A sacrilege in New Prague.

Churches were meant to be open. Twenty-four hours a day. If for nothing else. As a momentary refuge.  So, why do I find so many churches locked and bolted? The public is denied access. Even to the stately St. Wenceslaus Catholic Church. In the tiny hamlet of New Prague. In southern Minnesota. St. Wenceslaus is the most beautiful architectural wonder in New Prague. The adjacent parochial school, too. Both structures. More than 100 years old.  Worthy of seeing, no doubt. But last Monday, I could see them only from the outside. A shame. The Catholics should do something about it. And leave the church doors open. Always. Morning. Noon. Night. Where one can sit. Either in quiet contemplation. Or in conversation. With the spirits. My Italian true love speculated. That churches are prone to vandalism. So they stay locked. How ironic. Oh, yes. Exceptions should be made. For churches. Everywhere. In New Prague, too. St. Wenceslaus remains locked. In July and August. Even on Sundays. Because it’s more comfortable for parishioners to worship. In the air-conditioned comfort of the parish activities center. Isn’t that a  sacrilege? –Jim Broede

Please, give me a real kolacky.

My biggest disappointment. In New Prague. A small town. Settled by Czech immigrants. The pastry that passes locally as kolacky. Really isn’t kolacky. It’s fake. At best, a Swedish style version. A shame. I was brought up on real Czech kolacky. Thick dough. Open-faced kolacky. With thick jam filling. Prune. Apricot. Poppyseed. All kinds of flavors. To suit the palates of every self-respecting Czech. You get real kolacky in Chicago. But not in New Prague. This tiny Minnesota hamlet. Some of the locals don’t even pronounce ‘Prague’ in the correct manner. It’s been Americanized. Furthermore, the surname Dvorak is mispronounced. Doesn’t sound Czech enough. But the biggest crime of all. It’s the New Prague kolacky. Far too light. Too fluffy. With scant interior jam. And Mary Plocher, she of German descent and the proprietor at Humble Pie Gift shop on Main Street, knows it.  She’s embarrassed. For New Prague. She hands out a printed recipe. For a proper-made sumptuous open-faced kolacky. If necessary, I’ll take direct action. I’ll bake a proper kolacky. It’s the least I can do. In honor of the heritage on my mother’s side of the family. –Jim Broede

Czech-style camaraderie.

My Italian true love had a good idea today. Let’s go to New Prague, she suggested. Of course, that wasn’t like going to Old Prague. But hey, I had no complaints. New Prague is 75 miles. From where we live. In Minnesota. A town of some 7,500 inhabitants. And I’m going to write about the experience. Over the next several days. Another sign. That when traveling, it’s best to get off the beaten track. Away from freeways. Into small towns. Away from big cities.  That’s New Prague. A quiet, leisurely place. Where I got a Czech breakfast. At 2 in the afternoon. With Czech sausage. Fried dumplings. An apple kolacky. My true love and her friend Giovanna went shopping. Along Main Street. Meanwhile, I improvised. By wandering into Bob Hanek’s tiny one-chair barbershop. For an overdue haircut.  Bob is of Czech heritage. But he’s been established in the New Prague area for all of his 74 years. And he’s celebrating his 54th year as a barber. Anyway, think of it. I’d never have met Bob. Without my Italian true love’s sudden yen for us to visit New Prague. I left with a classy haircut and with a feeling of Czech-style camaraderie. Right here in America’s heartland. –Jim Broede

Better to savor the feast of life.

One of my biggest challenges. Is to keep from spreading myself thin. From doing too much.  I need to focus on a few things. Rather than many. It’s a trap. Always something more to do. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, I begin to think too much about the next project, the next commitment. I get ahead of myself. I try to do too much. That poses a danger. Of doing everything in a half-ass manner. I’m often told that I should do this and that. That I should be doing more. As if it’s never enough. But I counter. That life should be pursued in a slow and leisurely manner.  No hurry. Better to savor the feast of life. –Jim Broede

The irony of life.

It’s important to be selfish. That is, to take care of one’s self. Because. Chances are. Nobody will take care of you. Because they are busy. Taking care of themselves. Of course, I’m helpful. Of others. But still, it’s because I take care of myself. First and foremost. So that I’m in condition to help others.  I’ve seen many care-givers fall to the wayside. Because they didn’t take care of themselves. They had no respite. They became beleaguered and inept. Did more harm than good. To themselves. To others. Because they weren’t selfish enough. The selfish ones often thrive. And accomplish far more than the unselfish  Yes, that’s the irony of life. –Jim Broede  

Setting the record straight.

