Where the spirit thrives.

I’m able to focus on only one love at a time. Makes me monogamous. Can’t fathom carrying on two love affairs at the same time. Impossible. Because true love needs to be focused. On one. I was that way when I was married to Jeanne. For 38 years. But she died 4 years ago. And now I’m in love again. And it seems so natural. To be focused. On love. As if I’m wearing blinders. Like a race horse. Only thing is, I’m not racing. I’m moving through life in slow motion. Savoring it all. Minute by minute. Maybe even instant by instant. I’m thinking that I was born to love. To feel the sweep of passion. Emotion. But in a soft and gentle and tender way. In a sense, life was meant to be more pleasant and tranquil and serene. Rather than exciting. I like the feeling of falling asleep in love. Drifting. Through the cosmos. Through all of Creation. Into another dimension. Where the spirit thrives. As if in Eden. In Paradise. –Jim Broede

We teach each other.

The skies are overcast today. Here in Sardinia. But I still feel sunshine. Brightness. Warmth. Because I’m in a good mood. Almost always. I really like the contrast in weather. Something nice about a cloudy day. Often, it gives me a feeling of living in the past. In another time. I don’t know why that is. It just is. And I learn to accept things as they are. Oftentimes, without questioning. I follow my instincts. That’s how I ended up in Sardinia. I even write and speak instinctively. Doing whatever seems natural. Of course, I’m somewhat limited here. In making myself understood. Because I don’t speak Italian to any significant degree. But I’m an observer. And my true love is bilingual. She’s teaching me some Italian. But I’m a slow-learner. Always have been. Maybe it’s that I like to take my time. I used to rush/hurry through life. Because that’s the way I was brought up. To actually go contrary to my basic instincts. But I’ve corrected that mistake. Thank gawd. I still see lots of people in a hurry. Trying to do too much in a short time. That includes my true love. But she’s learning. We are teaching each other. A whole lot. On how to live. Happily. –Jim Broede

Savoring life to the enth degree.

One of the best decisions I ever made was to quit living fulltime in the USA. And to divide my time between Minnesota and Sardinia. This is the way life should be lived. Taking advantage of life in America. But at the same time getting a taste/feel for other parts of the world. I'm starting to feel more like a world citizen. Less parochial. And to think, the major impetus for my decision was the pursuit of love. Nothing better than that. I'll look forward to coming back to the US this spring. But I'll also be equally enthused about leaving again later in the year. For another pleasant winter in Italy. In the area with weather far more like Florida or Arizona than Minnesota. Life was meant to be lived. And that's just what I am doing. Savoring life to the enth degree. --Jim Broede

Might be nice to look Italian.

The bushy moustache. It’s alive and well in Italy. Particularly here in Sardinia. Especially with middle-aged and older men. I observe ‘em walking down the street. I don’t know what to take of it. If it gives them the distinguished look. Or what. All I know is that I wouldn’t want a moustache. Seems to me it might get messy if I had a cold and needed to blow my nose. I may go two or three days without shaving. But that’s the closest I’ve ever come to a moustache. I like the feel of being clean-shaven. Albeit, it might be nice to look like a dapper Italian. –Jim Broede

Showing her how to be patient.

Taking a number. Standing in line. That’s a part of every day life in Italy. Here in Sardinia, my true love went to a medical clinic. Simply to deal with the red tape for a routine visit to a doctor. And she got number 99. And number 67 was being served. She had to wait for about an hour. And if she wants to mail a package at the post office. On a particularly busy day, the wait may be for half an hour. But I tell her, practice patience. Bring along a book. Or a newspaper. Take advantage of the waiting time. Relax. Look around. Enjoy what you see. Quite a mix of people. Anyway, she’s still able to pick her own doctor. Under socialized medicine. Everybody is covered. For primary care. If you wanna see a specialist, you may have to pay a little bit. Based on your income. She pays 20 euros. The equivalent of $25 in U.S. money. Meanwhile, I spent time with my true love at the clinic. Keeping her company. Demonstrating how to be patient. –Jim Broede

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

The tide is turning. Americans returned Republicans to power. But we are having second thoughts about that. Or so the polls show. Guess we are a fickle lot. Now Obama’s popularity is starting to rise. Over 50 percent approval rating again. And furthermore, Americans don’t seem to want Republicans toying with cutbacks in social security and medicare. The lunatics on the far right of American politics are being recognized for what they are. Lunatics. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! –Jim Broede

Time to serve the common good.

‘It opens one’s heart,’ my true love said. Yes, she was watching events unfold in Egypt. Where Egyptians, especially young ones, have taken to the streets to protest the dictatorial rule of Mubarack. And I have to agree. With my true love. With the Egyptians. I want a worldwide revolution. Throwing off the yolk of bad government. Where the few exploit the many. It’s happened all over. Even in the U.S. Where a few elite capitalists run the show. Big business. Politicians with no empathy for poor people and the middle class. We ordinary Americans won’t become free until we take to the streets. Like the Egyptians. The Tunisians. The Albanians. Arise, you downtrodden. You poor people. You middle class. No longer do we want the rich to rule. It's time to serve the common good. –Jim Broede

No idea where this will lead.

I’m on a voyage of discovery. Of Sardinian pastries. But not to the delight of my true love. Too often to suit her, I bring home goodies. Yesterday, it was little bites of cream cheese and almond sins. I call ‘em that. Because they are downright sinful. In a flavorful way. And true love agrees. But still she indulges. Yes, in this sinful stuff. I remind her that Eve tempted Adam with an apple. When she wasn’t supposed to. Now I’m getting even with woman. Here in Paradise. Tempting her with a pastry. I have no idea where this will lead. –Jim Broede

Sardinians come up a bit short.

I’m either getting taller. Or the people around me are getting shorter. I guess it’s the latter. Yes, I’ve noticed that many Sardinians are very short. Especially the women. I mean that being four-foot-six or even less isn’t all that unusual. And I can be in a roomful of people. And I may be the tallest one around. I’m just barely under six feet tall. Which I consider average for an American man. My true love tells me it’s probably in the Sardinia make-up. In the genes. But she also suspects that Sardinians may have gone through tough times. In which they didn’t get adequate nutrition. My true love is a bit over five feet tall. Which makes her a towering giant compared to many Sardinian women. –Jim Broede

Printed news makes my day.

Lo and behold. The New York Times has come to Italy. Every Monday. As an insert in the liberal Italian newspaper, La Repubblica. Yes, a compact English language New York Times. That’s an innovation. Coming to Italy this way. Of course, I’m able to plug into the Times daily. On the Internet. But it’s nice to occasionally see the printed version. When I’m back in Minnesota, I get the Times. Home-delivered. Daily. Because I like to take the newspaper with me. To bed. And when I go out to breakfast some mornings. It’s a luxury. I’m addicted to the printed word. To printed news. With an objective or liberal slant. Makes my day. –Jim Broede

The indulgences of life.

I long for a big breakfast. The kind I get in Minnesota when I eat out. But in Carbonia in Sardinia, I haven't found a big breakfast restaurant. The best I can do is a coffee bar, where I get a quick espresso and a jelly-filled croissant. I tell my true love, let's go out for a big breakfast. And she says that's not to be had in Carbonia. Maybe in a bigger city, like Rome. But in Carbonia, breakfast is light. And for many people, eating out is a luxury. Too expensive. In a time of a fragile economy. When Italians go out to eat, it's more likely to be for lunch or supper. Not for breakfast. My true love grew up in a home where one seldom dined out. The economical way was to stay in. To economize. Maybe a little bit on the Spartan side. But I'm trying to teach my true love to learn to enjoy the indulgences of life. Eating out. Several times a week. Even for a big breakfast.--Jim Broede

Feeling the pulse of real life.

I'm in a medical clinic waiting room. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. And it's an incredible and captivating scene. I see three old ladies. They look like old country peasants. Wearing babushkas --scarfs on their heads. And wearing long, full skirts. They are crippled. Bent over. One with three-pronged canes. One in each hand. She creeps along. A few inches at a time. Another is assisted by a middle-aged woman. Maybe her daughter, who fetches a wheelchair. And then the challenge of fitting the heavy-set woman into the chair. Four of us rush to her aid. We succeed. And the old woman smiles. In relief. To be seated. To be moved. Comfortably. One wonders about these women. All of 'em lovely. In their own ways. It's as if I'm living in an 18th or 19th century novel. In another time. I feel wonderful. Privileged. To be here this morning. I came to accompany my true love. For a routine medical test. And I'm treated to characters. All around me. Everyone unique. Men with big, full moustaches. A woman with what could pass for a hunting cap. Another woman wearing an immense furry collar. A man donned in a maroon beret and a tan sweater, with hands in his pockets. I am seeing scintillating Sardinians. Feeling the pulse of real life. --Jim Broede

I am truly alive.

I’m sitting on a sand dune on the Porto Pino beach, facing away from the Mediterranean Sea. Looking toward a thick row of bent-by-the-wind-shaped stalwart pine trees. And I’m listening to the rolling surf. And my true love is roaming the beach. Picking up stones and pebbles and seashells. To scatter atop the grave of her father Giuseppe. He died in 1977. Of a stroke. At age 57. Her mother Lucia died last August. Age 86. She’s entombed separately from Giuseppe in the Catholic cemetery in Carbonia. In 5 years, their remains will be united in a common grave. My true love visits the cemetery every Sunday. To put fresh flowers on the graves. I see my true love now. She’s ambling down the beach. Maybe 500 meters away. Still collecting her little treasures. She’s carrying a blue plastic bag. And her maroon purse, which I jokingly call a saddlebag. I suppose I should go and assist her. But I’m transfixed here. Mesmerized by the sound of the surf and the scenic beauty and by the comfortable balmy temperature. I’m guessing 60 degrees. Imagine that. On Jan. 30. The sky is half full of bulging cumulus clouds. An hour ago, we had a rain shower. But it didn’t last long. We sat it out in our little Fiat. Observing a rainbow. Faint at first. And then becoming more vivid. Now my true love has become a distant speck. And I am marveling at the peace and tranquility of the afternoon. It’s 3:40 p.m. Maybe 2 1/2 more hours of daylight. And I am about to close my eyes. And thank gawd for bringing me here. To Sardinia. I never dreamed I’d be here. I am in Paradise. And I haven’t even died. I am truly alive. –Jim Broede

Checking for the boogeyman.

So very many of us aren’t real people anymore. We hide behind pseudonyms. We are fake. Afraid to be ourselves. We are a fearful people. I post on the Alzheimer’s message boards. Under my real name. I don’t think anybody else does. Imagine that. I’m one of a kind. I don’t dread or fear being me. Jim Broede. That’s my real life name. I grew up with it. And I’m not ashamed or afraid to use it. Wherever I go. Some people have suggested it’s a fake name. That I’m like everybody else. Hiding my real identity. I would see no purpose in that. I want people to know me. As me. But I sense that all around me, people are living in fear. Maybe it’s the threat of terrorists. Not knowing the enemy. Not knowing who might harm or kill you. Or will take advantage of you. It wasn’t that way when I was growing up in the 1940s and 1950s. I think the onset of fear began in the 1990s. And culminated with 9/11. President Roosevelt’s famous quote was that there’s nothing to fear but fear itself. He cautioned us against it. During the Great Depression. A generation of people took Roosevelt’s words of advice. But the current generations have given in to fear. They are sissies. Checking under their beds every night. For the boogeyman. –Jim Broede

I'm a free-thinker.

