Being alone. It feels good.

Retirement. And living alone.  Something nice about it all. On any given day, it’s relatively easy. For me. To live in seclusion. Isolated. Away from the turmoil that plagues other people.  I’m able to find peace. Solitude. I’ve had friendly encounters today. With others.  Some troubled. And in need of help. Which I try to give. But now I’m able to be away from it all. Because I’ve retreated. Into my cocoon.  I’m alone. And it feels good. –Jim Broede

Bring on the revolution.

When it comes to health care in America. I’d not want to have Alzheimer’s. Or be a veteran.  I’d be getting some pretty shoddy care. Unless it was delivered directly to me. By loved ones. Leaving it to the folks in a nursing home or in the Veterans Administration – well, good luck. You’ll need it. When politicians brag about the ‘high quality’ health care in America, they gloss over the truth. It’s costly. But worst of all, it can be downright horrific. The dementia-riddled are warehoused. Given little, if any, one-on-one mental and physical stimulation.  And veterans wait months to get doctor appointments or admission to veteran hospitals. Of course, if you are a somebody with pockets full of money, you might see the better side of the health care system. That’s why we need universal health care. With everyone being guaranteed prompt access to medical care. That’s not asking too much. Leaving it totally up to the private sector hasn’t worked. So it’s time for the government to step in. As governments have in other industrialized countries. Such as our Canadian neighbors to the north. But still, our politicians resist. Rather than do the right thing, they put up with terrible inefficiency. Seems to me that the most efficient system we have is Medicare, a government run program. Most people who qualify for Medicare like it. The service. The treatment. The cost. Makes me wonder why we don’t have Medicare for everyone. We all know why, don’t we?  The big-money moguls in the private health care sector rule the roost. And Congress will continue to acquiesce. Until we have a revolution. Yes, time for Americans to rise up and take to the streets. Demanding. Demanding.  Demanding single-payer universal health care.  –Jim Broede

To enjoy the pleasures of being.

When my mother died, I didn’t grieve. Because I thought it was time. For her to die. She was 88. And had lived a full life. Actually, an extraordinary life. But she had enough of living. Probably wanted to die. Maybe that happens to old people. They don’t want to get any older. So they succumb. Peacefully. I assume that's the case with many of your elderly parents. So maybe you don’t have to grieve. You can be happy for them. And happy, too, that they brought you into this reasonably wonderful world. To enjoy the pleasures of being. –Jim Broede

'Vote -- or else.'

I’m coming around. To the notion. That everyone of voting age in America should be required to vote.  They do that now in Australia. Those who don’t vote are fined. Of course, there’s a danger that ignoramuses will show up at the polls. But then, what’s new? Last week. In the godforsaken state of Texas. Only 7 percent of the electorate showed up for a primary election. In which several Tea Party candidates won.  Thing is, in America, when most people stay home, the worst of the worst get elected. Tea Party stalwarts. Lunatic fringe Republicans. When there are heavy turnouts at the polls, it’s far more likely that the winners will be liberals and Democrats. Yes, more evidence. That stupid people need virtually no incentive to vote. While smart people, the real geniuses of the world, figure it’s a waste of time.  I’d tell everyone  ‘vote – or else.’  As for those who don’t. Make them pay stiff fines. Maybe even spend time in the hoosegow. –Jim Broede

Better than a rose.

Edward Snowden. I’m impressed. He’s an intelligent and articulate fellow. Deserves respect. And my gratitude. For daring to take on the system.  The way the world is run. By politicians. By bureaucrats. In senseless ways. He’s labeled by those he exposes. As a traitor. But really, he has no decent country to betray. Instead, he attacks the indecent. From within.  That’s admirable. And patriotic, too.  He’s a man without a country. Not necessarily by choice. Because he is what he is. The same as a rose is a rose is a rose. But Snowden is better than a rose. –Jim Broede

Fun time for Hillary.

My advice to Hillary Clinton. Don’t run for president. Instead, remain on the sidelines. And take potshots at politicians. Especially Republicans. Karl Rove and others. Go on the offensive. By being offensive.  Practice satire.  Be more like your enemies. Treat them the same way that they treat others. Abuse them. Every which way.  Have no mercy. And have fun doing it. –Jim Broede

A spiritual link to life...and love.

I’ll be all right. As long as I remain in love. With life.  That’s the secret of happiness. Being in love. With something. Or someone. Mostly, with life in general. There’s so much to love. One can choose a specific focus.  Or many, many. The spectrum is vast. The nice thing.  I don’t have to be loved. By anyone. In order to be in love. With life. I don’t need everything. A smattering will do.  I can love nature. Even if nature doesn’t always love me back. My love isn’t conditioned. On having to be loved. It can be a unilateral love. I could be a solitary soul on a desert island and still feel a love for life. I could still communicate. With the love spirits.  In that sense, I am never alone. I have a spiritual connection to life…and love. –Jim Broede

A neat and mystical balance.

Self-psychoanalysis. I’m good at it. Able to look into the core of my being. Objectively. And subjectively, too. In a sense, there are at least two of me. Quite likely more.  No need for me to go to a psychotherapist. I can turn to me. Because I don’t lie to myself. When I’m in the objective mindful mode, that is.  It’s different in the subjective realm. I’m more spiritual. More passionate. More emotional, period. I like both sides. Because they give me balance. And wide-ranging options.  As I grow older, I spend more time living subjectively. Sort of a restrained passion. Not too high. Not too low. Balance. Balance. Balance. That’s what I like most about living in my skin. A neat and mystical balance. –Jim Broede

Hatred. There's no escaping it.

Some care-givers tell me they hate Alzheimer’s. As for me, not sure if I can hate anything. Dislike, yes. But I try to stop short of actual hate. Guess it depends on how one defines hate. Seems that dislike is a good and reasonable position. And hate is a bad and unreasonable stance. Maybe it’s possible to say, ‘I hate to hate.’  And that’s a form of hatred. So there’s no escaping. Hatred is deep-seated in me. –Jim Broede

A soulful imagination.

Losing one’s mind. Wonder. If that’s the same as losing one’s soul. Or is it that the soul is indestructible? A soul can be sold. But not obliterated.  But then, maybe a used soul is worthless. Because it can be used only by the original possessor. Ownership of a soul can’t be transferred.   Of course, maybe there is no such thing as a soul. Other than a mythical soul.  The mind is elusive, too. Presumed contained. In a brain.  Is that where the alleged soul resides?  Nobody knows for sure. Could be a soul is no more than the figment of a fertile imagination.  One thing though. The certainty. I have an imagination. Beyond a doubt.  Wonder. Wonder. If it’s a soulful imagination. –Jim Broede

Is there a worse disease?

Alzheimer-riddled Ron. He’s becoming more riddled all the time. A daily decline. Sad to see. He still walks. But less adeptly. Sometimes he falls. But still, we keep him active. Walking. With the attitude. Use it. Or lose it. Even though ‘use it’ may hasten the ultimate. Death. One rationalizes. Death better than living prolonged with Alzheimer’s. One almost yearns for Ron’s death. For his sake. For everyone’s. Alzheimer’s. Cruel and unusual punishment. Unfortunately, it’s becoming far too usual. Makes one wonder. Is there a worse disease?  --Jim Broede

A terrible price.

Make me president of the USA. And I’d try to not play politics. Don’t know if that’s possible. Entering the political arena. And openly renouncing politics.  That, in itself, would be a shrewd political move. Doing as I please. Regardless of the consequences. That would be nice. But I wouldn’t be able to get away with it. I’d be rebuffed. Assassinated. Thing is. To get to that lofty position. I’d have to play politics. To the utmost. There is no other way. One must be thoroughly and totally corrupted. Yes, in order to reach the top, one must sell his soul. –Jim Broede

For more saintly pursuits.

I don’t know. If I want Hillary Clinton to run for president in 2016. She will. If she has overwhelming ambition. And decent health. But won’t. If she’s truly in love. With life. Then she will have decided that politics ain’t a good way to live. It’s self-defeating. Shameful. It’s not too late for Hillary Clinton to renounce politics and power. For more saintly pursuits.  Such as savoring life. Without stress. Without turmoil. Without politics. –Jim Broede

Why am I here? Does it matter?

Thinking. About being alive. And conscious. That’s my favorite thought. Always makes me feel good. Makes me aware of the moment. Because I’m actually thinking about being alive and conscious. A sign that I’m not taking life for granted.   Doing more than going through the motions. No robotic life for me. No auto-pilot. Maybe that’s the biggest danger. Living life in a stupor. With nary a significant and lasting thought. Anyway, when finally dead and gone, there will be no proof that I ever existed. I wonder. If everything vanishes. Not only me.  But everything. Planet Earth and our solar system.  All of creation. It no longer exists. If I am not here to witness. To perceive. Everything is gone. Everything has a beginning  and an end. Here I am. Living in the middle.  Letting life evolve. More or less naturally. Trying to ponder. Why am I here?  Does it matter? –Jim Broede

I don't bite.

