I was on my way.

In my younger days, I think I found it difficult to be a romantic idealist. Or a liberal. Or a free-thinker. Or a lover. I had to feel my way. And I needed courage. To be what I am. To pursue dreams. Oh, I had the makings of all this. But I didn't know how to go about it. I was just becoming conscious. Aware that I was alive. Maybe I was 3 or 4 before I really became conscious. And I started to think. With words. Meaningful words. But my vocabulary was rather limited. And I didn't know what to make of the world. Of my immediate environs. I don't know if initially I felt secure or insecure. Maybe I was becoming curious. Even fascinated with this thing called life. I remember getting lost once. On my way home from kindergarten. In Chicago. And I started to cry. I'm sure I eventually found my way home. I cried, too, when seated on Santa Claus' lap. Maybe I thought Santa looked like an ogre. Or the devil. Bedecked in that red suit and hiding behind a beard. I also remember my mother pulling me on a sled, through the neighborhood, to look at all the Christmas lights. Rather colorful. Maybe I was discovering the true nature of fascination. And awe. I also remember being scared. In the operating room. When the ether mask was put over my face. I screamed. Then I woke up. Feeling sick. Drowsy. I no longer had tonsils. I was offered ice cream. But I said, no thanks. My throat didn't feel good. Didn't know it at the time. But I was on my way to becoming a romantic idealist, a liberal, a free-thinker and a lover. --Jim Broede