I like to write. Because it forces me to think. I have to put something on paper. Or on the screen in the computer. And I can’t just put down anything. I need a thought. An idea. Something to ponder. So that’s what I do. If I didn’t sit down and write, I’d still think. To some degree. But not nearly to the degree I do when I write. To me, the written word is more sacred than the spoken word. Because it’s more concrete. I can see it. Read it. Come back to it tomorrow or next year. It’s retrievable. Otherwise, some of my thoughts would be gone. Forever, I suspect. Too fleeting. My brain needs assistance. A storehouse of written words. Written thoughts. The written word also allows me to be daring. I can write absolutely anything I want. Oh, what a sense of freedom. If I tried to tell other people some of my thoughts, they might tell me to shut up. That they don’t want to hear it. Or they may brand me as subversive. Or something worse. And they could easily misjudge me. And hold my thoughts against me. Some religions have been known to execute people for heretical thoughts. Imagine that. I think there should be freedom to think anything. As long as one’s ideas aren’t forcibly foisted on others. If other people become riled by a thought, that’s their problem. They should learn to accept free thought. Yes, I call myself a free-thinker. And I am. –Jim Broede

Two things I'd do over.

I have two regrets about yesterday. Two things I’d do over. My worst transgression was not thinking. When I walked past a man walking with the aid of two crutches. Not the kind one puts under the arms in one’s arm pits. But the shorter kind that come below the elbows. And in one of his hands he was carrying a small plastic grocery bag. And there was a light mist out. Enough for me to carry an open umbrella. A minute after I passed the man, I thought I should have offered to carry the bag and to accompany the man to his destination under protection of the umbrella. I turned around and was on my way back, when the man was crossing the street. To enter an apartment complex. And I thought to myself, ‘My gawd, helping this man should have been an automatic reflex. And it wasn’t.’ Also, while walking, I saw a banana peel on the sidewalk. And I just left it. Maybe for someone to slip on and break his neck. Anyway, today I’m trying to be more conscious. And do the right things. –Jim Broede

The opportunity to make it right.

I’m wondering. Do I know anyone who doesn’t have something going wrong in their lives? Guess not. That’s the nature of life. Seldom, if ever, does everything go right. And the relatively happy people, I suppose, are the ones that adjust. Adapt. Cope with the adversities. Many of ‘em minor. But still, I see people who get annoyed if everything doesn’t go right. Which means they are perpetually annoyed. The crab lady living in the flat below us was annoyed this morning. I guess with the way we parked our car. My true love got a little rattled over the lady’s barking. I said, ignore her. That’s what one has to do. Ignore the crabby people. Don’t let them waste your time. Or get under your skin. Another thing. Our car didn’t start this morning. Because the key won’t turn in the ignition. We thought we had the problem fixed with a repair a few days ago. It was working. But not this morning. My true love is a bit upset about it. But I tell her it’s not a life and death situation. We’ll get a permanent fix eventually. Maybe a new car. This one is 25 years old. Still in relatively good shape. Only 124,000 kilometers on the odometer. We can milk it along. Afterall, I’ve driven cars that have gone for 270,000 miles. Just gotta take care of ‘em. Baby ‘em. I like to get the most out of everything. But especially life. Even when something goes wrong. Because I have the opportunity to make it right. –Jim Broede

I'll be there with 'em.

I'm seeing increasing amounts of unrest around the world. In places like Tunisia and Albania and Egypt and Yemen. I sure hope the wave continues to build. I'm encouraged that young people are taking to the streets. To insist on reform. These countries tend to have rich ruling elite. And ordinary people are exploited. The exploitation of the middle class and the poor has occurred almost forever in the USA, it seems. Believe me, if Americans start taking to the streets to bring about dramatic change, I'll be there with 'em. A revolution can't happen too soon. --Jim Broede

I can be a dreadful guy.

I reserve the right to do the wrong things. Such as alienate people dear and close to me. I’ve done it to my sister and my mother. And to others I shall not name. Just think of it. I’ve even dared to do the wrong thing to my beloved mother. And why? Because to truly communicate with another human being there must be a two-way desire to connect. Issues that separate us need to be brought to a head. Often through confrontation. With my sister, it was a matter of her lifelong addiction to alcohol. I would not accept her as an alcoholic. Yes, I was doing the wrong thing. Knowingly. I didn’t want to do what the experts encouraged me to do. Keep contact. Express love continually. I refused to continue my relationship with my sister. Until she quit drinking. Which she did, fortunately. Several years ago. Better late than never. In my mother’s case, it was a battle with depression in the last 20 years of her life. I couldn’t stand it. Or live with it. Or accept it. I limited my visits to weekends. And I became the preacher. Do something. Do something. Do something. Get out of your morass even if you have to pull yourself up by the bootstraps. Because that’s my way. I didn’t abandon my mother, like I did with my sister. But I insisted that she get treatment. That she deal with the problem. Effectively. I always kept close contact with my mother. Guess I loved mother more than my sister. Gotta be honest about it. I can be a dreadful guy. –Jim Broede

I don't make it easy.

I generally like to have my own way. But sometimes, I acquiesce. I give in. For the sake of peace and harmony. Especially with a loved one. But at other times, I insist on ruffling a few feathers. And why not? Nobody should have his/her way all of the time. Because it would be unfair. Even immoral. So to make for a better world, I insist on my way at crucial times only. After a while, I give in. After having played games with my adversary. I want him/her to work for everything. It shouldn’t be easy. Especially when one is dealing with me. –Jim Broede

Learn to wipe your own ass.

When I hear people make small stuff into big stuff, I often counter by taking something even smaller and making it seem immense. Even gargantuan. I try to make them see what they are doing. Blowing things way out of proportion. It happens every day. And journalists are good at making something out of nothing. I should know. I’ve spent most of my life writing for newspapers. Sensationalizing things. Today, for instance, I’d blow up the little known fact that some school districts, in an effort to cut budget, no longer furnish teacher restrooms with toilet paper. I’d make a big entertaining stink of it. Even though it probably isn’t such a big deal. Because teachers have learned to bring their own toilet paper to school. They cope. They adjust to austerity programs. Often with good humor. They accept the absurdities of life. Yes, if you want a clean wipe the easy solution is in your own hands. Don’t rely on anyone else to wipe your ass. –Jim Broede

I've become a thinker.

I’m getting my thoughts organized today. That’s how I take care of myself. Get my head together. If something is troubling me. Even in a minor way. I think about the issue. Resolve it. One way or another. Rather than let it fester. And become more than a minor disturbance to my peace of mind. And another thing. When I’m thinking for a prolonged period, I tend not to eat. Or to eat light. Just nibble. That’s a good thing. I call it my thinking diet. I tell that to people under stress. They often put on weight. Because they become compulsive eaters. When I’m thinking, I’m actually relieving tension and stress. Maybe that’s why I skipped breakfast this morning. And went for a walk. I’ll bet that I’ll lose a pound or two on the thinking diet today. I’ll become even more svelte. More handsome. Yes, I’m feeling more and more good about myself. Because I’ve become a thinker. –Jim Broede

I'm a goodwill ambassador.

I’m seated on a bench. Outside the main post office. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. I’m sheltered here. From the rain. At about 9 in the morning. There’s a guy 20 feet away. Holding a placard to his chest. With printing. And he has a cup in one hand. So I assume he’s asking for money. For what, I don’t know. Because I don’t read or speak Italian. People entering and leaving the post office pretty much ignore him. In the 15 minute I’ve been here, I saw only one coin drop. At first, I thought that maybe the guy was on strike. Or protesting something. Occasionally, the guy takes a break. Sits down on a bench for a few minutes. Now he’s back up again. Two other guys are standing nearby. Chatting. One is leaning on his closed umbrella. Using it like a cane. Now two women have stopped to chat with the two guys. Sounds like a convivial conversation. Laughter. They part with repeated choruses of ‘Ciao. Ciao. Ciao.’ Now another guy enters the scene. Humming a lively tune. Sounds like bee-bop. He stops to read the placard. Then moves on. Without giving. But soon, another guy comes out of the post office. Drops in a handful of change. It’s been an hour or so. And the sun comes out. The dark clouds dissipate. Fast. I feel the warmth. Makes me wonder if that will spur the giving spirit. Sure enough, a lady seated on a bench, motions for the guy to come over. She drops in a coin or two. In 5 minutes, several others follow suit. Even I get up. Toss in more. I tell the man, ‘Non parlo Italiano.’ I ask if he speaks English. Apparently not. But wait a second. He says ‘thanks.’ And I tell him ‘Io sono un Americano.’ Yes, an American goodwill ambassador to Sardinia. –Jim Broede

Makes me boundlessly happy.

I’m always thinking. Often about what makes people unhappy. I’m happy. Almost all of the time. But that doesn’t stop me from reflecting on the nature of unhappiness. And maybe that’s why I’m happy. Because I think I understand the nature of unhappiness. The things that make people unhappy. And it’s mainly fretting over small stuff. I learned years ago to fret only over big stuff. Life and death stuff. And to cope. And to not let the small stuff bother me for very long. I dismiss it. And get on with being reasonably happy. Even my true love has been known to sweat the small stuff. Little things. Trivial things. I hope I’m a positive influence. In getting her out of occasional doldrums. Usually, all it takes is to reflect. On what’s going right in one’s life. Oh, so much. Such as the presence of my true love. Makes me boundlessly happy. –Jim Broede

The things that make me happy.

I'm up at 5-something in the morning. Sardinia time. Which is 7 hours advanced over Minnesota time. If I were back in my old haunts, in Minnesota, it'd still be yesterday. And I'd be thinking of going to bed in an hour or two. And my true love in Sardinia would be starting to wake from a night's sleep. Anyway, I like this arrangement. Living abroad. It's been an easy adjustment. I'm not the least bit homesick. Maybe because I'm happy. The astounding thing is that there aren't more happy people in the world. I think Italians are generally more happy than Americans. But I can't be sure of that. Because I don't speak Italian. Therefore, I don't carry on that many conversations with ordinary Italians. I just observe. And I ask my true love many questions. To get a sense of what's going on in Sardinia and in Italy. And I'm able to gauge her feelings. She's mostly happy. But unhappy, too, about political, economic and social goings-on in Italy. She lets things bother her. Far too many. Little things. Makes her a bit unhappy. But I've learned to ignore much of what I can't change. Instead, I'm focused on my love. Of her. And of life in general. The things over which I have some reasonable degree of control. That's what I encourage my true love to do, too. But it's harder when one lives where one has grown up. One becomes too familiar with what's wrong. Often, little petty things. When one is away, like I am, everything looks fresh. Keeps me in an upbeat mood. There's a saying that familiarity breeds contempt. Maybe that's why I'm so disenchanted with American politics. I'm all too familiar with it. Italian politics may be just as bad or even worse than in the USA. But it's different. And fascinating. And funny. Because I'm not yet all that familiar with it. I can laugh at Berlusconi. But my true love can't. She despises him with a passion. Even more than I despise George Bush. Believe me, that's a whole lot. But I look at Berlusconi as an entertaining gadfly. Maybe because he isn't my prime minister. I'm merely a foreigner. Trying to fit in. Trying to learn. Trying to understand. Everything. Especially about the wonders of life. The things that make me happy to be an alive and conscious being. -- Jim Broede

I'm wishing for a happy ending.