My friend and neighbor, Julie, says I’m misunderstood in the neighborhood. Or not understood at all. That many people don’t know what to make of me. Her next door  neighbors have been curious. About me. Because I’m showing up in Julie’s yard. Daily. They wonder what I’m doing. Actually, I’m being neighborly. With Julie and her husband Rick. They’re a nice couple. And they’ve been caring for a long, long time. For Julie’s 85-year-old Alzheimer-riddled father Ron.  He’s been in and out of nursing homes. And was recently kicked out of one. So he’s back with Rick and Julie. Temporarily. Anyway, for several years, I’ve been pitching in. Helping Rick and Julie.  Easing their workload. By walking Ron and the family’s pet dog, Sasha.  Seems the sensible and decent thing to do. After all, anyone caring for someone with Alzheimer’s needs help. Plenty of it. I’m experienced. Because my dear sweet wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer’s. Seven years ago. After a 13-year siege with the devastating disease. Meanwhile, Julie says she gets all sorts of inquiries. About me. From neighbors. They want to know more. About what sort of guy I am. She says the easiest way to find out is talk to me. Directly. That I don’t bite. –Jim Broede  

My prescription for Julie.

I only seem like an extremist. To some people. Who don't know better. I’m really a man of moderation. Especially when it comes to controlling my emotions.  I guard against excessive highs and excessive lows. Better to hover around the middle. Once upon a time, when my Chicago Cubs won a game, I became exuberantly happy. Made my day. When they lost, especially a game they should have won, I went into a funk. Maybe for a day or two. I went from very high to very low. Like a manic depressive. Like an extremist. When my dear sweet wife Jeanne had Alzheimer’s, I was an extremist, too. At the beginning. If she had a good day, my emotions went sky high. A bad day, and I ended up in the pits. Eventually, I learned to take it all in stride. With a moderate range of emotions. My friend Julie. She’s an extremist. And it’s doing her considerable harm. While care-giving for her Alzheimer-riddled father. She has set her expectation level far too high. When things don’t go right, she goes into deep despair. The contrast is something awful.  It’s making her mentally ill. Not a good place to be. Julie understands what I’m saying. Theoretically. In concept. But she has difficulty practicing a new, more moderate approach to her emotional life.  I tell Julie, that if I were king and ruling by divine right, she’d be committed to a sanitarium. For weeks. Maybe months. And doused with daily psychotherapy. She’d also get a much-needed physical exam. And she wouldn’t be released until she’s transformed. Into a woman of moderation. –Jim Broede

My kind of noble war.

Alzheimer’s Disease. Time to call it what it is. A mental illness. A form of insanity. And Alzheimer’s should be treated as such. Sad thing. There’s s no cure.  The illness gets progressively worse. And often leads to a slow, lingering death. Ain’t pretty.  Better to die of physical ailments rather than the mental ravages of Alzheimer’s.  Caring for the Alzheimer-riddled takes special training. Special skills. Maybe even a special saintly personality. I have some of the training and skills. But I’m far more devilish than saintly. I also look at Alzheimer’s in a clinical sense. Asking, how do we deal with it? As a society, we are still searching for an answer. The most logical one. A cure. A magic bullet. A pill. A miracle drug. That’s probably the only way.  A project. Equivalent to the development of the hydrogen/atomic bomb. Or the landing of man on the moon. As for the money. Maybe an amount equivalent to that spent on wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Yes, a shifting of national priorities. Far better and more noble to wage war on Alzheimer’s.  –Jim Broede

An uncaring society.

When I was a youngster, we had a mental institution in our little town of 10,000 inhabitants. People who had nervous breakdowns and other mental disorders went there. For treatment. Mostly psychotherapy, I think. They might have stayed for a few weeks. With the more serious cases there for months or maybe even years. Now almost everything is done on an outpatient basis. I would change all that. And return to old times. Making it easier to get people committed to sanitariums. For evaluation and treatment. I have a friend or two. That I’m concerned about. They should be compelled to get help. Even if it’s against their wishes. Wouldn’t hurt if they were institutionalized for two or three weeks. And evaluated. And treated. By a psychotherapist.  It would do them good.  To get away. From the rest of the world. Perhaps making them more mentally fit. To tackle and cope with the complicated rigors of life.  Instead, we tend to leave troubled people on their own. It’s totally up to them. To sink or swim.  Yes, one more sign of an uncaring society. –Jim Broede

If you want to reach me. Write.

I’m derelict. When it comes to checking and answering my phone messages.  Merely checking every now and then. Furthermore, I seldom activate my cell phone. Really, only when I travel. If someone wants to reach me, it’s best by email. That, I check daily. I communicate that way, too. In writing. I prefer the written word over the spoken word. But not everyone believes that. Because I’m an incessant talker. Anyway, if you want to reach me. Write. Write. Write. –Jim Broede

A shame. A national disgrace.

My Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron has been kicked out of his nursing home. For being too ‘unmanageable.’ Just as well that he’s left. It was a very bad nursing home. In that the residents of the memory care unit are warehoused.  They aren’t treated like real human beings. Seldom do they get one-on-one stimulation. Mentally. Physically. Any which way.  We are still living in the Dark Ages when it comes to treating dementia. Which happens to be a mental illness.  Yes, Ron is mentally ill. And there’s no place for him to go. Other than back home. With his daughter Julie and son-in-law Rick. They had Ron in their home for 5 years. Until several months ago. When he went into assisted living and nursing home care. At a cost of up to $10,600 a month. For that, Ron got terribly insufficient care. Little wonder that he was unmanageable. It was more a case of him not being properly managed.  When it comes to management, some nursing homes are adept at managing their profits. Better than managing proper and reasonable care. It’s a shame. A national disgrace. –Jim Broede 

Please allow me to be abnormal.

A friend told me that I’m maybe the most ‘normal’ person she knows. That scares me. Because I have no desire to be normal. Just the opposite. I want to be abnormal. After further discussion, it became clear. That she meant I’m well-adjusted. Now that would be abnormal. Unlike many people in my circle. They come flagrantly maladjusted. Uncomfortable with themselves. I’ve very comfortable. Being me. Being in my own skin. Able to embrace and savor  my idiosyncrasies.  And be perfectly happy. Oh, maybe not perfectly. But reasonably happy. I’m programmed to pursue true happiness. Rejecting the state of unhappiness. Getting on with life. The way I want to live it. Meanwhile, I see so very many unhappy people. Friends. Acquaintances. Strangers. They could choose paths to happiness. But don’t. Makes me wonder. If that’s the new normal. If so, please allow me to be abnormal. –Jim Broede    

Letting life evolve. Naturally.

I have no  moral obligation to a political party or country that seeks to widen the gap between the rich and poor. Essentially, elimination of a once-thriving middle class. Yes, I have serious concerns about the future of America. Maybe the U.S. will become a country I’d rather leave than stay in. I’m not ready to pledge undying and unequivocal allegiance to my native homeland. Unless it becomes dear and sweet again. I’m working for change. But fearful that the political situation will get worse, not better. If the Republicans take control of the Senate and the White House, I’ll be out of here. Doesn’t mean I won’t ever be back. Provided my country finds a decent and moral course again.  I’d flirt with living in Sardinia. Fulltime. With my beautiful and intelligent Italian true love. Though I could opt to go underground. And live in my cozy, sheltered cocoon in the Minnesota hinterlands. Pretending  that I’m in another world.  In paradise. Safe and protected. By the supreme spirits. For now, no need to get ahead of myself. I’ll wait and see. Letting life evolve. Naturally.  –Jim Broede

Advocating the impossible.

When it comes to my country, I don’t have an insane sense of duty. Nobody would ever call me a super patriot. I’m unwilling to sacrifice life for country. Especially my life. It’s the other way around. I want my country to make life good. For us all. With programs that  more or less guarantee the basic necessities of life.  Good education. Good health care.  Employment. A decent, livable wage. For everyone. Social security. Let the common good be served. With a fair distribution of the wealth.  Shouldn’t necessarily be everyone for himself.  Survival of the fittest. Instead, I want a government that makes life easier and more comfortable.  For the masses of people. Not just an elite few. Of course, that means a narrowing of the gap between the rich and poor.  No, I’m not for equal income for everybody. Just a more reasonable distribution of wealth. Once again, for the sake of the common good. Yes, I know this won’t ever happen. But still, that doesn’t stop me from advocating the impossible. –Jim Broede

More to life. Than insane duty.

