She's making great progress.

If there's anything I've learned as I grow older, it's to not overreact. To virtually anything. All my life, I've been surrounded by people that overreact. Often that gets them into a volatile, angry state. They no longer think clearly. And they become worry warts. So unnecessarily. I used to overreact. Much more than I do now. It's only occasionally now. And I catch myself doing it. And I put a stop to it. Immediately. My true love is an over-reactor. Especially when she gets into a stressful situation. And that exacerbates the stress. It's self-defeating. But she's getting better at controlling her reactions. And thus, her stress. I suspect that's one of the biggest bugaboos of modern civilization. Over-reaction. Maybe it's because we are so busy. So many pressures. We don't take time any more to slow down. In order to reflect. And think things out. Such as our reaction to dilemmas. My true love has far too many balls to juggle. Because she's employed full-time. I have an advantage. I'm retired. I can take my time. I don't have to get everything done all at once today. I can easily put things off. Until tomorrow. Or maybe next week. I've come to live with my true love to make her life easier. To ease her burdens. To lessen her worries. To try to convince her to slow down. To savor the little things in life. To be a true blue romantic. She's making great progress. --Jim Broede

I'm staying away from rooftops.

Funny thing. I still remember the date. It was 27 years ago today. That I fell off the roof while clearing away snow. In Minnesota. I was home alone. And I was stunned by the fall. Had to crawl into the house. In pain. Called my wife. Who was at work. She called an ambulance. And I spent the night in the local hospital. No broken bones. But torn muscles. And terrible, painful muscle spasms. Took me until April to fully recover. To feel like my old self again. Amazing thing. More than a quarter century later, I'm in Sardinia. And heading for Rome later today. Things have changed. So much. My dear wife Jeanne died almost 5 years ago. And I'm now living here with my Italian true love. And there's no snow in sight. No freezing temperatures. Palms trees. Cacti. Paradise. And no need to climb atop a roof any more. --Jim Broede

I like to wander. Aimlessly.

I may not be posting here for a few days. Because I'm off to Rome this afternoon. With my Italian true love. It's gonna be my first full-fledged visit to Rome. I'll tell what it was like when I return. I really don't know what to expect. Which is a nice way to go. Maybe I'll be surprised. Which is all right. Because I like surprises. Especially pleasant ones. My true love will be my guide. And that may well be the high point of the trip. Having my own personal guide. I wonder if I'll see Rome differently than she. I'd like to see places that tourists usually don't go. And often, I like to wander. Aimlessly. I find that's the best way to see a place. --Jim Broede

Indeed, a blessed event.

I'm collecting pine cones. Big ones. From the towering, bushy-topped pine trees that abound in Sardinia. The cones are maybe 10 times bigger than the cones that fall from the pine trees in my yard back in Minnesota. I have all sorts of potential plans for the cones. For Christmas decorations. But I also might sprinkle a few on the grave of my Italian true love's father. Of course, only with the permission of my true love. And she may balk. Because she's particular about his grave. She carefully manicures it. With fresh flowers virtually every Sunday. And she's got the grave topped by seashells and stones, mostly from the Mediterranean Sea. Her father died in 1977. At age 57. Far too young. The pine cones might be a gesture of appreciation for his role in bringing my true love into the world. Indeed, a blessed event. --Jim Broede

I need a translator.

Just a few miles from where I'm living in Sardinia, there's a tiny village called Sirri. It's remote. At the top of a well-forested, hilly canyon. The first time I went to Sirri last winter, I thought there might be a little restaurant or bar. But turns out Sirri consists only of a few homes. Older homes. Some ramshackle. There's no business. Other than a shepherd or two. Raising sheep and goats. And I'm thinking now there may be no finer place to live. Than Sirri. For a writer, like me. Peace and quiet. Other than the tinkling of bells tied around the necks of animals. And maybe a barking sheep dog. And the rustling of leaves and pine needles in the wind. My only regret: I assume the residents speak only Italian. No English. That's a handicap. Because I'd like to interview everyone of the handful of the inhabitants. So I could learn about their lives. And if they feel blessed. Living in an idyllic setting. Maybe I still can. If I convince my Italian true love to become a translator. --Jim Broede

The cymbalist was having fun.

Out of curiosity, I looked for the most animated and happiest musician when I listened to an Italian youth band play classical music the other night. Most of 'em seemed a little stiff. As I'd be. If only I were a musician. The guy that stood out was perched at the back. On the left side. He played the kettle drum, the cymbals and the tambourine. And believe me, he was having fun. That's maybe the most important thing to accomplish in life. Have fun doing whatever it is one does. Enjoy life. Savor it. The 20-musician band is called Banda Musicale Vincenzo Bellini. From the Carbonia area in Sardinia. --Jim Broede

No time for dilly-dallying.

If I really wanna do something, I do it. No sense in dilly-dallying. Just do it. Get on with life. Doing what's necessary to keep one alive and functioning and happy. So many people are dilly-dalliers. They dream about this or that. But that's all it ever becomes. An unfulfilled dream. No action. Maybe it's a sign that they really don't wanna live their dreams. Because it would be impractical. Too difficult. Always an excuse. I personally wanna be a romantic idealist. Really do. Therefore, I live each day. Trying to do something that meets my romantic ideals. Therefore, I am going to Rome tomorrow with my true love. For five days. I also want her to come with me to Germany in December. For five days. To visit my dear German relatives. She'd rather not. Because she has other commitments. Other obligations. But I so very much want to visit. To cultivate family ties. So I'm going. Alone. Because I must. Because I have to. In order to fully live my romantic ideals. That's the way it goes with me. I've left the USA. To live in Sardinia. With my true love. Sure, I'm 76. Maybe time to stay at home in Minnesota. Dilly-dallying. But to hell with that. I'm gonna live. The way I wanna live. As Jim Broede, the romantic idealist. Just the way it's gonna be. Right up to the end. --Jim Broede

Learning how to live fully.

My somewhat physically aged son Jack, who lives in the Pacific Northwest, writes to tell of 'new body parts' now 21 days old. Not sure exactly what that means. I've asked, does he mean his soul? His mind? His psyche? His spirit? Or are these things not of the body? He mentions that he's living in the shadows of a beautiful mountain range. I wonder, too, if it's better to live on a mountain top. Guess it really doesn't matter. As long as one learns to live fully. --Jim Broede

I often see life in words.

I'm off to Rome on Wednesday. With my Italian true love, of course. She has busines to take care of in Rome. And between the business, we'll spend the bulk of five days doing as we please. With each other. She's big on museums. No matter where we go. Whether it be in big historic cities or little rural towns. As for me, my favorrite pastime is observing people. Not the least being an observer of my true love. In Italian settings. I take her photo often. With my digital camera. In a vareity of settings. Usually her back. Because she's uncooperative when it comes to posing for photos. And I don't blame her. I don't like to pose either. And often, I keep camera in pocket. Because I get far more reward from merely 'photographing' what I see in my mind. My memory. It's more vivid that way. More focused. More etched in the soul. Also, I'd rather write about what I see and experience. Putting my 'pictures' into words. I often see life in/through words. --Jim Broede

I'm used to people acting nuts.

It's a phenomenon that I've noticed in recent years. When walking. Someone from a passing car will scream out the window. I don't know why they do it. Maybe to scare me. Personally, I think it's funny. Happens maybe once every two or three weeks. I do lots of walking. Daily. So I get around. I thought maybe it was something peculiar to my locale in Minnesota. But I'm surprised to find it also going on in Sardinia, where I'm living now. So maybe this is a worldwide thing. Mostly by youth. Teen-agers. Maybe they're a bit daffy. The other day several teenagers walked abreast toward me, on the sidewalk, and as they passed, one of 'em screamed. No words. Just screamed. Loud. I didn't even look back. I've learned to ignore it. Because I'm used to people acting nuts. Makes me wonder what's gonna be the next craze. --Jim Broede

Maybe she was kidding.

There ain't an Italian look, seems to me. When I watch Italians trek down the streets all over Italy, they look just like Americans. A hodge-podge of nationalities. All sorts of facial features. And hair color. And eye color. I once had an idea of a stereotypical Italian. A little bit dark. Brown eyes. Black hair. A big, awkward nose. The other night at a concert at a theater in Carbonia, I told my Italian true love that the woman sitting in front of us was once my vision of the typical Italian. And I wasn't kidding. My true love was aghast. She thought the woman wasn't particularly good-looking. Especially her nose. Of course, my nose is no prize either. More like W.C. Fields' bulky red snoze. Anyway, Italians don't look Italian. And I base that judgment on the fact that Italians look pretty much like the people I see on the streets back in Minnesota. A state settled mostly by Scandinavians and Germans. Meanwhile, my true love says that I'd have difficulty passing for an Italian. She's told me I look a little like Boris Yeltsin or Walter Matthau. Maybe she was kidding. Thought I looked more like the king of Sweden. --Jim Broede

Sure beats depression.

It would be interesting to interview you as to how you avoided depression as a caregiver, a writer told me. So I've thought about it. At first, I surmised it might have been a lucky roll of the dice. A genetic immunity to depression. But I know better. My dear sweet Jeanne died of Alzheimer's. Almost five years ago. After a 13-year bout (since diagnosis) with the disease. Initially, it was a shock. Accepting the diagnosis. I coped for a while by going into denial. It wasn't until the last 38 months of Jeanne's life that I really got my care-giver act fully together. At the lowest ebb. Thinking momentarily that I had failed. Because I put Jeanne into a nursing home. I could no longer handle 24/7 care-giving. It was too debilitating. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. But alas, the decision to go the nursing home route turned out to be the right one. A blessing. Because suddenly I became a dedicated 8-10 hour a day care-giver. Getting much-needed daily respite. I was with Jeanne every day for 38 months and one day. Until she died on Jan. 18, 2007. But I came home around 10 o'clock. After giving Jeanne her nightly shower. And putting her to bed. I had fully learned to accept the disease. To accept my role as care-giver to my true love of 38 years. I learned how to love. Actually. Actively. Some people find it hard to believe. That I learned to enjoy caring for Jeanne. I hand-fed her lunch and supper. In her room. Face to face. Away from the turmoil of the congregate dining room. Took her outdoors daily. In a wheelchair. Sometimes pushing the chair all the way home. Along six miles of roadside. So that Jeanne could sit out along her familiar lakeshore. And to commune with her cats. In the cold Minnesota winters, we still went outdoors. Jeanne nestled in a thermol sleeping bag. Maybe for the first time in my life I learned the craft/art of love. Jeanne, it turns out, was my teacher. In her own way. To be a lover. Instead of being a depressed recluse. And now, five years later, I'm still practicing being that romantic idealist. Living life artfully. The way it was meant to be. In love. I have another true love. A wonderful, beautiful and intelligent Italian woman. We're living together. In Sardinia. In Paradise. Just the way Jeanne would have wanted my life to evolve. As a true blue lover. Sure beats depression. --Jim Broede

I go with the flow.