Some of my closest friends can be annoying. In that they take untenable positions. They’ll insist that black is white. That the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. And worst of all – that I’m stupid. I’m at a loss. Over what to do about it. One alternative: Ignore it.  And another is to set the record straight. –Jim Broede

New perspectives.

My bedroom is being transformed. The brown wood walls. Are changing color. Pure white. And Napoleanic blue. And a white dresser is now Greek blue. A lighter shade than Napoleanic.   All done with chalk paint. And a mighty assist from my Italian connections. Including my true love.  She’s got good ideas. About lightening up my life.  And opening my mind. To new perspectives. I do the same for her.  Practicing total and unconditional acceptance.  So important. For each of us to be ourselves. Without trepidation.  –Jim Broede

A nice gig. If one can get it.

The Chicago Cubs are going through the motions of playing baseball.  Or so I suspect. That’s all right. Chances are all of us go through the motions of doing whatever it is that we do. Mostly, making a living. Of course, playing baseball on the major league level might be perceived as a dream job for most of us. But lately, the Cubs look bored. Playing out the string of remaining games.  They are guaranteed their salaries. Regardless of performance. Yes, a nice gig. If one can get it.  –Jim Broede

Falling for a small town.

Exploring. Small town, USA. I could spend a lifetime. In such a pursuit. I love small towns. And I generally avoid big cities. Such as New York, Chicago and Los Angeles. I’m talking to my Italian true love. About a trip this summer. Driving clear away from freeways. And taking rural roads. Into off-the-beaten track small towns.  Staying a few hours. Enough time to get a feel for the places. We made a test run. Today. To Osceola. In western Wisconsin. Along the St. Croix River.  Met a handful of Osceola’s 2,500 inhabitants.  Strolling on the main street. Where there’s Mexican and Chinese restaurants, antique stores, a bowling alley, an ice cream parlor  and offices. And not least. A waterfall. That requires. For a full and complete view. Walking a stairwell. For 128 steps down. And then 128 back up. –Jim Broede

Forever...to figure things out.

I’m waking up. To the fact. That maybe I won’t be around. To witness some of the greatest discoveries. Of all time. Such as the ability. To transcend time. To travel faster than the speed of light.  Allowing for journeys  to other solar systems and galaxies.  But then, maybe I’ll be around. For the greatest discovery. That death isn’t the end of life. But rather a transition to another dimension. Which means maybe I will have forever to figure things out. –Jim Broede

Cavorting.

I’m spread delightfully thin. Because my Italian true love. Is here. In Minnesota. With me. In the flesh. Means I haven’t walked my usual 10 miles. Only five today. And I’m writing less. Yes, I have better things to do. Such as focusing on my vivacious and intelligent true love. One sets priorities. And lets lesser pursuits slide.  But still. I make time for exercise. Writing, too. But mostly cavorting with my true love. –Jim Broede

A happy alternative to mourning.

I seldom mourn. Oh, maybe for the loss of a loved one. But not when tragedies occur to strangers. I try to isolate myself from the needless emotion. Because so very many  happenings are beyond my control. Stuff happens. Instead of lamenting, best to get on with my own life.  Now. Today. Savoring life. One way or another. Not allowing myself to be overwhelmed by the daily litany of tragedies in the world. Instead, I’m focused on the pursuit of pleasure and happiness.  Yes, that’s far better than succumbing  to the sadness of mourning. –Jim Broede

Being wrong. Makes me feel human.

One thing about me. No hesitancy. To proclaim. That I’m right. About all sorts of things. But also acknowledging that I could be wrong. There’s room for debate. And often, I’lI admit being wrong. And mend my ways. That is, sometimes. Because I reserve the option to continue being wrong. Don’t always want to be on the right side.  Makes me feel more human. –Jim Broede

Call me a Pollyanna.

Russia versus the West/America. Democrats versus Republicans. I see similarities. In the polarization of political ideologues. On the domestic front. And in foreign policy, too. We go to battle with each other. Drawing the proverbial lines in the sand. And not budging. Not truly trying to understand each other. And not reaching accommodation.  We Americans are so used to it.  We divide everything into blacks and whites. Good and evil. We Americans are superior. Always on the right side. When it comes to world politics.  Everybody else is wrong. Except on the domestic scene. Republicans take the annoying stance that there are good Americans and bad Americans. Conservatives are good.  Liberals are evil. There’s no compromising, according to lunatic fringe conservative ideology. Liberals are the enemy. And the only solution. Is war. Complete destruction of the other side. Meanwhile, I’m cast as the Pollyanna. Because I think political foes can find a way. To co-exist. To live with each other. Happily. But there has to be reasonable give and take. On both sides. –Jim Broede

Relating. In very good ways.

