Steak And more steak.

When my German friends go shopping for beer. In America. One might expect that they’d spare no expense.  Because they want the best. Something equivalent to the German world-class beers. But hey, they surprise me. And go cheap. And for quantity too. Busch beer. Brewed in St. Louis. On sale. At Wal-Mart. In Las Vegas. A 30-pack. For $14.97. Yes, a mere 50 cents a can. They store the bulky pack in the trunk of their rented Chevy Impala. Transferring a few cans to  an ice-filled cooler. Making the brew ready for their gala picnics. On their three-week tour of the American South and Southwest. The cooler also contains sandwich fixings.  American-style white bread and bologna, salami and cheese.  Fritz, Dieter and Dirk tell me, though, that they’ll indulge themselves once a day. By dining out. At nice restaurants. Serving their favorite American cuisine.  Steak. And more steak.  –Jim Broede

A German invasion.

My German cousin Fritz. And two of his buddies. Dieter and Dirk. They’ve come to the USA. To travel. In German style. Which means having lots of fun. On the cheap. And ignoring the summertime heat. In the American South and Southwest. They flew in last week.   From Frankfurt. To Washington, D.C. Then to Las Vegas. Where I met them and spent three days. No, we hardly gambled. Fritz and Dieter were winners. About $25 each. I lost 90 cents. Didn’t go to any shows.  Instead, we journeyed into the Valley of Fire. Named, I presume, after the blazing red rocks. We also ventured into Death Valley. Where the afternoon temperature peaked at 114 degrees.  In the shade, of course.  Could have fried an egg. In the sunshine.  Anyway, the Germans are driving a rental car. A Chevy Impala. Down to the Grand Canyon. They’ll take Route 66 East. Through Arizona and New Mexico. Then across godforsaken Texas. And into Louisiana. With a stopover in New Orleans. They’ll get a taste of Southern cooking and confederacy-loving bigots in Alabama and Georgia and South Carolina and North Carolina. Before ending up, in three weeks, in the nation’s capitol once again.  For the return flight to Deutschland. They’ll mix well in America. I’m sure. Traveling with an open mind. And curiosity. This is Fritz’s 10th trip to the U.S. He loves America. More than I do. But then, I’m in love with the entire world. With life, period. I’d even adjust to life in hell (aka Texas).  –Jim Broede

In less time than a snap of fingers.

Think about it. We are conscious beings. Able to grasp stuff. And give meaning to it all. Beautiful. And magnificent meaning. Doesn’t necessarily matter if other people are around. One can savor solitude. Being alone.  Being alive.  Makes me wonder about the Alzheimer-riddled. Maybe they still know aliveness. But I wonder if they have lost meaningfulness. True awareness. Maybe their minds have to be stimulated. On to one track. One thought. A single focus. More than one thought at a time becomes dangerous. Causes confusion. When I am with my friend Ron, I try to get him to focus on what we are doing. Going for a walk. I tell him, put on blinders. Enjoy what we are doing. At this very moment. Even if he can’t remember it 20 seconds later. He still feels a momentary burst of pleasure. Meaningful pleasure.  Meaningful consciousness. No matter how elusive. So many ways to experience momentary pleasure. A shoulder massage. A sip of water to quench a thirst. The caress of a breeze.  Even five seconds of consciousness can seem like forever.  A blink of an eye.  I wonder if Ron experiences 1,000 blinks in a single day. If so, they add up. Into something stimulating and maybe meaningful.  A lifetime of 100 years. It’s no more than a fraction of a blink in time. But that’s long enough to experience true love. Wow! A miracle. Achieved in so little time. In less time than a snap of fingers. --Jim Broede

The way life is supposed to be.

I spent six hours with my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron last night. So that his care-givers, Rick and Julie, could go out to dinner. With friends. Respite. Respite. Respite. That’s what they need. Really, daily respite. But that’s very difficult. To achieve. I didn’t get it. When I cared for my dear sweet Jeanne. That is, until Jeanne entered a nursing home. For 38 months. I put in 8 to 10 hours a day. Providing supplemental care for Jeanne. But I was generally at home by 10 p.m. And didn’t show up until 10 or 11 the next morning.  That gave me 12 or 13 hours of respite. And solitude. Every day. Time to replenish myself. To regenerate. To rejuvenate. To refresh. That’s why I’m willing to step in. Occasionally. And give Rick and Julie time off. Every care-giver needs it. And many don’t get it. But those that do get respite are far better care-givers. They are able to exude good vibes. And actually enjoy the care-giving. There’s a sense of accomplishment. Achievement. Success. Good vibes permeate the environs. People with dementia know it. Sense it. They tend to be more calm. More responsive. In positive ways.  It’s good for everyone. Meanwhile, when Rick and Julie were gone, I worked with Ron. Stimulated him. Mentally.  Physically. Emotionally, too. He’s a man of many moods. For a while, he was agitated. But I worked on relaxing him. I use all kinds of tricks. Good vibes stuff. I don’t force him to do anything. Instead, I try to create an environment. That puts him at ease. That stimulates him. Into an upbeat/positive mood.  I work with him. One on one. Face to face.  In a soothing tone of voice. I’ll give him a shoulder massage. Tell him to relax his muscles.  Because that tends to relax the mind, too.   I walked him down to my house. For supper. My cats jumped up on his lap. He was focused. On having a good time. Focused on feeling pleasure. Sure beats sitting on a sofa in a nursing home. Watching television. Ron and I were socializing. Truly socializing.  Making each other feel good. Meanwhile, Rick and Julie were out. Feeling good. Everybody was feeling good last night.  That’s the way life is supposed to be. –Jim Broede

Cooling it. In paradise.

It’s a trade I’d not make. Giving up Minnesota. For Las Vegas and Nevada. No way do I want to go from heaven to hell. But Maureen made the trade. And likes it. She’s a former Minnesotan. Left the state nine years ago. To live in the hellish hot Las Vegas area.  We sat next to each other. Last Monday. On a plane ride. From Minneapolis to Las Vegas. We chatted. And I speculated that Maureen has Irish ancestry. Her first name sounds Irish. She confirmed the accuracy of my guess. Maureen has seen snow only once in Vegas. And doesn’t miss it. But confesses. She could live without the stifling heat. Summertime temperatures of 100-plus degrees most days. But a price worth paying. Because she’s near her son. Other children are back in Minnesota.  Providing a good excuse. For  Maureen to escape the heat. And to cool it. In paradise. –Jim Broede

Long live Finland!

I’m blessed. Virtually every time I board an airplane. Because I invariably sit next to interesting people. Strangers. That I come to know. In significant ways. Most recently. Vil and Sumo. Finns. Young men. Just ending a one-month tour of the U.S.  Like me, they are headed from Las Vegas. To Minneapolis. I’ll be home. But after a 4-hour layover, they’ll head to Iceland. Then to Helsinki.  Their home sweet home.  And believe me. Finland is sweet. And progressive. I learned delightful stuff.  In chatting with Vil. He spells his first name. With a hyphen. And another name. But I shortened it up. To three letters. And dropped the hyphen. Vil is studying. Getting an education. On his way to becoming a medical doctor.  He’ll reach his goal. Partly, because in Finland education is affordable. For everyone.  Vil pays only $200 a year. To matriculate in medical school.  Indeed, a sign of a progressive society.  Imagine. An affordable education. For everyone. Goes to show where the Finns put their priorities. Of course, rich Finns end up paying higher taxes. And they pay more for other things, too. For instance, the size of the fines in the court system are generally based on one’s income.  A speeding ticket for a very, very rich man driving a luxury sports sedan might be as high as a six-figure amount. Compared to a nominal fine for the less affluent.  Yes, I could adjust to life in Finland. Sounds like my kind of place. Hell for Americans of the Republican persuasion. But heaven for the likes of me. Furthermore, language may not be a barrier. Vil speaks good English. Finns are well-educated. Many of ‘em being multilingual.  Finland seems to be a place where everyone is guaranteed the basic necessities of life.  Makes for easier going, I suspect. In one’s pursuit of happiness.  Long live Finland! –Jim Broede

Remembering...the scraggly coyote.