The big brown male dog hobbled across the street. Like maybe it had been injured. Or had hip displacia. I wondered if it was in pain. As I passed by, it barked. A little menacingly, I thought. That brought another dog to the scene. A big white female, I think. She seemed to console him. They sat down together. The next day, the two dogs were in virtually the same place. This time the brown dog acted even more menacing. Approaching me. I kept going. I wondered what would happen on the third day. Both dogs were gone. I hope that the city of Carbonia in Sardinia has an animal shelter or a humane society. And that this all has a happy ending. –Jim Broede

Until love is put to a real test.

I don’t want my love for anyone put to trivial tests. If it’s ever to be tested, I want it tested big. For something significant. My guess is that some loves break up over practically nothing. Which, I suppose, means they were never real loves in the first place. To me, love is the most interesting subject in the world. I like to think about it. And even analyze the profundities of love. Seems to me that true love is unconditional. Or it ain’t true. But testing love over trivialities is absurd. That makes it no more than trivial love. I’m thinking a lot about love. Because I’ve spent most of my life in love. I’m on my second love now. And I’d like to think it’s a very solid love. Maybe even unconditional. But one never knows. Until love is put to a real test. –Jim Broede

So that I can stay me -- today.

I'm pretty well self-centered. As are most people, I presume. Nothing wrong with that. As far as I can see. Because I live inside myself. In my being. I know me. Or I think so. Albeit, I could be fooling myself. Because I like to think well of myself. That I'm basically a good person. Far from perfect, of course. Others may not perceive me as I do. But that's all right. I don't sweat it. They are entitled to their opinions. It's difficult really getting to know others. Because I don't live inside 'em. I only see them from the outside. Looking in. Some people tell me it's wrong to be self-centered. But I can't find any other center to be in. Maybe I'm not looking hard enough. All I know is that I like myself. There's nobody else I'd rather be. Although I am constantly changing. Evolving. I'm not the same guy I was as a kid or as a middle-aged adult. Or for that matter, I've even changed a little bit since yesterday. I'm in a state of flux. I'm adaptable. I'm open to change. And I take life one day at a time. I try to not get too far ahead of myself. So that I can stay me -- today. --Jim Broede

I don't over-react to over-reactors.

Seems incredible to me. How human beings get upset over little things. Meaningless things. I see it every day. Might just be an inclement weather day. Or the matter-of-fact way one has been treated. Or for being locked in a traffic jam for a half hour. Really minor stuff in the grand scheme of life. I live around such people. And occasionally I’m the one guilty of the infraction. But less so as I get older. Often, I get through a day without being annoyed over anything. Doesn’t necessarily mean it was a perfect day. Only that I’m able to control my reactions to daily events. I don’t overreact. In fact, I don’t even overreact to people who grossly overreact. –Jim Broede

The magnificence of Creation.

Once again, I am fascinated by the length and breadth of the cosmos. Maybe it's infinite. Goes on forever and ever. I'ver been reading in today's New York Times that astronomers, using the refurbished Hubble space telescope, have detected what may be the most distant and earliest galaxy yet found. It's described as a smudge of light only a tiny fraction of the size of our own Milky Way galaxy. And think of this, it's taken 13.2 billion years for light from the galaxy to reach us. Yes, traveling at a speed of 186,000 miles a second. Wow! Wow! Wow! That's what I call a great distance. This afternoon, I'm thinking of all the life that may be teeming between us and that distant galaxy. Makes me want to be god. So that I can be everywhere in the cosmos. Meanwhile, I can simply marvel at the wonder and magnificence of Creation. --Jim Broede

It could always be worse.

We have wind-whipped rain today in Sardinia. And temperatures in the lower 40s. That may make some Sardinians a little bit unhappy. They think of this as miserable weather. But still, from my perspective, if it gets no worse than this, we’re home free. We’re on easy street. We’re in Paradise. My true love says it’s not worth going for a walk. ‘You can’t carry an umbrella,’ she said, ‘because the wind will blow it away.’ But hey, I could wear a cap and a raincoat. And enjoy the romp. Sure beats being back in Minnesota. Where I may be subjected to sub-zero temperatures or a blizzard or both. I guess everything is relative. If I was in Minnesota, it might be better than being in Alaska or the Yukon. I take what I get. And learn to like it. Because it could always be worse. –Jim Broede

I can be terribly annoying.

I don’t hesitate giving advice. Even when it’s not welcome. To alcoholics. To over-eaters. To people in depression. To just about anyone having difficulty coping with life. I muse out loud. About possible solutions to problems. Of course, often enough I’m told to keep quiet. To shut up in no uncertain terms. And that’s all right. But I insist on exercising my freedom of speech. Even if it’s annoying. Because I believe in the message. That people can solve their own problems. If they just try. A little bit harder. Or maybe a whole lot harder. But I’m told sometimes that I exacerbate the problem. By making people feel bad about themselves. For their failures. But I tell them, I’m not the one making them fail. Or angry. They are doing it to themselves. They choose to drink too much or to eat too much or to be downright unhappy. But often, they claim to be predisposed to their maladies or afflictions. And that I should have more sympathy. I suppose they’re right. I can be a pretty mean bastard. But I like to think of it as tough love. I give them a plan. For instance, if they eat too much, just eat less. Eat a half of a pizza, instead of a whole one. Or drink half of a beer, instead of the entire bottle. In other words, regulate your diet. Eat and drink only so much. ‘You don’t understand,’ some of them lament. And I admit, could be. Because I only know what works for me. I’m a happy being. I’m not depressed. But still, I gotta admit, I’ve gone through some terrible times. And there may be more to come. But I’m trying to make most of the moment. Living one day at a time. With a fervent resolve to be happy. And in love. With someone. Or something. –Jim Broede

About the joyous wonders of life.

I don’t always sit on the sidelines and watch. But I am watching this week. As a drama unfolds on the Alzheimer’s message boards. A long time member, a prolific poster that goes by the tag JAB, has quit the message boards in a huff. Because she’s been reprimanded by the Alzheimer administrators that run the message boards. For a variety of reasons. That seems to make JAB feel unappreciated. She’s had enough of recrimination. But all sorts of posters have come to her aid. They ask that she stay on. And maybe she will. Eventually. A little wooing probably will go a long way. That’s what JAB wants. She wants to feel wanted. Guess we all do. One poster suggested that JAB needs the message boards. For her own psyche. That she’s consumed by the message boards. She’s made over 9,000 posts over a period of several years. Imagine that. She’s on the message boards day and night. Round the clock some days. She gets her sustenance by giving advice to Alzheimer care-givers. Referring them to authorities. Ones she has researched. I get the feeling that maybe Alzheimer administrators think that JAB is getting too big for her britches. Too carried away with herself. Personally, I don’t know. I just think of JAB as one of many characters that come to the message boards. I come often. But with less frequency than I used to. And I post primarily under a section known as musings. It’s not read as much as several other sections designed more for active care-givers. Musings are usually a bit more heady. Reflections. Ponderings. Meant to enliven the spirit. One doesn’t see JAB coming to musings very often. If at all. Maybe that’s what JAB needs to do. Spend more time musing. About the joyous wonders of life. –Jim Broede

I'm rested and at ease and more.

We decided not to fly to Trieste over the weekend. Which was a good decision. Because my true love was tired. And she tends to try to do too much. Even when she’s dog-tired. I tell her to slow down. To do less. To rest. I’d rather spend a quiet time. Caring for my true love. At home. Rather than put up with the rigors of travel. Especially when one is tired. I’m able to savor my true love tonight. Watching her. At the kitchen table. Correcting tests of her students. Teen-agers learning the English language. Later, we’ll have a quiet supper. Together. I am very satisfied and fulfilled by all this cozy togetherness. Here in Sardinia. I don’t need to go to Trieste. I have everything I need in life. Right here. In my midst. My cup runneth over. I don’t need more. I have my true love. With me. I’m rested. I’m at ease. And more. I’m in love. –Jim Broede

Only Sherlock Holmes knows.

I first came to know her as Sherlock Holmes. But her real name is Lucia. A professional care-giver that my true love hired. To help take care of her mother, who died last August. Of complications from Alzheimer’s. Anyway, Lucia is a good care-giver. Dedicated. She was able to assist my true love’s mother up and down three flights of stairs. And she did little extra things. I came to like Lucia. Without her ever meeting me directly. I saw her several times. When she didn’t know it. On a video-audio hook up on my true love’s computer. I came to know her that way. As a blond. But when I met here in person a few weeks ago, she was a brunet. So I didn’t immediately recognize her. Maybe she’s working undercover. As a detective. I know better, of course. It’s just that my true love once told me that Lucia reminded her a little of Sherlock Holmes. Because she’s inquisitive. And curious. And notices little things. Like picking up two packages of beans. Carefully weighing them. One in each hand. And concluding that one package has more beans than the other. Whether that’s significant. Only Sherlock Holmes knows. –Jim Broede

She's 8 going on 12.

Emma is precocious. She’s 8. Maybe going on 12. She’s Sardinian. Speaks Italian. And she’s learning English. In the 4th grade. The other day, she asked me, ‘Jim, do you want a biscuit?’ In perfect English. Yes, I did. A biscuit is a cookie. Italians call it a biscoto. Or biscuit. Anyway, I’m impressed by Emma. She’s observant. And curious. Even noticed that the tip of my middle finger, on my right hand, is missing. She wondered what happened. I told her my sister, when she was angry, slammed the kitchen door on my finger. It hurt. And took out a chunk. I had to walk to the hospital. A few blocks away. And get it sewn up. They put me to sleep. With ether. I didn’t like that. Emma asked if my sister felt bad over what she did. Yes, even years later. When we were adults. But it never bothered me. I’m able to live without a finger tip. Anyway, Emma satisfied her curiosity. Through my true love, who served as interpreter. And Emma showed us her worksheets. From English class. She's learning English words. By leaps and bounds. With the help of pictures. The same way I’m trying to learn Italian. With software called Rosetta Stone. I’m shown pictures on the computer screen. With the Italian word being pronounced clearly. Distinctly. But getting back to Emma. She inspires me to learn. So that I can carry on more conversations with her. Directly. I think she’s a bright, smart little girl. Both her parents are teachers. In Italian public schools. They are kind of curious people, too. They are interested in buying a sailboat. Although they don’t yet know how to sail. But they’ll learn. I like her parents. Because they tend to pursue their dreams. And little wonder that they have a precocious child. –Jim Broede

Why I have fallen in love.