I've been asked, 'When you write your blog, is it for you? Is it to get things out of your head? Or is it to connect with others?' Well, maybe it's a little bit of all three. And more. Probably varies from day to day. Each day, I write what I feel like writing. And it's common for me to sit down and write without knowing what I'm gonna write. I more or less feel obligated to write. Something. Anything that moves me. I allow the blog to evolve. Without having a preconceived idea of where it's going. Sort of like my life. After my dear Jeanne died almost 5 years ago, I thought maybe I was merely gonna mark time. For the rest of my life. But I met an Italian woman. Wonderful. Beautiful. Intelligent. And she became my new true love. And I'm living with her now in Sardinia, an island in the Mediterranean Sea. For a long time, I've considered myself a romantic idealist. And maybe this confirms it. I'm capable of falling n love and going halfway around the world to pursue and cultivate my love. I go with the flow. One day at a time. With life. With my writing. With my love. --Jim Broede

Another stellar night in Paradise.

I thought momentarily last night that America was coming to Sardinia. A black soul gospel choir was gonna sing at the Teatro Centrale in Carbonia. And my true love and I were in attendance. I was looking to see some really black souls. Well, I saw lots of jumping and jiving. But not a black face in the choir. Instead, they were all white Italians. From a Catholic parish in Cagliari, the capital city of Sardinia. But they sounded like black souls. I've read criticism on Google that these Italians have audacity for calling themselves a black soul gospel choir. When they're really white souls. But hey, I don't know what all the fuss is about. They're entertaining. They're good. And there's nothing wrong with a white soul trying to catch the feel of a black soul. Blacks have given us wonderful music. Especially when it comes to gospel/church music. It has a vitality and rambuctious passion lacking in many subdued white churches. I'm normally a subdued white. And I'm not much for the Christian church. But hey, I was in a foot-stomping Jesus mood when the black soul gospel choir got a hold of my soul. I could have listened to the choir all night. But the second half of the program was devoted to classical band music. By a band of young Italians called the Banda Musicale Vincenzo Bellini. Good music, too. But it was more like white soul music. A nice contrast. Give me black and white on the same program. I like 'em both. Another stellar night in Paradise. --Jim Broede

Maybe we do. In a different way.

When I go walking every day, I often get a friendly wave of greeting from Francesco. He's been on a work crew. Clearing a field. And planting trees. I know Francesco. Because he's a handyman employed occasionally by my Italian true love. He does all kinds of things. At which my true love and I are inept. Francesco also has picked me up and dropped me off at the airport in Cagliari, the capital city of Sardinia. Francesco and I speak different languages. Not much of an overlap. But we hit it off. I like Francesco's history. His experience. Having been badly injured in a horrific auto accident. Was in a coma for a long time. Some doubts as to whether he'd survive. He looks healthy now. But I'm sure he still has lingering after-affects from it all. But he seems to have a good attitude toward life. Makes the best of it. Too bad we don't speak the same language. But then, maybe we do. In a different way. --Jim Broede

Gonna be a beautiful night, too.

It's a beautiful day. Incredibly beautiful. Here in Sardinia. At the end of November. I walked my Italian true love to the market square this morning. In short shirtsleeves. Felt like a summer day in Minnesota. We bought bread. And pastries. Stopped for caffe. Then she went off to teach school. She'll be home at 1:30. And we'll go into a tree-lined remote canyon. And enjoy nature. And the weather. Tonight at the theater in Carbonia we'll attend a live music program. Sounds sort of American. Featuring a black soul gospel choir. From Cagliari, the capital city of Sardinia. Yes, it's gonna be a beautiful night, too. --Jim Broede

I covet the sensation of love.

I've left my childhood pretty much behind me. Or so I suspect. If I had any emotional scars, they're long gone. Long healed. Personally, I doubt that I had any scars in the first place. I always manage to adjust. To benefit from experience. Good and bad. I can turn a bad experience into a beneficial learning experience. Like my father's suicide, for instance. I learned a whole lot from that. That I didn't like his choice. That I prefer living. A long life. So far, I've lived twice as long as my father. With absolutely no regrets. And when my dearly beloved Jeanne died 5 years ago of Alzheimer's, I found a way to get on with life. One day at a time. I'm now living with my Italian true love in Sardinia. I love life. I'd just as soon live forever. If not physically -- well, then I can settle for spiritually. As long as I can experience the sensation of love. --Jim Broede

I wanna nurture the spirit.

Strange thing. Every day when I'm walking I see a parked car. With a message plastered in big bold letters. On both sides of the vehicle. Proclaiming, 'Believe in your body.' Strange. Because it's printed in English. And hardly anyone speaks English here. Because I'm in the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. These are Italians. They speak Italian. So I wonder what's going on. In smaller letters, I discover that it's a promotion for a detox program. To get alcoholics and drug users to come in for detox. To cleanse their bodies. Probably a program developed in America. And exported to Italy. Better be that the people running the program here speak Italian. I've done some googling. To research some of these detox programs. Detox options for humans range from natural cleansing of your body to structured medical programs for substance abuse to alternative choices. There are diet detox programs to lose weight. There are many alternative methods available to detox your colon and other organs. However, there is no scientific proof that cleansing or weight loss detox programs are needed. Another form of detox is drug detox, to help people with drug and alcohol addictions. I'm inclined to believe in my mind. More than my body. Sort of mind over matter. If one can think positively and mindfully, maybe it has a detoxing effect on one's physical being. I wanna nurture the spirit, first and foremost. Because in the end, that's the only thing that lasts. Hopefully, forever. --Jim Broede

My optimism bests her pessimism.

Italians are worried about the future. No doubt about it. Maybe more so than Americans. Yes, the bad economic conditions are worldwide. Maybe a sign that modern-day capitalism ain't working. Period. As a nation, Italy is in danger of going bankrupt. My Itailan true love is worried. That she may lose her teaching job. Or her pension. Or both. She imagines a bleak future. I'm more optimistic. Not about the state of capitalism. But the fact that something has to give. A new way of living. A new way of governing. A change in the world politic. More in tune with the common good. Rather than in the good of the filthy rich, as we have it now. There has to be an uprising amongst the so-called common folk. A better distribution and sharing of the wealth. The wealth is there. The only problem is that it's mostly in the hands of a few. The elite capitalists have become greedy. They want more and more of the wealth. They have an insatiable appetite. For piles and piles of money. Far more than they need. Better that the excess be put to use in the making of a better society. Meanwhile, I tell my true love, don't fret. Everything will work out. If she loses her job and her pension, we can still pool our resources, and make for the good life. La doce vita. Maybe half of the year in Sardinia and half in Minnesota. My optimism trumps her pessimism. --Jim Broede

I'm willing to take the risk.

I really don't care that much about my image. Even if it's a mistaken and derogatory image. Because I more or less know what and whom I am. And others can think whatever they want to. Good or bad. I won't lose any sleep over it. Fact of the matter is that many of us have a false sense of image. About ourselves. And about others. That's just the way it is. I marvel at people who worry about their image. They want to be perceived in certain ways. Even though it may be a false image. When I meet Italians for the first time, and we don't speak the same language, it's difficult. But I manage with my very limited knowledge of Italian. And I try to initially create an image of someone with a sense of humor. And it may misfire. For instance, I'll tell them in my limited Italian that I don't speak much Italian. And that I am an American. And that I'm stupid. And lazy. But that I'm happy. Especially since I have an Italian true love. Some Italians may not see the humor in my approach. And take me for being stupid and lazy. A regular dunderhead. But I don't mind. My true love thinks it's foolish of me. That I may end up with a less than flattering initial impression/image. But my attitude is, sobeit. I'm willing to take the risk. On chance that I'm perceived as a funny guy. --Jim Broede

Ain't fair, is it?

People sometimes tell me that I'm being unfair. And I reply, that may be true. I'm not always fair. Maybe because I don't feel like being fair. I may cheat. Fact of the matter is that we're all unfair. At least occasionally. And some of us are grossly unfair. Almost all of the time. I may be unfair to Republicans, and other people that I dislike. I may even be unfair to my Italian true love. More likely in an unintentional manner rather than intentional. Seems to me that unfairness is a condition of life. Nobody gets treated fairly all of the time. That especially goes in my blog. I take advantage of people. Often enough. That's unfair. But hey, there also are plenty of people that take advantage of me. Even my true love does it. And often, I don't mind. I want her to. Anyway, it's an unfair world we live in. Think of all of the injustices. That we perpetrate on each other. Maybe that motivates some of my own unfairness. If I'm in a fight with someone, and he resorts to unfair tactics, what am I supposed to do? Turn the other cheek? Maybe I will. For a time or two. But eventually I'm inclined to hit back. Maybe in an unfair manner. I may even kick him in the groin rather than slap him in the face. And then I'll even have the gall to proclaim that I'm fighting fairly. Ain't fair, is it? --Jim Broede

An Italian accent to her meow.

I've adopted a cat in Sardinia. More or less. She's an orange cat. Spends lots of time atop a 3-foot high wall on Via Trieste in the city of Carbonia. Where I'm living at the moment. I see the cat often on my daily walks about town. She's docile. Very approachable. Strictly an outdoor cat. She could use a good brushing. Not sure about her age. If I had a say about it, I'd bring her home. But she may belong to someone. Or maybe she's a neighborhood cat. There seems to be neighborhood dogs and cats around. They don't belong to anyone in particular. But the neighborhood takes care of 'em. With food. And kindly attention. Indeed, a nice gesture. Says something wonderful about Sardinians and Italians. I'm unaware of any animal shelters in Carbonia. Meanwhile, when I see the orange cat, I give her my undivided tender loving attention. She likes her tummy rubbed and scratched. And a neck massage, too. And she speaks to me. She has a distinctive Italian accent to her meow. --Jim Broede

They weren't space invaders.

Thought I saw two space invaders when I was out walking the other day. Looked like they were donned in space suits. Complete with helmets. Bulky white suits. From top to bottom. Boots, too. Turns out they were weed cutters for the city of Carbonia in Sardinia. Where workers are protected. With interesting apparel. I didn't see any danger. They weren't using chemicals. Merely hand-held, gas-powered whirling weed cutters. The kind that I use in my yard back home in Minnesota. Without bothering with the space suit and helmet. My Italian true love tells me the space suits are meant to protect the workers from flying weeds and allergies. I find that nice. But it was a warm day. And my guess is the workers sweated profusely in those suits. But they got the job done. Magnificently. Maybe a mile-long stretch along a tree-lined boulevard. They weren't space-invaders after all. --Jim Broede

She's made me a better eater.