Going away for four days. Poses dangers. In that I lose my sense of rhythm. Mentally. Physically. Maybe even emotionally. Going into a different environment. A different setting. That can throw me for a loop. At home, I’m more regimented. Able to stay in a groove. But an odd thing. When going away, time seems to pass more slowly.  Maybe that’s the result of doing different things. Stuff that I normally don’t do. Eating out. Conversing with strangers. Living life in more of an unplanned way. Having to adjust to the unexpected. For some, that may be a relaxing and stimulating experience. It is for me, too. But only some of the time. Little wonder. When traveling, I’d rather stay put for a long time. In one spot. And preferably in a country setting. In a rural environs. A quiet place. Where life is pursued at a slow and leisurely place. Tranquility. Solitude. Isolation. In a primeval forest. On a mountain path. A seashore. Certainly, not Las Vegas. All the glitz. The lights. The crowds. The fanfare. The traffic.  I can live without all that. Better to escape. To the desert. To Death Valley. A scraggly lone coyote wandering aimlessly down the highway. That’s what I remember most.  Not the action in Las Vegas. –Jim Broede

Grasping the significance.

I’ve crammed far too much into four days. But I have no serious regrets about it. I’ll reflect.  Over the next several days. About the experience. Of boarding a plane. In Minneapolis. To Las Vegas. On Monday. And returning today. Thursday.  Now I have to take my leisurely time. Evaluating, Grasping. Savoring. The experiences. Of being. Where I’ve never been before. Maybe in hell. Because of daytime temperatures of 114 degrees Fahrenheit. But still, I dared go for a short walk. In Death Valley.  And lived. To return to Las Vegas. To a relatively balmy 102 degrees.  I never had an overwhelming desire. To visit Las Vegas. Or Death Valley. But my German cousin Fritz and two of his buddies, Dieter and Dirk, are spending three weeks touring the U.S. And they arrived. In Las Vegas. On Monday. And I felt duty-bound to be there. To greet them. After all, I’ve visited Fritz. On several occasions. In Germany. And he’s always been a gracious and congenial host. No doubt. My favorite cousin. He’s been wonderful. Introducing me to my paternal German roots. And our common ancestry. Which he’s traced back to the 1600s. In Switzerland.  Our ancestors migrated to Germany. After the 30 Years War. Little did they ever imagine. That their progeny. Fritz and Jim. Would be cavorting. Five-hundred years later. In a glitzy gambling mecca. Called Las Vegas. In the state of Nevada. In the United States of America.   And here I am. Just starting to grasp the significance of it all.  –Jim Broede

My detour to hell.

Something rare is happening for a few days this week. Taking time off. From my blog. As I go to hell. Las Vegas. Not to gamble. But to socialize. With my German compatriots. Including German cousin Fritz.  I discovered Fritz and several other German cousins 13 years ago. And we’ve visited often. In Germany. In the U.S.  Fritz helped me trace my ancestry back to Switzerland. In the 1600s. He’s taken me there. To the very homeland, the very ground where my ancestors tread.  Indeed, a spiritual  experience. Now I am about to experience Las Vegas. With Fritz and Dieter and Dirk.  Maybe that will be spiritual, too. Not because of the Vegas environs per se. But the camaraderie. I’ll see you here again. Maybe Thursday.  With an account of the happenings. –Jim Broede

Far better than nothing.

Come to think of it. Dying may not be so bad. My imagination. Tells me. That there’s an afterlife.  I’m inclined to believe it. Because I want to. Not because of a religious belief. But rather, that on-going life is a natural flow. It happens because it happens. Belief has nothing to do with it. Of course, there’s a possibility of absolute nothing. After death, it’s all over. Nothing. Forever and ever. But I don’t want to believe that. It’s all right. If I’m fooling myself. Because I like to fool myself. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.  Coming to believe anything I want to believe.  No limits to my imagination.  Am I wrong? Am I right? Maybe it doesn’t matter. I’m here. Now. In the moment. A thinking being. I’ll take that. It’s far better than nothing. –Jim Broede

The joyful pulse beat of life.

Not sure. If I’m having dark thoughts. Or light thoughts.  Maybe it’s that I am having forethought. That poses a danger. Of getting too far ahead of myself. Leaving my precious now. And projecting into the future. I used to do that frequently. But as I grew older, I more or less abandoned such a practice. And entered the realm of immediate happiness. But today, I’ve reverted to the old way. For a while. If for no other reason. Than to remind myself. To savor. The joyful pulse beat of life. –Jim Broede

A matter of contrasts.

Really, one should be focused on living. Not dying. To be in love. With life. But to be truly alive. And in love. One must occasionally divert. To thoughts of death. Without darkness, there would be no light. Without sadness, there would be no joy. Without death, there would be no life. It’s all a matter of contrasts. –Jim Broede

Beyond the time. To end it all.

Tending to my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. He’s 85. Older than me. Far worse off than me. I take Ron for walks. I have him under control. Most of the time. Not always.  I have to maneuver. I’ve learned the tricks.  Ways to relax Ron. To put him at ease. To divert him. From bad decisions. To good decisions.  Yes, I enter his world. And it makes me wonder. Would Ron prefer to live. Or to die.  Wonder. Wonder. What if Ron could truly grasp his current condition? If the clock could be turned back. Twenty years. So Ron could be allowed to see into his future. To see what he’d be like. Now. In 2014. I suspect. He’d say. Life was a good ride. But it’s already beyond the time. To end it all.  –Jim Broede

Thoughts about living and dying.

I woke up this morning. Wondering. How much longer I’ll remain competent. To fully manage my life. Living alone. Much of the time. Though I flit about. Back and forth. Between Minnesota  and Sardinia.   Maintaining daily contact with my beloved Italian true love.  Either in the flesh. Together. Or from a distance. On Skype and by email. Meanwhile, I age. Headed for my 80s in the next couple of years. The odds are. That I won’t maintain the same physical, mental and emotional stamina. Everything will be on the wane. I see the future. The past, too.  My wife Jeanne died over 7 years ago. From Alzheimer’s. Yes, a steady deterioration. A fate. That maybe some day I will have to face, too. If I live long enough. I’m aware. Of perils. That come with age. I try to maintain a normal life. But I’m not getting any younger. I still travel. I write. I walk 10 miles a day. Ride a bike. Maintain a home. Do routine chores. Shop. Cook for myself. Manage my finances. Many, many things. I’m a proficient juggler. But I begin to wonder. Will I always be capable. Of juggling everything. Life itself. Anyway, will I know? When I’m no longer competent. Will I deteriorate slowly? Without even knowing it. Will I sink into an abyss? Or will I some day merely drop dead? Be here one moment. Gone the next. What’s the preferred way to go?  To end life.  Should I make the choice? To live or die. Or should I just let it happen. Naturally. Whatever way. By chance. And continue to take life. One day at a time. And not get ahead of myself. Tell me, which way was life meant to be lived?  And ended, too. –Jim Broede

Pure and true ecstasy.

I’m writing a short story. That may blossom into a novel. The protagonist has become obsessed about sex. His concept about sex has changed. As he gets older. A more refined sort of sex. More tranquil. More serene. Than traditional sex. He wants sex to be a very relaxing experience. He still wants it to be a physical sensation. More like floating on a cloud. Very tranquil. He wants to feel light as a feather. So much different from a heavy physical orgasm.  That’s the way he feels. With his true love.  Light. Weightless. Drifting. In a very pleasurable way. Mentally. Spiritually. Physically. But he isn’t excited. Physically, that is. If there is such a thing as spiritual excitement. That’s what he feels. Something hard to describe.  Other than utter tranquility. When he massages his true love. Physically massages her. He feels spiritual massage vibrations. Coming back to him. Through his fingers. His palms. His hands. Into his whole being. A blending. A melding. With her. Very satisfying. Very pleasurable. In a peaceful way. Very peaceful. Better than a physical orgasm. Much better. He calls it a spiritual orgasm. Because it is long-lasting. Continuous.  A beautiful flow. Of life. Of creation. Of everything meaningful. He’s on another plateau. In another dimension. In a spiritual paradise. Nirvana. It’s a new kind of sex. Radiant. And peaceful. Tranquil.  A true blending. Of two souls. Into one. And the more he tries to make it a traditional climactic physical experience, the more he’s working against the spiritual flow. Against the spiritual grain. And that’s wrong. One must make a climactic spiritual love. Complete tranquility.  Complete surrender to spiritual passion. Which is very different than physical passion. He is discovering a new kind of passion. Non-physical. Light. Lofty. And his mission. His desire. Is to attain pure bliss. Pure and true ecstasy. –Jim Broede

The true meaning of true love.

To genuinely enjoy. Being with a loved one. With Alzheimer’s. That’s an incredible feat. But I have seen it happen. Fairly often. With true lovers. They still revere their lifelong true loves. Despite the frailties. They would never abandon. They find solace. In caring. In loving. I am left in awe. By such accomplishments. Makes me better understand. The true meaning of true love. –Jim Broede

A painter of blue skies.

