That's the magic of love.

It's Sunday afternoon. I'm on the Porte Botte beach with my beautiful and intelligent Italian true love. She's lying on a lengthy and colorful beach towel only a few feet from the Mediterranean Sea. I'm 50 feet away, on a sand hill, beneath pine trees casting a comfortable shadow. Reading a book. And writing. I worship the shade. She worships the sun. Apollo the sun god and I don't exactly hit it off. I can take only so much sunshine. Especially at mid-day in Sardinia. Even winter here seems like summer. For me, that is. Not for the natives. They think of their winter as sort of a cold hell. Because they've never been to Minnesota. They have no earthly concept of true winter. Sardinia has palm trees, like in Florida. And cacti, like in Arizona. And a whole lot more. Shade trees and other greenery abound. Mountains and valleys and meadows, too. Sheep and goats are grazing near the seashore. I can hear the tinkling of bells tied around their necks. The shepherd is on a motor scooter. Everything tranquil and nice in Paradise. Not the least being my adorable true love. She makes a big difference to any scene. As long as I'm with her, I probably could survive in any place. Even in hell. We'd still find a way to make the best of it. That's the magic of love. --Jim Broede