I like to relate to people. One way or another. Even if it’s in bad ways. Of course, I prefer good ways. But that doesn’t always happen. Because I don’t like everyone. Some people I’ve never met. But still, I don’t like ‘em. Maybe that’s not bring fair. But so be it. Take Republican politicians, for instance. They turn me off. From a distance.  I read their comments. Or see them on TV. Right away. I know.  I dislike ‘em. Very much. But there are politicians that I like. Very much. Elizabeth Warren. I’d like to meet her some day. Just to tell her. That she’s a decent human being. And I’d vote for her. If she ever runs for president. Meanwhile, I have several close personal friends. Including my Italian true love.  No doubt about it. They are likeable. Very likeable.  We relate. In very good ways. –Jim Broede

Away from the fast-paced life.

My Italian true love. Is in New York City. For a few days. On her way to Minnesota. She knows I don’t like big cities. The hustle. The bustle. That’s why I live in Minnesota. And in Sardinia, too. Places off the beaten track. Away from the fast-paced life. Give me tranquility. A small town. Or rural environs. I’d be happy on a desert island, too. Or on an isolated mountain top. Or in a primeval forest. I’d adapt to desert living. And a remote seashore. Maybe even to life on the moon or Mars. In solitude. Better there than in New York City or Chicago or Los Angeles. –Jim Broede

Good enough.

I like the Chicago Cubs. Maybe to the point of it being true love.  I have an Italian true love, too. She’s great. I accept her just the way she is. More or less unconditionally. That's the nature of true love. Acceptance even when she makes mistakes. Blunders. I’m forgiving. Especially since I make mistakes and blunders, too. Over my lifetime, the Cubs have never won a world series. But hey, I don’t need the Cubs to be perfect. To win a world series. Yes, that would be nice. All I know is that over a lifetime, the Cubs have given me great pleasure. Disappointment, too.  Meanwhile, I’ll take what I can get. Pure pleasure. From life. From the Cubs. From my Italian true love.  If some day there’s a world series in the mix, that’ll be a bonus. But it’s not a necessity. I don’t need everything.  As long as I have true love. That’s good enough. –Jim Broede

Happy thoughts.

Even when complaining (about the Chicago Cubs or anything). I find reason to be happy. Because that’s my desire. To be happy. No matter the circumstances. The fact. That I have a right and the know-how to complain. That’s very satisfying. A pleasure. Sometimes. When I complain. It gets the desired results.  Not always, of course. But there’s a 50-50 chance of success. And when my efforts fail. I’m still happy. Because it assures me the opportunity to keep complaining. Little wonder. I’m in a happy state of mind. Almost always. And when not. It won’t be for long. Happy thoughts keep bubbling to the surface. –Jim Broede

I'd not make a good bird.

I can think of better ways to die. Than being on the wrong plane at the wrong time. Being hit. By a missile. At 33,000 feet. The plane disintegrates.  I suppose one is dead. Before hitting the ground. If not killed instantly, I wouldn’t last more than 5 seconds. I’d die of fright. Even if I had  a parachute, I’d succumb. Of fright. Just thinking of sky-diving. That’s enough to make my heart palpitate. Maybe if I kept my eyes closed, it would help. I’d not make a good bird. –Jim Broede

Hard choices.

My two favorite Alzheimer care-givers. Rick and Julie. Are running out of patience. With Julie’s Alzheimer-riddled father Ron. Because it’s virtually impossible. To get adequate respite. That is, if they keep Ron in their home. That’s where he’s been. For two months now. Ever since they rescued Ron from a nursing home. Where he got grossly inadequate care. They’ve been afraid to put Ron  into another nursing home. They’ve lost faith in nursing homes. Justifiably.  Because Ron was being warehoused. And over-medicated. He lacked one-on-one mental and physical stimulation. Ron is getting better care. From Rick and Julie. And a few friends. But Ron is on a steady decline. He needs increasing amounts of attention.  Chances are. He won’t last another six months. But I wonder if Rick and Julie will last that long. For their own sake. For survival. They may have to sort of write off Ron. My guess. If Ron could fully see himself. He’d opt out. Preferring death to a torturous lingering life with Alzheimer’s.  –Jim Broede

My search for paradise.