Told by a stranger. The other day. That I should write my own sports column. That I’d be well-read. Because I tend to paint the sky blue. Now that’s a real compliment. The guy said he sees me as a true artist.  When it comes to thought. Even sports thought. I’d like to live up to that standard in all walks of life.  A painter of blue skies. In all shades of blue. –Jim Broede

The most important thing.

Think about it. The last places one would want to visit. Texas, of course. At the top of my list. But another is Las Vegas. Never had a desire to go there. Even though I’m going next week. For a few days. First time ever.  But my motivation isn’t the casinos. Or the entertainment. Instead, my German cousin Fritz and two of his buddies. They’ll be there. And so it’s worth going. I’d venture all the way to hell. To see Fritz. And his German compatriots, Dieter and Dirk.  I’m sure we’ll have a rollicking good time. Doesn’t matter where it’s at. Even in hell. The most important thing is that we enjoy each other.  The camaraderie. –Jim Broede

Illusions. For the savoring.

Has anyone dared look? My darling Chicago Cubs have a 9-2 record in their last 11 home games. And they’ve won their last two series on the road. Furthermore, Rizzo and Castro are having banner years. And even the unreliable Edwin Jackson has a 4-1 record at home. And the bullpen. Used to be one of the worst in baseball. Now ranks near the top. Incredible. Incredible. Incredible. Maybe next year ain’t that far away. Yes, I know.  Cubs fans live an illusion. Only to be disillusioned. But hey, a momentary illusion. It’s there. For the savoring. –Jim Broede

My trusty lethal weapon.

It’s the fly season. And I detest flies. I don’t want them around. Have no qualms. About killing flies. Yes, they have a right to live. But I take away that right. With a fly swatter. I’ve sighted three flies in the house. In the past 24 hours. They are no longer around. They are dead. And all it took was three swats. With my trusty weapon. The fly swatter. I rarely miss. The flies don’t have a chance. When I’m armed.  With my trusty lethal weapon. –Jim Broede

Yearning for the good old days.

Moammar Gadhafi. Saddam Hussein. I miss those guys. Think about how much better their countries – Libya and Iraq – would be. If they were still alive. And in power. Sure, they were dictators. But they kept sectarian factions. In relatively good and effective control. Because they ruled with iron fists.  Libya and Iraq aren’t ready for democracy. And Gadhafi and Hussein knew it. That’s why they were in power. Until the Western World, mainly  the United States, interfered.  And suggested it was time for liberation. Well, look at what we’ve got. If this is liberation. Give me an old-fashioned dictatorship. Give me Gadhafi and Hussein. Their countries would be better off. And so would the world. –Jim Broede

Love doesn't fit into the quotient.

Baseball is a business. That’s the sad part. Baseball should be played. For the love of the game. Not for the money.  I suppose the same should go for life. To be lived. For the sake of life itself. Not for the money. Things is. Money buys stuff. I’m told that money makes for a very satisfying life. My Chicago Cubs can’t sign their best pitcher. To a five-year contract worth $85 million. Maybe the Cubs should offer more. Or maybe the pitcher should settle for $85 million. All for the love of the game. Rather than love of the money. Don’t know. I could settle for $1 million. Maybe less.  All I know. Is that I have an Italian true love. She makes me happy. Contented. I’d not trade her for $1 million. Meanwhile, the Cubs have offered to trade their best pitcher.  For other players. It’s a gamble. A risk. A matter of business.  Love doesn’t fit into the quotient. –Jim Broede

If only...

Rick and Julie. Julie and Rick. My neighbors. My friends. Don’t know which of ‘em to put first. As if it matters. It really doesn’t. Both are amazing human beings. Because they are coming through life. Together. As care-givers. For Julie’s Alzheimer-riddled father Ron. For five years, they had not only Ron in their home. But Julie’s mother Arlene, too. She also was in decline. With dementia. And died last year.  I thought it was a wise decision. When, a few months ago. Rick and Julie decided to place Ron in assisted living. And then a nursing home.  To allow for care-giving relief. Much-needed respite.  But Rick and Julie saw that wasn’t working. For Ron. He wasn’t receiving proper and humane care. He was being warehoused. And over-medicated.  He lacked one-on-one mental and physical stimulation. Unless Rick and Julie showed up.  To provide supplemental care. Didn’t matter that they were paying $10,600 a month. For Ron’s care. By so-called professionals. It was a rip-off. A scam.  A posh and beautiful nursing home. With so many amenities. Looked a little like an art gallery. But the actual care was grossly inadequate. Rick and Julie thought for a while. That maybe more money would fix the problem. They were initially paying $8,000 a month. But they agreed to pay more. Until it mounted to the $10,600. But nothing changed.   Ron wasn’t even getting outdoors. For much-needed daily walks.  Unless Rick and Julie and Ron’s friends showed up. To take charge.  Rick and Julie finally decided enough was enough. They rescued Ron. Took him back home again. Provided truly loving care. They are even taking him on a trip. This weekend. In their motor home. Ron knows. He’s been saved. From a terrible fate. In a nursing home.  Yes, Ron is far better off. Than he was. In the dreadful nursing home. But still, he has Alzheimer’s. That won’t go away. Until Ron dies.  There is no cure. Ron’s fate is sealed. But still, his journey is being made a little easier. Because of Rick and Julie. Extraordinary care-givers. Extraordinary human beings. If only the rest of the world was as extraordinary. –Jim Broede  

The alternative to saving the world.

The wettest June. In this part of Minnesota. Since the 1840s. Or so I’m told. And there are still 10 days left in the month. And last winter. Was the third coldest since 1873. And the winter before that. Was one of the warmest ever. Only three days of sub-zero. Weather extremes. They seem to come. With increased frequency. Makes me wonder. If all this is the effect of global warming. Yes, it’s supposed to be a scientific fact. Roundly denied by Republicans. Because they don’t want anything spent. On dealing with global warming. For fear that it will hurt the economy. Better to make money. Rather than do the right thing…and save the world. –Jim Broede

Profanities. In the name of their god.

Organized religions. The curse of mankind. That’s one of many reasons why I avoid ‘em all. No thank you. I refuse to be religious. Instead, I have opted to be spiritual. With no ties to organized religion. I decide. What’s right  and wrong. By dabbling with the spiritual realm. Not the insane religious world. That often requires adherence to religious dogma. Insane rules. Internecine warfare. In which members of the same faith. Dare to kill each other. Because others don’t know how to pray their way.  Don’t adhere to their rules. Non-believers are often castigated. Treated unfairly. Merely because they don’t march in lock-step. Because one doesn’t belong to the right club, the right gang. Yes, the right religion.  It’s all the same. Sameness. That’s what religions ultimately seek. Adherence to commandments. Prescribed. Often nonsensical rules. All in the name of their god. Yes, they murder. They kill each other. Go to war. Commit profanities. In the name of their god. –Jim Broede

Let's get it fixed.

I’m taking my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron for daily walks again. Now that he’s been rescued from a nursing home.  Where he was medicated into a stupor. He’s back living with his daughter and son-in-law. My neighbors. They’ve weaned Ron off his medications. And so Ron is back with the living again. Cognizant. Aware. With what’s going on. He gets mental and physical stimulus. Daily. Including daily walks. One mile, or more. With me. When Ron was in the nursing home. He got walks only when I showed up. Otherwise, he remained indoors. Nurses aides said they stopped taking Ron for walks. Because it was difficult getting him to come back in again. He was having such a good time. Being stimulated.   But when Ron was heavily medicated, he didn’t even have the desire to go out any more. That made for less work, less effort for the nursing home staff.  Imagine that. For a monthly fee of $10,600. Ron was brought under control. A well-behaved and complacent zombie. On our walk today, Ron was very much aware. That he’s alive. And I didn’t have any difficulty. Bringing him in again. Refreshed. And stimulated. Makes one wonder. Why the same results can't be achieved in a nursing home. Something must be wrong.  Let's get it fixed. –Jim Broede

The goodness of life.

There is a goodness to true love. I am reading a love story.  The odd thought coming to mind. That even in sadness, there is goodness.  A spiritual fulfillment. A beauty beyond words. That's why I have to take this real life story slowly. Let it permeate. And percolate. Into the soul. True love gives an elegance to life. Beyond the words. Over the horizon. In a sense, pure poetry is lived. Not written. The protagonist is reaching for the beyond.  That is what I am feeling. Sensing.  Really, I am happy for the genuine true lover.  In that he has transformed sadness into happiness. That's how I am summing up his life. He has been blessed. In a beautiful round-about way. Yes, life is strange and mysterious and wonderful. He knows it, too. He has come into true consciousness.  Having reached a new realm. A new dimension. –Jim Broede

My longtime dream.