The nicest thing about being in Sardinia is the shared experiences. With my Sardinian true love. I am seeing life in a new dimension. In love. With a Sardinian. I think Sardinians are special. Certainly, she is. More special than anyone in my life at the moment. I’ve been reading D. H. Lawrence’s book, ‘The Sea and Sardinia.’ About his experiences and impressions during a trip to Sardinia in the winter of 1920. I’m on my third or fourth reading of the book. And it’s truly become meaningful this time. Because I’m seeing the same places Lawrence visited. And I am more easily seeing Sardinia through Lawrence’s eyes and heart and experience. He saw Sardinia as Paradise, too. The Italians, and particularly the Sardinians, awakened his spirit. They are a kind-hearted, easy-going lot. Full of love. For the pleasures of life. Maybe that’s why I have fallen in love. Not only with Sardinia. But with a Sardinian. –Jim Broede

When less seems like more.

It’s called a bar. Really, it’s a place where Italians take an espresso. Yes, drinking strong coffee. While standing at a bar. I like to go in. More often than my true love. Because I also can get a pastry. This morning, it was a croissant. Espresso and croissant. That makes my morning. Especially when I’m with my true love. I reached for the croissant with a napkin. But my true love said I needed two napkins. To eat properly. Anyway, I munched away. Joyfully. My true love finished before me. I’m slow. I truly savor my espresso. And my croissant. I’m trying to reform my true love. Make her slow down. Period. In most anything she does. That includes time spent at the bar. Maybe if I could just get her to eat a croissant. But no. She wants to watch her weight. I tell her to eat slowly. Make a smaller amount last and last and last. It’ll seem like more. When really it’s less. –Jim Broede

I'm gonna look dapper. In Rome.

We pass the men’s apparel store. On Carbonia’s main street. In Sardinia. And the huge sign in the window tells of a sale. Everything is half off. My true love wants me to look dapper. When we go to Rome next month. So we back track. And enter the store. And we look at trousers. Black. Brown. I don’t want anything with wool. I prefer cotton. We find classy-looking corduroys. A fine, fine knit. Smooth. In dark brown. I try on a pair. It’s a little snug. We try one size bigger. It’s a little loose. But fine with a belt. The inseam needs adjusting. Then my true love spots a nice sport jacket. That goes perfectly with the trousers. I try one on. It’s a little too big. The next smallest size fits perfectly. I spend 140 euros in all. For a 280 euro Italian-made outfit. I’m gonna look dapper. In Rome. –Jim Broede

The pulse of real life.

I’m in a waiting room. At a medical clinic. In Carbonia. In Sardinia. Accompanying my true love for an eye exam. She’s in the examining room now. And 4 others are seated with me in the waiting room. Italians/Sardinians, I presume. To the left of me. Two ladies. Chatting. Facing each other. One with a box on her lap. Looks like it may contain clothing apparel. Her arms are braced atop the box. Like leaning on a fence. The other lady is wearing a black cap. With a visor. It’s a proletarian-type cap. The kind that a man might wear. In a factory. Or in a farm field. Across from me I assume are a husband and wife. A middle-aged couple. The man has horn-rimmed glasses. And a moustache. And a balding head. Gray hair on the sides. Almost hairless on the top. The woman is leaning forward, holding an open magazine. With two hands. The husband has clutched his chin with a fist. Now rubbing his nose. No, he’s pinching his nose. Between two fingers. I notice that he’s holding an extra pair of glasses and a folded sheet of paper in one hand. His right. Now he’s looking down. At the floor. As if in prayer. But he isn’t. I wonder what’s really on his mind. If anything. Another man has entered the waiting room. He’s robust. Overweight. He sits on the first chair, straddling the hallway and waiting room. As if he wants to make a fast getaway. I’m gonna try to size him up. But then my true love returns. She motions me to come. We have to go. I have to abandon my vigil in the waiting room. And I was just getting started. On our way out, my true love explains that her eye prescription remains essentially the same. As it was at her last exam. Almost two years ago. She’s pleased. I’m pleased, too. Because I’m observing Italians. The way I should be observing people all of the time. But so often I don’t notice. I’m preoccupied with other things. When really I should be observing the life around me. That’s the nice thing about being in Italy. It awakens me. To the pulse of real life. –Jim Broede

Yes, royally pissed.

Let's face it, fellow Americans. New York Times columnist Bob Herbert got it right today when he said the country is drowning in a sea of debt because of the obscene Bush tax cuts for the rich, the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq that have never been paid for and the Great Recession. Not because of social security or Medicare. Yet we have cold-hearted, immoral Republicans advocating getting the nation's financial house in order by cutting the greatest social programs we've ever had. The ones that benefit the poor and the middle class. The vast majority of Americans. Yes, folks, the political party of the rich wants the rich to get richer and the poor and the middle class to get poorer and poorer. And we poor and middle class just sit on our asses and wait for it to happen. When really, we should be taking to the streets. As have the people in Tunisia and Albania. We need to demonstrate. Rioting, if necessary. To let our politicians know that we are pissed. Yes, royally pissed. --Jim Broede

The way I see life.

He's a violinist. And he plays outside grocery stores. In Carbonia. In Sardinia. He keeps the violin case open. On the ground. Expecting passersby to toss in coins. Maybe even folding currency occasionally. Today I watched. For 15 minutes. Before two ladies made contributions. So did I. I told the guy I don't speak Italian. And that I was an American. And I wondered if he spoke English. I guess not. But he quickly broke into a sprightly tune. Which I assumed was American. Didn't recognize it. But it sounded American. He had been playing a classical piece. Over and over. One that I didn't know. But it sounded classical. Wish my true love had been with me. I would have asked her to quiz him. About whether these were hard times. And if he made an adequate living this way. And did he ever play professionally? On a concert tour. Or with an orchestra. I would have liked to know a little bit about him. I would have. If he spoke English. Meanwhile, maybe 30 or 40 people passed him by. Without much notice. Until the two ladies broke the ice, so to speak. I have a hunch that Sardinian women are more kind-hearted than Sardinian men. Certainly, my true love is kind-hearted. She would have admonished me if I hadn't tossed in some coins. And I may have admonished her if she had refused to talk to the man. And asked him questions. Caring enough to know about him is more important than giving money. That's the way I see life. --Jim Broede

Wanting to live forever.

I'm a late-bloomer. So late that I haven't even fully bloomed yet. And here I am. At 75 years, and counting. Actually, I may need 1,000 years to fully bloom. Maybe forever. I like that. Maybe I don't wanna ever fully bloom. Because I like the process of blooming. It's supposed to be a continuous thing, I suspect. Because I keep learning more and more about love. So much to know. It's impossible to ever acquire full knowledge of love. Maybe even god is still blooming. The god of love. The god of joy. The god of bliss. They are all one and the same. And even more. Love has endless potential. Endless possibilities. So many, many ways to express and live love. I'd like to spend eternity in exploration of love. That would give me the motivation I need. To live forever. Ironic, isn't it? My father wanted out. After 38 years. He committed suicide. And here I am. Wanting to live forever. --Jim Broede

I'll lament instead of preach.

I know people who like to lament. Lament about almost anything. But they mostly lament about what has gone wrong in their lives. Little things. Trivial things. Occasionally, a big thing. But mostly it's small stuff. The things I'd normally ignore. And I tell 'em that. And they accuse me of sounding like a preacher. That what they need is sympathy. A good listener. And that if I quit preaching, they'd get over their lamenting. Maybe in 15 minutes. They tell me that by preaching for them to quit lamenting, that I'm merely adding fuel to the fire. Giving them all the more reason to lament and lament and lament. Endlessly. So I've taken to lamenting over their lamenting. That from now on I'll try my best to promote lamenting. And that means we need more preachers. So let's just change our roles. Preachers, it's time to become lamenters. And lamenters, you can become preachers. --Jim Broede

For rule-breakers, it's satisfying.

I don't like rules. But sometimes, I learn to live by 'em. Quite reluctantly at times. Just to get along. But I also break rules. Knowing fuil well the consequences. Yes, I'll take issue with rules that I feel are stifling. Unfair. I don't want to die in order to oppose a rule. Or so I suppose. That wouldn't seem to make sense. Because I can better fight an unjust rule when I'm living. Easier to do something about it. In a practical way. Maybe by organizing opposition. From fellow human beings. If I don't like living under a particular rule, maybe I can go elsewhere. Where the rule doesn't apply. Or maybe I can get around the rule in other ways. I find that the Italians are good at skirting rules. They end up thumbing their noses at rules. And do as they please. Without being punished. Oh, they are so clever. They've even got the enforcers of rules looking the other way. That may annoy people who want strict enforcement. But for rule-breakers like me -- well, it's gratifying. --Jim Broede

I'm blissfully happy.

I'm certain that some diehard Chicago Bears fans are unhappy today. Because the Bears lost an opportunity to go to the Super Bowl yesterday. But I'm happy. Because the Bears overachieved this season. They weren't supposed to get this far. All the way to the NFC championship game. So I take solace in that. It was the first time in three years that the Bears even made it to the play-offs. Years ago I was greedy. I wanted the whole shebang. Everything. Nothing less than the championship. For all of my favorite teams. And if they didn't make it, I lamented. Even lost sleep over it. Anguished. Over what could have been. If only things had gone right. Instead, this time I just reflected. Thinking how lucky and fortunate that the Bears had a good season. Far better than expected. And also, that here I am. Living in Sardinia. With my true love. I'm more than satisfied. I'm blissfully happy. --Jim Broede

I'm in an earthly Paradise.

A nice thing. Being able to go to the most beautiful beaches in the world. And have 'em all almost to yourself. That's been my experience in Sardinia. On the Mediterranean Sea. In the middle of winter. But it really isn't winter for me. Feels more like spring in Minnesota. My true love and I roamed the two kilometer long Porto Pino beach yesterday on the southwest tip of Sardinia. And maybe we saw 5 people. Only 2 that came even remotely close to us. On horseback. Between the sand beach and a pine forest. I've read that while some parts of Sardinia are very much on the tourist trail, filled with Italian VIP visitors, there are some isolated gems to be found. One of these is Porto Pino. The locals, of course, frequent Ponto Pino in the summertime. But apparently they think that temperatures in the 50s on a Sunday afternoon in January isn't beach weather. For me, it's just the right time to walk the hard-packed white sands of the beach. Breathing fresh air. And musing how lucky I am to be alive and conscious and with my true love at Porto Pino. Maybe I've died and gone to heaven. Certainly, I'm in no less than an earthly Paradise. --Jim Broede

I'd make a good beachcomber.