My favorite meal is supper. And so I make it last. At least an hour. I put everything I'm gonna eat on my plate. Right from the start. I could easily consume everything in 15 or 20 minutes. But I don't. Because I want to savor supper. In part, because I'm in good company. With my Italian true love. Anyway, I know from the start what I'm going to eat. Nothing more. Nothing less. And the longer it lasts, the more the enjoyment. I don't like to dine in a hurry. It's probably bad for the digestive system. Food was meant to be relished. Ever so slowly. I know people who sit down at the dinner table with no idea how much they are gonna eat. They follow their whim. And stuff themselves. Fast and furious. To me, that's a sacrilege. A sin. Thing is, my true love has a good influence on me. Just by her presence. When I eat alone back home in Minnesota, I tend to eat faster. Maybe because she isn't there. I consciously try to slow the pace. But I succeed much more so in Sardinia. I owe a thanks to my true love. She's made me a better -- more healthy, more wiser -- eater. --Jim Broede

By lighting a spark.

Beware. I write about people. Acquaintances. Friends. Relatives. Strangers. Anybody is fair game. Even people I imagine. Concoct. As for real people, I tend to disguise 'em. At least a little bit. But not always. I like to write about people. Especially the ones that touch my life. It's a way to create characters. From real life. Anyway, there's a danger if you know me. You might end up right here in this blog. In one form or another. It's ruined a friendship or two. Nobody is completely safe. From my pen. Not even my sister or brother or mother or father. Virtually everybody I know has caught at least a glimpse of themselves here or in my other writings. They may see themselves. And may not necessarily like it. Of course, some people I know don't have any clearcut identities. They've been looking all their lives. And don't have a clue. So I help, and give 'em identities. I make them characters. That may or may not fit. I like to identify people. They're all fascinating. Even the boring ones. Because they choose to be boring. That takes some doing. A knack to put people to sleep. Except for me. I study boring people. And I try to stimulate 'em. Bring them out of boredom. By lighting a spark. --Jim Broede

Despite her silly cautionary advice.

I'm cautioned by my true love that I exercise too much. That my regimen isn't good for a 76-year-old man. But I pooh-pooh that idea. Exercise keeps me in good physical condition. Keeps me alive. I exercise more than my true love. And I suggest that she doesn't exercise enough. That she's too sedentary. A daily workout would do no harm. By the way, she's a good swimmer. Very good. Could easily be mistaken for a beautiful mermaid. But she hardly ever swims these days. Used to. Anyway, my true love tried to get me to sit down after I returned from a brisk 6-mile walk. I averaged a 14-minute mile. Instead of resting, I climbed on the stationary bicycle and pedaled another 10 miles. And I'm about to go out for a 3-mile walk. On my way to the grocery store. To buy healthy food for supper tonight. So that I have stamina tomorrow. I wanna walk 10 miles at a brisk pace. Because I'm addicted. To exercise. And to my charming true love. Despite her silly cautionary advice. --Jim Broede

As if floating on a cloud.

I'm mastering the art of exercise. To the point of almost falling asleep while my body is in motion. Actually, I'm in a trance. While pedaling my stationary bicycle at speeds of up to 20 miles an hour. I close my eyes. And pedal away. Into mock sleep. Very close to total relaxation. Of course, I wouldn't do this when on a real bicycle on the open road. But I still get into a state of euphoria. From exercise. In the great outdoors. Walking. Jogging. Bicycling. And I'm able to imagine myself exercising in euphoria while sitting on a park bench. A hypnotic state. My true love abhors waking up at night. She'd rather sleep uninterrupted. But a degree of wakefulness can be good, too. Sort of a semi-sleep. Dream-like. With a feeling of peace and tranquility. As if floating on a cloud. In Paradise. --Jim Broede

Is it too late to save America?

A national effort. Even bigger than World War II. That's what America needs. Everybody pitching in to revitalize the economy. To save America. The poor. The middle class. The rich. Everyone. The young. The old. The middle-aged. Even the infirm. Nobody is exempted. We all make sacrifices. But we aren't gonna get it. Because we Americans have lost a zest for life. For getting things done. We dilly-dally. We feud among ourselves. We become defeatists. And Republicans. And Democrats. Pulling against each other. We aren't true Americans any more. We are despicible people. That includes me. I've fled America. For another part of the world. Italy. Sardinia. An island retreat in the Mediterranean Sea. Because I can't stand living in America any more. Because we Americans hate each other. We don't solve our problems any more. We don't work together. We don't make all-out sacrifices to save our nation. We could do it. If only we had the resolve. The gumption. The fortitude. We could rebuild and revitalize America. But we're all giving up. Writing off America. Throwing in the towel. Makes me wonder if it's too late to save America. --Jim Broede

The art of hemming and hawing.

I'm good at determining what's on someone's mind. On his/her desire. Do they want to do something? Or not? The moment they hem and haw, it's apparent. They don't. Oh, I could still convince 'em. Do it. But generally, that doesn't have the desired effect. They just go about it in a half-hearted fashion. It could be anything, from going to a concert to losing weight. Trivial stuff. Big stuff. Most times, I don't foist my ways on others. Only on myself. I'm the determined sort. If I'm gonna do it, I do it. I may decide when I get up I'm gonna walk 20 miles today. Or bike for 50 miles. Chances are, it's gonna get done. When I returned from Italy last time, I decided I was gonna lose weight. No matter what. And I did. Fourteen pounds, and counting. I'm as trim and fit and svelte as I've ever been. And I'm determined to keep it that way. Watching my diet. A light breakfast. Often skipping lunch. Or just having a tomato. Or an apple. But having a decent supper. Savored. Eaten slowly. Never less than an hour. And during the day, I work out. Hardly ever less than 10 miles of brisk walking. I see other people. All over. In Minnesota. In Sardinia. Determined, too. To stay sedentary. To stay overweight. Often, they tell me, it's temporary. They'll get around to doing something about it. Yes, they hem and haw. --Jim Broede

The soul -- as endless space.

I'm my own man. In that I do pretty much as I please. Probably 98 percent of the time. Even as a romantic idealist. I give in sometimes. Compromise a little bit. For the sake of being romantic. But other times, I have to force the issue. For the sake of personal integrity. I have to always be true to myself. Doing the right thing. That's where I draw the line. On doing the right thing. The best thing for the whole shebang, so to speak. For the common good. Maybe that means some individuals don't get what they want. But sobeit. I don't always get what I want. A perfect world. No such thing. I cultivate very good and amiable relationships. Even occasional truly loving relationships. As close to perfection as one can get. Without fully achieving it. Maybe I experience moments of near-perfection. Things to savor for a lifetime. Moments that bring me tranquility. And peace. Of mind and spirit. Only when I dig deep into myself. And into another. Thing is, I have the wherewithal to only penetrate my soul all the way. Not another. And then I can't even be sure about my own soul. Maybe it's all a delusion. Maybe one's soul exists in an abyss. Like the cosmos. Like all of creation. Maybe there is no bottom. No top. No boundaries. Just endless space. --Jim Broede

For which I am thankful.

No Thanksgiving Day holiday in Italy. But I'll still be celebrating. Thankful that I've been able to come to Sardinia. To live with my Italian true love. I'm beginning to feel like a citizen of the world. Not merely an American. I've become a world traveler in recent years. Acquiring an appreciation of other cultures. It's a good life. For which I am thankful. --Jim Broede

On becoming a militant.

This was the day that John F. Kennedy was shot and killed. I was writing for the Vero Beach Press Journal then. And I was on a lunch break when I heard of it. The restaurant and Florida was full of rednecks. Some customers cheered over the news. Thought it was good riddance. Blacks lived in the adjoining town called Gifford. They weren't allowed to reside in Vero Beach. And the schools were not yet integrated. No blacks allowed in white restaurants. Had their own drinking fountains. Sat in the balcony of the movie theater. Had separate swimming beaches. Wasn't so long ago. In my lifetime. I was 28. Joined the local chapter of the NAACP. And became a militant. --Jim Broede

We'll be back, Giuliana.

A little quaint restaurant. Out in the country. Sort of in the middle of nowhere. But it’s really in Paradise. So idyllic. Quiet. Serene. Tranquil. The owner, Giuliana, a pretty, young Italian woman, calls it the Trattoria Bar. Just outside the village of Villamassargia. Only a half-hour drive from the Sardinian city of Carbonia. And maybe nicest of all, the restaurant is plunked down in the middle of a vast grove of olive trees. Some of ‘em 600 or 700 years old. And the trees look it. Thick, gnarled, withered trunks. Anyway, my true love and I started off with caffe macchiato before we sauntered through the olive grove. With a message that we’d return in an hour or two. For lunch. But before we could leave the bar, a white kitten came to greet us. And she nuzzled up my pants leg. To tell me that maybe she’s related to by loving cat Loverboy. Back home in Minnesota. They both have the same loving instincts. Warming up to any and everybody. Not the least bit shy about showing unrestrained affection. When we sat down for lunch, the cat sneaked into the dining room. With intent to greet us again. But she was quickly ushered out by Giuliana. To my chagrin. I have nothing against dining with cats. They are the best of company. Anyway, the meal was delicious. I had a traditional Sardinian pasta with bits of pork and tomato sauce. My true love had an Italian sausage with potatoes. And we sipped home-brewed white wine. But it all tasted like nectar and ambrosia, the same fare on the menu for the gods on Mount Olympus. It was one of my most satisfying afternoons in Sardinia, since my arrival on Oct. 2. I’m sure my true love and I will return. Again and again and again. Keep a table open for us, Giuliana. –Jim Broede

My forever. As long as it lasts.

I don't like the way the world is being run. But I don't know what to do about it. When I was younger, I thought I could change it all. By becoming involved. Taking an active part in my community. In politics. In life. Maybe that was a waste of time. In that I didn't really change anything. Other than myself. And maybe that's all one can really do. Change one's self. To learn to accept what one can't change. The system, for instance. The way politic is played. Change will come. Some day. Some way. But it's like watching the tide come in. One must show patience. And wait for the natural flow. Or waiting for a season to change. Summer comes. Summer goes. Civilizations flourish. Then decline. One lives. One dies. One has only a small fraction of time. An instant. A flash. I'm trying to make the best of it. Because it's my forever. As long as it lasts. --Jim Broede

I don't mind taking risks.

I don't like living behind a facade. Or wearing a mask. But some peoiple prefer hiding their real selves. Which I find perplexing. They practice being two different people. Creating a false public image. Because they want to be perceived as somebody they really aren't. I ask why. And often, they tell me that makes their lives easier. They are more easily accepted in their community. In their environs. Some of these people are friends and acquaintances. They trust me. So they seem to be their real selves with me. I take that as a compliment. As for me, I'm far more revealing than many others. I sort of go about naked. No facade. No mask. I'm even myself with total strangers. Open and above board. Friends caution me about that. They say it's too easy for me to be taken the wrong way. Because I volunteer too much information. But hey, I don't mind taking risks. --Jim Broede

My frozen brain cells.