Almost all of my friends have keen senses of humor. Maybe that’s why they are friends. I like people who see the funny side of life. My friends tolerate my style of humor.  The put-on. Pretending I’m serious. When I ain’t. I also razz my friends. Maybe to the point of overdoing it. I can’t spend a whole day being serious. That’s virtually impossible. If my friends remain serious and somber for a long time, I intervene.  And holler, ‘Time out. Time out. Enough. Enough.’ And I start practicing my act. My shtick. For the comedy club. Fulfillment of my longtime dream. Becoming a stand up comedian. –Jim Broede  

Inside my cocoon.

Let the religious sects slaughter each other. In Iraq. Another reason why I avoid organized religions. They fight each other. They hate each other. Intolerance. Even Christians do it. Look at their history. Crusades. Slaughters. Of people of other religions.  I hear religions preach love. Sure, they do. Love of violence.  I’ll continue to steer clear of organized religions.  Doesn’t matter. Whether it’s Christianity. Islam. Judaism. Name it. I’ll continue to be a free-thinker. My own man. Free of organized religions. I’m a free and loving spirit. Free of hateful religions. Free of all religions. I refuse to be pulled down by ‘believers’ that really don’t believe.  In anything but internecine warfare. That’s what it all comes down to. Sooner or later. Go at it, you religious fanatics. In Iraq.  Or wherever. I’ll get on with my life. In my own peaceful way. Inside my cocoon. –Jim Broede

No conscience.

I find it shameful. The way some nursing homes are operated. By big corporations. That distance themselves from the actual care. Or to be more accurate, the lack of adequate care. Instead, the aim is to reap the biggest profit possible. Obscene profits. At the sacrifice of truly good care. They overcharge. Oh, the facilities are posh. Very nice. Framed pictures hang in the hallways. Reminds me of an art gallery. But the quality of care too often is dreadful. The homes are understaffed. By underpaid employees. Some of whom truly care. But others couldn’t care less. I try to deal with a nursing home that grossly over-medicates the dementia-riddled. They do it. For the sake of making the Alzheimer-afflicted ‘more manageable,’ I’m referred to the corporate headquarters in a distant city. With my complaint. And my assigned contact is the ‘manager of public relations and crisis communications.’ At least that title reflects the truth. This is a place with crisis after crisis. And this person I am dealing with is in charge of cover-ups. She has no conscience. That’s necessary. To let these things happen. --Jim Broede

The suspense...and thrill of life.

I’m open. And above board. With my friends. With acquaintances. Even with strangers. With virtually everyone. That’s the way I approach life. Openly. As if I have nothing to hide. In that sense, I go naked into the world. Of course, I don’t reveal everything. Not because I’m hiding something. Instead, I see no need to. If it’s pertinent. Then I reveal it. I think of my life as an open book. Better than a novel. Because it’s real. So interesting. So very intriguing. Because I don’t even know what’s going to happen next. I take it a paragraph, a page, a chapter at a time.  It’s very fascinating. Learning something new about myself. Every day. Sometimes, I can hardly wait. To see what’s going to unfold. Tomorrow. Next week.  Thing is. I don’t know everything. Just as well. That adds to the suspense. And the thrill of life. –Jim Broede

Hire me, Pope Francis.

I’m not Catholic. Never will be. But still, I wouldn’t mind going to work for Pope Francis. Because I like the guy. His heart seems to be in the right place. In genuinely wanting to help the poor. Not with mere talk. But with action. I’d urge the pope to start. By divesting the church. Of much of its wealth. And distributing the proceeds to the poor. In imaginative and effective ways. Hire me, Pope Francis. I’ll work for free. And come up with multiple ideas.  –Jim Broede

A better distribution of wealth.

I don’t want to be poor. Or destitute. But I’d rather be closer to poor than being considered monetarily rich. Maybe that shows I’m more philosophically in tune with the impoverished than with millionaires and billionaires. I’m for so-called safety nets. Government programs that help the poor. Yes, welfare. Yes, it can be argued that the poor should help themselves. Agreed. They should.  But there’s nothing morally wrong with helping the poor. With a better distribution of wealth.  –Jim Broede

Little wonder. I'm a political liberal.

I get a rebate. On my property tax. From the state of Minnesota. Because I’m a senior citizen. With a limited income. And I get a social security check. Every month. Other things, too. From government. To help tide me over. In my retirement years. For that. I am grateful. I can start listing other benefits, too. Such as Medicare. I had a decent public education, too.  Of course, I pay taxes, too. To help support government programs. I don’t mind that. Because I receive many government services. In return. Roads to travel on. Public transit. Public parks. I could go on and on. And make a longer list. To show that I appreciate my government.  Little wonder. I’m a political liberal. –Jim Broede 

Preferring not to be a capitalist.

Doing things. Favors. For others. Without remuneration.  I try doing that. But it’s impossible. I always get remuneration. Because I feel good about it. That’s my reward. I’d not feel nearly as good. If I received financial compensation. Maybe that’s my way of fighting the capitalist system. My paramount interest isn’t making money. Notice. I say paramount. I used to be employed. And one of the reasons. Was to make money. Yes, to make a living. To have cash to provide me with the basic necessities of life. But I’ve never had the desire to be rich. To have a many-figured bank account. Now I write. Not to make money. But to be happy. Practicing a skill. Of expression. Just for the sake of it. I don’t try to sell my skill or services. For the purpose of making a profit. Preferring not to be a capitalist. Meanwhile, I have enough to tide me over. –Jim Broede  

Doing the right thing.

I marvel. At my friends. Julie and Rick. A very loving couple. For five years, they cared for Julie’s Alzheimer-riddled father Ron. In their home. But it was getting to be too much. They finally placed Ron in a nursing home. It didn’t work. So they tried another nursing home. That didn’t work either. Now they have Ron back with them. Because they care much more and better than the professional care-givers.  Julie and Rick are disappointed.  In the system of nursing home care. It’s terribly inadequate. Certainly unfair to Ron. So Ron is back home again. For how long, nobody knows. Julie and Rick are taking it all one day at a time.  Pledged. To do what’s right and best for Ron. –Jim Broede

A more lofty pursuit.

Focusing on injustice. That’s what I like to do. That’s why I pursued a career. As a writer. A reporter. For newspapers. Gave me the opportunity. To write stories about injustice.  About people being exploited.  Being treated unfairly. Being caught up in the bureaucracy.  Once upon a time, I decided there was a better way to wage battle. By becoming a politician. Running for public office.  For the local school board. I won. A three-year term. But learned. That holding public office is a waste of my good time. Too much time spent playing politics. I’m better off. And more effective. As a writer.  Writing for newspapers. Writing letters. Writing my blog. Without much restraint. Becoming a politician. That’s demeaning. A come down.  A descent. Into the gutter. Better to be a writer. That’s a more lofty pursuit. –Jim Broede

She ain't a master bamboozler.

Bamboozle. A wonderful word. That describes a craft. Often made into an art form. By politicians. By public relations firms. By scalawags. When I was working as a newspaper reporter. All sorts of people tried to bamboozle me. They still do. In all walks of life. The big bamboozle. Here’s what my dictionary has to say.  To conceal one’s true motives. Especially by elaborately feigning good intentions. Hoodwink. Yes, that’s it. Every day. We’re being hoodwinked. Bamboozled. I know when I’m being bamboozled. Ninety-nine percent of the time, at least. On a rare occasion, a truly artful bamboozler even tricks me.  Right now. I’m being bamboozled.  And I know it. By Kristin Puckett. Manager of public relations and crisis communications. For Brookdale Senior Living Solutions. Operators of a string of nursing homes. Including one called Clare Bridge. In a Twin Cities suburb. Clare Bridge has screwed up. By over-medicating some of its dementia-riddled residents. Including my friend Ron.   And rather than openly admitting to the mistake. Puckett practices bamboozling. She’s made it a craft. But she’s not good enough. To have elevated bamboozling to an art form. It’s still all too obvious. That she’s an inept bamboozler. The real good ones – the master bamboozlers -- go undetected. They even fool me. –Jim Broede

The most dangerous place.