I write about Julie. Because she may typify traps that Alzheimer care-givers fall into. Especially women. They feel obligated to be care-givers. More so than men. And that takes a perilous toll. On Julie. In a sense, she’s willing to sacrifice her life.  To the care of a loved one. To the point of maybe dying before the loved one.  A pity. Therefore, I encourage Julie to take better care of herself. With adequate respite. Time off. Without guilt.  And with a real smile.  I have doubts. That Julie is truly in love. With life.  She could convince me otherwise.  With that real smile.  Yes, there’s so much more to life. Than insane duty. --Jim Broede

Life. Without the guilt.

Plagued by guilt. That describes my friend Julie. She’s caring for her Alzheimer-riddled father. And always feels she’s not doing enough. That she has let her dad down. That she’s an imperfect daughter. So, who’s perfect? Her father was far from perfect in raising Julie. He made grievous mistakes. Affecting her negatively to this very day. In some respects, he was a bad father. A good father, too. And Julie knows all this. Of course, she owes something to her father. For bringing her into this world.  But there’s a limit. To everything.  Makes no sense in flagellating one’s self. To the degree that Julie does. She’s doing harm. To herself.  And to others around her.  By going on an almost endless guilt trip. Be reasonable, I tell Julie.  Treat yourself in a kind manner. With respect. Get adequate respite. Then do what you can for your father. Doesn’t matter if you happen to come up short. Thing is, you aren’t perfect either.  You are merely trying your best to be a decent human being. That’s all you can do. Now get on with life. Without the guilt. –Jim Broede

I'm called 'Big Mouth.'

I’ve been accused. By none less than my Italian true love. Of occasionally being an incessant talker. I can talk, talk, talk. Dominate a conversation. With a monologue. Maybe to the point of annoying others. Because they have difficulty getting a word in. Edgewise.  Really, I tell my true love. It’s part of my fast-evolving shtick. My comedy routine. I wish to some day become a loquacious stand-up comic. But she thinks it’s no joke. That I’m a natural born big mouth. In fact, the Czech words for ‘big mouth’ became my nickname when growing up. Yes, my brother, my sister, even my dear mother, dubbed me something that sounded like ‘vulca huba.’  Can’t vouch for that being the correct spelling. But when I speak it in front of  Czechs. They know. Instantly. That I may have the world’s biggest mouth. I practice, however, keeping my mouth shut. By writing, writing, writing. Non-stop. –Jim Broede

Very funny. And realistic.

No better way to spend the day. Than thinking. Good thoughts.  That’s all I do some days. Think. Think. Think some more. Of course, if I think bad thoughts, I might reconsider the whole thinking issue. And maybe take a thinking hiatus. I have varied thoughts. All good. Though some may sound evil. I can be a little devil. Nothing really wrong with that.  Picturing myself as an elf. With horns and a tail. Carrying a pitchfork. Not a bad thought, really. Very funny. And realistic.  –Jim Broede

A death wish.

I wonder. If it’s wrong to wish for a loved one’s death. In the case of Alzheimer’s, for instance. Can’t say that I have. But if I did. It would not necessarily be morally wrong. Death can be the most merciful and beneficial option. For everyone. Puts the deceased out of pain and at peace. Or perhaps even into an afterlife. And allows the survivors to get on with their lives. –Jim Broede

Go to it, Julie. Give us all a treat.

I’m trying to persuade my friend Julie to become an actress. She’s got the ability. But not the desire. ‘I don’t want to fake it,’ she tells me. ‘I just want to be me.’  Yesterday, Julie  had a sour puss. She was upset. Because her Alzheimer-riddled father was having a bad day. Julie was exuding bad vibes. And that was of no help to dad. He needs good vibes. All the time. ‘Smile,’ I pleaded. Julie said she can’t. Because she’s unhappy.  That’s when I decided Julie needs to become an actress. So she can play a role. As a happy Alzheimer’s care-giver.  A real good actress can play almost any role. By imagining. By living the role. With compassion. With love. Even if one doesn’t have compassion and love. By merely giving it an honest try. That’s all I expect from Julie. A smile. Even when she doesn’t feel like smiling. Do it, Julie. Smile. For dad. For your husband. For me. For everyone.  You look good when you smile. And not so good when you frown. Check it out. Look in the mirror. You really are a blessed woman. Despite an occasional pitfall. Your life ain’t all that bad. You have legitimate reason to smile. Without faking anything. Go to it, Julie. Give us all a treat. –Jim Broede

A vote for my beloved losers.

If I were a reasonably good baseball player. Capable of playing professionally. I wouldn’t mind playing for the perennial losing Chicago Cubs. Just for the enjoyment of the game. I’d accept being the lowest paid player on the Cubs.  That wouldn’t bother me. I’d even flirt with the idea of paying the Cubs. For the privilege of playing. I know. The Cubs are generally considered one of the worst teams. In Major League baseball, that is. But hey, that really ain’t all that bad. Relatively speaking. The Cubs, if assigned to a minor league, might be the best.  Real winners. Dominant. Awesome. As it is, the Cubs probably will lose 100-plus games this season. And finish last in the National League.  But as a Cubs fan, I try not to be chagrined. Because the Cubs have a decent chance of winning 60 games. Fun games. In which they prevail. Whether by luck. Or skill. And hey, they can even enjoy many of the losses. Because they came by margins of only one or two runs. Close games they might have won. Moral victories. That would be good enough for me. Because I enjoy playing baseball. Win or lose. Winning ain’t everything. Helps one understand. Why I proudly proclaim: The Cubs are my kind of baseball team. Yes, my beloved losers.  –Jim Broede

Still allowed to dream. About love.

Doing my patriotic duty this Memorial Day weekend. Not by honoring the war dead. But by thinking about the worst invention of mankind. War. I’m fortunate. In that I’ve never had to go to war.  Or really experience its devastation directly. Able to hold war at a distance.  Even when serving in the Army. As a sportswriter for the Third Armored Division’s weekly newspaper. In Germany. Sure, there have been a few ups and downs in life. But nothing terribly devastating. Always able to cope. Having learned to distance myself from the ravages.  I'm grateful. Most likely, I’ll never have to die for my country. It’ll be a natural death.  Although, come to think of it. War has become all-too-natural. The U.S. just came off 13 continuous years of war. Seldom a nation at peace. Even in the nation's capitol. Our politicians engage in continuous acrimonious war. With each other. Despicable, hateful stuff. Our nation was founded, too, on the basis of  hate and inequality. A slave economy. Didn’t give blacks basic civil rights until the 1960s. And still, they are denied. In more subtle ways. But many, many Americans are expert and clever at overlooking our many, many inhumane shortcomings. Distancing ourselves from the truth. Proclaiming America as the greatest 'democracy' on Earth. We are supposed to be proud to be Americans. I don’t buy that.  We could be a lot better. Greatness will come only when we find an alternative to war and inequality. I’m a pessimist. That day will never come. But I’m also a romantic idealist. Still allowed to dream.  About true love. –Jim Broede

My kind of superiority.

Wish people would answer honestly. When I ask, ‘How are you?’ Because that might trigger a truly meaningful conversation. Sometimes, I reply to such a query with, 'I’m superior.’  The inquisitive might reply, ‘What do you mean?’ I might say, ‘I’m better than you.’ Of course, that can be taken in several ways. Seriously. And as a joke. The point. An honest exchange might result. One that leads to true dialogue.  Gets me thinking. And caring. Not only about friends. But about strangers. Another thing. I really am feeling superior. That happens. When one is in love. With life. Nothing wrong with that. Yes, my kind of superiority. –Jim Broede

Bottoms up.

I refuse. To be annoyed any more. When my home delivery copy of the New York Times isn’t delivered.  Missed. Skipped. For one reason or another. Happens relatively infrequently. Maybe 10 times a year. I’m supposed to call a number. Listed in the Times. And they promise to have the paper delivered. Later in the day. But nope.  That’s yet to happen. False promises. I plead with the Times circulation representatives. Usually in Iowa or North Carolina.  Not New York. To fix the problem. But they don’t.  So I ask for the name and phone number of the delivery man. They treat that as privileged information.  They don’t provide it. So, what to do about it. I bypass the Times bureaucracy. And act like an investigative reporter. I have my ways. Of uncovering secrets. Such as the name and address and cell phone number of the delivery guy. He missed Thursday’s delivery. He got a home visit. From me. Lo and behold, he delivered. And offered an apology.  Longstanding problem solved.  By working from the bottom up. Instead of from the top down.  –Jim Broede

A fool. For getting the tattoo.