My Italian true love didn't want me to go walking last night. Because it was windy. 'My gawd,' I replied, 'when I'm back in Minnesota I go walking in a blizzard. With howling winds of 40 or 50 miles an hour. One can hardly see.' That compares to a 15-mile an hour breeze and a balmy temperature of 60 degrees in Sardinia. It's an example of perceived hostile weather here. The longtime inhabitants of Paradise are spoiled. They are sissies. I'm considered a tough hombre, or even a lunatic, for venturing out in a short-sleeved shirt on a warm night. The other day it was sunny and balmy. And on my walk I looked for a Sardinian in a shortsleeved shirt. I spied only one. Looked like a student. Carrying books. Standing at a bus stop. Must have been an exchange student. From Minnesota. A clerk in a grocery store was amazed because I was out wearing a t-shirt. 'Yes,' my true love said, 'he comes from near the Arctic Circle.' Implying that my brain cells have been frozen. Solid. --Jim Broede

Putrid is putrid is putrid.

Sounds like budget-balancing talks are breaking down in Washington. Which comes as no surprise. Because we Americans are represented in Congress mostly by assholes and scumbags and idiots. Normally, I'm not into such name-calling. But I have lost respect for American politicians. They are an obscene, crappy bunch. The Republicans are worse than the Democrats. But still, that isn't saying much for Democrats. Putrid is putrid is putrid. I'm happy at the moment. Because I'm not living in the USA. I'm in Sardinia. And the news I get daily about America is relatively sparse. A blessing. When news trickles in from Washington, I'm best off ignoring it all. Because there's nothing I can do about it. Other than hold my nose and puke. --Jim Broede

In an olive grove. Forever.

I visited an extraordinary place yesterday. Almost unbelievable. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. And touched it, too. With by hands. And took digital photos. To help convince others that it's for real. Though some may think the pictures are fake. Because they are so other-worldly. I went to a grove of olive trees. In Sardinia. A half-hour drive from where I'm staying. And for a while, I wondered if the trees were real. From a distance, the trunks looked like they were dead. Withered. Gnarled. Misshapen. Wrinkled. And little wonder. Because some of the trees are purported to be 600 or 700 years old. Indeed, that's aged. But on top of these trunks there's growth. Branches. Bulging. And in season, there are sweet-smelling white blossoms and tons and tons of olives. Maybe the trees will keep producing forever. I'd like to think so. My true love and I walked through the groves. From one tree to the next. Awestruck. No two trees alike. Each tree with it's own personality. The lure was irresistible. We nestled in some of the more inviting trunks. As if they had arms. Or laps. And warm bosoms. I could feel the pulsebeat of life. Yes, in a tree. A fantastic spiritual experience. As if in a dream. But so very real. A moment captured. In an olive grove. Forever. --Jim Broede

The nature of my romantic love.

I'm more romantic than most people. Maybe the most romantic of all my acquaintances and friends. Even more romantic than my Italian true love. Although she's very, very romantic. But it's hard to match me. And I'd have it no other way. I want to out-romanticize everyone around me. I want to be the leader. I'm fully capable of falling in love. Pretty much unconditionally. I can, for instance, accept so-called 'flaws' in my true love. Because I don't see 'flaws' as real flaws. Instead, they are some of the things that make my true love unique and extraordinary. I tell her that all the time. Even what she perceives as a flaw, really isn't. But she doesn't always believe me. Such doubts might be considered 'flaws' by she and others. But not by me. I like that she doesn't accept me unconditionally. I don't want her to. Because that's impetus for me to accept her unconditionally. She doesn't have to reciprocate. She doesn't even have to meet me half-way or a quarter of the way or one-tenth of the way. That's what makes me more of a romantic. I don't demand unconditional love from anyone. In fact, I don't want it. I need conditions placed on me in order to cultivate my own unconditional love. I want to be able to do far more for my true love than she can possibly do for me. That's the nature of my romantic love and devotion. --Jim Broede

My kind of people.

Over the years, I've known people who let litttle things upset 'em and ruin their day. Maybe even their week. Because they stew over small stuff. Such as a nonsensical spat with their spouse or a trvial disagreement with their boss. They might have had an otherwise good day. So many things going right. But they focus on the one thing that went wrong. And discount the rest. Sad, isn't it? Maybe it's that they want a perfect day. Everything going without a single hitch. Maybe that makes 'em perfectionists. But I suggest that makes 'em crazy. Stupid. And unhappy. I've told many of 'em so. A few get pissed. But some see the light. And learn to savor the good stuff and get on with building a happy life. They are my kind of people. --Jim Broede

I don't like whiners.

"Everybody has excuses. They don't go too far. That's just a cop-out for your own insecurity if you're whining about things." That's a quote from Dale Sveum, the new manager of the Chicago Cubs. The Cubs baseball team has been full of whiners in recent years. Players making excuses for inept performances. For not playing hard enough. I'm expecting that to change under a management shake-up in the Cubs organization. Sveum is part of the package. Seems to me that baseball is as much a mental game as a skill game. And the Cubs have been mentally lax. Whining, whining endlessly. I don't like whiners. --Jim Broede

She has a magical aura.

I have a new liberal to worship. Instead of Barack Obama. This time it's a woman. Elizabeth Warren. A 62-year-old Harvard law professor. She's running for the U.S. Senate. In Massachussets. The seat once held by Ted Kennedy. Of course, I've been disillusioned by some so-called liberals. Obama hasn't lived up to my expectations. But Elizabeth Warren --well, she's a passionate and articulate liberal. More passionate and more articulate than Obama. She could go places. In the political realm. Maybe even to the presidency in 2016. She's got what it takes. More honesty than Obama. Less of a compromiser when it comes to liberal causes. Obama has been a disappointment to many, many liberals. He's given in to Republicans and conservatives on too many issues. He's abandoned some liberal principles. He's given away too much. He's allowed Washington to affect him more than he's affected Washington. That ain't good. Warren has the capability of turning the tide. Of selling liberalism. In persuasive ways. Heck, she might even turn some conservatives into liberals. Elizabeth Warren could be superwoman. The savior of the nation. She has a magical aura. --Jim Broede

Deeper and deeper and deeper.

It's more important to understand myself than it is to understand other people. Or so I suspect. Because if I don't understand myself, it's gonna be impossible to understand others. I can't get inside other people. But I can get inside myself. Then I can begin to extrapolate. I can then listen attentively to other people and compare our inner experiences. And that may lead to some degree of understanding. Even to a loving relationship. Yes, to true love. Love that becomes far more than physical. Becomes soulful. But for that to happen, one must probe one's self. Deeper and deeper and deeper. --Jim Broede

More stupid than ever.

The concept of living outside of time. I've been thinking about it. And would like to know if it's possible. I'm told that god lives outside of time. Above and beyond it all. So, if god can do it, why not me? Or any of us. I wonder if the spirit world is outside of time. In another dimension. It's theoretical. No proof that there is an existence outside of time. Maybe in another dimension, there's another kind of time. Where everything existed forever. I guess that's the essence of the concept. Foreverness. Could be that god created time. A beginning and an end to creation from his perch in the forever dimension. That would allow spirit beings in the forever dimension to enter the physical world, knowing full well initially that it's only a temporary physical existence, and that they would eventually return to the spiritual timeless dimension. But once in the physical dimension, they suffer from sort of an amnesia state and no longer know for sure that they'll be able to return to the forever timeless world. Because as physical beings they have lost the ability to fully grasp where they came from. That's me all right. More stupid than ever. Knowing less upon arrival than when I left. --Jim Broede

I offer advice around the clock.

I give advice. For free. Which annoys some people. But that's all right. Nobody has to take my advice. People give me advice. Often. Including not to give advice. But that's counter-productive. Because I always give good advice. But some people are too dumb to recognize good advice. That's their problem. No reason for me to stop telling 'em, 'Follow my advice, and you'll be better off.' Instead, they choose to be worse off. And one reason why they are worse off is because they are peeved. Annoyed. Pissed. Because I don't shut up. I have an endless stream of advice. It flows and flows and flows. I can't resist giving advice. I was born to spout advice. Morning. Noon. Night. I even talk in my sleep. So I can offer advice around the clock. --Jim Broede

Mom would be proud of me.

I'd make a good housekeeper. Never took home economics, as it was called when I went to high school. That was only for girls. But my mother taught me how to clean house. And to cook. Albeit, I fine-tuned the skills on my own. I'll never be the housekeeper my mother was. Because she was addicted to it. Cleaned, cleaned, cleaned. Never stopped until the day she died. Washed windows well into her 80s. Pulled out the heavy refrigerator and stove. To clean behind and under. Every week. If not every day. In mid-life, she became an interior decorator. Trained herself. She was a natural. Anyway, I do a good job of keeping my living space reasonably neat and clean. For a man, at least. And I can cook better than most women, in my humble opinion. I was motivated to learn how to cook. Because that way I was able to make exactly what I like. Meals that suit my exotic tastes. Anyway, the cleaning lady didn't show up today. So I've swung into action. Vacuuming and mopping the floors. Preparing supper well ahead of time. Getting it all cooked for reheating tonight. And now I'm gonna do the ironing. My true love is teaching school today. I wonder if she'll be surprised when she comes home. Especially when she opens the refrigerator. I cleaned that, too. It was a mess. Disorganized. If my mother was here, she'd be proud of househeeper Jim. --Jim Broede

I'm only dealing with today.

I try to adjust to any and every eventuality. Good and bad. Of course, it's the bad stuff that's most difficult. And nobody escapes life without bad stuff happening. One has to learn to deal with it. And eventaully we have to deal with our own demise. I don't even use the word death. Demise sounds better. Fortunately, I've been able to live a long life (76, and counting) . And I see no immediate cause for concern. I feel like I'm in good health. Always have. I've lost loved ones. And I've had disappointing setbacks. But nothing that ever stopped me from the pursuit of happiness. More or less one day at a time. Especially as I become older. Maybe if there have been any surprises in my life, it's the number of people I see that are downright unhappy. Unable to adjust to the eventualities of life. They just can't get the happiness quotient right. They're never satisfied. They want more and more and more. Instead of fully embracing what they already have. They may even complain that they are too tired to enjoy life. Or too depressed. Or too whatever. And I keep telling 'em to find ways to adjust. To live happily. If not forever --then at least for a few minutes today. Taste and feel happiness. If only for a moment. That'll be a catalyst for adding still another moment. And another and another. One might even build an endless chain of happiness. Oh, I'm a Pollyanna, I know. But that's the only way I can survive. And still be happy. It serves me well. Maybe not forever. But I'm only dealing with today. --Jim Broede

I'm the curious sort.