I waded into the Mediterranean Sea today. Took off my shoes and sox and rolled up my pants to above the knees. On the Porto Pino beach in Sardinia. A magnifcent beach. Two kilometers long. White sand. And lots of sand dunes. Only got up to my knees in the clear water. And it felt good. My true love thought it was far too cold to enter. She's a sissy Sardinian. The air temperature was around 50 degrees fahrenheit. And I know one thing. The water temperature was a lot warmer than Lake Superior in the summertime. So it was not an act of bravery or a foolhardy move on my part. Actually, if I had my bathing suit with me, I might have gone all the way in. For a swim. And I intend to. Before the winter is out. The day started sunny. But ended cloudy. A dark overcast. But my true love radiates the equivalent of sunshine. After a few hours walking the beach, we sauntered into a restaurant. I had an Italian sausage and a tomato salad and, for good measure, I snatched spaghetti from my true love's plate. Very delicious. All in all, a good day. I'd make a good beachcomber. Either that, or a shepherd. Maybe both. I could live a happy life that way. --Jim Broede

On becoming a new being.

I'd not like living my life in the town in which I grew up. Because it would be too limiting. Too many people would have me pegged. For what I was as a youth and a young man. They might not recognize that I've changed. It's like living so close and too long with someone so that one doesn't really notice the change. Because it has been change occurring a little at a time. Day by day by day. And that throws the onlookers off. I know people that have lived in virtually the same place all their lives. And I also know that they have changed a lot. But many of their acquaintances don't know it. They don't see it. Don't accept it. They are not seeing the real being. The one that has evolved. And become something else. In a way, that's sad. Because it often forces some to be two beings. Two personalities. Two quite different people. And maybe it's confusing. I know some of 'em don't really know who they are. They live as the local commununity expects them to live. Rather than as their true selves. One of the nicest things to ever happen to me was leaving my hometown. Getting away from the people that knew me when I was growing up. Including my mother. And my brother. And my sister. And my friends. I moved into new environments. With an entirely different set of acquaintances and friends. I was allowed to make a new start. To create a new and more accurate image. Almost a new being, in a sense. --Jim Broede

Sounds like he's a good Christian.

The other day, we couldn't turn the key in the ignition of my true love's tiny Fiat. No matter how hard we tried. I jiggled the key. I took it in and out. I even waited for a few hours. And tried again. Failure. Now if that happened in the USA, I'd have to call a tow truck, and have the vehicle hauled to a garage for repair. But here in Sardinia, my true love merely called a mechanic. And he came over. Got the car started. And took it to his place for repair. A new ignition system. Complete with new key. The whole thing cost 75 euros, 45 euros for parts and 30 euros for labor. I thought that was reasonable. I'd expect to pay double or triple that in America. Plus lord knows how much for the tow. So I have something else I like about Italy. My true love didn't know the mechanic's name. Despite having used him before. But I introduced myself, and made it a point to learn his name. Christian. Sounds to me like he's a good Christian. --Jim Broede

To her crabby face.

A crab lady lives in the flat below us. She's naturally born crabby. I can tell by the tone of her voice. She speaks Italian. So I don't understand the actual words. But she sounds crabby all the time. And the other night she aimed her vitriol at my true love. From a balcony overlooking the parking lot. While we were trying to park our tiny Fiat in cramped space next to crab lady's vehicle. Anyway, crab lady's ranting annoyed me. I insist that my true love be treated with respect. My true love shouted back. With my unequivocal approval. I wish I spoke Italian. So that I could personally verbally accost crab lady. And I suggested later that we visit crab lady and teach her manners. How to be polite. And I asked my true love if she would translate my words. But she declined. Figuring it was best to leave well enough alone. It's been rare that I find a crabby Italian. They are a good-natured lot. Including our neighbors across the way. Alessio and Patrizia. Alessio speaks a little bit of English. He works for an American aluminum manufacturer here in Carbonia. Alessio is Italian for Alex or Alexander. And my name, Jim or James, translates to Giacomo in Italian. I prefer the Italian sounding names over the English ones. And so I'm starting to introduce myself as Giacomo. Now I have to find out the Italian words for crab lady. And I'll start calling her that. To her crabby face. --Jim Broede

Boredom can be enlivening.

I like to get personal. Even with strangers. Once upon a time, I considered myself anti-social. Not any more. Because I'm curious about people. All kinds of people. People that I've never seen or met before. I've learned that there's a story behind everyone. Even the one that may sound like the most boring being in the world. Actually, to meet the most boring would be exciting. Just imagine. He/she would be a good cure for insomnia. He/she could bore anyone and everyone to sleep. I'd love to see him/her on a talk show. So I could see the host and entire audience fall asleep. Right on the air. That would be enlivening. --Jim Broede

I know what anger isn't.

I'm amused when people tell me I'm angry. Because I might sound angry. Really, I'm not. I may be annoyed. But it's been long, long ago that I was last angry. And I can't even remember what that was over. Seems to me anger is a lingering thing. It lasts and lasts and lasts. But annoyances are short-lived. They go away quickly. Become forgotten. An annoyance usually is petty or trivial. For instance, if someone refuses to do me a favor. When I ask for a favor. I soon recognize everyone's right to do as they please. Including not to grant me a favor. If I became angry over that, I'd be ashamed of myself. But I think it's all right to be annoyed. Maybe for a few minutes. I used to become angry. So I know anger. And I also know what it isn't. --Jim Broede

Happy to have escaped.

I just logged in to my old newspaper. The St. Paul Pioneer Press. In Minnesota's capitol city. And learned that right now. At about 10 in the morning, the temperature is 13 degrees below zero. Fahrenheit. And that today's high is expected to be 4 degrees below zero. And that the overnight low is a predicted 24 degrees below. And here I am. In Sardinia. Where the natives are restless and lamenting because the temperature has dipped into the 40s. That's above zero. Above freezing. And I'm very appreciative of being just where I am. I'm going for a walk soon. Happy to have escaped Minnesota. --Jim Broede

To learn to accept ourselves.

My true love has a few grey hairs. That are beginning to show. When she doesn't get her hair dyed regularly. That bothers her. The fact that other people might spot her grey hair. But I keep telling her, that's nothing to be ashamed of. I've got grey hair. A mass of it. Thank gawd. That's far better than no hair at all. My true love has a beautiful head of hair. Thick. Buoyant. Other women might well kill for a head of hair like that. Sometimes, it resembles a lion's mane. So magnificent. Heck, if my true love let her entire head of hair become grey, it would still be magnificent. And even when her face ages, it'll still be beautiful. Maybe more beautiful than now. Because she seems to become more beautiful every day. I expect that trend to continue. Why not? And I also keep telling my true love to be less concerned about what other people think. About her. The important thing is what we think about ourselves. To learn to accept ourselves. As we are. --Jim Broede

No garage for this Fiat.

Funny thing. My true love thinks her car should be parked in a garage. In the cold weather. And I keep telling her, don't worry about it. Because this is the coldest time of year in Sardinia. And we have yet to experience anything close to a freezing temperature. About the coldest it ever gets is 40 degrees. Which makes a garage unnecessary. Meanwhile, she's got a nice off-street parking space. Which she considers too small. But it's all right. If her Fiat is properly parked. And if others in the parking lot do the same. Unfortunately, one doesn't find comformity among fellow parkers. The Fiat is a 1986 model. With 124,000 kilometers on the odometer. Which is less than 100,000 miles. I've been driving the car. And it handles nicely. I've adjusted well to the stick shift. My cars at home have automatic transmission. The Fiat takes about 35 euros to fill the gas tank. Equivalent to 45 American dollars. And we've filled the tank only twice in the five weeks I've been here. Despite traveling about. The Fiat gets good gas mileage. Much better than virtually any American car. The good news is that American Chrysler recently merged with Fiat. That may end up benefitting both Americans and Italians. Especially if Fiat's ingenuity prevails. --Jim Broede

How do we achieve happiness?

I know people here in Italy who are out of work. Unemployed. And I'd like to console them. Because some are despondent. And I can't blame them. I'd be, too. Fortunately, I'm retired. And I don't have to work. I rely on my social security. And my pension. But many of the unemployed have years to go before retirement. And middle class Italians may have far less retirement income than most Americans. Anyway, I wanna talk to one Italian in particular. One that I know better than the others. Even though he speaks little English. And I speak even less Italian. But I'm thinking about having a conversation. With my true love serving as translator. And I'll try to cheer him up. By getting him to talk. About his dilemma. And life, in general. And whether happiness can be achieved. Even in hard economic times. I don't know. But I hope it's possible. He may have to look for another occupation. Something he can do. And still be reasonably happy. He talks about learning a second language. German. Because that may open more job opportunities. But at his age. About 50. Finding a job ain't gonna be easy. Of course, I'm for a society in which everyone is guaranteed honest, productive work. Maybe centuries from now it'll happen. One can only hope. Basically, I'm for the pursuit of happiness. And I'll talk to the Italian man about happiness. And does he have any idea about how to attain it? Maybe one can't. Without a job. Without an income. But I think everyone should have a right to happiness. The problem is, how does one achieve happiness? Despite the pitfalls of life. --Jim Broede

I wanna live in the living room.

In Sardinia, we live in the kitchen. Hardly ever in the living room. Therefore, I don't understand why the living room is called the living room. Back home in Minnesota, I live all over the house. Much of my day is spent in my study. On the computer. But I eat in the kitchen, with a view of the television in the living room. My house is rather open. The kitchen and living room pretty much blend into each other. In Sardinia, the rooms are rather distinct. Separate. The living room is by far the biggest room in the house, The master bedroom, ranks next. The kitchen is relatively small. And it lacks a microwave oven. And a toaster. But before I leave in March, I'll introduce my true love to such modern conveniences. Albeit, she'll protest. And drag her feet. I'd also like to introduce her to a clothes dryer. Like everyone has in America. But she's partial to hanging clothes out on a line. Draped off the balcony. And that has its advantages. A fresher scent for the clothes. But on a rainy day, it'd be nice to have a fallback option. A clothes dryer. And for the ability to fluff up the clothes just before wearing. Anyway, I'd like to spend more time living in the living room. I'm gonna promote that idea. It's the most nicely furnished room. With family heirlooms. A magnificent dining table. Mirrored bureaus. A yellow leather sofa. And matching loveseat. Two nice carpets. A huge palm-potted plant. And a balcony. Looking west. Providing a view of colorful sunsets. No doubt, it's both casual and elegant. All the more reason that the living room should be truly lived in. --Jim Broede

Learning to live. In so many ways.