The Alzheimer-riddled can be exploited. Easily. Because they are incapable of fighting back. Of defending themselves. They all need defenders and advocates. Sadly, many of ‘em don’t have anyone. They are abandoned. In nursing homes. And more or less neglected. Sure, the professional caregivers give them token attention.  But that’s all. Very minimal. They are warehoused. And medicated. With sedatives.  Because that makes them easier to manage.  My 85-year-old friend Ron has Alzheimer’s. And he’s spent much of the past year in nursing homes  I dropped in occasionally. To provide supplemental care-giving. My good vibes way. Always trying to stimulate Ron. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. It takes time.  And an understanding of ways to enter Ron’s world.  Unfortunately, Ron has been denied the best of care. Even though his family was paying for it. Yes, Ron was being exploited.  I don’t like it one bit. Same goes for Ron’s family. His daughter and son-in-law have come to Ron’s rescue. Taken him back into their home. Where he had lived for five years. Before his stint in a nursing home. Now Ron is making a comeback, of sorts. Back at home. In my neighborhood. I’m taking Ron for daily walks. A mile or more.  He’s responsive. Alert. The family is dealing with the situation. One day at a time. We all know. Ron has to be protected from danger. And there’s no place more dangerous than a nursing home. –Jim Broede

Ron's reprieve.

My Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron deserved better. Far better. Than the care he was receiving at the posh Clare Bridge  nursing home. For an incredible fee of $10,600 a month.  Ron’s family was being ripped off. So was Ron. Being taken advantage of. Receiving only the rudimentary care one might expect in a Spartan-type nursing home. Where one pays $5,000 to $6,000 a month. At Clare Bridge, Ron deserved a full-time attendant. Someone that saw to it that Ron received several hours of mental and physical stimulation. Daily. Trips outdoors. Face to face contact. One on one mental stimulation. Good vibes therapy. The kind that puts Ron at ease. Into a relaxed state. I practiced such an approach. On Ron. When I came over to provide supplemental care.  I saw change in Ron. For the better. But when warehoused and left to his own devices, which too often happens in a nursing home setting, Ron’s condition deteriorates. Rapidly. When it doesn’t have to. If only nursing homes provided truly effective care. The kind that produce good results. Better behavior. Better living. Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen. Not only at Clare Bridge. But at many, many nursing homes. At every nursing home I’ve ever been in. Believe me. It doesn’t have to be. I’ve spent overwhelming amounts of time. In nursing homes. When my dear sweet wife Jeanne was placed. For the last 38 months of her life. I was there. As a supplemental care-giver. An unpaid advocate and protector. Seeing to it that Jeanne had a nightly shower. Went outdoors every day. In a wheelchair. Even in mid-winter. Tucked in a thermal sleeping bag. Jeanne was hand-fed. Lunch and supper. In the subdued privacy of her room. Yes, Jeanne was stimulated. Every day. Didn’t miss a single day. I was on the scene. Most days for 8 to 10 hours. That’s the same kind of care Ron deserved and didn’t get. Especially for $10,600 a month. Adds up to $127,000 a year. I want an explanation. Little wonder that Ron deteriorated. Until his family came to the rescue. Withdrew Ron from Clare Bridge. Brought him home. And now Ron is thriving. He’s out of his medicated stupor. Conversing. Feeling alive once again. Of course, That won’t always be. Alzheimer’s is a progressive disease. Things will get much worse. Sooner or later. But better later than sooner. Thank god. Ron is out of Clare Bridge. Never to return. He’s been blessed. With a reprieve.  –Jim Broede

I ain't giving up.

Yes, Brookdale Senior Living Solutions expects to have crisis after crisis. Merely look at Kristen Puckett’s job title. For proof. Manager. Public relations and crisis communications.  She’s there to manage on-going crisis situations. Because Brookdale seems to operate in crisis mode.  With at least one dissatisfied customer. At it’s Clare Bridge nursing home. In North Oaks, a posh Twin  Cities suburb. Clare Bridge tries to masquerade as posh, too. My Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron stayed there for a while. Problem is. He didn’t get posh and effective care. Despite the $10,600 monthly fee. Paid by Ron’s family.  Very little individual, one-on-one care.  Instead, he was being warehoused. And grossly over-medicated. Into a stupor.  Ron has since been rescued and saved by his family.  Taken into their own home. Where he’s recovering from the Clare Bridge experience. I’m a friend of the family.  I provided some supplemental care. For Ron. At Clare Bridge. Where I saw what was and wasn’t happening. Now, I want to know why Ron wasn’t given better care. Especially for $10,600 a month. But I’m being stonewalled.  By the people that run and oversee the Clare Bridge operation.  But hey, I ain’t giving up. I’ll get to the bottom of the mess. One way or another.  Another crisis for Kristen Puckett to handle.  –Jim Broede

Something to hide.

I’d not want to be Kristin Puckett.  Manager. Public relations and crisis communications. At a business called Brookdale, Senior Living Solutions.  Her job. Is to try to block me from having access to the truth. About the nursing homes operated by Brookdale. Including Clare Bridge. In North Oaks, Minnesota. Where my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron resided for a while. For a monthly fee of $10,600. Until he was rescued and saved by his family. His care at Clare Bridge was grossly inadequate. He’s getting much better care now. At home. With his daughter and son-in-law. I showed up at Clare Bridge. To provide supplemental care to Ron. Believe me. He needed it.  Anyway. I’ll write about Ron’s experience. With or without help from Kristin Puckett. She has advised Clare Bridge’s executive director and other employees not to talk to me. And so far, Puckett has not replied to my written questions. All I want is the truth. Or at the very least, Brookdale’s side of the story.  Unfortunately, Brookdale may have something to hide. Of course, that’s why Puckett has a job. –Jim Broede  

Immersed. In creation. Always.

I enter the world. Daily. To express myself. In words. In thought. Often. I’m a loner. A hermit, of sorts.  But really. That’s not true. When I step out. And declare. I’m alive. And conscious. Able to trek to the top of a mountain. Or amble along the seashore.  Or get lost in a primeval forest. Immersed. In creation.  Always. –Jim Broede

Today.

People younger than me are dying. All the time. Yes, daily. Whenever I look at the obituary page.  I see the ample evidence. Not only that. Often. I’m the oldest guy in the room full of people.  Doesn’t make me feel uneasy. On the contrary. I feel blessed. That I’ve learned to take life one day at a time. To savor what I’ve got. Rather than lament over what I don’t have. Youth, as an example. I’m not envious of others. Instead, I’m grateful. That I’ve lasted this long. That I’ve had two true loves. When some don’t even have one.  Furthermore. I’m truly alive and conscious. Aware. Experiencing the grandeur of life.  Today. –Jim Broede

My soothing dreams. In paradise.

I like falling asleep. With a pleasant thought. Being with my Italian true love. Even when she’s in Sardinia. And I’m in Minnesota. It’s like dreaming. Entering the dream world. Orchestrating my dream. Even before the onset of sleep. I wonder what that is. A day dream?  Anyway, it’s as if I’m taking conscious control. Moving myself into a dream state. At will.  Half-conscious. Half asleep. Perhaps on the brink of the spirit world. A way to launch. My most soothing dreams. In paradise.  –Jim Broede

With my imagination.

I’m constantly creating. An imaginary world. Which makes me wonder. How much is real. And how much is imaginary. It’s difficult. Separating the two. They blend together. Therefore, maybe they are one and the same. Real and imaginary.  Simultaneously.  If so, maybe it’s a little like being god. The creator.  Because I can create anything. An entire world. With my imagination. –Jim Broede

As if no time ever elapsed.

I love getting up. After only a few hours of sleep. Just to see what thought comes to mind. To get the day started. With random thought. That way. My day usually begins before dawn. But then. There’s an awareness. My life has no beginning. No end. I’ve always been living. In now.  More and more. I’m coming to believe in eternity. Because if I die. Maybe time stops. Temporarily.  Even if it’s for a trillion years. And I’m suddenly awakened once again. It will seem like I’m living forever. Because I will have been returned. To time. As if no time ever elapsed. –Jim Broede

A Rosie is a Rosie is a Rosie.

My friend Rosie. Love her dearly. Partly because she has a dominating soft side.  A true lover. Of humanity. Of life. But Rosie has a hard side, too. Which I accept. With amusement. Gives Rosie balance.  ‘I am angry with Obama,’ Rosie writes. ‘Wanting more gun control. I say give everyone a gun and people will have manners.’  Rosie owns a Glock. With a laser beam to zero in on her target. Meanwhile, about Obama, Rosie adds, ‘And giving 5 evil people freedom. For one who walked to the other side. He should be held accountable for this, I feel…Is crazy. What was he thinking?’  Rosie wasn’t finished yet. ‘And now his thoughts on student loans. Why shouldn’t the new generation struggle and pay back their student loans? This makes responsible human beings.’  Goes to show that a Rosie is a Rosie is a Rosie. Can’t help but love that gal. –Jim Broede

In love. Despite the pitfalls outside.