I am what I am. A bit inconsiderate. In that I don't always consider other people's moods. And cater to them. Instead, I'm happy when other people don't want me to be happy. Or I may be serious or funny or belligerent at inopportune or inappropriate times. When people wish I were different. But then, these same people may not cater to my whims and wishes. Which is all right. I don't expect them to. But they often expect me to. I make exceptions, though. Especially for my true love. I try to serve her needs. And adjust to her moods. At least most of the time. As for others, I won't necessarily bend over backwards to be accommodating. Just depends. Often on my own mood. I'm not all that reluctant to offend people. Especially people I don't like. Such as idiot Republicans. I can take some Republicans. But not the idiots. Sometimes, I have difficulty gauging one's mood. So even if I wanted to be empathetic, I may not be. Out of ignorance. I feel my way. And I may change my approach in midstream. Just depends. I'm far more respectful of respectful people. Yes, I often treat people the way they treat me. Without even thinking twice about it. Comes automatically. My friends generally think I'm considerate. And I suppose I am. To friends. But I'm really friendly to strangers, too. Because I'm the curious sort. I wanna know more about 'em. --Jim Broede

Little wonder I have to work out.

I like to go to the grocery store. Daily. Just to look around. I'm fascinated by the products. So many of 'em. Labeled in the Italian language. Here in Sardinia. My true love isn't big on shopping. For groceries. She'd rather make only two or three trips a week to the store. But I find it difficult passing by a grocery store when I go on my daily walks. I invariably find something we need. Maybe a jar of peaches. Or bread. Pastries, too. Or something called flan. A custard-like dessert. I seldom find flan in American grocery stores. But it's popular in Italy. Almost every grocery has it. Ice cream, too. Only here it's called gelato. My favorite flavor is stracciatella. Which is vanilla with chocolate chips mixed in. There's also a stracciatella yogurt. Very good. Italian breads are delicious. So many kinds. Same goes for cheese. And the beer. I'm partial to Italian beers. Out of respect. But it's hard to resist foreign imports. From Spain, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Russia. I buy single cans. Cheap compared to American prices for imports. I seldom buy pasta. Because I leave that strictly to my true love. She's a pasta expert. She knows everything about pastas. She makes good pasta dishes. But I wish she'd go heavier on the tomato sauces. Anyway, little wonder that I have to work out continuously. At least several hours a day. Otherwise, I'd start to resemble a blimp. --Jim Broede

The glamor in my life abounds.

Could be that I glamorize my life. But why not? Because I see glamor. Almost every where. For instance, my true love is the most glamorous woman in the world. And she's Italian. Which adds more glamor. And she's a glamorous teacher. Of English and English literature. Wow! Glamor never ends. And imagine where I'm living. In Sardinia. An island in the Mediterranean Sea. An hour's flight from Rome. Still more glamor. And I'm only 20 minutes away from glamorous Mediterranean beaches. And I also have a lakeshore home in glamorous Minnesota. I have two glamorous cats named Loverboy and Chenuska. And I can count on glamorous friends. And I have a glamorous style of writing. My gawd. The glamor in my life abounds. --Jim Broede

Far better things to focus on.

I'm leading a sheltered life here in Sardinia/Italy. Sheltered in large part to the goings-on in America. And it's a welcome relief. I've been annoyed with America. For a long time. There are things I like about America. The land. The nature. The scenery. The wildlife. But I despise the politic. And the social climate. The ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor. I feel more comfortable where I am. On an island in the Mediterranean Sea. Where the language is Italian. So that when I watch TV, it's Italian I hear. Which allows me to guess about what's happening in America. Sometimes, I would just as soon not know. Because I can't do anything to change the American politic. I've gotta live with it. That is, if I were living in the U.S. But I'm able to distance myself. I take a daily peek at the New York Times. On-line. Read mostly the editorial page. The columnists. And I look at liberal slants. To boost my morale. I occasionally observe the antics of Republican stalwarts who want to be president. Indeed, they are laughable. But one of 'em could win the presidency. Could defeat Barack Obama. Thinking that maybe Mitt Romney has a chance. If that happens, it'll be gawdawful. But not as gawdawful if others in the Republican ranks became president. I'm still hopeful that Obama gets a second term. That would give me reason to return to America. At least for part-time living. I can see myself living 6 months in Sardinia, and 6 months in Minnesota. As long as I buffer myself from the world of politic. I have far better things to focus on. --Jim Broede

A very special city.

I'm gonna spend five days in Rome with my Italian true love. My first real stay in Rome. I've been in no hurry to go there. Because I prefer the off-the-beaten-track places in Italy. Where tourists seldom go. Undiscovered paradises. But I suspect that Rome, too, has hidden paradises. The adventure begins Nov. 30 and runs through Dec. 4. My true love is going to Rome primarily to take written tests that may qualify her to teach English at the university level and at Italian schools in foreign countries. I'm sure she's got what it takes. It's more a matter of jumping through the hoops. To make it all possible. Anyway, maybe I'm obligated to see the Coliseum and the Vatican and other traditional places on most tourists' intinerary. But I'll be more interested in riding the metro (the underground) and observing Italians. And reminding myself that I'm in Rome. A very special city. --Jim Broede

Exercise is better than fretting.

Caught in an elevator. Stuck. The doors won’t open. Happened yesterday. My true love and I. Alone. In a tiny cramped space. Big enough for 4 people at the most. I’m calm, cool and collected. Maybe wouldn’t have been 20 or 30 years ago. I’m the mellow Jim now. My true love was rattled. Nervous. Uptight. Yes, panicky. Meanwhile, I can fathom being there for several hours. With my true love. Really, not such a bad thought. We’d be able to console each other. Though I’d probably do most of the consoling. Relax, I tell her. We’ll get out. Eventually. But she’s in a hurry. Wants to go down to City Hall. To get a new identity card. One is required. Every 5 years. For travel in the European Union. I tell her don’t worry. Be happy. I’m ready to sing the Bobby McFerrin refrain/ditty about not worrying. Besides, she can get the identity card tomorrow. Or next week, for that matter. Let’s enjoy our togetherness. Anyway, we sound an alarm. A little bell. That one can hardly hear tinkle. My true love yells for help. Soon we hear from the lady living on the floor above. She recruits her husband. He tells us to stick our hand in a little crevice. And to feel for a latch or lever. Pull it. We try, and fail. Try again, and fail. Finally, I figure it out. I pull up, instead of down or sideways. Presto, the door opens. My true love vows to never ride the elevator again. To take the stairs. That may be a blessing in disguise. She’s trying to lose weight. I tell her exercise is better than fretting. It burns far more calories. –Jim Broede

I'd be labeled a troublemaker.

My true love had off yesterday. From a day of teaching teenagers. English. In an Italian school. In this school, students are allowed to designate one day a month. To a meeting of students. To discuss things. School issues. Or whatever. All by themselves. No teachers present. No administrators. Just the students. In private. I think that’s nice. For the students. And for my true love. Because she needs a day off. Maybe two or three. Anyway, I’m gradually learning things about the Italian school system. It’s pretty neat. When I went to public school back in America a long time ago, we students never got a chance to meet. In private. To discuss issues. I would have relished the opportunity. Because I like to talk. And to rabble rouse. I would have tried to stir a student revolt. To issue demands to the administration. To give students more power. My true love likes to teach her students to be rebels. To be their own beings. To stick up for their beliefs. To cultivate independent traits. But she’s also a disciplinarian. She won’t let students get away with too much. If she had been my teacher when I was a teenager, she would have labeled me a troublemaker. –Jim Broede

Making life a pleasure, not work.

I'm occasionally accused of not working. Of having life too easy. As if that's a sin. People tell me I'm lucky to be retired. That they are less fortunate. Because they are working. Laboring. Gainfully employed. But I quickly remind them that when I was employed and earning a living, I didn't look at it as gruelling work. It was mostly pleasure. Except maybe for a short time when I became disenchanted with the news business. Writing for newspapers. And so I retired relatively early, at age 62, and became a caregiver for my dear wife Jeanne. Until she died almost 5 years ago. But I learned to look at life as an Alzheimer's care-giver as a pleasure. By making it an act of love. Also, by making care-giving an 8-10 hour day. So that I got respite. Rest. Time-off. That made everything a pleasure. Not work. After Jeanne died, I went through another period of disenchantment. But only for a short time. Because I decided to get on with the rest of my life. Some call me lucky. And I am. I've been lucky virtually all of my life. Because I've been in love. Twice now with beautiful and wonderful and intelligent and loving women. But just as importantly, I've been in love with life. I intend to stay in love right up to the day I die. And if I have my druthers, even after physical death there will be continuation of life. In a different form. A different dimension. Life is life is life. I'll take it any way I can get it. And I'll try to make it pleasure. Not work. --Jim Broede

On how to stay svelte.

My true love has a cleaning lady that comes in twice a week. Her name is Claudia. And she does everything. From mopping floors to making the bed to doing the dishes. In between Claudia’s appearances, I do much of the housework. With relish. I really like to do housework. And cook, too. Although my true love doesn’t eat everything I cook. Especially the German stuff. Such as sauerkraut and bratwurst and wiener schnitzel. She especially abhors the scent of sauerkraut. And burns incense every time I cook up a batch. My true love is Italian and prefers Italian food. Which I like, too. But I also like a wider variety of food. I’ll try just about anything. Eating has become a pleasant ritual. Especially in the evening. When I eat very, very slowly. Always finishing long after my true love. I often skip lunch, or at most have a very light one. And breakfast is light, too. But not as light as lunch. Eating and working out are two of my favorite pastimes. When properly combined, they keep me svelte. For which I’m proud. –Jim Broede

Thank gawd. I still have hair.

Used to be that I shaved every day. Especially when I was working. But now I often go three or four days without shaving. That’s an advantage of being retired. I don’t find it necessary to always be clean-shaven. But I have no desire to grow a beard or moustache. Because that would be uncomfortable, I’m sure. Besides, beards tend to make one look older. And I’m trying to look younger. I’m told that I also look younger when I have my hair cut relatively short. My Italian barber knows exactly what to do. Cut it short every four or five weeks. My hair has turned gray. Which is to be expected. I’m not concerned about that. Because I still have hair. For which I am thankful. –Jim Broede

I want to be educated.

I’m getting to know people by their first names. Here in Sardinia. For instance, the flower seller at the graveyard is Rita. And the clerk at the bakery in the market square is Angela. And the jogger I met the other night in the canyon is Pierre. And my true love’s best girl friends include Alesandra and Patrizia. I’m trying to get my true love to introduce me to everyone. Even people she doesn’t know by name. And that especially goes for those Italians who speak English. They are usually very knowledgeable and conversant people. As I would be if I were bilingual. Instead, I’m a English language-speaking dunce. And I want to be educated. By those who are bilingual. –Jim Broede

I could do both.

When I’m back in Minnesota, I write my true love at least one love letter every night. So that when she wakes in the morning, there’s something nice to read. But now that I’m with her in Sardinia, I don’t write love letters any more. Instead, I try to speak my love. Live it in the flesh. But maybe I should still write love letters. At least occasionally. To stay in practice. Even when I’m living with my true love. I’ll ask her about that today. If she would still prefer the written word. I could do both. Write and speak my love. –Jim Broede

Except for the pain in my ass.