Living in Italy is very different. Yet very much the same as living in Minnesota. For instance, I follow pretty much the same routine. In that I write. Daily. And I exercise. Daily. But I’m cognizant of the fact that I’m living in a foreign land. Where I don’t speak the native language. That limits me. To some extent. But I make up for it. By being more observant. And I take advantage of virtually every opportunity to communicate. In one way or another. I very much want to make my stay a learning experience. And I do it by capturing little things. By observing people. Just the way they look. And I use my imagination. I ask myself, could I be walking down a street in America? Yes, if I focus on actual people. They look just like Americans. The people I see on the street in Minnesota. But then I look around. At the architecture. At the flowers. And the trees,. And there’s a difference. Not the same as Minnesota. Yet, similar to other parts of America. When I look at the palm trees and the cacti. I can imagine being in Arizona. But I know better. Because Sardinia is much greener than Arizona. More wet. And Sardinia has a coastline. On the Mediterranean Sea. And no doubt about it, I’d rather be in Sardinia than in Arizona. Even when my Chicago Cubs go to Arizona for spring training. And I’m gradually cultivating the gumption to learn the Italian language. Not fluently. But enough to get by. I’m gonna load Rosetta Stone Italian language software. And start practicing daily. For a few hours. Even when I return to Minnesota. Because I’m planning on spending my winters in Sardinia. For many years. Maybe for the rest of my life. Yes, I want to become more a citizen of the world. I’ve been to Scotland. Iceland. Germany. France. Luxembourg. All in the past three years. I’m getting around. Seeing places. Meeting people. Connecting. Getting a feel for different cultures. Learning to live. Fully. Passionately. Fervently. Curiously. Lovingly. –Jim Broede

We are locked into old ways.

I'm happy and grateful to be away from the American political scene. At least for a while. There's nothing more depressing than watching the political scene play out in the USA. It's gawd-awful. It's hell. I am so disenchanted with the way the political game is played. Almost everywhere. But especially in America. In Congress. If I had my way, I'd change the whole system. And move to a parliamentary type government. One that encourages multiple parties. And forced coalitions of several minority parties to run government efficiently. Our two-party system doesn't work. Because there's not enough give and take. We Americans are trying to live on archaic principles of the 18th century. We too much revere the past. And that keeps us from moving full force into modern times. Into the 21st century. We ought to be thinking more of the 22nd century. And preparing for it. We need a new politic. New principles. To accommodate our changing world. We Americans are locked into old ways. --Jim Broede

If god can do it, why not me?

I know a woman who wants everything to go right. Even the little things. The trivial. And if something doesn't go as she wishes, she becomes out of sorts. Ornery. Upset. To the point that it's stressful. And may ruin her health. It certainly can't help. I used to be that way. For instance, if my Chicago Cubs lost a baseball game, especially in a hard-luck manner, I'd stew over it. Maybe for hours. Maybe into the next day. Maybe I'd even lose sleep. Because the game didn't go the way I wanted. Guess I wanted my day to flow perfectly. To have everything flow the way I wanted it to flow. As if I were god. I wanted to call the shots. But then I began to think that even god doesn't control everything. He just lets things be. He doesn't intervene. Doesn't interfere. Lets the world be. And that's the way it should be. I'm assuming that god accepts everything as it is. Maybe it ain't perfection. But so be it. If god can ignore the imperfect world and the horrendous goings-on, why not me? --Jim Broede

Doing what they want.

I lambaste people. For lack of willpower. People who overeat. Or drink too much. Or don't bother to exercise. Seems to me that doing the right things generally takes willpower. Some have it. Some don't. Maybe it's a case of self-discipline. Or lack of it. Maybe I have willpower only because I just happen to want to do certain things. Such as diet, taking an occasional drink and working out daily. Therefore, I can claim I have willpower. But it really doesn't take that. I'm just inclined to do it. Even without motivation. Because I like to feel and look good. Makes for a better mental and emotional and physical state. Meanwhile, maybe I shouldn't lambaste people. Because they are generally doing what they want. Having a good time. --Jim Broede

My choice: Getting on with life.

I know so many people that don't count their blessings. Instead, they tell me everything going wrong in their lives. Often, trivial and inconsequential things. Nevertheless, they are despondent. And in despair. If not in outright clinical depression. And they accuse me of not understanding. And they could be right. Maybe I don't understand. Truly don't. Because I am baffled. I often see so much going right in their lives. So many reasons to be happy. But still, they refuse to be happy. Because their lives ain't perfect. I gotta admit. My life isn't perfect, too. Never was. Never will be. But still, I'm happy to be alive. And conscious. And in love. I suppose I'd like to be younger than I am. And to live forever. In good health. And maybe even have more money. More security. But I recognize I can't have everything. That's the nature of life. And I had better learn to accept that reality. And still be reasonably happy. As for today, I don't necessarily like everything that transpired. Around me. Or in the rest of the world. But generally, I can't do anything about it. I have a choice, I suppose. Lament. Or get on with life. I'm gonna choose the latter course. And count my many blessings. --Jim Broede

Becoming One with all of Creation.

I'm always discovering new ways of life. Ways I had never imagined before. By merely going with the flow. Allowing it to take me. Wherever. Occasionally, I'm cautioned. Be careful. Play life safely. Don't take unnecessary risks. But I put my trust. My faith. In the eternal flow. Even if I end up halfway around the world. In a foreign land. And I leave behind the cautious ones. Because I am on a voyage of discovery. I am an explorer. Of the entire cosmos. Of other dimensions. Time. Space. I touch it all. I have freedom. Of spirit. Because I am becoming One. With all of Creation. --Jim Broede

Help. In time of peril.

I missed the turn. On the limited access road. On our return to Carbonia. Late at night. On the poorly marked Italian road. So we stopped at a service station. To ask how to get on track again. And we learned that others were in a similar dilemma. For months, travelers have been missing the exit. And so they stopped. Just like us. To inquire. Turns out the proprietor of the service station used his ingenuity. Mapped out a series of maneuvers on several kilometers of unpaved, pot-holed backroads. To get mortorists where they wanted to go. The route was a bit scary. In the dead of night. And we took another wrong turn. But someone behind us knew we had gone wrong again. And tracked us down. And turned us around. And had us follow him. So we wouldn't get lost again. Indeed, a sign that I like traveling. In Italy. Because Italians are so accommodating. So nice. They help each other. In time of peril. --Jim Broede

Living.

I don't like to write in flowery detail. In other words, if I see a sunset. A beautiful sunset. I'm more likely to describe how it affects me. Rather than on an actual detailed description of what I've seen. Yes, the emotional effect. I capture the scene. Put it inside me. In my mind. In my heart. My gut. My soul. My spriit. That allows me to live with the sunset. With the emotion derived from it. I used to be a photogrtapher. It was so important for me to capture a scene. To be able to look at a picture. But I wasn't necessarily capturing the moment. And putting it inside me. Forever. I needed the photo/picture for recall. It wasn't living eternally. From within. Alive. And thriving. I'm writing in my preferred way now. Expressing a feeling. Maybe that sounds abstract. But it's meaningful. For me. And if it's meaningful for others, that's fine. But that's not my goal. Instead, I want to live a moment. By constantly digesting it. Devouring it. Savoring it. Forever. And if it all disappears when I die -- well, that's all right. Because I had it when I was alive. That is what counts. Living. --Jim Broede

I gotta keep on keeping.

I read the writings of my true love's students. She teaches English. To Italian teen-agers. And they do pretty good. Sometimes, they tend to express themselves in laborious English. Using 4 or 5 words. When one would suffice. But I understand what they are saying. And I applaud them for effort. If I could speak and write Italian as well as they do with English, I'd be happy. Jubilant. Gawd, I think. Wouldn't it have been nice if I was speaking Italian when I was a teen-ager? Or for that matter, any second language. That's one of my biggest regrets. That I never mastered a second or third language. I'm 75. And it's probably too late. But hey, maybe I can learn Italian in a perfunctory way. I gotta keep trying. Keep living. Keep learning. --Jim Broede

Indignation ain't enough.

I walk the streets daily. But I have yet to encounter a panhandler in Italy. Maybe it's that I'm in Sardinia. And I'd like to think the Sardinians take care of their poor and destitute and homeless. Italy has over 2 million unemployed at the moment. But I'm told by my true love that there's a strong sense of family obligation. Families tend to take care of each other in bad times. Not always, of course. But maybe more so than in the USA. My true love used to live in Florence. And she often saw homeless people on the streets there. That's to be expected in the biggest cities. Here in Carbonia, it's a relatively small city. Barely 30,000 people. I haven't yet seen anyone that looks like he may be homeless. One will see a handful of beggars. Outside a church or cemetery. Almost always angelic-looking women. Mostly young. My true love gives. And encourages me to give. On the TV the other day, there was much ado over a 27-day old baby that died in Bologna. Of exposure. From the cold. The mother was homeless. Italians lamented. They keep asking, 'How could this happen? What went wrong with our social services system?' There's indignation. But like in the U.S., events like this will occur again and again. Apparently, indignation ain't enough. --Jim Broede

The secret of my success.

My true love is dieting. And so am I. But I'm far less restrictive than she. And more effective. I eat pretty much what I want. In reasonably moderate portions. I eat about as many calories as I burn. I exercise daily. I'm addicted more to exerecise than to food. I can skip a meal. And it doesn't bother me. Or just have a piece of toast for breakfast. I hover between 168 and 170 pounds. Which I consider about right for me. I haven't gained any weight in my five weeks in Italy. And I eat whatever looks good. Even sinful stuff. It's been that way for years and years. My true love questions the healthy nature of my diet. She claims to eat more healthy. The right stuff. And at the right times. Day after day. But she has difficulty losing weight. Therefore, I argue I'm better off. My way works. For me. Even my cholesterol level appears to be healthy. It's 143. My true love's diet was prescribed by a doctor she visits in Rome. Twice a year. I'm suggesting that he's a quack. Or a charlatan. His diet is bogus. Ineffective. I tell my true love to aim for a nice blend of protein, fat and carbohydrate. I eat lots of Italian food. And I like it. But give me fare from Germany, Denmark, France, the Czech Republic, Hungary, China and Russia, too. Even England, which has notoriety for the worst food in the world. Yes, I like it all. In moderate amounts. Combined with exercise. Maybe that's the secret of my success. --Jim Broede

He's worse than worst.

I'm trying to understand the Italians' fascination with their prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi. Some Italians hate him. But the majority seem to love him, or at least tolerate him, if it's something short of love. Berlusconi is a rascal. Maybe a scoundrel. A filthy rich man. And he controls much of the Italian media. Owning TV stations. And Berlusconi does pretty much as he pleases. He's been accused of frequenting prostitutes. Even one under the age of 18. And he's facing prosecution related to his alleged philandering. He makes Bill Clinton's extra-marital affairs seem trivial in comparison. Anyway, Berlusconi survives one crisis after another. He's a celebrity. And he dominates most newscasts. Seems that so far, Berlusconi can get away with most anything. Maybe it's that Italians seem to like rule-breakers. They admire people who beat the system. But Berlusconi's critics, including my true love, claim he's a national disgrace. They want to get rid of him. Post haste. And they can't understand why he's tolerated. Well, I have to admit, I'm among those fascinated by Berlusconi. Because he's a gadfly. And he has a sense of humor. And he doesn't mind alienating people. A little bit like me, I suppose. Berlusconi isn't afraid to push his luck to the brink. But my true love says he's a manipulator who made his money with the help of the Mafia. And that he has laws written to exempt himself from prosecutuion. She thinks Berlusconi is Italy at its very worst. Meanwhile, I'm wondering if Berlusconi can be any worse than America's worst politicians. My true love says yes. He's worse than worst. --Jim Broede

Nice thoughts. About Italians.

