicial system. Give ‘em a fair trial. Maybe we should send the terrorists to prosecution in the World Court. That’s where the criminal element belongs. That’s much better than going to war. Especially a war with no foreseeable end. A war with mounting human casualties. A waste of good lives. --Jim Broede

A place where Jeanne resides.

I mean by the "spirit world" another dimension. Yes, a pure spirit realm. Outside of our physical body. It's a place where our soul has been freed from our body. I think of it as paradise. Or what others might call heaven or nirvana. The spirit world brings us much closer to god. The spirit world is a place where love abounds. Where one is permeated by an overwhelming sense of love. In other words, we truly feel the presence of god. Much more so than on Earth. The spirit can move from place to place. In an instant. Faster even than the speed of light. As a spirit, one can traverse the vast universe. See all of god's creation. Yes, this is how I perceive the spirit world. A place where Jeanne resides. --Jim Broede

It wouldn't be the same love I have for Jeanne.

I think there were times during the 13-year ordeal with Alzheimer’s that I questioned whether I loved Jeanne totally. Unconditionally. I was being put to the test. I had an excruciating inner struggle with myself. I had to dig deep into my soul. When I was depressed and tired and literally exhausted mentally, physically, emotionally. But I came through. And in those last 38 months, I never doubted that I loved Jeanne with all my heart and soul. Totally. Unconditionally. I was hooked on Jeanne. Smitten. Because of the big picture. Because of our almost 40 years together. Our shared experiences and intimacies. We had become a part of each other. A blend. A mix. In a real sense, we had become one. Almost impossible to live without each other. Even now, I have to cling to Jeanne’s spirit. To the fond memory. I still have to commune with Jeanne’s spirit. Daily. I need Jeanne, and I think she needs me. I can’t imagine myself loving another being again to the degree that I love Jeanne. Oh, I can still love. But I don’t think it would be a total thing. I can still be kind and gentle and very loving to another. But it wouldn’t be the same love I have for Jeanne. --Jim Broede

Little wonder that she became my true lover.

One thing people don’t understand about me – I’m different. Very different. And they find that hard to grasp. They can’t believe it. So they try to analyze me in a way that makes me more of a conformist, more like what they expect a guy to be. More or less like themselves. So when I declare myself a romantic idealist, for instance, they try to redefine me and call me a Pollyanna. One can’t be a true romantic these days. That’s what they imply. In a sense, they are telling me you can’t believe what you say you really believe. It’s too preposterous. But believe me, folks, I am preposterous. This is me. Romantic idealist. Free-thinker. Liberal. Lover. Even when I was a care-giver, some of ‘em disbelieved that I could love Jeanne to the extent of pushing a wheelchair 10 miles a day, to hand-feeding Jeanne lunch and supper, to giving her a shower and brushing her teeth nightly. Yes, even spending 8 to 10 hours a day with Jeanne. More than three years without a miss. Because I loved this woman. Adored this woman. Jeanne was/is my goddess. When I courted Jeanne in 1968, I declared that I had to see Jeanne for at least 1,000 days in a row. And so, when I was sick, I pulled myself out of bed and went and knocked on Jeanne’s door, just so I could catch a glimpse. Well, it turned out that we got married long before the 1,000 days expired. We went far longer than a mere 1,000 days. Maybe in almost 40 years of marriage we were separated for less than 10 days. Yes, we always were able to take each other in big doses. Jeanne accepted me, in large part, I think, because I was delightfully different. Not like everybody else. Yes, a Pollyanna. And hey, I didn’t imagine all this. I lived it. I found a wonderful woman who didn’t mind my being different. Being almost unbelievable. But believable because Jeanne was seeing it with her own eyes. And Jeanne knew how to appreciate my being different. She liked it right from the start. Yes, Jeanne was the first and only woman I ever met that fully accepted me as a romantic idealist, a free-thinker, a liberal and a lover. All rolled into one. Yes, the unbelievable became believable for Jeanne. Little wonder that she became my true lover. --Jim Broede

Enough to make me happy...forever.

Some people tell me that unconditional love is impossible. But I don't believe that. One must give love time to percolate. To evolve. I don’t like relationships built on the short-term. They aren’t nearly as intimate as long-term commitments. I want love that lasts. Yes, old Pollyanna Jim. I want to make love, and have it really succeed. No half measures. Could be I’ll end up this Earthly life having genuinely loved only one other. My dear Jeanne. That's enough to make me happy...forever. --Jim Broede