When it comes to politics.  Survival was always possible. For me, that is. I could save myself. Because I live in America. Of course, it helps that I’m a white male. If I were black, or a woman, it might be different. Or if I were Muslim. I’m allowed to detest Congress. To detest my representatives. To detest the president.  I’m able to avoid swearing undying allegiance.  I can even take political potshots. Right here in my blog.  Maybe because I’m a political nobody. A gadfly. With no clout.  Maybe if I lived in Syria or Iraq or Iran or Saudi Arabia, my life would be different. More perilous. I’d have less freedom. Less political leeway. Less opportunity to be truly expressive. Don’t know if I’d have been able to survive in Nazi Germany.  Unless I kept my mouth shut. Or acquiesced to obscenities against humanity. Of course, I hope that day never comes in America. I’m beginning to notice all sorts of obscenities. Political and otherwise. More and more. Every day. Don’t know how much longer I can ignore it all. In good conscience. Perhaps I’ve waited too long. Sooner or later. I may have to leave America. Because. As an individual. I’m more or less powerless. Can’t do anything to fix the problem. Other than sacrificing my life. Becoming a martyr. And I’m not ready for that. I have better options.  Such as retreating to my cocoon. Where I create my own little world. In love.  With life. Despite the pitfalls outside. –Jim Broede

Have fun.

I like to write. In a way. That makes it difficult. Determining whether I’m being serious. Or just kidding. I can be taken both ways. Allowing the reader to decide. After all, sometimes  I don’t even know what I meant. Depends on my mood. Maybe when I wrote the piece. I was being serious. But after pondering the matter, I may prefer that it be taken as a joke.  But still, if someone would rather take my joke seriously – well, that’s all right, too. As for my most serious stuff. It's been known to ignite earsplitting and prolonged laughter. It's  free choice. Read into my words. Anything you like. Have fun. --Jim Broede

Fascinating moments.

When truly living focused on now, it almost seems like forever. Because I’m momentarily oblivious of yesterday and tomorrow. Completely absorbed in the moment. Nothing else matters. It’s complete awareness. That I’m alive and conscious. That I exist. In a way, it’s as if time has stopped. To allow me to capture the moment. Makes me wonder. How many moments I’ve captured. In a lifetime. Perhaps only the most fascinating ones. Because they remain vivid. The others don’t. Though I’m still capable of retrieving and enhancing a less than fascinating moment. And making it fascinating. With my boundless imagination. That’s why I’ve become a writer. My attempt to solidify fascinating moments. –Jim Broede

Nice idea, Rick.

Sounds like a good idea. From my friend Rick. If Rick was running a nursing home, he’d hire three levels of aides in the memory care unit. Where the dementia-riddled reside. The lowest level aides would perform janitorial duties. Keep the place clean. The middle level aides would do basic caring. Personal hygiene and tidying up stuff. The top level and highest paid and best–trained aides would interact with the residents. Individually.  One-on-one. Face-to-face. Providing mental and physical stimulation/therapy.  Especially to the Alzheimer-afflicted. Rick says that’s the biggest shortcoming in nursing homes. And I couldn’t agree more. About the need for more direct meaningful contact between the professional staff and the residents. Instead, Alzheimer patients are pretty much left on their own. They sit around. Watch television. Meander aimlessly. And if they become belligerent and difficult to manage – the all-too-usual solution is tranquillizing medication. An induced stupor. If that’s not a crime. It’s certainly an obscenity. –Jim Broede

Doing good for goodness sake.

Providing essential services. Without a profit-motive. For instance, health care. For everyone. Merely because it’s the decent thing to do. For the benefit of society. For the common good.  I’m imagining such a society. Such a world. An advanced civilization. That has settled on eliminating monetary profit. For moral reasons. That it’s simply morally wrong. To reap profit. Instead, our work/endeavor should be to benefit mankind. Yes, for the benefit not of ourselves. Individually. But for the world, As a whole.  Health care corporations would be in business. Not for profit. But to provide the best possible care for the Alzheimer-riddled. Because it’s the right thing to do. The inventors of miracle drugs. They would not expect profit from what they do. Instead, they would enjoy having accomplished and performed a decent act. For the benefit of everyone. Imagine that. An unselfish society. I know. I know. That’s considered contrary to the essence of mankind. A world can’t operate that way. It’s impossible.  There is no such thing as true love.  Yet, I believe in true love. It exists.  Somewhere. In this cosmos. Consisting of billions of galaxies. Each with billions of suns. With billions of planetary systems.  Somewhere. Somewhere. The impossible has been achieved.  The very fact that I am an alive and conscious being. Able to imagine the impossible. The more I think of it. The more I believe. In the impossible. Yes, there even are people. Somewhere in the universe. That can walk on water. And do good. Without expecting monetary profit. Doing good. Merely for the sake of doing good. –Jim Broede

A good nursing home: It's all myth.

A good nursing home. Maybe there’s no such thing. At best, perhaps a mediocre nursing home. The rest are bad. Including some of the most plush and expensive homes. Of course, this is my biased opinion. Based on what I’ve seen. Close up.  Don’t ask me to recommend a good nursing home. I can’t. Everyone I’ve been in. Comes up short of my expectations. That even goes for the expensive nursing home where my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron spent several months. Until he was rescued by his justly concerned family.  He’s out. And thankfully, recovering from the experience. The family doesn’t know what to do next. Meanwhile, Ron lives with his daughter and son-in-law. Initially, they thought Ron would be all right in the nursing home. After all, they were paying $10,600 a month. Turns out, it was a rip-off. Ron got very little one-on-one care. Except when the family showed up. To administer and oversee it. I showed up, too. To provide supplemental care. And to observe.  To witness the under-staffing. And the ineptness of some, not all, of the professional care-givers. Didn’t shock me. Because I’ve seen it before. But I thought maybe the service would be better. Especially for an outrageous fee. For that, Ron deserved  a personal attendant. And a high degree of mental and physical stimulation. Instead, Ron was made docile. Medicated into a stupor. Now that Ron is out. I’m trying to do something about that sad situation. It's not to be ignored. I'm focusing on this one nursing home in particular. I’ve interviewed employees. From the bottom up. But I’ve been denied access to the nursing home’s on-the-scene executive director. Instead, I’m dealing with the corporate headquarters. In a faraway city.  And meeting with resistance. But I won’t give up. I’ll keep pursuing my investigation. Like  when I was a newspaper reporter. I’ll come out of retirement, if necessary. And expose the nursing home industry for what it is. A miserable failure. When it comes to dealing with the epidemic of Alzheimer’s. –Jim Broede

To each his/her own world.

I adjust to life. On the go. Day to day. Primarily by romanticizing life. Interpreting it all. In a storybook fashion. It’s like living in a novel. One paragraph, one page, one chapter at a time. Fascinating stuff. I live. Just to see what happens next. Don’t want my story to end. So many twists and turns. Often. I become oblivious. Of how I’m affecting others. Because I’ve created my own world. A cocoon. In which I shut out virtually every one.  Yesterday, I was walking the boardwalk. The one that connects my two decks. On the west side of my lake shore home. Listening to a CD. Flute music of the Paris Conservatory.  Played too loudly to suit my next door neighbor. Alice. She came over. Asked if I’d turn it down a little bit.  I went from sound level 10. To 5.  Hope that did it.  I apologized. Alice didn’t come back. I returned to my idyllic, isolated world.  Walking. Walking. Back and forth. For six miles. In my lush garden. At the Paris Conservatory. A live concert. Just for me. Julia Bogorad-Kogan, flute. Margo Garrett, piano. Apparently, Alice doesn’t appreciate French music. Alice missed an opportunity to enter my world. She much prefers. Her boring, unromantic reality. Which is all right. To each his/her own world. –Jim Broede

A well-adjusted Cubs fan.

My beloved Chicago Cubs failed today. To win their sixth straight game. But I’m not lamenting. Instead, I’m focused on the fact that the Cubs had a five-game winning streak. Yes, six would have been nice. Seven even better. But I’ve learned to accept the Cubs for what they are. More often losers than winners. Yes, winning ain’t everything.  Not with true blue Cubs fans. We have learned to take what we get. And still relish it. We aren’t like the never-satisfied-millionaire. Wanting everything. Can’t settle for one million. Needs two million, three million. Always more. Never enough. A real Cubs fan can live without a World Series. Or for that matter, not even getting into a World Series.  Cubs fans have learned to savor merely a winning season. As if it were everything. Even without a division title.  Heck, I’ll even settle for the euphoria of winning back-to-back games. Any time. Or climbing out of last place for a while. Makes me a well-adjusted Cubs fan.  –Jim Broede

Please. Please. Let me know.