Don’t know if I’d like working for Jill Abramson The recently deposed executive editor of the New York Times. Never met the 60-year-old Jill. I know very little. About her skills and personality. She boasts of having a big tattoo on her back. A Gothic-style ‘T.’ The one found in the masthead of the Times. I wonder. If she was in love. With her work. And workplace place. To the point of being branded.  Reports from New York indicate she has no intent of removing the ‘T.’ Though she’s piqued.  Having passed on the opportunity to resign and leave quietly.  Preferring being fired.  And raising a fuss. She’s alleged to have an abrasive management style. Rubbing some Times big-wigs the wrong way. Including the publisher.  At least Abramson and I have something in common. We aren’t afraid to alienate people. Makes me wonder. If we would alienate each other. I’d start. By telling her. She’s a fool. For getting the tattoo. –Jim Broede

Life. Merely a dream.

Wonder. Wonder. If I’ve been in a dream state all my earthly life. Could be. If my real self is a body-less spirit. With a yearning to be physical. With the opportunity to enter virtual reality. In a stupor. A trance. A dream. That seems incredibly real. As if I'm living in a physical realm. Yes, here I am. Thinking I’m real. When I’m not.  Of course, I’ll remember my dream. When I awaken. Recognizing my true reality. As spirit. Always was pure spirit.  Always will be. As for my physical life. No more than an illusion. Never lived it. Life. Merely a dream. –Jim Broede

On getting ahead of myself.

I have premonitions. Of things to happen. Not bad things. Not good things. But neutral things. And when they happen. It makes me wonder. If I have lived my life before. Perhaps many times. Therefore, I momentarily know what’s to come. Because I’ve briefly gotten ahead of myself. –Jim Broede 

Retrieved: For everlasting pleasure.

I long to return. To the first time. That I was enthralled. Because I had become consciously aware. Of a sunrise.  I’ve seen many since. But it’s that first perfect one. That I want retrieved. For my everlasting pleasure. –Jim Broede

The very pure pleasure of living.

I wonder. If some people refuse to think. Because they really don’t want to be. For fear. That they may not like themselves. Their instinct is to abhor life.  Therefore, they shut down. Suppress the very thought of being alive. And conscious. Because then they would have to figure things out. Give meaning. Maybe that seems like a formidable task. So overwhelming.  Wishing. Wishing that they had never been born. As for me. I can’t get enough of life. I want more and more. To feel the very pure pleasure. Of living. Consciously. Forever. –Jim Broede

All I am: A collection of thoughts.

I sit down. To write. With nothing specific in mind. Out of habit. Compulsion. It’s fun.  To see what comes. Maybe a thought. Buried deep. That oozes to the surface. For no rhyme or reason. Or perhaps. Because the thought wanted to come alive. To be truly born. In full consciousness.  Maybe these thoughts aim to take over my very being. My existence. They become me. Physical. Or is it they take possession of my soul. My spirit. Makes me wonder. What is the real me? A physical being. Or a collection of thoughts. Forming an imagination. That knows no bounds.  –Jim Broede

Into the abyss of Alzheimer's.

For the first time. I was losing control of the situation. While walking my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron.  We’ve strolled together many, many times.  Ron, for the most part, has been convivial. Cooperative. Under control. But yesterday, Ron went  berserk.  No longer considering me a friend. In a flash. I became his mortal enemy. Attempts to calm Ron were rebuffed. No predicting what would happen next. Ron veered off our usual route. And down the middle of a busy county road.  Into the face of oncoming traffic. I tugged at the sleeve of Ron's jacket. More hostility. Ron crouched in a fighting stance. Don't panic, I kept telling myself. I had  to think. Think fast. Finally waving down a van. To the rescue. Came Matt Murphy. With his wife Melissa and three young children. ‘Can you help?’ I pleaded . ‘I’ve lost control of a man with Alzheimer’s.'  Ron sprinted away.  Matt Murphy and I finally corralled  Ron. Ushered  him slowly and  perilously. Into the backseat of the van. For the ride home. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thanked the Murphys. Profusely.  But still, it wasn't over.  Ron refused to leave the van. Becoming combative again. Everything witnessed. By the Murphy children. No doubt, leaving an indelible impression. On young minds.  Of an old man’s decline. Into the dreadful abyss of Alzheimer's. Something to remember. For the rest of their lives. I'll remember, too. But Ron has already forgotten. Haven’t decided yet. Whether that’s a curse or a blessing. –Jim Broede

Losing made easy.

I keep telling myself that it’s all right to lose. No big deal. Especially if it’s a baseball game. That’s why I remain a Chicago Cubs fan. I simply don’t let losing have a negative effect on me.  After all, baseball is baseball. Not a life and death matter. Better for me to be merely fascinated when the Cubs lose. Because they keep finding new ways to lose. Novel ways. Incredible ways. The Cubs have truly and totally mastered the craft of losing. They can lose without even trying. They make it look easy. –Jim Broede

A crying need for change.

I like to generate discussion. On certain matters. Focusing the spotlight on precisely where I want it. That was the advantage of writing for newspapers. I was able to pick and choose what to write about. Matters. Matters. Injustices that bothered me.  My intent was to make things right. If I were writing for newspapers today, I’d zero in on nursing home care. The kind that Alzheimer patients deserve and too often don't get. I've seen many Alzheimer patients being warehoused instead of treated like individuals and real human beings. I spent 38 months in a nursing home. As an unpaid supplemental care-giver for my beloved wife Jeanne. Didn’t miss a single day. I was there for 8 to 10 hours most days.  Yes, I saw it from the inside. Jeanne got proper care. But only because I was there. To see to it. To supplement the insufficient professional care. She got daily showers. I hand-fed her lunch and supper. In the quiet and undisturbed privacy of her room.  Jeanne went outdoors. Daily. In a custom-made wheelchair. Even in the middle of Minnesota winters. Tucked in a thermal sleeping bag. Jeanne got the kind of one-on-one attention everyone with Alzheimer’s deserves. In every nursing home. Sadly, too often they don't. Not even close. Even in nursing homes where the fees range upward of $10,000 a month. Indeed, it's a crying shame. But I ain’t crying. Instead, I’m writing about it. Trying. Trying. Trying ever so diligently. To bring about much-needed change. –Jim Broede

The fine art of luring.

I’ve never been to Las Vegas. And never had a desire to. Until now. Because three of my German friends (including cousin Fritz) will be visiting there. For three days in June. So I’m going. More to see my friends than to see Vegas.  I’ve decided this is one of the nicest ways to see the world. By allowing my friends to lure me.  My Italian true love lures me to Sardinia most winters. And she’s lured me to such exotic places as Iceland and Scotland. Of course, it’s nice, too, when I do the luring. She joins me every summer. In Minnesota. It’s certainly nice. Dabbling in the fine art of luring. –Jim Broede

Another way to savor life.

I’m comfortable. Writing my blog. Because it gives me an outlet. A soapbox, really. Allows me to climb on a platform. As if in a public park. And to say what’s on my mind. Maybe nobody hears me. Other than the squirrels and the birds. But hey, maybe somebody will happen by. Friends. Or total strangers. Doesn’t matter. Maybe my audience is 100 souls a day.  A handful of compatriots. Some returning almost daily.  Anyway, these soapbox appearances have become my occupation. In retirement. Of course, I could call what I do ‘work.’ Of the pleasurable kind. So that it really isn’t work. Just another way to enjoy and savor life. –Jim Broede  

Give me an upside down world.

Apparently, I’m very old. Because I can still remember listening on the radio. The last time the Chicago Cubs were in a World Series. In 1945. There’s only one player from that team still living. Shortstop Lenny Murullo. He’s 97. Anyway, the Cubs lost that World Series. To the Detroit Tigers. In 7 games.  And imagine this. Murullo wasn’t even born yet the last time the Cubs won a World Series. Yes, 1908 was a good year. For Cubs fans. Anyway, as a Cubs fan, I’ve learned to take life a day at a time. Tonight, the Cubs beat the New York Yankees, 6-1, for their third straight win. A nice consolation. Because the Cubs are in last place. Oh, if only there were a way to turn the world and the standings upside down. – Jim Broede

Funny. Just thinking about it.

I’m thinking about launching a new career. As a stand up comic. Making people laugh. I could do it. Really. Even without a script. With all sorts of ad lib.  Seems to me that the best comedians don’t need scripts. They improvise. Move by instinct. They have a natural flair. They really are just being themselves. More and more, I’m seeing the funny side of life. Seeing myself going on stage. With an act that really isn’t an act. Just me. Being me. Funny. Funny. Funny. Just thinking about it. –Jim Broede 

The truth.