We fail to communicate. With each other. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Republicans and Democrats. Israeli and Palestinian. Ukrainian and Russian. An endless list of examples.  We could resolve our differences. But we choose not to. Because of the lack of will. We ignore the ways. Too often, we resort to warfare. We kill each other.  And innocents who happen to get in the way. Showing up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Like the 298 passengers. On a commercial airline jet.  Yes, there  was a misunderstanding. Maybe that’s the biggest evil of all. The failure to communicate.  That makes the world full of uncivilized societies. Oh, we fool ourselves. Into thinking we are advanced and civilized. But we aren’t. Look at the world. Give me an honest assessment.  Makes me want to withdraw. To retreat.  Into my cocoon. Hiding. Away from everyone. Except my Italian true love. And a handful of trusted and true friends. Makes me wonder. If there’s any other way. To find paradise. Also known as a truly loving world. –Jim Broede

The curse of modern times.

Turned off the news tonight. And decided to play music instead. I could live in isolation. Without news. For years and years and years. Not knowing about what’s going on in the world. In solitude. On one hand, I love life. But not necessarily people, and what they do. To each other. They quarrel. They fight. They kill each other. I’d just as soon not know about it. To live in ignorance. Maybe that’s the curse of modern times. Knowing too much. And not being able to do anything about it. –Jim Broede

Another reason to be gleeful.

I’m looking forward. To the day when white people become the minority in the USA. Doesn’t bother me one bit. I’m white. And ready to have minority status. I’m seldom in the majority anyway. In virtually any category or ranking. I’m used to it. So if I’m a white minority, too. That’s acceptable. I’ll adjust. Not only that. I’ll like it. After all these years as a white majority, we whites deserve to be treated the same way that we treated other races. Other minorities. White will become the new black. The new Hispanic. Actually, I suspect we whites will get better treatment than we deserve. Because blacks and Hispanics tend to be liberals. Pretty decent and fair-minded people. They vote Democratic. And often disdain Republicans and conservatives. Still another reason (for me)  to be gleeful. –Jim Broede

Long live liberalism!

I’d give refuge to refugees from all over the world. Yes, right here in the USA. Children. Adults. Everyone that needs a refuge. Of course, many Americans are worried. That America will be overrun by refugees. So be it. In the long-term, it would make for a better America.  Little wonder. I’m a political liberal. And not a political conservative. Long live liberalism! –Jim Broede

Liking myself in a gleeful way.

Living with myself. I’m able to. Because I like myself. But I know people that dislike themselves. Makes me wonder. Why don’t they do something about it. By taking steps to become more likeable. One reason why I like myself:  I don’t mind if others don’t particularly like me. Of course, I don’t want to be hated. But hey, I’m well aware that I annoy some people. Usually, for good and valid reason. They deserve to be annoyed. Because they are inherently annoying.  Serves them right. Getting force-fed, by me, a dose of their own annoying medicine. Makes me liking myself in a gleeful way.  –Jim Broede

The wheelchair romps.

My dear sweet dementia-riddled Jeanne was confined to a custom-made wheelchair for the last three years of her life. But still, we went outdoors. Daily. Often for 5-to-10-mile jaunts. Even in the winter. In Minnesota. Jeanne was tucked in a thermal sleeping  bag. I suspect the  fresh air was good and stimulating for Jeanne. The movement, too. Perhaps it gave Jeanne the illusion of walking or running. Maybe she noticed the scenery.  The sunset. The trees. The dogs. Nature, period.  She always loved the outdoors.  When Jeanne returned, she seemed stimulated.  More with it. Often, we played recorded music on our wheelchair excursions. Among her favorites. Vivaldi. The Seasons.  --Jim Broede

The goodness of exercise.

All I know. Exercise tends to be good. Physical.  Mental. Spiritual. In all forms. Could be. When we reach the spiritual dimension. In an afterlife. We can discard physical exercise.  Don’t know about that yet. Because my spirit is still locked in my physical being. Though I have out-of-body experiences/illusions.  Studies that I have read surmise that physical exercise is generally good for physical being. Those with and without dementia. I buy into that concept.  I walk at least 10 miles. Every day. Some days, I bike 30 miles.  I’m addicted to exercise. Don’t know if it wards off Alzheimer’s. But I know for sure. It makes me feel good. It’s my positive fix. I take my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron for walks daily. Seems to do him good. And no harm.  He’s focused on the walk. In thrilling ways. Meanwhile, it’s a crime. That many people in nursing homes don’t go outdoors. For weeks. For months.  Generally, walking is good therapy. For the mind. Ron thinks more clearly when he walks. I suspect he feels more alive. More with it. Of course, walking is only one stimulant. In the arsenal of stimulants needed. In the effective treatment of Alzheimer’s. --Jim Broede

In the realm of true love.