I put almost 70 miles on my stationary bicycle yesterday. And that made me feel good. Except for my sore butt. The right side of my ass has an abrasion. A little wear and tear from all that exercise. My true love tells me I should cushion the bicycle seat. But I’m wondering if I should merely shift my weight. More to the left. I know that I’m right handed and right footed. And so maybe I’m also favoring the right side of my fanny. Working it out too hard. I’ve been pumping at an average speed of about 21 miles an hour. Much faster than when I’m riding a real bicycle on the road. I broke up the day with several workouts on the stationary bicycle. Totaling a little over 3 hours. And I walked 6 miles. For good measure. My true love thinks I’m exercising too much. But I don’t think so. I’m very comfortable. Except for a little pain in the ass. –Jim Broede

I'm pleading with my true love.

While I was on the stationary bicycle yesterday, my true love turned on the TV for me. To an English language newscast. And I thought, how nice. But I quickly had a horrible feeling. It was Fox News. The very thing I had left America to escape. Dirty rotten journalism. I wasted no time. Turned off the TV. I’d rather listen to Italian language news. Because I don’t fully understand Italian. Though I can often make out the subject of conversation. And I’m recognizing more and more of the politicians. Some of ‘em look putrid. Those in Silvio Berlusconi’s party. I’ve identified them as not so nice beings. The equivalent of conservative Republicans in America. And I’m happy that I’m not grasping everything they are saying. Often I can see it written in the frown on my true love’s beautiful face. And believe me, she is beautiful. Even when she’s annoyed. Anyway, that’s why I’m here in Sardinia. To be with my true love. And to more or less forget about American politics and the things that are bad about America. I’m living in another world. And I’m seeing another side of life. A side that I like. Except when Fox News comes on. I’m pleading with my true love. Don’t turn Fox News on again. –Jim Broede

I'm fitting in. I feel accepted.

Maybe the nicest terrain in Sardinia are the canyons. Valleys with steep forested hills. I walked into the canyon country around Carbonia late this afternoon, and returned after sunset. My true love traipsed a little ahead of me. Sometimes, too far. I had to call. 'Slow down, slow down. So we can take in the grandeur of it all.' I didn't want to feel rushed. Anytime I'm enjoying myself, I try to make time stop. No hurry. Savor the moment. Make it last. I sat on a stone wall as my true love disappeared into the distance. And marveled. When I caught up to my true love, I announced that it was time to turn around. To saunter back. Slower than when we came. A jogger approached us. He waved, and yelled, 'Hi, Jim.' I was recognized by an Italian acquaintance. I am no longer a stranger. In this land. Sardinia. I'm fitting in. I feel accepted. --Jim Broede

Magnets attract. I ain't fightin' it.

When I'm walking down the street with my Italian true love, I frequently bump into her. It's truly a bump. We bump arms. And even shoulders. And my true love wonders why. I tell her that it doesn't happen when I'm next to other people. Then I walk a straight line. But I'm sensing there's a magnetism between us. I'm pulled to her. Like a magnet. I can't help it. Magnets attract. And I ain't fightin' it. --Jim Broede

That takes some doing.

I have a shabby, well-worn belt that I wear. To hold up my pants. And it annoys my Italian true love that I keep wearing the belt. Especially when I have a virtually new Italian-made belt. But I tell my true love that the old belt brings good luck. That the belt may be the reason my Chicago Bears have won four straight football games. So it should do no harm if I continue to wear it. And that's my intent. Until the Bears lose again. If the Bears go undefeated for the rest of the season and win the Super Bowl, I'm gonna be convinced that my belt had something to do with it. But if truth be told, I really need an excuse for wearing that shabby belt. I really like the belt. It has sentimental value. And I don't wanna give it up. Same goes for some very-worn shoes. And a pair of pants. And a sweathshirt. I don't like to part with certain stuff. Meanwhile, my true love says she's ashamed to be seen with me in public with such a belt. But I know better. She'll put up with it. Because she puts up with me. And that takes some doing. --Jim Broede

Maybe it's that I'm in love.

I know people that get mad/angry with themselves for getting mad/angry with themselves. Seems self-defeating. The solution, of course, would be to not get mad/angry in the first place. I tell some of 'em precisely that, and that makes them even more mad/angry. They don't want my advice. Guess being mad/angry is a part of their nature. Maybe they'll always be mad/angry. Not only with themselves. But with others. Often, they wake up in a mad/angry state. And they even have mad/angry nightmares. I recall being mad/angry a long, long time ago. Over what, I can't remember. Probably was something pretty insignificant. Now I have absolutely no desire to be mad/angry. Maybe it's that I'm in love. --Jim Broede

I want to live my own story.

I try to take charge of my life. By doing the things I want to do. Such as falling in love. And moving to Sardinia. To be with my true love. That makes me a man of action. Seems to me that many people think about doing what they'd like to do. But they never get around to doing it. Actually living their dreams. When I was much younger, I thought about moving to New Zealand. Never did. I wonder how much different my life would have been if I had picked up and gone. Lived the dream. Turns out I had other dreams. Some of which I lived. I've always dreamed that I wanted to live a storybook life. Living in sort of a novel. Only making it real. Non-fiction. I'm doing that. Of course, as a writer, I could concoct a story. And write it. In novel form. But that isn't nearly as good as living it. I like love stories. But I want my story to be my own story. The one I lived. --Jim Broede

The last place a spirit wants to be.

I visited a graveyard today. And thought about communing with the spirits. But then I thought better of it. Seemed to me that a graveyard would be the last place a spriit would want to hang out. With a bunch of buried discarded and rotting carcasses. No longer containing spirits. Any self-respecting spirit would want to get on with life. In a spiritual dimension. Happy for the release from the physical world. If a spirit was still around planet Earth, my guess he/she would be at the seashore or in a forest or on a mountain top. So much better than a graveyard. Especially the one I was in. A hodge-podge of graves. Crowded together. It'd be better to have a single grave on a lone prairie. All by itself. Maybe that's an argument in favor of cremation. With the ashes scattered on a blustery day. Subject to willy-nilly distribution by the wind. Doesn't matter. As long as one has become a full-fledged spirit. --Jim Broede

In Italy. In America.

My Italian true love was happy last night. 'It's a great day for Italy,' she declared. 'It's the end of our long nightmare.' She was watching television. Watching Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi tromping off to a palace to submit his resignation. Many Italians are breathing a sigh of relief. They detest Berlusconi as a politician. They wish for something far better. And they are celebrating. Not the least, a group of Italian musicians. Playing music. In front of the palace. In grand style. Singing the Hallelujah chorus from Handel's 'Messiah.' Yes, Italians know how to celebrate. In grand style. But bringing Italy back from the brink after 17 years of Berlusconi will be just as difficult as it was for America. Bringing the USA back from 8 years of George Bush. It's gonna take a long, long time to repair all that economic devastation. In Italy. In America. --Jim Broede

The finer things are priceless.

If I were god, I'd probably change the basic design of human beings. To make them more appreciative of the finer things in life. And to downplay the role of money. Seems to me that the possession of money has become the overwhelming goal of the human endeavor. Yes, lots of money. It's addictive. One is never satisfied. If one becomes a millionaire, that's not enough. One has to become a billionaire. At the expense of people that really don't want to be monetarily rich. But they need money in order to survive. I'd like to make it such that they don't need money. To find a way for everyone to survive without money. Or with an amount that's far less than a fortune. Maybe that was god's orginal idea. In a place like the mythical Garden of Eden. Money had not yet been invented. There was no need for money. Maybe that was when evil was introduced into the world. With the invention of money. Presumably to buy the finer things in life. But seems to me the money bought mostly trouble. Really, the finer things in life are priceless. Such as a loving thought. --Jim Broede

Jubilantly happy, in fact.

My Italian true love laments. Because Sardinia doesn't have the autumn colors. But you won't find me lamenting. Because Sardinia has gorgeous colors. Year-round. Mostly green. And more green. But also blooming flowers. If it's not one kind of flower, it's another. Of course, I could lament. Because Sardinia doesn't have the white of winter. No snow. I have to endure a winter without snow and ice and freezing temperatures. Instead, I'm gonna have to look at colorful flowers. All winter. And another thing. I'll have to look into my true love's beautiful brown eyes. This fall. This winter. Next spring. And summer, too. I wonder if I'll be able to put up with the monotony of the same color eyes. Every season of the year. This year. And next. And for many more years to come. Guess I'll find a way. And be happy. Jubilantly happy, in fact. --Jim Broede

Being a loner has advantages.

Most mornings, at 8:30, I see bikers in full biking regalia congregating at a piazza in Carbonia. And as much as I like biking, I'm not about to join 'em. Because when I go biking, I like to go alone. Not with a bicycling club. Because I want to move at my own pace. Same when I go walking or running. I prefer to do it alone. Because when I go with others, invariably the pace is too fast or too slow. It doesn't suit me. I exercise for pleasure. That's why I never enter races. Once upon a time, I could have run marathons. But that would have taken away the pleasure of running. I want to relax. To not tell myself I have to speed up to catch the guy in front of me. Or to be ashamed that I might finish last. Of course, when I go walking with my true love, I acquiesce. I go at her speed. I'm very accommodating. But she's the only one for which I make such an adjustment. She's special. But even then, she might occasionally complain. That I'm going too slow or too fast. That's my point. Being a loner has advantages. --Jim Broede

With open minds.

Politics in Italy can't be all bad. At least from my point of view. For instance, the Italian President George Napolitano is a former communist. Imagine something like that happening in America. It won't. Because Americans are intolerant. They only want Republicans and Democrats to hold higher public office. Of course, being president of Italy isn't the same as being president of the USA. The Italian prime minister is far more politically powerful than the president. Napolitano was appointed by parliament, not by a vote of the Italian people. I much prefer parliamentary government over what we have in the US. Because even minority parties have representation in parliament. Which means Italy often has a coalition government. With different parties cooperating with each other. To serve their common interests. Even communists and socialists have a say in the Italian government. I'm for all views being heard. With open minds. --Jim Broede

I wonder about life as a gypsy.