I’d like to see a new system of non-profit, somewhat Spartan-like  nursing homes.  With effective first-class Athenian-style care. For the likes of my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron.  He’s in a swank nursing home now. A plush facility. In a park-like setting. Rooms nicely furnished. The lounge areas airy and comfortable. The carpeted hallways look like art galleries. With framed paintings hung on the walls. But then there’s the matter of care. It’s shameful. Downright lousy.   For most of the day, Ron is pretty much left on his own. Sitting in front of a TV. Or meandering up and down the hallways. Very little one-on-one stimulation. And for all this, Ron’s family pays $10,600 a month. Or $127,200 a year.  Indeed, an outrageously exorbitant price. For that, one would think Ron should have a full-time nurse or therapist.  And a program of mental and physical stimulation. Tailored specifically for him. But he doesn’t. He’d be far better off in a Spartan setting. As long as the emphasis was on quality of care. The serving of the patients’ best interest. Pardon me if I speculate. That the operators of the nursing home are primarily interested in making  profit. Obscene profit. And sadly, they lure gullible rich customers. Impressed by the way the place looks. While neglecting to look into the quality of care.  That’s sad. But there are a few of us who show up. To observe and investigate. We have come to know the truth. –Jim Broede

My chattering can be shattering.

I used to be at a loss for words. Couldn’t think of anything to say. In a conversation. Now I’m able to talk. Incessantly.  Non-stop. People wish I’d shut up. So they could get a word in edgewise. But still. I talk. Because I’m trying to be funny. But I’m far more annoying than funny.  Maybe it’s that I have an annoying sense of humor. Another thing. I have an ego.  Makes me think. I’m interesting. When really, I’m boring. Capable of putting people to sleep. If only I wasn’t so annoying. Chattering. Chattering. Chattering.  People tell me. I’m shattering. When I'm chattering.. –Jim Broede

Like a blessing from Nirvana.

Maybe it’s that I’m fascinated by Alzheimer’s. After spending three years and one day. In a nursing home. Didn’t miss a single day. I was there most days for 8 to 10 hours. Caring for my beloved wife Jeanne. But I also mixed with other Alzheimer-riddled people. Virtually everyone in the memory care unit.  It was an education. Beyond anything I ever imagined. Discovering. Discovering. Discovering that everyone of them could be reached. One way or another.  Despite everyone being different. They responded to what I call good vibes therapy. Constant inundation with good and positive vibes. A complete absence of bad and negative vibes. Worked wonders on Jeanne. And the others, too. I began to see that meaningful communication with dementia patients wasn’t hopeless. I simply found ways to enter their worlds. I responded to their hostility and belligerence. With kindness. With soothing and pleasant words and actions. I'd get on my knees. Take Jeanne’s hand. Kiss it. And tell her she had the most beautiful hands in the world. I’d look in her in the face. And smile. And declare, ‘I love you.’  I’d be spontaneously upbeat in my responses to others. To the woman who called me ‘asshole.’ I replied, ‘My gosh, you know my name. Please call me by my first name. Ass. My friends do.’ Everything I did had positive overtones. Yes, good vibes. I told the woman who wouldn’t go to sleep because she was lamenting. Waiting. Waiting for a visit from her long dead mother. ‘She’s out shopping. For a surprise gift. For you. For her precious daughter. Now go to sleep. When you awake, she’ll be here.’ Together, we created wonderful make believe worlds. That really seemed real. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with good vibes and kindness. Practice living in a fanciful and idyllic dream world often enough. You'll find it works.  Like magic. Like a blessing from Nirvana. –Jim Broede

Of living and dying with Alzheimer's.

For $127,200 a year, one would think that my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron would get better care. At the nursing home. Such as daily effective one-on-one mental and physical stimulation. He doesn’t. He’s on the decline. Until a family member or friend comes to his rescue. And takes him ‘out’ for a few hours. That does wonders. Ron seems revived and resurrected. For a day or two. Until he gets back into the lethargic routine of sitting around at the nursing home. Maybe watching television. Maybe walking the hallways. On his own.  Nobody takes an hour or two each day to truly stimulate Ron. Because he’s got Alzheimer’s. And virtually everyone is treated alike. As hopeless. And on a steady decline.  Believe me. It doesn’t have to be that way.  Especially for $127,200. Ron and his family are being ripped off. For that kind of money, Ron should be treated like royalty. Like a king. Like the way President Ronald Reagan was treated during his bout with Alzheimer’s. Instead, my friend Ron is treated like riff-raff. Like a hopeless derelict off the streets. Yes, that’s often the sad truth. Of living and dying with Alzheimer’s. –Jim Broede

A real life Alzheimer's melodrama.

A crisis. With my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. His son-in-law had to fetch him. At the nursing home. And bring him home. Because he got ‘violent.’ With a nurse’s aide. Claims he twisted her arm behind her back. I suspect the $10-an-hour aide is poorly trained. Without a clue. On dealing  with Ron and other Alzheimer patients. Anyway, Ron’s daughter is upset. Distraught, in fact. Doesn’t know what to do next. There’s no way that her husband wants to bring Ron back into their home again. After having him there for five years. But Ron's back anyway. For overnight. The plan is to take him to a hospital today. For evaluation. By Alzheimer specialists. And for advice over the next move. I took Ron for a lengthy walk Saturday afternoon. And cajoled him. I know how to handle him. It’s easy calming him down. And I'm only an amateur.  Unfortunately, nursing homes are poorly staffed. Really, with little desire to deal with the most complicated Alzheimer behaviors.  It’s a shame. Almost a crime. Costing $10,600 a month. For Ron’s nursing home care. For that kind of money, the nursing home should provide specialized one-on-one care. Whenever necessary. I’m  suggesting  an alternative. Hiring a reasonably trained couple. For $7,000 a month. To take care of Ron full-time. Perhaps in the couple's home. Imagine. That’s $82,000 a year.  And that would be $3,600 a month cheaper than the nursing home. I keep wondering. Are there any takers? For $82,000 a year. Plus expenses.  Imagine that. You’d think there would be all kinds of qualified care-givers. Willing to take on the responsibility for $82,000 a year. If not. Up the ante to $100,000. It’d still be cheaper and perhaps far more effective  than the nursing home. Meanwhile, the Ron Saga continues. Yes, it’s a real life Alzheimer’s melodrama. –Jim Broede

Thank you, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

One of the great writers of our time. Gabriel Garcia Marquez. And I really never heard of him. Until reading his obituary. A few weeks ago. In the New York Times. Shows that I live in a reclusive world. My tiny cocoon. I don’t get out and about all that much. Relatively speaking. Though I travel. And spend much of the year living with my Italian true love. In Sardinia. Furthermore, I spent most of my life. As a journalist. Writing for newspapers. Yet, I’m an ignoramus. Knowing far, far less about the world than I ever hope to know. That’s why I need 1,000 lifetimes.  And even then, I won’t come close to being truly educated. But at least, I’ve discovered Marquez.  An achievement certainly equal to Columbus’ discovery of America. I say this after reading Marquez’s celebrated novel, ‘Love in the Time of Cholera.’ That’s the trigger. For me to read everything Marquez ever published. He writes about love. Pure love. Romantic love. True love. In ways that bring me beyond the most distant horizons. To a new and vibrant realm. Thank you, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. –Jim Broede

True love. True love. True love.

I’m enamored.  In love. With the Chicago Cubs. Because of their losing tradition. They lose baseball game after baseball game. Every which way. The Cubs over the past century have taken the craft of losing. And turned it into pure art.  They’ve created masterpieces. When it comes to losing. Nobody has done it better.  They have found the worst ways to lose. And that’s the beauty of it. They have put Cubs fans to the test. They have separated true fans from the fakes.  The lovers from the pretenders. I keep on expecting the Cubs to win. The World Series. They haven’t done it since 1908.  Though they have come close. They last got to the World Series in 1945. When most major league teams lost their best players to active duty in World War II. But the Cubs had some artful draft dodgers. And won the National League pennant. But in the end, the Cubs retained a losing tradition. By blowing the World Series. To the Detroit Tigers. In the 7th game. A heartbreaking loss. The kind that masochistic Cubs fans like me deserve. And have learned to love. We relish having our heart strings ripped loose. It feels good. To suffer. All for the sake of a test of our true love. This season, the Cubs are on course to lose over 100 games. Perhaps an all-time loss record for the Cubs. Indeed, a lofty/lowly goal. But if any baseball team can achieve the seemingly impossible...it’s the beloved losers. The Cubs. The Cubs. Losers forever and a day. But that won’t deter me. I remain a loyal Cubs fan. True love. True love. True love. –Jim Broede

The nature of true love...and life.