In any sizeable Italian city, parking can be a serious and perplexing problem. When traveling in Sardinia over the past weekend, we had to find parking away from our bed and breakfast place. In the central part of Nuoru. Wasn't easy. Italy doesn't have the parking ramps of American cities. And wow! So many restrictions for on-street and off-street parking. Suitable parking comes at a premium. And it doesn't help when one is unfamiliar with the city. We have been known to get frustrated and hopelessly lost. We were in that dire predicament the other night. I almost felt like abandoning our car. But I kept driving. Aimlessly. Not knowing where to go. Or what to do next. We'd stop from time to time. And my true love would ask in Italian for directions and advice. I've got to say something nice about Italians. They are obliging. They take their time. And not only give you verbal directions, but animated ones. With their flailing hands and arms. But we continued on our lost ways. For a long time. Until two gentlemen pedestrians found us overnight off-street parking. For free. Only 3 or 4 blocks from our bed and breakfast. I was about to kiss the sacred parking ground. We waved goodbye to the gentlemen. And voiced a cheerful arrivedirci. I fell asleep that night, thinking only nice thoughts. About helpful Italians. --Jim Broede

Ain't got Sardinia all to myself.

When meandering down a cobblestone street in Nuoru in the north of Sardinia, I overheard several women gabbing. In English. So I casually asked in broken English whether they were Americanos. I tried to fake an Italian accent. Not too well. They suspected from the outset that I was a screwy American. Just like them. They wanted to know where I came from. I confessed. Minnesota. They were Californians. Anyway, we engaged in conversation for a few minutes. Felt like old times. For me. Chatting in English. With someone other than my bilingual Italian true love. First time in a month that I had spotted an American. Guess I ain't got Sardinia all to myself. --Jim Broede

To feel blessed.

My true love tries to do too much. That's her biggest, and maybe only, shortcoming. I try to tell her that. That I have no desire to change her. But that she'd find life more relaxing, more meaningful, if only she slowed down. She has the affliction of the modern age. Trying to cram too much into life. Ttying to be a glutton. To obtain more than we deserve. I find life most meaningful when I accept what I have. And just savor it. To the enth degree. For instance, I savor my true love. Even when she's in a hurry. Even when she tries to do too much. Because that's the way she is. Some day, she'll change. But it'll have to be on her own. I have no ability or desire to force a change. In anyone. And especially in my true love. I'm trying to accept her unconditionally. And in the process, I'm being myself. True to myself. I try to practice what I preach. I slow down. Even when others around me are in the hurry-up mode. I live life at my own tempo. In my own way. My true love would like me to come along for the fast ride. Maybe for the thrill of it. But I see no thrill in that. I'm in bliss, in ecstacy, because I am savoring life. Doesn't matter that I don't have it all. Because I can make my version of 'all' out of practically nothing. Because I appreciate what I have. Mainly, my true love. At my side. With me. I'm able to talk. To listen. Yes, to communicate. And to accept the realities of life. To feel blessed. --Jim Broede

I know Paradise when I see it.

I don't know whether to call it a religious or spiritual experience. Maybe both. I see men dressed in garb that make them look half animal, half human. Calling themselves Mumu Thones. Wearing masks. With bunches of gold-colored metal bells strapped to their backs. They do a weird dance as they trudge march-like down the street. But the bells don't ring like bells. Instead, it's the clanking sound of animal bones striking metal. A unique sound. Can't say I ever heard it before. But what I'm seeing and hearing is very impressive. These are men living in Mamoiada, a village in the north of Sardinia. And it's festival time. In January. And this is the way Mamoiadans celebrate their ancestry. Their past. Maybe a time before humans were humans. Maybe when people were more linked to the animal world. In a primitive time. Anyway, the parade up and down the streets includes Issohodores dressed in dapper red costumes. Carrying lassos. To rope in captives. Anyone getting too close to the parade. A fun-time. For dancing around bon-fires. Or for warming one's hands. And to feed in Sardinian splendour. All sorts of tasty delicacies. Spent the past weekend in and around Mamoiada. My kind of place. Italian through and through. Albeit, some Sardinians claim on graffiti-filled walls they are Sardinians. Not Italians. They even speak a second language. One can tell a Sardinian native speaker. Because they tend to slur their s's. They are a proud people. And a friendly people. The Mamoiadans live in a labyrinthian place. Narrow and winding and steep streets. We have reservations at a bed and breakfast. In a private home. It was impossible to undertstand the complicated route we'd have to take through town to find our way. So our host came. For us to follow. And believe me, without his guidance, we'd have been lost. Maybe forever. Which might be all right in such a fairy tale setting. But we arrived. To be treated to home-brewed wine and homemade pastries and convivial talk. In Italian. But my true love translates well. She is Sardinian. But has never been to the Mamoiada festival before. She's enthralled. I've long told her that she lives in Paradise. Maybe without knowing it. But I say, trust me. I know Paradise when I see it. --Jim Broede

In Sardina. My adopted home.

Two guys in the Sa' Rosada restaurant in Mamoiada in the north of Sardinia had sophisticated cameras. And one of 'em photographed almost everything. Even the flat, thin, crispy shepherd's bread served at every table. And the camera-touting gentlemen stirred a conversation with a couple at the next table. And before long, the couple posed cheek to cheek. Like lovers. For the camera. And I thought, what a wonderful place to be. Dining. Italian-style. Seeing strangers bond with each other. I sipped my red Sardinian wine with my true love. Munched on the shepherd's bread. Savored a special Sardinian dish of ravioli and lamb in a tasty sauce. We had been the first to arrive at Sa' Rosada. And then we watched as others trickled in. An Italian family, I presume. And maybe a table of tourists. I was capturing a moment. Not with my camera. But with my mind. And my heart. In a remote corner of the world. Looking around. Observing. White-stucco walls. A high-ceiling. A magnificent arch extending across the room. So cosmopolitan. And so Italian. Our waiter especially. Dressed in jeans. His shirttails hanging out. So affable. We declined dessert. But were served a complimentary glass of aquivit. Home brewed. Touted as 51 percent alcohol. I had a sip. Maybe two. Just to be polite. I couldn't drink it all. And still live to see another day. So that I could cherish. Another night. Out on the town. In Sardinia. My adopted home. --Jim Broede

Rules are made to be broken.

Even when I speed, I cannot keep up with Italian drivers. They don't come anywhere close to obeying the speed limits. Even when they are warned by sign after sign that the highway is electronically patroled for speed violations. My guess is that speed limits aren't enforced. Despite the warnings. And Italians know it. They know that rules are made to be broken. So they all do it. I pretty much try to obey the 80-kilometer speed limit on open roads. But hey, that means I am continuously being whizzed by. And I mean whizzed. Like in a flash. Probably by Italians going 120 to 150 kilometers an hour. Chances are that anyone obeying the speed limit poses a danger. And if I'm at a stop sign and don't take off like a dart, I hear the inevitable honk. The signal to get going. Pronto. Or someone will kick my ass. Or at least hit the rear bumper. --Jim Broede

Being lost. Together.

I like to travel slow. Ever so slowly. Come to think of it, I like to do most everything slowly. No hurry. I'd rather do too little than too much. But my true love has a tendency to over-schedule. To cram in too much in our travel itinerary. I'm willing to keep going for 24 hours a day. To fit in everything. But I insist that we do it slowly. She's walking the streets in a new-found city steps ahead of me. I'm lagging behind. Because I want to absorb and savor what I'm seeing. I need time. Lots of time. I don't wanna cram too much into my life. Because that means I have missed too much. Means I have spread myself thin. I like spending almost three months in Sardinia. Sure beats three weeks. But even better would be three years. I am in no hurry to get on to my next thing. The next chapter in my life. Please let me live this one. This moment. That's my appeal. Really, my demand. I refuse to be rushed. Even when we get lost, which happens frequently. I like to stay lost. For a long, long time. Because it's an opportunity to discover something new. And unexpected. And to savor it. Getting lost is a bonus. But my true love gets anxious. She wants us to find our way. Immediately. But I'm telling her. Repeatedly. That some of the best times we've ever had were being lost. Together. --Jim Broede

I wanna be an honorary citizen.

I'm off. For a long weekend. In regions I've never been to before. At the north end of Sardinia. In hilly and mountainous countrty. A three-hour drive. With hairpin curves. And awesome views. And a local festival. People donning native costumes. And masks. And dancing to the beat of bells. Maybe I'll dance, too. That would be an event. But hey, I'm full of surprises. I even surprise myself. I want to act like a Sardinian. Maybe I can become an honorary citizen. --Jim Broede

Living and loving in two worlds.

My true love wants me to spend more time in Italy. Instead of staying three months, she's suggesting that next winter I stay for at least five months. That I come in November and not leave until April. I take this as a good sign. I like the togetherness. And I like Italy. Especially Sardinia. Because the weather is mild. Even in winter. No snow. No freezing temperatures. Palm trees. Cacti. And lots of green plants. And mountains. And a wonderful coast on the Mediterranean Sea. Of course, I'd hate to trade Minnesota for Sardinia in the summertime. That would be just the right time for my true love to come to Minnesota. And stay as long as she wants. Certainly, all summer would be grand. I like the thought of living and loving in two worlds. --Jim Broede

The Italian speaking toilet.

Must be that I'm looking more and more like an Italian. At least six people have stopped me on the street. To ask for directions. Or to engage in conversation. In Italian. I take that as a compliment. Because I want to fit in. I want to be mistaken for an Italian. I'm starting to dress like an Italian. I wear nothing but Italian-made shoes. And I have two Italian-made sweaters. And I have an Italian haircut. Now if I could only speak Italian. Fluently. I reluctantly identify myself as an American. A stupid American. Because I don't know the language. I think it comes off as self-effacing humor. And puts me in more of a good light than a bad light. And I'm using my true love more and more as a translator. To make myself known. With humor whenever possible. For instance, after one flushes the toilet in our house, there's a strange and fairly loud hum. The Italian handyman wondered what it was. I told him it's a speaking toilet. And that I assumed it was speaking in Italian. And therefore it was difficult for me to understand what it was saying. But that I was impressed that the Italians had invented a speaking toilet. And that when I return to the USA I intend to install one. Because I want to keep up with the innovative Italians. But that I want the toilet programmed to talk to me in English. Maybe it's telling us something about the quality of the stuff being flushed. --Jim Broede

I'm not ready to give up.

More than 30,000 people die from gunfire every year in the United States. Another 66,000 or so are wounded, which means that nearly 100,000 men, women and children are shot in the United States annually. I picked up that statistic today in the New York Times. Astounding, isn't it? We Americans are a violent people. Always have been, I guess. Little wonder that we always seem to be at war. With other nations. And with ourselves. I hate to say it, but it's nice to be away from America. In Italy for the winter. I know there's no place on Earth that is perfect. But I'm feeling relaxed here in Sardinia. Better than I feel in the USA. Maybe you'll say, don't come back. But I know I will. In the hope of working for change. For a much better America. Certainly, a less violent America. Guess I'm a stubborn guy. I'm not ready to give up on making my country a better place in which to live. --Jim Broede

I'm an unsympathetic bastard.