I’m capable of annoying people. Without knowing it. And it’s sad. When they don’t let me know. Because 9 times out of 10, I’d desist. Apologize. And mend my ways. Of course, there are other times. When I’m out to intentionally annoy. To play the role of a s.o.b. Because I like to annoy annoying people. Thing is. They know they are annoying. Yet they persist. However, if you aren’t the annoying kind. And I happen to annoy you. Please. Please. Let me know. –Jim Broede

A feat: For an advanced society.

Christians and non-Christians are good for each other. When they participate in true dialogue. Without trying to proselytize. Understanding each others' views. With mutual respect.  Acceptance. Of the right to differ.  Doesn’t always happen. But it should. Because then the world would be a better place. Might even set an example for politicians. To enter into true dialogue. With mutual respect. Of course, I know that’s far too much to expect. The impossible. But still. I’m allowed to dream. That such a feat has been accomplished. On another planet. In another galaxy. By an extraordinarily advanced civilization.  –Jim Broede  

Giving it the old college try.

I know people who don’t know what to say. About anything. So they say nothing. But still, I encourage them. To find something to say. Anything. Merely to test the waters. Even if it sounds stupid. Don’t be afraid. To learn. That words count. So practice. Practice.  The craft of expression. Make it an art. When I was a baby. I can’t remember saying anything. But still, I babbled.  Without the least bit of embarrassment.  Made an absolute fool of myself. But still, people were bamboozled by what I had to say. They thought I was a cute babbler. They listened. They mimicked. Actually, made fools of themselves. Made me laugh. I was entertained. By watching people who had nothing to say. But still gave it the old college try. –Jim Broede

Capturing Ron's essence.

I’m able to learn something significant. About a total stranger. Without ever having met him. Merely by chatting. For 10 minutes. With one of his acquaintances. I practiced such a craft. By volunteering.  To write obituaries. Neat and beautiful. That captured a most memorable moment. In his life. An obituary that could be read in two or three minutes.   It might be more difficult. Accomplishing such a feat. With a friend. Because. For a short  obituary.  I’d have to pick and choose. From so many, many possibilities. But still, I’d find a way. To zero in. On a single touching moment. I’d not meander. I’d get to it. In a blink of an eye. A single memory. Embellished. In a  romantic way. That’s all it takes. l decided the other night. As I eavesdropped. On a conversation. At a dinner. What it would be. For my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. Love letters. Written to woe his true love. Of 62 years.  That alone. Would capture Ron’s essence. The thing that made his life worthwhile. –Jim Broede

Julie's salvation.

My friend and neighbor. Julie. Was born in Texas. Always thought she was a true blue Minnesotan. But no. She really hails from the most godforsaken state in the nation. Only a few miles from the town that produced George Bush. That ignited a hearty round of razzing last night. While dining. With Julie. And her husband Rick. With Julie’s Alzheimer-riddled father Ron, too. Indeed, supper was a gala and precious event. A wonderful moment in time. The four of us. Seated around the square table. Lobster. Broccoli. Corn on the cob. Garlic bread.  A salad and balsamic dressing. A Moosehead (beer). Strawberry pie. Two lit candles.  A rose. In a quaint vase. But the highlight of it all. The camaraderie. The joking. The joshing. The loosening up. That Julie. Really needs. Day in and day out. A lightening up. Rick and I refused to let up.  Denied Julie opportunities to take herself. Her life. Too seriously. Julie is beginning. To see the funny side.  In all its glory. Yes, time for Julie. To get over the chagrin. Over the bafflement. Of fate. And see that she’s blessed. In so many, many ways. Not the least. Having had a blessed Nanny.  Back there in Texas.  She couldn’t remember her name.  But Rick concocted a story. And a name. Nanny Mammy. Funny. Funny. Funny. Yes, we tell Julie. It’s true. Believe it. As devoutly as a faith-abiding  Christian. Believe in the beautiful.  In the absurdity of life. Believe in  anything that makes you feel good.  And happy. Believe in Nanny Mammy, dear Julie. She might be your salvation. Really. –Jim Broede

Making a feast of crumbs.

The baseball gods keep toying with me. Testing me. Annoying me.  Making my heart palpitate. Forcing me to say thank you. For the privilege. Of occasionally feeling good. When the Chicago Cubs don’t blow a game. Or stage an unlikely rally. To pull out a dramatic win.  The Cubs are on a four-game winning streak. A rare treat.  Indeed, a phenomenal feat. But still, the gods make me sweat. The Cubs have a 3-0 lead in the ninth inning. But Miami scores 3. To tie the game. And force extra innings. The game lasts for over 4 hours. Tension builds. But alas, the Cubs win in the 13th inning. The kind of game they usually lose. So I take to the ground. On bended knees. And thank the baseball gods. Even though the Cubs are mired in last place. Goes to show. A Cubs fan can make a feast of crumbs.  –Jim Broede    

My option.

Looking 20 years ahead. Imagining the good life. But not necessarily on Planet Earth. When I was 40 – 60 seemed attainable. Though a little bit over the proverbial hill. Now here I am. Nearing 80.   I love it. Growing older and older. Often qualifying as the oldest guy in the room. Yet, aging  really doesn’t bother me. Because I’m learning to live. One day at a time. Not getting too far ahead of myself.  That’s good.  Savoring every precious moment. Today. Now. I’ll live tomorrow. Only when tomorrow becomes now. Same goes for next week, next month, next year. No need to worry. About the prospect of not being around. Too busy for that nonsense. Have far better things to do. Like writing these words. Thinking a thought. Reminding myself. I’m alive. And conscious. In a very real moment. And then, the next. An everlasting now. A past always gone. The future never arrives. Only now. That's all there is. Wonderful. Don't need more. No complaints. As long as I have a now. Forever. Or for as long as I want. My option.  –Jim Broede

Let's give the guy a break.

I spent three years in the U.S. Army. Most of it stationed in Germany. That was a long time ago.  Therefore, things may have changed dramatically since then. But still, I suspect soldiers are soldiers. Pretty much the same. A blend of personalities. Good guys. Bad guys.  All trying to get along. In the process, I’ve seen some pretty strange stuff. Some soldiers are weird. Basket cases.  With no business being in the military. Because they are incompetent human beings. Nasty. Belligerent. Scumbags.  Maybe the military has cleaned up the ranks. Don’t know.  Anyway, what I’m getting around to saying: Sgt. Bowe Bergdahl isn’t one of the bad guys.  Not even close.  I’d let him off the hook. For allegedly deserting his unit. In Afghanistan. And being captured and held by the Taliban for five years.  Bergdahl may be something of a flake. For his inclination to wander off post occasionally. To observe the moon and the stars. Seems like he didn’t mix well with the guys. He preferred going off my himself.  For a bit of solitude. He always came back. Except this once.  I give him the benefit of the doubt. His intent wasn’t to desert. Let’s give the guy a break. No court martial. And an honorable discharge. –Jim Broede

A price worth paying.

No nursing home provides adequate care for dementia-riddled residents. Of course, that’s my opinion. And I could be wrong. Because I haven’t been in every nursing home.  I’m basing my judgment on what I’ve seen. Directly. In several nursing homes. Over the years. That includes spending 8 to 10 hours a day in the nursing home where my dear sweet wife Jeanne spent the last 38 months of her life. I didn’t miss a single day. Yes, a presence every day. To provide Jeanne with much-needed supplemental care.  She would have lacked adequate care. If I had not been there. To supplement.  To be her advocate and protector. As for anyone abandoned in a nursing home. Even in the best of the best. Good luck. You’ll need it. No doubt,  my opinion is biased. No nursing home that I’ve been in meets my high standards. They all fail. Some miserably.   Of course, some nursing home operators accuse me of having ideal and unrealistic standards. Impossible to achieve.  But I disagree. If a reasonably good nursing home hired the likes of me. To focus on a handful of patients.  With individualized, one-on-one good vibes care, for eight hours a day.  There would be dramatic improvement in the outcomes. The residents would get the same treatment that Jeanne received. Such as  showers. Every  night. Hand-fed lunch and supper. In the quiet privacy of their rooms. Daily treks outdoors. For fresh air and mental and physical stimulation. In a wheelchair, if necessary. Even in wintertime. In Minnesota. Tucked in thermal sleeping bags.  So many, many ways to provide direct, individualized care. Face to face.  Yes, true caring. In loving ways. Not mere warehousing. Where residents are often medicated. To zombie status. And rarely visited by loved ones. Indeed, I’ve seen it. Even in the most plush and expensive nursing homes. Where my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron spent much of the past year.  Where the monthly fee was $10,600-a-month. Think about it. Channel $5,000 a month to the hiring of the equivalent of me. To provide Ron with good vibes supplemental care.  Of course, that would cut into the nursing home’s profit. But here’s my guess. The nursing home would still reap a reasonable profit. Not an exorbitant one. Maybe that’s a price worth paying.  At least it might salve a  few consciences in the nursing home industry. –Jim Broede

An opinionated romantic idealist.