I like to speak the truth. My truth. Which may not be your truth. And that may annoy you. Because you want me to speak your truth. And not my truth. I find that often applies to Christians. Especially the very conservative ones. They proclaim there’s only one truth. One way to salvation. Of course, that’s nonsense. I counter with equal conviction. That there are many paths to the truth. No single truth. There’s your truth. And my truth. An infinitesimal number of truths.  I’ve been assured by some Christians that I’m bound for hell. Because I don’t share their truth. But I tell them, there is no hell. Only paradise. And that everyone is ultimately saved. By a loving creator. One that tolerates and embraces all kinds of truths.  Including your truth. And my truth. Yes, a close-minded truth. And an open-minded one, too. Doesn’t really matter.  All is forgiven. That’s the nature of true love…and blessed life. –Jim Broede

Give the condemned a choice.

I have a suggestion. About how to carry out executions. Allow the condemned to commit suicide. Any way they wish. Drinking hemlock. Falling on a sword. Sleeping pills. Jumping off a bridge. The hangman’s noose. Blowing their brains out.  Any novel and inventive way. If they prefer being strapped into an electric chair or going to the guillotine  or being burned alive at the stake – well, then so be it. Give everyone on death row a choice.  If they want to turn themselves over to the botching executioners in Texas or Oklahoma, and suffer excruciating pain in the process of dying, that’s all right, too. –Jim Broede  

The wise and courageous.

Maybe some people don’t want to be helped. I’ve known suicidal people. Who truly didn’t want to live any more. They were tired of life. And looked at death as the most coveted and viable option. Who’s to say they made the wrong decision? In taking their own lives. They took charge. They made a choice. Perhaps a very thoughtful one. And deserve credit. For taking their life and death. Into their own hands. My father might have been such. In that sense, perhaps he deserves hero status. Of course, that’s not a popularly accepted premise.  Suicides are looked upon as sick people. In need of therapy and counseling and perhaps confinement in a mental institution. Think about it. Maybe many of ’em should be called wise and courageous. –Jim Broede

Getting on.

I have friends and acquaintances. With minds. Occupied mostly by bad stuff. They lament. About this and that. Hardly ever think positively. Maybe they have a form of depression. Don’t know for sure. But I don’t hesitate to speculate. Might even tell them. I’m concerned. But then, I might choose to ignore. Maybe it’s not my business. Guess I’m more likely to intervene. If it’s a true friend.  But hey. Sometimes I take a hard-hearted approach.  Did that years ago. With my sister. She’s an alcoholic. Knows it now. She’s been recovering for about 10 years. Changed her ways. For the good. For the better. We are on cordial terms again. But for a while, I wrote her off. Because she refused to take care of herself. Maybe that made me less than the good and loving brother. But sometimes I find it best to butt out. Otherwise, I might do more harm than good. I make choices. That other people’s problems can’t be solved. By me.  Or even by god/the creator. Instead, it’s best to get on. With my life. –Jim Broede

My unheeded advice.

I have a friend. An Alzheimer’s care-giver. To her father. And she’s highly stressed. While trying to cope. Valiantly. With all that responsibility. She goes on frequent guilt trips. Flagellating herself. For not doing enough. This has become her whole life. Caring. Caring. Caring far too much. Of course, I encourage her to do less. To take better care of herself. And to leave more of the care-giving to others. To friends. To other family members. To professionals. Problem is. When she has time off. She dwells on what she thinks she should be doing. Taking better care of dad. Because others don’t do it as well as she. Often, she’s seething. In anger. At the professionals. At the nursing home. For forgetting to put in dad’s hearing aids.  Other things, too. She’s driving herself into mental and emotional exhaustion. Into depression. I tell her. She can do only so much. Dad and virtually everyone with Alzheimer’s won’t get perfect care. Always. It could be better care. One can only peck away. At making things better. For dad. And a good start in the right direction would be to take better care of herself. To find daily diversions.  Away from care-giving. Taking her dog for a walk, for instance.  Chatting with a friend about the positive aspects of life. Getting away for the weekend.  Dining out with her husband. Going to a play, concert or movie. Going  to a spa for a massage. And seeing a doctor. Her last physical was 10 years ago. I’m not so sure that she’s gonna  heed my advice. But I give it anyway.  Like it or not. –Jim Broede

A search for human decency.

I reason. In ways that some people don’t. Maybe because I’m a liberal. In politics. And they aren’t.  Maybe because I’m a spiritual free-thinker. And they aren’t. Yes, I’m also a romantic idealist. And they aren’t. That sets us on different paths. We look at life differently. We reason differently. Therefore, I have a question. How do we resolve our differences?  Fact of the matter is that we often don’t. We are sort of at war with each other. We try to live our own lives. In our own ways. Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t. It’s best, of course, when there’s some degree of mutual respect. Unfortunately, that ain’t happening in the American political realm.  Things have gotten downright dirty and nasty.  We no longer act like ladies and gentlemen. We have lost our sense of human decency. Let’s send out a search party. Let’s resolve to find decency again. –Jim Broede 

How awful. How shameful.

I’m askance. At societies that put people to death. Yes, execution. Capital punishment. For any reason. Just seems so morally wrong. And yet, I suspect it’s done. In large part. For religious reasons.  Considered moral.  Some religions favor cruel and unusual punishment.  Such as cutting off the hands of thieves. To teach the thief a lesson. The hard way. Maybe religious fanatics see death as the easy way. To teach a religious lesson. Better to be burned alive. At the stake. Than be allowed to live after a religious indiscretion. Such as blasphemy. Mere words. Mere thoughts. Have through the ages been reason for execution. Yes, for merely theorizing that the Earth wasn’t at the center of the universe. For not accepting religious dogma. In Texas, pious politicians worshiping at the temple of capital punishment even put the mentally retarded to death. For crimes they can’t even understand. Their crime, I suppose, is being morons. But to me, the real morons are politicians and religious fanatics. The ones that almost gleefully adopt death penalties. Especially for poor people. Black people. Even, in some cases, innocent people. Yes, they do it without any sense of remorse. In the name of vengeance. And retribution. Even in the name of their god. How awful. How shameful. –Jim Broede  

Give me a good conversation.

So very many religions. Can’t keep track of ‘em all. Funny thing. Each religion assumes it’s the one true religion.  For me, that’s a turn off. Implies that every other religion falls short. In one way or another. Sometimes I wonder. Why people have a need for religion. Especially organized religion. I don’t. Calling myself a free-thinker.  Free to go my own way. Rather than by the dictates of religious leaders.  No thank you. I’ll try for a direct connection to the creator. Don’t need go-betweens. Don’t even need prayer.  Instead, I insist on direct communication.  And a dialogue. With the grand creator.  Another thing. I don’t ask for favors from the creator. A good conversation will suffice. --Jim Broede

I'm jealous of dancing George.

George. He’s the oldest guy in my neighborhood. Age 92. And still going strong. He rakes his yard. Has a well-manicured lawn. His place looks neat, too. And orderly. Furthermore, George is an astute ballroom dancer. Still very nimble on his feet. Dances. Dances. Dances all the time. And is mighty proud of his exploits on the dance floor. Has a personalized license plate on his big boat of a car. ‘DANCR,’ the plate reads. Dropped the ‘e’ I presume. Because someone else already has ‘DANCER.’  Anyway, I was stunned to see. George has his lakeshore home for sale. He’s planning on moving. Into a townhouse. In another Twin Cities suburb. Forty miles away.  For convenience sake. Doesn’t want to do yard work any more.  But George says he’ll keep on dancing. Til the day he dies. That may be a long time in coming. Because he looks fit. Physically. Mentally, too.  George has lived in the same house. Since 1953. One of the first settlers in the neighborhood.  Used to work for 3M. His wife died 11 years ago. One thing about George. He adapts. To life circumstances. He’s a happy fella. And I hate to see him leave. For an obvious reason. He’s a good neighbor. And a decent human being. But I have a selfish motive, too. I don’t want to be tagged the oldest guy in the neighborhood. I admit, too. To being a  little bit jealous of George. Having never learned to dance. –Jim Broede

No true dialogue.

I converse. Rather than pray. Give me true dialogue. Two-way communication. A real conversation. A question. How many of you are willing to enter into a true dialogue? With real give and take. I suspect that’s our problem. In all realms of life. Politics. Economics. Social issues.  Relationships. No true dialogue. Only monologue.  Yes, that’s a pity. –Jim Broede

My goal: To be a free spirit.

When people espouse their religious views. I listen. With interest. And then I tell them I’m not religious. Spiritual, instead. Which allows me to steer clear of stifling organized religions.  I’d rather set my own rules and parameters. In the spiritual realm. My goal: To be a free spirit. –Jim Broede

So many, many ways to the truth.