I'm trying to keep an open mind about gypsies. Thinking of them as very nice people. Maybe different. But certainly nice. Not everybody thinks that way. There's a gypsy camp on the outskirts of Carbonia, the Sardinian city where I'm currently living. And I walk by the camp daily. I see gypsies. And they look like nice people. The women are dressed in long skirts and dresses. In other words, they look like stereotypical gypsies. But we all look like stereotypical somethings. Maybe I look like a nerd, for instance. Anyway, gypsies have a negative image in Carbonia. And I assume that goes generally all over. Maybe because they are so nomadic. They don't stay in any one place for a long time. My true love tells me that the gypsies here come mainly from Yugoslavia and Romania. And she tells me they have been known to steal stuff. And so one has to be careful around gypsies. But I wonder if that's really true. I have no qualms about walking past gypsies with money in my pocket. And when I see a gypsy, I try to make eye contact. And smile. I'd like to strike up a conversation with gypsies. But I'm assuming there's a language barrier. Though maybe some of 'em speak English. I'll ask. The gypsy camp seems full of small mobile homes and open shelters. And there's lots of garbage. Piles of it. Even around trash cans. The place could use a general clean-up. That might improve the gypsy image. There's also clothes and rugs and other knickknacks hanging over fences that surround much of the compound. I'm gathering that Sardinians/Italians are mostly tolerant of gypsies. Accepting them. Allowing them to stick around. If not mixed in with the rest of the community. At least they have their own place. Meanwhile, I wonder what life would be like. As a gypsy. --Jim Broede

How I make myself cheerful.

My true love wonders why I'm so cheerful in the morning. Especially just after I get up. Of course, I tell her that I'm naturally cheerful. Hasn't she noticed? I see no reason not to be cheerful. Mainly because I have a true love. Which means I'm in love. And there's no better reason than that to be cheerful. My true love admits to not always being cheerful. Especially in the morning. Because sometimes, it's hard getting started. One tends to be groggy in the morning. But not me. And even if I'm groggy, I'm cheerfully groggy. No excuses. Occasionally, I come across people who don't like me being cheerful. That especially goes for people in depression. Some of 'em tell me that makes them sadder. Because they see a huge contrast between my cheerfulness and their depression. But still, I make an effort to cheer 'em up. Maybe that makes me mean. Maybe I should merely console them in an uncheerful way. I suppose that if I'm totally honest, I'd have to admit that I'm not always cheerful. If I have a toothache, for instance. Or if a Republican becomes president. That would make me very sad. Maybe put me into a state of depression. But then I'd remind myself that I'm living in Sardinia, and not the USA, with my true love. That would immediately offset my depression. And make me cheerful again. --Jim Broede

A funeral I'd love to attend.

Silvio Berlusconi is stepping down as Italy's prime minister. And it's good riddance. Could mean a breath of fresh air for Italy. If Berlusconi were an American, he'd be a stalwart Republican. A looney tune. Very conservative. And he's rich, too. A billionaire many times over. And he fancies himself a playboy. At age 75. Just a year younger than me. He's alleged to have cavorted with teenage prostitutes. Anyway, he's been able to get away with lots of shenanigans. Because he got parliament to grant him immunity from prosecution while he holds the office of prime minister. Court cases against him are likely to proceed after he leaves office Monday. Italy has an interesting politic. Lots of political patronage. That's why Berlusconi has been able to stay in office for most of the past 17 years. But he was finally done in by the economic markets. Italy is in big financial trouble. Maybe about to go bankrupt. Because of high interest on the nation's debt. Outside pressures from the European Union have finally sealed Berlusconi's fate/departure. The problem with Italy is similar to that of most other capitalist nations. The rich get away with flagrant tax-dodging schemes. Sounds a lot like America, doesn't it? The rich keep getting richer. And the poor and the middle class gets the shaft. Something's gotta change. Sooner or later. Could be that greedy capitalists are digging their own graves. I'd love to go to that funeral. --Jim Broede

My cats seem allegro without me.

I have doubts that my cats Loverboy and Chenuska miss me very much. If at all. I've left them tended by a house-sitter in Minnesota while I spend the autumn and winter in faraway Sardinia. I connected with the cats the other night. On Skype. An audio-video computerized hook-up. We talked for a while. And I learned that the cats have become well-acquainted with the house-sitter. They scurried to see me on the screen. But I'm not sure they even recognized me. Of course, I recognized them. And I'm happy that they are happy. Or maybe I should say allegro. The Italian word for happy. --Jim Broede

Something blooming all the time.

Many of the sidewalks and walkways in the Sardinian city of Carbonia are designed for shrubbery and pedestrians. Probably in about equal amounts. But shrubs seem to edge out the pedestrains in some areas. I like that. The flowering shrubs get so big that pedestrians can barely squeeze by on what's left of the open walkway. But that's a treat. Because the flowers often have a fine fragrance. I like a close brush with a shrub. I'm able to walk all over the city of 30,000 inhabitants. Mostly on sidewalks. That's a treat. One that I don't find in many American cities. Because we are so car-oriented. We choose not to walk to stores. Driving instead. But I see many Sardinians carrying shopping bags and pulling shopping carts down the sidewalks. By the way, my Italian true love doesn't hesitate to break a sprig off a flowering tree. And makes a valiant attempt to root 'em. Yes, flowers, flowers every where. Something blooming all the time. --Jim Broede

An example for my true love.

I bought my true love a stationary bicycle. Because she needs to exercise. In convenient ways. Because she ain't gonna do it in inconvenient ways. She's not as addicted to exercise as I am. Although, she could take to the swimming pool. Daily. If only she had one. Conveniently located. I'm a very poor swimmer. Couldn't save my own life if I had to swim for more than a few minutes. Anyway, I'm probably going to use the stationary bicycle far more than my true love. Went 19 miles yesterday. In 62 minutes. Faster than I ride a real bicycle on the road. Then I do 10 to 12 miles in an hour. But a stationary bicycle is much easier to pump at a steady and fast pace. Because it's level. And no wind. And I can close my eyes. Before I came to Sardinia, I was averaging more than 1,000 miles a month. Outdoors. In Minnesota. I'd ride my bicycle 30 to 50 miles daily. Not doing that in Sardinia. Instead, I'm walking about 10 miles a day. And I suppose I'll do some riding on the stationary bicycle. Haven't decided how much yet. Knowing that I have to set a good example for my true love. --Jim Broede

Turning bad into good.

I'd put many of Italy's unemployed to work. Collecting litter. Yes, cleaning up the cities and the countryside. I see so very much litter in an otherwise beautiful Italy. Amazing amounts of litter. Garbage literally strewn all over. Some of the stuff stinks. It ain't good for Italy's reputation. Foreign visitors get a bad impression. On my walks around the outskirts of the city of Carbonia, I see miniature dumps. Piles of garbage on vacant land. Looks like it's been there almost forever. Some of it contained in black trash bags. Makes one wonder what's inside. Maybe bodies dumped by the Mafia. Italy needs a clean up week. Or a month. When citiizens are encouraged to form clean-up brigades. That happened in Genova last week. When heavy rains brought rivers of mud and debris down the streets. Citiizens of Genova and other locales came out and pitched in and cleaned up the mess. Spruced up the city. They turned a disaster into a blessed beautification. That's what I like to see. Turning a bad event into something good. --Jim Broede

We Minnesotans are a tough lot.

I was out walking the streets at 8:30 this morning. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. And I was wearing a shortsleeved shirt. Because it seemd like a summer day. To me. Maybe because I'm a Minnesotan. A temperature in the low 60s seems balmy. Especially on Nov. 10. But I noticed I was the only one in shortsleeves. Guess the natives in Paradise consider the low 60s a chill. Maybe because they are spoiled. They've had it too good all of their lives. No snow. And very rarely a freezing temperature. Therefore, the low 60s signals time to don a sweater or jacket. We Minnesotans would consider wearing shorts and lying out in the sunshine. To get a tan. We don't wanna be seen in long sleeves on a day like this. --Jim Broede

Back to work. One way or another.

Every morning on the outskirts of the city of Carbonia in Sardinia I see laborers clearing a vast field of shrubbery. By hand. With sickles and scythes and rakes. Loading the stuff in wheelbarrels. Creating big piles to be burned or hauled away. A sign indicates it's private property. Many of the workers are clad in green t-shirts. Which makes me wonder if they are volunteers from the Green Party or an enviornmental group. I'm making inquiries to find out what it's all about. I asked my Italian true love. And she doesn't know. Anyway, I'm curious. I know that back in Minnesota, we probably would clear a field with machinery. In a day. This clearing has been going on for weeks in Carbonia. I'm wondering if folks here are old-fashioned. Or maybe wiser than the rest of us. Giving people jobs. A way to make a living in tough economic times. In the age of automation, robots and machines have replaced manual labor. Maybe that's good. Maybe it isn't. I'll try to keep an open mind. But I know one thing, I'd try to put every unemployed worker back to work. Everywhere. One way or another. Even if it meant clearing fields by hand. --Jim Broede

Just plain comfortable.

Sardinia reminds me of the best of Florida and the best of Arizona and of the rocky coastlines of the Pacific Northwest and of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado and of the North Shore of Lake Superior. Interesting blend, isn't it? Little wonder that I consider Sardinia a paradise. The terrain is so very diversified. And the weather ideal. At least when I'm there. And I don't go in the summer. When it can be hot and humid. I can live without cold Minnesota winters and without a boiling summer in Florida. I've experienced 'em both. Too often. Now I'm settling for something inbetween. Not too cold. Not too hot. Just plain comfortable. lf I spend six months a year in Minnesota and six months in Sardinia, that'll be just the right balance. It's the way I wanna live. --Jim Broede

Floating thru life on a soft cushion.

Sardinia has the most beautiful clouds in the world. Mostly puffy clouds. With different shades of white, gray and black. Often a blend of 'em all at any given moment. The big black clouds look ominous. Like they'll burst loose with a torrential downpour. But more often than not, it's all a bluff. No more than a sprinkle. Or absolutely nothing. But I generally carry an umbrella. Just to be safe. But a sudden burst of wind can turn an umbrella inside out in a second. That's all right. I don't mind getting rained on from pretty clouds. And oh, the sunsets. The clouds turn red and pink and gold. I'm trying to think when's the last time I saw a completely cloudless day in Sardinia. Maybe never. But that's all right. Clouds make me feel like I'm floating thru life on a soft cushion. --Jim Broede

Depending on one's point of view.

I may be living in the billboard capital of the world. There are many of 'em. In Carbonia, a city of about 30,000 inhabitants. On the beautiful island of Sardinia in the Mediterranean Sea. Where I am living at the moment. Maybe I'm imagining all this. But I see billboards almost every place I go. Along roadsides. In empty lots. On the exterior walls of a big soccer stadium. Carbonia even has billboards on wheels. Billboards trucked around from hour to hour. To wherever the traffic is heaviest at the moment. Ihe billboard companies must be making money. I don't like all the billboards. Not the nicest of scenery. But I suppose billboards sell products. Plenty of posters, too. Plastered on walls. Advertising everything from concerts to political rallies. Some posters remain up way past their prime. A huge calender of events at an amphitheatre near the main piazza. Dating back to the 2009-2010 season. Makes me wonder if there's a 2011-2012 season. And where there's no billboards or posters, graffiti abounds. Some of it nice. But some also ugly and obscene -- depending on one's point of view. --Jim Broede

Another word for paradise.