I'm an unsympathetic bastard. I cannot tolerate people who try to make a tolerable situation intolerable. Yet, we have 'em. Right and left. All over the place. People that don't know when they are well off. In a reasonably good situation. But that doesn't stop them from toying with the idea to change things. For the worse. Out of a sense of moral obligation. For instance, I know care-givers whose loved one has gone into a nursing home. Because the care-giving got to be too much to handle. And it's working. Really. Because now the care-giving has become a team effort. Involving the professional staff. Now the primary care-giver has become the supplemental care-giver. Still on the scene daily. But able to get daily respite, too. No longer does the grind have to be 24-7. Oh, what a relief. Good for the patient. Good for the care-giver. But still, I hear that care-giver lament. Out of guilt. Actually, consider bringing the patient home again. And returning to round-the-clock individual care. Without help. Yes, becoming a martyr for the sake of becoming a martyr. Maybe in an effort to attain sainthood. But forgive me if I don't annoint 'em a saint. Instead, I annoint 'em an idiot. For being downright stupid. Maybe even insane. Crazy. I'd even accuse such a being of cruelty. Negligence. Incompetence. They ain't gonne see me feting them at a pity party. Because I'm an unsympathetic bastard. --Jim Broede

The violent side of America.

I've heard it explained. And I have to agree. The fundamental difference driving violence in America is over the issue of money. And how it's to be used. One faction thinks all money earned should be retained 100 percent by the people who earn it. No sharing of the wealth. The other faction wants sharing. A welfare state, of sorts. A narrowing of the gap between the rich and the poor. A serving of the common good. I'm in the latter camp. I identify myself as a liberal or a socialist, maybe even a communist. I'd borrow ideas from all of these so-called leftists. I'm perceived as the enemy of the right. Of Republicans. And conservatives. And some libertarians. I'm not sure how our differences will be resolved. But if it's by violence, I'm not so sure that I want to continue living in America. I'm biding my time now in Italy. Where I feel a little bit more comfortable. And maybe I'd stay forever. If I could speak the language. But again, I'd like to be part of the revolution in America. If it's done peacefully. By both factions coming together. Maybe in compromise fashion. But if both sides insist on all or nothing -- well, then welcome to the land of violence. America is headed in that direction now. And I'm afraid it's gonna destroy America. --Jim Broede

Just let it happen. Naturally.

I'm a flexible, easy-going fella. At least, that's the way I see myself. I like to avoid being rigid. Because I know so very many people who tend to be rigid. Inflexible. They live by schedules. And routines. Oh, I have to write and exercise every day. But outside of that, I'm rather flexible. Because I go with the flow. Never knowing which way it's gonna go. Or whether the tide is in or out. I know someone who eats breakfast, lunch and supper pretty much at set times. Daily. I think that's far too rigid. I even sometimes skip breakfast or lunch all together. I eat prettty much when I'm hungry. And doesn't matter the time. I also eat very slowly. So I can savor it all. I also know someone who eats only certain foods. A relatively narrow list. I'll eat almost anything. In moderate amounts. So I don't gain weight. That annoys some people. They think I should be fat. Because I often eat the 'wrong' kinds of food. But hey, I have to keep up my reputation for being flexible. Guess I don't want a routine. Because I want to be surprised. I'm living a stroybook existence. I can't wait for the next chapter and the next plot to unfold. Never knowing what's to come. That makes life interesting. Just let it happen. Naturally. --Jim Broede

A glimpse of a handsome devil.

My first Italian haircut. Got it today. From a barber named Antonino Patane. Kept my fingers crossed. Because I don't speak Italian. And he doesn't speak English. It was an old-fashioned barber shop. With a baber pole. Walked in. Maybe I was his first customer of the day. Two more came in later. I spoke some broken Italian. And he said something about Brooklyn. He's either been there. Or has friends or relatives there. Maybe I'll ask my true love to inquire. Next time we pass his barber shop. Because I'm curious. About his Brooklyn connection. Meanwhile, I think I learned the word for haircut. Capelli. Next time, I'll ask for a capelli. Showing off my new-found command of the Italian language. Antonino shaved my sideburns and back of the neck with a straight-edge razor. I hadn't had that done for a long, long time. The hairstylist I go to in Minnesota, a unisex shop that caters mostly to women, uses an electric shaver. And charges me $19. And I give her a $5 tip. Which makes a haircut come to $24. I paid Antonino 10 euros. Which comes to about $13. No tip. Because it's not expected in an Italian barbershop. Anyway, as I walked down the street, I looked at my reflection in the store windows. Thought I caught a glimpse of a handsome, well-groomed devil. --Jim Broede

Afraid to face the truth.

If I didn’t have myself to talk to, I’d be in bad shape. But I talk to myself all the time. And that means I’m in good shape. Mentally. Emotionally. Because I know how to help myself. And because I’m honest. With myself. And I talk when I need to talk. I’m always with myself. I’m never alone. Because I have me. Morning. Noon. Or night. I can always rely upon myself. Nobody else is as reliable as me. I’m reasonably close to several other people. But I’m closest of all to myself. I’m the only one that can get inside myself. Oh, I try to get inside others. But that’s an impossible task. I suspect that some others don’t come close to knowing themselves. And I try to tell them that. By asking penetrating questions. To make ‘em think. But so very many object to personal questions. They want to protect their privacy, or so they say. But I think it’s more than that. They don’t have the answers. And that embarrasses them. Of course, I see no valid reason for them to be embarrassed. Better to admit they don’t know. That they really haven’t ever really thought about such matters as happiness. What it is. And how to pursue it. I see out there many, many unhappy people. Unhappy with their jobs. Unhappy with other people. Unhappy with themselves. Unhappy with life. And they have no clue about how to become happy. Because they are afraid to probe. They are afraid to face the truth about themselves. –Jim Broede

Me no stupido Americano.

I’m being spurred on by an Italian teen-ager in my quest to learn the Italian language. She’s learning English. And seems to be taking it seriously. A language test was looming. And she wanted to brush up for it. By asking my true love to give her a special lesson. So that she’d be better prepared. That’s the kind of attitude and dedication I need if I’m gonna learn Italiano. I don’t wanna remain a stupido Americano. –Jim Broede

Italians can teach us something.

I met a pharmacist the other day. In Sardinia. And I liked him. Because my true love told me he knew how to treat her mother. Royally. And with affection. ‘Whenever he’d see my mother passing by, he’d come outside and give her a big hug and a kiss,’ she said. ‘She was his teacher in elementary school.’ And I thought, wasn’t that nice. Maybe the Italians can teach us something. –Jim Broede

Some unexpected good.

We had finished grocery shopping. When I remembered that we had forgotten to get salami. And I wanted salami. So I suggested to my true love that we stop at a second grocery. To get the salami, and maybe a little bit more of my favorite goodies. But no, she said, she wanted to go home. She was tired. But being me, I prevailed. And lo and behold, who did we meet there? My true love’s brother and sister-in-law. And we had a pleasant conversation. One we wouldn’t have had if I hadn’t gotten my way. ‘See,’ I told my true love, ‘It’s really wise to follow my lead and direction. Some unexpected good always comes of it.’ –Jim Broede

Makes me more Italian.

The Italian postal delivery system is atrociously slow. Makes the U.S. Postal Service seem like the model of efficiency. Of course, my experience with the Italian system has been exclusively with foreign mail. The mail I send to Italy. Or that I receive sooner or later in Italy. Generally, I figure delivery will take anywhere from 5 to 8 weeks. If a parcel arrives in less than a month, I’m surprised. All this, despite assurances from U.S. postal authorities, that they’ve delivered the package to Italy within 7 days, and often within 3 to 5 days. That’s where things get bogged down. For any number of reasons. Often, mail languishes in customs. Sitting there until it’s determined how the recipient can be made to pay a duty fee. Doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the procedure. Other than to hold up delivery just for the sake of it. To let people know that Italians are in no hurry. Right now, I’m in the fifth week of waiting for a delivery. I have no clue where it is. I’ll have to ask the sender to put a trace on it. Once a package leaves customs it’s usually routed through any number of private couriers. For delivery. Whenever they feel like it. I have to admit to grudging like of the ‘no hurry’ attitude of many Italians. Because it teaches me patience and acceptance. Especially of things I can’t change. That tends to slow me down. And makes me more Italian. –Jim Broede

I haven't missed newspapers.

Yesterday, I found English language newspapers for the first time in a month. On a newstand in Cagliari in Sardinia. Seems rather strange going for so long without newspapers that I'm able to read. But frankly, I haven't missed 'em. Despite the fact that I used to make my living writing for newspapers. Anyway, I'm now reading the London Times and the Manchester Guardian. In English. All about the gawd-awful shootings in Arizona. Anoher reason why I can survive without news from the USA. It's downright depressing and seems to me the political and social climate ain't gonna get better for a long time. Give me Italy instead. Especially in the hinterlands. Where they don't even sell English language newspapers. Another reason why I'm living in Paradise. --Jim Broede

To make sure it wasn't a dream.

A bastion is a tower or fortress and that’s exactly what hovers over Cagliari. Sardinia’s capital city. Apparently, the massive fortress of St. Remy dates to the 17th century. But it seems to have weathered time quite well. Looks well-maintained. Durable. Almost new. Maybe that’s because St. Remy was heavily damaged by bombs in World War II. And the place was faithfully restored. It’s downright impressive. I climbed to the top two nights ago. And it’s a good thing that I’m in good physical shape. Seemed like there were 1,000 steps to take up the marble stair wells. And I would have gladly climbed 2,000. For the spectacular panoramic nighttime view of Cagliari. Anyway, I was with my true love. We wandered St. Remy from stem to stern. From top to bottom. And we’ve vowed to return. Maybe tomorrow afternoon. So we can catch the view. In full daylight. To make sure it wasn’t just a dream. –Jim Broede

Don't want to remain strangers.

I’m getting to know friends and acquaintances and relatives of my Italian true love. From merely talking to my true love. She tells me things. About their lives. And I’m fascinated. I want to learn more. By engaging them in conversation. Especially one in particular. Her brother. Of course, that’s difficult. Because he speaks Italian. And I speak English. So we need a translator. My true love can solve that problem. She speaks both English and Italian. Fluently. So I’m suggesting that she become the go-between. The translator of a conversation between her brother and me. Meant to better getting to know each other. But my true love must understand that I’d talk to her brother in a different manner that she would. I would get into philosophical discussions. Such as asking him, what is happiness? And how is it achieved? . I suspect that he’s a bit unhappy with his life. And questions like this may help me better understand him, and what he’s all about. See, I’m sort of nosey. For good reason. Because I want to know people. Truly know them. Not just superficially. But what makes them tick. My goal isn’t to change people. But instead, for us to stir curiosity. In each other. I’m curious about him. And I want him to be curious about me. For us to get more and more personal. With each other. I don’t want us to remain strangers. –Jim Broede