One nice thing about me. I’m allowed to be opinionated. To write as I see it. Right or wrong. Sometimes I’m right. Other times, I’m wrong.  But usually, I’m out to learn the truth. My opinions change. Depending. Depending so much on what I learn. Sometimes I go off half-cocked. And become sort of a fool. Other times, I’m a genius. I get it totally right. When I make mistakes, I confess. I admit. Thing is, I’m not afraid to make blunders.  To venture into the unknown.  To take risks. Sometimes, merely out of curiosity. I’m fascinated. By a whole lot of things.  But mostly by life, in general. I talk to strangers. That often opens the door. To fascinating acquaintances. And friends. The two true loves in my life. They came to me. As total strangers. Maybe by happenstance. Possibly by divine intervention. Predestined blessings. Little wonder. That I’ve become an opinionated romantic idealist. A writer. A poet. A blogger. I have so many, many pursuits. And the most profound one of all. Keeps me alive and thriving. The pursuit of happiness. –Jim Broede

Real nasty hate.

Easier for me to love my so-called foreign enemy. Even an alleged  terrorist. Than to embrace a far right Republican politician. I perceive the Republican as the most despicable one. A worthless lying scumbag. A very, very lowlife. As the greater threat to America. My homeland. I’d rather negotiate with a terrorist. Than a Republican politico. The terrorist would be more trustworthy.  A more decent fellow. That’s just me, I guess. A part of my personality. My make-up.  I gotta be honest about it. It would be easier negotiating a deal and a reasonably friendly relationship with a terrorist than with a Republican. That’s what President Obama is up against.  Ruthless, racist Republicans.  Opposing him at every turn. Even when he proposes policies that Republicans once supported. But now are against. Merely because Obama is for. Lunatic fringe Republicans literally hate Obama.  In large part because he’s black.  They hate Obama more than a terrorist hates America. Believe me. That is real nasty hate. –Jim Broede

Superior Jim.

I like to pretend. That I am superior. Better than other people. At so many things. And I’m obviously doing a good job of pretending. Because. I’m actually beginning to believe. That I am truly superior. Of course, that’s funny. It’s one of the things that makes me superior. My sense of humor. No reason to take life too seriously.  Funniest thing of all. For others to take me seriously. Often, all I have to do is talk. With a straight face. Anyway, I’m having a rollicking good time. With life.  And I see so many that aren’t. That’s sad. But once again, it feeds into my image. Superior Jim. –Jim Broede

Moving. Moving. More to the left.

Don’t believe everything I was taught. Better to form  my own opinions. My own ideas of right and wrong. I was brought up as a Christian. Went to Sunday school. Was  confirmed. Even once served on the board of deacons of a church. But no longer consider myself Christian. Instead, I’m a free-thinker. On spiritual matters. I shun all organized religions.  I go my own individualistic way. Same goes for politics. I despise most politics. Because of the constant lying, cheating, and intransigent stances of  political parties. I was raised as a political conservative. But now I’m a liberal. More in tune with communists and socialists than with Republicans or Democrats. My social, economic and political views are in a constant state of flux. Moving. Moving. More to the left.—Jim Broede

Preferential treatment. I deserve it.

Preferential treatment. I believe in it. Helps to be in good with me. Because you are more likely then to get preferential treatment. In that sense, I’m not even-handed with everyone. That’s impossible. I treat people as individuals.  And therefore, I try to treat them in tailored ways. Tailored for them. That’s a difficult thing to do. Because it takes time. And effort. There’s only so much time and effort to go around.  I can’t be absolutely fair to everyone. Let’s pretend I’m a teacher. With 30 students.  Most likely. The ones I like. Or empathize with. Will get more of my attention.  That’s life.  The way it is. No doubt, I’m treated preferentially, too.  Fairly. And unfairly. I have to learn to cope with it. Making the best of the situation.  Recognizing. That I have to work. To attain preferential treatment.  Often, I deserve it. –Jim Broede

A thoughtful way to happiness.

I like. Being able to sound off. Any time. Right here. In my blog.  Maybe everyone should have a blog. Or a journal. Or a diary. A place to record one’s thoughts.  I don’t know about you. But I have many, many thoughts. Too many to remember. Unless I put them in written form. There. For me to take a peek. At any time.  Sometimes, I’m amazed at my own thoughts. When I review them a year or two later. Because I’ve abandoned certain thoughts. For better thoughts.  I dislike stale thoughts. I want fresh thoughts. Which means I have to keep replenishing my thought supply. Too many people keep the same thoughts throughout their lives. Nothing new. Fortunately, I have good thoughts. Hardly ever a bad thought. Good thoughts make me happy. Bad thoughts make me sad. Seems I’m happy. Virtually all of the time. –Jim Broede

...a mere not so offensive fool.

I wish. That people. Wouldn’t take umbrage so easily. I’m very capable. Of offending. People that I don’t want to offend. Because they are thin-skinned. It’s hard. For me. To become truly offended.  Because I have a thick skin. A thick skull, too.  Gives me an advantage. In life.  Allows me to take things in stride. Without over-reacting. That’s the danger of taking offense. Becoming a fool. But really. Being a fool. Ain’t all that bad. That’s my goal. In life. To some day become a mere plain not so offensive fool. –Jim Broede

...a proud American again.

More and more. Every day. I become enamored with Elizabeth Warren. I want her to become the next president of the USA. The first woman to achieve that lofty status. Oh, I was enamored with Barack Obama, too. In 2008. I’m less enamored now. A little bit disappointed. But still, I like the guy. He’s far better than any Republican. Now I’m more enthused. About Warren. Than I ever was about Obama.  And indeed. It would be a feather in America’s cap. To have the first woman president succeed the first black president. That would make me a proud American again. –Jim Broede

Maybe they ain't so bad after all.

Yes, there are situations. Far worse. Than spending 5 years as a prisoner of the Taliban. In Afghanistan. I would have considered trading places.  With Sgt. Bowe Bergdahl. The American soldier that walked off his base in 2009.  And into the arms of the Taliban. Now he’s free and finally coming home. In exchange for five American-held  Taliban prisoners.  Of course, some conservative and super patriotic politicians are suggesting that Bergdahl may have deserted, and gone willingly to the Taliban.  That remains to be seen.  But even if he did desert, I’d not make a big deal of it. I’d let him off the hook. Without any punishment. Especially if Bergdahl’s intent was to get a better understanding of  the Taliban.  It’s a wonder he wasn’t killed. But then, that says something good about the Taliban. They let him be. Took care of him. For five years. I’d have used that time to cultivate a decent relationship with my captors. By trying to understand their motivations. I’d look for clues. As to what makes them tick. Perhaps Bergdahl took advantage of his opportunity. And became very knowledgeable of the Taliban. Deciding they ain’t so bad, after all. –Jim Broede

Into a permanent state of musing.

My dictionary defines musing as a state of deep thought or dreamy abstractions. Little wonder. I love to muse. I was born to muse. It comes naturally. Musing may be the greatest invention of mankind. My kind of consciousness. I’m assuming. That prehistoric man started to muse. About life in general. But that it took a while. To evolve. Into musing over the concept of love.  Maybe the first musing was over the notion of survival. Imaginative ways to stay alive.  To feed one’s self. And eventually to feel all the pleasures of life.  The warmth of the sun on an otherwise cool day. And relief under a waterfall on a blazing hot day. Simple stuff. Not ready yet for flights of fancy. To the moon. To Mars. To the boundless ends of creation.  Though one never knows. Maybe the prehistoric man ascended. Into the spiritual realm. Into a permanent blissful state of musing. –Jim Broede

Is there no shame?

I want answers. A simple clear-cut explanation. Why can’t a nursing home handle Alzheimer-afflicted Ron? For a monthly fee of $10,600. For a fraction of that, one could hire a full-time, well-qualified care-giver. To deal with Ron. One-on-one. Face-to-face. Every day. Instead, Ron is put on multiple drugs. With terrible side effects.  The idea is to quell him. Make him docile. A zombie. Anyway, Ron is deemed ‘unmanageable.’  Kicked out of the nursing home.  Ron’s daughter and son-in-law have to decide what to do next. Indeed, a dilemma. One that should be investigated. Why do things like this happen?  Right here in America. Is there no shame? –Jim Broede