I'm seeing signs of a rebounding economy. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. Where I'm living now. Two big hotels. Gonna open soon. One being refurbished. Completely. With an old look. The other. Brand new. With a modern design. Means somebody is investing in the future. Anticipating business. Maybe tourists from all over the world. Carbonia needs jobs. This will help. I don't know about the rest of Italy. But I sense that Sardinians are hopeful. About the future. Maybe that's my imagination. But these hotels are about to become real. And one thing I know. Sardinia is another word for paradise. --Jim Broede

A nice way to make a living.

I like accordian music. Especially when it's being played on a street. On the main drag. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. I don't ever see that happening in Minnesota. Doesn't matter. Because I'm in Sardinia. Walking the streets. Daily. And the pleasant experience today was the accordian player. Making music that sounds Italian. There was a jingle to it all. The coins. Being tossed into a tin cup. A nice way to make a living. --Jim Broede

For which I have an appetite.

I like feeling cool. Physically and mentally. Sure beats feeling too warm or downright hot. Maybe that's why I feel more comfortable coping with a very cold winter than a very hot and humid summer. I find autumn and winter ideal in Sardinia. Because the temperature hovers between shirtsleeve and sweater weather. Just right. Makes me feel like a cool cat. At nightttime, I can sleep without a blanket. And feel cool. Which enhances sleep. When I'm back in Minnesota, I keep the thermostat on a relatively cool 60 degrees in wintertime. And I'm still able to walk around the house comfortably in shirtsleeves. I also like cool and cold drinks. Moreso than hot drinks. Though I drink espresso in Sardinia. Because it's the custom. But I settle for luke warm instead of hot espresso, with a few drops of cold milk mixed in. My Sardinian true love prefers being a little too warm than a little too cold. Which is all right. She sort of reminds me of a hot dish. For which I have an appetite. --Jim Broede

My opinion: Thinking is good.

I like to cultivate opinions. About virtually any and everything. Even ill-informed opinions. Because that usually puts me on the path to well-informed opinions. I listen to people. I like 'em to correct my way of thinking. To put my thinking to a test. I don't mind being wrong. Or even becoming a fool. I'm willing to take a chance. A risk. In order to accumulate knowledge. That means I'm gonna appear to be stupid sometimes. But, so what? Nothing ventured. Nothing gained. I like to be provocative. And one way of accomplsihing that goal is to have opinions. That usually draws a reaction. And often, I like to take a contrary position, just for the sake of being contrary. Because that furthers the discussion. I find that arriving at a position on an issue takes some degree of thinking. And thinking is good. Or so I think. But then, maybe thinking is bad. And that might be a good starting point. To ignite another thought. That maybe it'd be best if we all stopped thinking so much. Because it does more harm than good. But I'm a positive thinker. And so I'm gonna declare myself in favor of the premise that thinking is inherently/innately good. --Jim Broede

The only decent way to live.

I'm adjusting to life in a foreign country. At age 76. Which ain't bad. Always thought of foreign travel and residency as a young man's game. But hey, I'm finally learning to be young at a traditionally old age. Maybe because I've learned to live one day at a time. And to make the most of each day. And each moment, for that matter. My dear sweet wife Jeanne died almost 5 years ago. From Alzheimer's. But I've gotten on with life. Just the way Jeanne would have wanted me to. I have a new true love. An Italian. In Sardinia. An island in the Mediterranean Sea. And I keep reminding my true love we have the good life. In a sense, we always have. It's just that we often didn't recognize it. Even when things go bad, they're really going good. Because we always seem to rebound. Into something better. Until the day we die. And then we're all right, too. Because we had the good life as long as it lasted. I hear people lament. All the time. That life could be better. But the secret is to make the most of life. Whatever it be. One day at a time. Salvage something. Something good. As for me, I have a romantic inclination. I look at almost everything as having a storybook aura. Why not? I momentarily thought after Jeanne died, life was over. But then I thought that maybe Jeanne had advanced to another dimension. That she was still more alive and well than ever. Maybe not on Mother Earth. But in a place even more divine than Earth. So, no reason to feel sorry for Jeanne. Or for me. The message was to get on with life. Whether it be in Minnesota or, as it turns out, Sardinia. My gosh, I never dreamed I'd end up in Sardinia. Happy as a lark. And my oft-repeated message to one and all is to get on with life. That's the only decent way to live. --Jim Broede

I savor every day.

I never have a boring day. Because I'm always looking for something interesting. And I find it. Even if it's only a thought. Because a thought can be interesting. To me, at least. Maybe not to others. But really I only have to satisfy myself. I'm sort of smug. Pleased that I'm not bored. I suspect that many people are bored. With life. And that's a shame. I find life especially interesting in Sardinia. Because it's different than Minnesota. I'm immersed with Italians. And Italian ways. With the architecture. With the language. With the weather. With the food. With the customs. With the proximity to so many European countries. And to Africa. And to think it's all been made possible because I have been blessed with a true love. An Italian. A Sardinian I met four years ago. Believe me. When one is in love, life becomes interesting. I savor every day. --Jim Broede

My true love draws the line.

I'm dressing mostly Italian-style in Italy. I wear Italian-made sweaters and shoes. Pretty nifty stuff. But I also look like a vagabond at times. To the embarrassment of my Italian true love. For instance, she doesn't want to be seen with me when I dress to go out in a thunderstorm. I wear baggy rainproof pants and a rainproof pullover shirt that doesn't match with the pants. They don't look very stylish. And it detracts from my image as an Italian gentleman. My true love also cringes and stays a few steps back from me when I walk down the street wearing a headband. She thinks that's gauche. No self-respecting Sardinian would be seen with a headband, I've been told. But believe me, I've seen them wearing stocking caps. And in my mind, that ain't any worse than a headband. In fact, a headband is better. Because it doesn't mash down the hair on top of one's head. I have nice hair. And I like to show it off. I also wouldn't mind wearing socks with my sandals. But my true love -- well, that's where she draws the fashion line. No way will see let that happen. --Jim Broede

I have faith in Italian dentists.

When my true love goes to a medical clinic in Sardinia, I always tag along. Out of curiosity. I wanna learn. All about socialized medicine. So far, I like what I see. It ain't perfect. No system is. But it's good. Just as good as in America. And maybe better. Better in the respect that in countries with socialized medicine, the health benefits/results are usually better. And health care costs less than in the U.S. Maybe it's efficiency that pays off. Reaps healthy dividends. Health care costs more in the U.S. because of the profit motive. Insurance companies and providers want to make more than a buck. They want exorbitant profits, I suspect. At least that's the way it looks from my vantage point. I'm covered by my U.S. health insurance (Medicare and Blue Cross/Blue Shield) in Italy. But I have no dental insurance. So if I need any tooth work, I'll pay out of pocket to an Italian dentist. I've got faith that Italian dentists are just as good as American dentists. And cheaper. To give it a test, I'll go in for a tooth cleaning this winter. Costs me about $80 in the U.S. I'll let you know what it costs in Sardinia. --Jim Broede

They think I talk too much.

Italians keep stopping me on the street to ask for directions. Of course, they are disappointed when I tell 'em I don't understand. Because I speak so little Italian. I tell my Italian true love that they mistake me for an Italian gentleman. Because I look so suave and debonair. Seems that some of us have it, and others don't. I like to think that I fit in almost any place on Earth. Now if I could speak every language, that would be a plus. I'd fit in even more. But not everyone would like that. Because they think I talk too much already. --Jim Broede

The planet of true happiness.

I like to pretend I'm an alien. From the planet Neptune. Don't know why I picked Neptune instead of Uranus or Saturn. I tell my true love I'm from Neptune. So that she thinks I'm crazy. And that's my goal. To convince people that I'm crazy. When really I'm not. I'm quite sane. But in a crazy sort of way. Because I'm a romantic idealist. We are perceived as crazy. When really we are the sane ones in the world-wide asylum. Unfortunately, the crazies are running the show. They have taken over the reins of government and banking and capitalism. With no sense of the common good. But I'm here from Neptune to fix everything. On Neptune, we live an idyllic life. Because Neptunians are socialists. From cradle to grave, we are diehard, devoted socialists. We take care of each other. We all work for the same wage. There's no disparity in income. No gap between the rich and the poor. Because we don't have any rich and any poor. We have an ideal society. In which all of our basic needs are met. Gives us time to truly savor the meaningful things in life. We've found true happiness on Neptune. --Jim Broede

Even between cracks of thunder.

I'm not afraid to venture out in thunderstorms. And get all wet in the process. If not electrocuted. My Italian true love calls me another Ben Franklin. The crackpot who flew a kite with a string attached to a key, if I recall correctly. In an experiment to see if he could attract electricity. Anyway, it was my first real thunderstorm in Sardinia. And I wanted to see if it was just as dazzling as the ones we have in Minnesota. It is. I brought along an umbrella with a metal handle. I didn't get shocked. But I got wet. Soaked. Not so much from the pelting rain. But from cars that sped through puddles that sprayed me from stem to stern. The sidewalks in Sardinia are little more than extensions of the roadway. And the drainage ain't good. The Italian city of Genova had a cloudburst last week, and water streamed down the streets in torrents, like a wild river. Six people died. And cars floated down the streets. Many of 'em ending up in gigantic heaps, 15 or 20 feet high. Anyway, atmospheric conditions are such that Italy is getting rained on. From all directions. But that won't keep me from my daily walks of 8 to 10 miles. I'm just back from a 3-mile jaunt, starting when there was a break in the rain. But that didn't last long. And the wind played havoc with my flimsy umbrella. But not with me. I take whatever weather I can get. And make the best of it. Rain is far better than Minnesota snow. And to think, it's November, and hardly jacket weather. I have a swim suit and a raincoat. That should suffice all winter in Sardinia. Makes me feel blessed. Even between cracks of thunder and lightning. --Jim Broede

I wanna be fully naked.

Too many of the people I know, I really don't know. I know them only superficially. On the surface. Not in depth. Because most people hide within themselves. They aren't truly revealing. Except maybe to a very close loved one. And even then, I suspect they are far less than candid. Could be that they don't even know themselves. I doubt that I ever really knew my brother. Though I grew up with him through our teen years. He's not living any more. So I have lost the opportunity to know him better. I don't know my sister, either. But there's still a chance. She's still living. As for my mother, I got to know her better late in life. I got her to reveal herself. It was hard for her to do that. To reach deep down. And to bare her soul. Probably is for all of us. We are rarely fully naked with each other. I don't mean physical nakedness. But soulfully. Maybe it's being too personal. But that's what I like to be. And I try to get others to open up. To become very personal. Maybe it's because I am curious. But it's more than that. I think we humans were meant to know each other. But we've done a miserable job of it. Nakedness scares us. We don't want to be seen as we are. Maybe some of us think it's shameful. I don't. For me, it's the right thing to venture into the world fully naked. --Jim Broede