I have great respect for the Christian way. The Muslim way, too. And the Buddhist way, the Jewish way, the Hindu way, the agnostic way, the atheist way. So very many, many ways. To find one’s highly personal truth.  We probably all share the same creator – the one that wants us all to live in peace and harmony.  Truly loving life and each other. --Jim Broede

In the middle of the night.

I’ve risen. In the middle of the night. Don’t know what possessed me. To use the word risen. Sounds so archaic. Religious, too. And notice in the dark. The deck. Outside the sliding glass doors. It’s wet. Must be raining. Indeed it is. I open the door. To a deliciously cool and gentle westerly breeze. A dampness coming off the lake. I like. Everything that I’m feeling. Alone. In solitude.  At another time, I might put on music. But give me quiet. An opportunity to capture the moment. To savor life. In thought. In darkness. In silence. –Jim Broede

What is true friendship?

Lost contact. With certain friends. We’ve drifted away. Don’t know if that’s good or bad.  Maybe it doesn’t matter. That friends come and go. Maybe friends are no longer friends. When they disappear. Makes me think. About the nature of true friendship. Must true friendship remain active?  I don’t know. It’s probably a matter of personal opinion.  Certain friends. I don’t even think about. For years and years. Don’t even know if some are alive or dead. Maybe it’s that I don’t have time. Or even care. About all my friends. Makes me wonder. Is that meaningful? –Jim Broede

Making America a better place.

Making America a better place. That’s what I would write about. If I were still writing for newspapers. A continuous series of stories. Maybe columns. Based on interviews.  With anyone. With an idea. About how to make America a better place. Maybe by starting. Right here. In the local community. In my neighborhood.  Also, in the state capitol.  Washington, too. Everywhere. Maybe merely by turning inward. Making me. A better, more decent human being.  Maybe that’s all it takes. For a good start. At making America a better place. –Jim Broede

My ideal society.

This world needs more societies. In which the monetarily rich are looked at. With a little bit of disdain. It’s all right. To be a millionaire or a billionaire. But only if the wealth is used for the common good. Rather than for the individual’s selfish good. That’s my concept of the ideal society. Won’t ever be.  But it’s a nice dream. And that’s what I happen to be. A dreamer. Among other things. I want a society. In which everyone is provided with the basic necessities of life. A good education. Good health care. An income that gets one by. In a reasonable manner. Everyone would be guaranteed work. A job with a decent minimum wage.  The sad thing in all of this. In capitalist societies this is considered more nightmare than dream. Because the aim is to make money. Lots of it. To make for super comfortable and extravagant lifestyles. Even if that means exploitation of the masses. And no respect for the common good. –Jim Broede

Discovering one's true self.

Most people are timid. Shy. Reclusive.  Relatively speaking, of course. That’s my impression. Or maybe it’s that they respect their privacy. But I suspect it’s more than that. Maybe they are fearful. About revealing too much. They even hide their names. Post their messages anonymously. Or use pseudonyms. Don’t even introduce their real selves. Maybe because they don’t know themselves. Never ever have gotten around to the matter of defining. They live. They die. Without real identities.  Makes me wonder. If people need to become more self-absorbed. More aware. More conscious. Turning inward. To discover their true selves.  And to be proud. To say, ‘This is who  I am.  And what I am all about.’ Imagine that. A fresh and novel approach to life. No fear of going naked. –Jim Broede

Do I have a choice?

Free will. I believe in it. But in destiny, too. Some things are meant to be. Sensing…after my first true love died…that I’d stumble across a second true love.  And when it happened, I knew it instantly. It almost felt like I’ve lived my life before. Maybe many times. And this happens. Each and every time. Maybe there is eternal recurrence. Living the same life over and over again. Perhaps in parallel universes. The key question. Am I allowed to alter my life? Or must I follow the exact same script. Forever. All it would take is one tiny alteration. To change the course of life. Dramatically. Am I permitted to do that?  Yes, I am. If I have free will. No, I’m not. If everything is meant to follow a rigid, unalterable script. I want free will. I wonder. Do I have a choice? Maybe I do. Maybe I am living many, many parallel lives at this very moment. Because I've made slight alterations. And I'm fully conscious. In each life. With totally different experiences. Different outcomes. In significantly different worlds. –Jim Broede

A much-appreciated blessing.

Hypothetical questions. I bombard myself. Daily. With the hypothetical. To determine. My true feelings. If I had to choose. Between saving Friend A or Friend B. I’d hate to choose. But what if I had to?  Oh, what a dilemma. Today, I’m pondering.  What if I were compelled to live alone. On a desert island. For a long, long time. And I could bring the recorded music. Of a single composer. Who would it be? My apparent choices. Mozart. Haydn. Beethoven. I’d have the option of choosing only one. I’m leaning toward Haydn. Maybe because. At the moment. I’m listening to Haydn. Enamored. His music. Relaxing. Soothing. Mozart is inspirational. Beethoven passionate. But alone. On a desert island. I want to be relaxed. Soothed.  Not necessarily inspired or aroused. Of course, in my real world. I have all three. Indeed, a much-appreciated blessing. –Jim Broede

Nice things. Significant things.

Maybe I leave some people aghast. Flabbergasted.  If so, that’s fine. After all, my aim is to startle people. To catch their attention. But almost always in nice ways. Meeting a stranger. For the first time. And instantly starting a discussion. About philosophy. About life. About the concept of love. Yes, my form of small talk.  Not about how are you or the weather or other inconsequential stuff.  Amazing. The responses. My kind of people get into the flow. Almost immediately.  They reveal significant information. About themselves. True. Some don’t seem to know how to react.  Some are curious. Intrigued. By my unorthodox approach. To making interesting conversation. Right off the bat. Maybe my introductory comment is, ‘You look Syrian. Give me a clue. What’s your surname?’  No reason to waste time. Getting to the basics. In the first five minutes, I’m likely to pull out my printed business card. Announcing that I’m a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer.  They have my postal mail address, my email address, my phone number, and ready access to my blog. When we depart, maybe they know more about me than I know about them. But don’t bet on it. Generally, I know plenty. Nice things. Significant things. –Jim Broede

The indecent nature of politics.

Decent human beings. Every time I see one. I rejoice. They are out there. My friends. Most of ‘em are decent. Not all. There are exceptions. Some are trying. And may make it some day. I don’t always  qualify.  I fall short. In certain ways. So, who am I to judge?  I confess. I don’t treat everyone decently all the time.  Especially politicians.  But then, too many politicians are far less than decent human beings.  That’s what drew them to politics. A lacking. No sense of decency. Natural born liars. Cheaters. Which allows them to thrive in the realm of politic.  They know how to play the game.  Effectively. The ends justify the means. Usually, I have no qualms about treating indecent people indecently. Maybe that’s wrong. I should be kinder. More forgiving.  Especially of perceived  enemies. When meeting a truly decent person, I invariably return the decency. Several fold. Decency tends to breed decency.  But it works the other way, too. Indecent politicians retaliate. They treat each other badly. For spite. Sets off a chain reaction. Resulting in endless personal warfare. That’s the indecent nature of politics. Sad, isn’t it? –Jim Broede

My wonderful life. Without politics.

Ignoring politics. All together. Maybe that’s the wisest course. I’ve been tuning in liberal commentators. On MSNBC. To get the ‘feel good’ progressive slants. But lately, they’ve been telling me too much about what conservatives are saying. About Obama. And about Hillary Clinton. All the outlandish stuff. The obviously stupid lies. That plays into conservative hands. By talking about it. When it’s best to ignore the poppycock. Ain’t worth bringing it up. If people are stupid enough to buy into  Republican propaganda, so be it. Stupid is stupid. Stupid minds won’t be changed. We’ll always have Republicans and Republican-sympathizers with us. No sense in lamenting about it. It is what it is. More and more, I’m finding it best to steer clear of politics. In favor of more lofty romantic and spiritual pursuits.  The good things. My wonderful life.  Without politics.  –Jim Broede

Come rain or shine. I'm still in love.

People are complaining. About spring. About it being cooler and wetter than normal. But I’ve decided not to complain. Instead, I’m embracing spring. Savoring it. Because it’s cooler and wetter. That’s a plus, I tell everyone. Isn’t this nice?  It really is. Interesting. Interesting. How one decides. Whether something is nice or not so nice. Good or bad. I’m alive. And conscious. Able to appreciate. Everything. Such as today’s weather. Come rain or shine. I’m still in love. With life. –Jim Broede

Far more blessed than cursed.

Bad people. I know of ‘em. Fortunately, mostly from a distance. Relatively infrequently do we cross paths. I read about their exploits. Kidnapping young school girls. And selling them into slavery. War-mongers, too. In places like Syria. But we even have ‘em in the USA. Many, many politicians. Out to screw their opponents. With dirty tricks. With lies. For kicks. To satisfy their mean spirits. No sense of fairness. The ends justify the means. I’m lucky. Because I spend much time in my cocoon. Away from the meanness that abounds in the world. Instead, I’ve found much kindness. And love, too. Makes me far more blessed than cursed. –Jim Broede

No hope of becoming a rose.

Don’t know if it’s 10 percent or 20 percent or 30 percent. But it’s some amount. Of conservative Republicans. That dislike, or even detest, Barack Obama. Simply because of his skin color.  It’s just one of those things. They can’t help it. They were born to be bigots.  To presume that white people are superior. An affliction similar to the Nazis hatred of Jews. While putting the Aryan race on a pedestal. It’s irrational stuff. But something inbred. That penetrates deep. Into the soul. I view it as a sickness. A mental disorder. Possibly curable. But only after long and tedious therapy. Therefore, the failure rate is high. Especially with conservative Republicans. It’s easier to cure a Nazi than a racist Republican. The first step. One must personally recognize one’s need for help. Unfortunately, a stink weed is a stink weed is a stink weed. There’s no hope of becoming a rose. –Jim Broede

Ugliness: In the eye of the beholder.

I’ve formed opinions. About the physical looks. Of political conservatives. Maybe I’m biased. Because I don’t like conservatism. Especially when applied to politics.  Rand Paul. Ted Cruz. Paul Ryan. They look like freaks of nature. People that turn me off.  Yes, I know. I’m probably being unfair. I’m sure their wives think of them as handsome. God’s gifts to women. But no. They turn my stomach. Of course, if they caught a glimpse of me, they’d probably have a bout of nausea. Goes to show. True ugliness. It's in the eye of the beholder. –Jim Broede

The pursuit of true love.

Nothing ventured. Nothing gained. I’m willing to take chances. In pursuit of true love.  That’s why I’ve had two true loves. In my lifetime. One after another. A willingness to make a fool of myself. That’s the nature of love.  Becoming a fool. Doing the unexpected. Venturing. Boldly. I suspect. That many never experience true love. Because they play life safely. Avoiding risks. Fearful of being the fool.  Never venturing. Never gaining. Yes, a wasted life. I choose to venture. To gain. My mission. The pursuit of true love. –Jim Broede

Far, far beyond my imagination.

I’m wondering. About the possibility of higher forms of life. Much higher than the human. And could I ever become the highest form? And how does one determine the highest form? Maybe I could settle for being a human. Forever. If that were my only choice. Better that than nothing. Makes me wonder, too. If I could come back only as a dog or a cat or a bird. Would that be better than nothing?  Anyway, I can imagine so very much. Maybe that’s the best part of being human. Being endowed with imagination. Not sure that my beloved cats have imagination.  I can imagine being inside a cat’s mind. But I’m pretty sure that a cat can’t probe my mind. Apparently, there are degrees of consciousness. Of mindfulness.  The highest forms of life. Maybe they have a consciousness that goes far, far beyond my imagination. –Jim Broede

The art of breathing.

I used to try to breathe. Only through my nose. Not my mouth. But then I discovered. It’s easier. Using both nose and mouth. I have an advantage, too. A big nose. A big mouth. Therefore, I can take in vast quantities of air. With a single deep breath. Amazing, isn’t it?  Breathing. Not only a craft. A skill. But an art, too. –Jim Broede  

Am I really in control?

I alienate. Some people. But that shouldn’t be. It’s not my fault. Some people. Just want to be alienated. Wouldn’t matter what I do. They will feel alienated.  Because they want to. I cease feeling alienated.  Because I want to. It’s a matter of free choice. Therefore, I am not the perpetrator of other people’s alienation. I don’t control others. Only myself. And then I wonder. Am I really in control?  Or is it all a figment of my fertile imagination? --Jim Broede

How does a spirit blink?

My best habit. It’s walking. Old-fashioned exercise. Daily. No doubt about it. That keeps me alive. And stimulates me. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. I was born. To move. About. For sustained periods. Makes my blood flow. Make me breathe. Fresh air. If I  ceased moving. I’d be dead. Because life is motion. And motion is the source of pleasure. Makes me wonder. If I become true spirit. Will I feel motion? I presume so. My mission. As spirit. Will be to travel. Through all of creation. Able to move great distances. In the blink of a spirit. Another question. How does a spirit blink? –Jim Broede

Feeling grand and glorious.

My life. No matter where I am. Is grand and glorious. Any time that I want it to be. Doesn’t matter. Whether I’m in Sardinia or Minnesota or Iceland or Scotland. So many places. Really, I have yet to find a totally unromantic environs. Even in Texas and Oklahoma. Though I claim to detest those states. For many, many reasons. But still, I salvage something grand and glorious. In the godforsaken. That’s my nature. Yes, I could savor a unique moment in hell.  Conversing with the devil. To satisfy my curiosity, if nothing else. I’m in Minnesota. At the moment. Living on a lake. Listening to Handel chamber music. Watching the flags of Italy and Sardinia flutter in the breeze. The cumulative effect. Makes me feel grand and glorious. And very much alive. –Jim Broede

A perfectly created world.

Some religious people make a big mistake. In assuming that one must believe in the creator/god. Or in god’s alleged son. In order to be ‘saved.’ The blessing. To love and to be loved. It’s extended to everyone. Atheists. Agnostics. Believers. Doesn’t matter.  Everyone is free to choose his/her own route.  From an infinitesimal number of paths. To so-called salvation. To an afterlife. In paradise. There is no hell. Because eventually, pure love permeates everything. That’s the nature of life. Of existence. Everyone. Allowed to evolve. In his/her own way. That’s the way a loving creator would want it. By design.  We are given forever. To get it right. Maybe through reincarnation. Which means, we live in a perfectly created world. In the end, everyone is saved. Yes, the creator got it right. Everything ultimately leads to the same destination. The realm of pure love. –Jim Broede

Give me cats and no fences.

Looks like Polly and Stinky can get too much of a good thing. The Siberian Huskies that I’ve been walking daily, got a taste of freedom. And once that happens, they can hardly be restrained.  They begin taking life into their own paws. Escaping. From their tiny compound. Darting to freedom through the invisible electronic fence. Willing to take an electric jolt. In exchange for a scamper to freedom. The daily walks have been put on hold. While their owner (a neighbor) evaluates the situation. Polly is still missing in action. Apparently enjoying her new-found freedom. Though I suspect she’ll return. When she’s hungry. Meanwhile, I’m no fan of electronic fences. For dogs, or anyone. I’d not want an electric shock every time I choose to roam free. Can’t blame Polly and Stinky. For the pursuit of a dream. To be free roaming dogs.  Of course, that creates a heavy burden on the dogs’ owner. Little wonder. I don’t own a dog any more. My cats, Loverboy and Chenuska, are sufficient. We have adapted to a quiet and subdued domestic life. Together. Without electric fences. –Jim Broede

The matter of serving.

My slant on life. Isn’t necessarily for everyone. In fact, maybe only for me. Same goes for other people’s perspectives. We may all go in different directions. And still, everyone of us may be right. Because we are individually tailored.  To suit our own whims. Makes me wonder. About the meaning of being true to one’s self.  Is that what we are supposed to be?  Or is it better to be true to others? Can we be both? True to ourselves and to society. Serving ourselves. And the common good. All at the same time.  –Jim Broede

The inherent right to be a jackass.

Doesn’t bother me. If the next time I attend a city council meeting, if people choose to recite the pledge allegiance or some prayerful mumbo-jumbo.  After all, I’m there mostly as an observer. And I participate only when I choose. I abstain from prayers and pledges. The U.S. Supreme Court ruled 5-4 this week that it’s constitutional to open town meetings with sectarian prayers. The liberals/progressives on the court dissented. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all trivial, meaningless stuff. Like singing the Star-Spangled Banner before a sporting event.  It’s entertaining. And funny. I never sing. But I like to watch the super patriots get their reverential pleasures by singing out of tune. It’s probably good for their souls. If they want to pray before, during or after the game or meeting – that’s all right, too. To each his own.  I’ve learned to accept the world pretty much as it is. In all its goofiness. I even accept lunatic fringe Republicans. The craziest of the crazy. Let them be. As long as they don’t require me to bend to their crazy wishes. I’ll go my way. They can go their bumbling course. We are all free to make jackasses of ourselves. At public meetings, at sporting events, even in church.  –Jim Broede