I wonder. How many people take time out. Daily. To think. About life. About being alive. And conscious. Or if they merely go through life. On automatic pilot.  I like to wake. In the middle of the night. Because it’s an opportunity. To think. To reflect. To ponder. About the significance of being alive. And not only that. The bonus of  having my Italian true love. With me. Here in Minnesota. In the flesh. For the rest of summer. How wonderful. To have true love. Every day, really. We are together. Always. In so many ways. Because of the wonders of technology. On Skype. Being geographically and physically apart. Helps to bring us closer. With the written and spoken word.  We have learned to connect. In spiritual and soulful ways.  The primary method of communication. In the realm of true love.  In true paradise. –Jim Broede

My silliness prevails.

One of my nicest traits. Being silly. Refusing to take anything seriously. Sometimes for an hour or two. Non-stop silliness. That annoys some people. Because they may be in a serious mood. And they want me to be serious. But I think better of it. And remain silly. That leads to dueling moods. And more often than not, I’m the winner. My silliness prevails. –Jim Broede

Reaching beyond. With words.

One reaches the beyond. With words. With thoughts. Especially written words. Every day. I write messages. From my desert island. I encase my notes. In bottles. And watch. As they drift away. Into the cosmos. Maybe never to be seen. But if there’s a forever. And I’m sure there is. I will have some day reached. Beyond. With written words. –Jim Broede

In strange and mysterious ways.

My experience. As an Alzheimer’s care-giver. Changed my life. For the better. Made me think. About caring. About loving. About the meaningful stuff of life. Indeed, Alzheimer’s was a blessing. For me.  Opened my eyes. Opened my mind. Opened my heart. Yes, I know. Many think of Alzheimer’s as a curse. A tragedy. A living hell.  But life evolves. In strange and mysterious ways.  –Jim Broede

Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.

I know someone. Living life one day at a time. No, it’s not me. Though I try.  He lives on and on and on. Despite illness. Despite personal tragedies.  Despite everything. Because he’s truly in love. With life. He’s a modern-day Job. What’s his secret?  Maybe it’s that he doesn’t keep secrets.  He acknowledges. That he’s been blessed. With life.  With the uncanny ability to love.  He’s learned to savor something. One day at a time. Now. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.  –Jim Broede

My boundless imagination.

I pretend. That I’m a master of voodoo. Really. There’s nothing more absurd. More ridiculous. Than imagining. That I can make the Chicago Cubs win baseball games. By practicing voodoo. I tell my Italian true love. That the Cubs have won 40 games so far this season. Because of my voodoo incantations. And that she can learn voodoo, too. I try to teach her the craft/art. So far this baseball season, I’ve assigned her sole voodoo responsibility 54 times. Is it mere coincidence? The Cubs have lost 54 games. Anyway, goes to show that I’m a master of voodoo. And she isn’t. If I practiced voodoo every day, the Cubs would go through the season undefeated. Imagine that. A perfect record, 162-0. Yes, that’s ridiculous. Absurd. But that’s my style of life.  Exercising. Every day. My boundless imagination. –Jim Broede

Another fanciful dream.

A system of non-profit nursing homes. For the Alzheimer-riddled. That’s what we need. Well-run. And for absolutely no profit. And with the type of care tailored for dementia patients. With one-on-one care. Mental and physical stimulation. Daily. And minimal use of anti-psychotic and tranquilizing medications.   Good vibes therapy in place of drug therapy. Of course, it won’t happen. Just another of my fanciful dreams. –Jim Broede

A mean-spirited politic.

My wish. Take the politic out of politics.  Of course, that won’t happen. Because politics are supposed to be political. Maybe what I mean to say is, let’s take the mean-spirit out of politics. That would bring fresh air and camaraderie into the political arena. Imagine. Politicians being  nice to each other. Even when they disagree.   Too often, the majority rules at the expense of the minority. I tend to advocate give and take. Rather than foisting my way on others. Compromise isn’t a dirty word.  Yes, a solution to a political problem in which both (all) sides get something.  Ideologues tend to want everything. Their way, period. And they can be ruthless. Totally mean-spirited. In achieving their ends. That’s what we have in America today.  A mean-spirited politic. –Jim Broede

The fine art of coping.

Used to be that I fretted. If little things didn’t go my way. I wanted everything to fall into place. In neat order. As if by my own grand design. Of course, I eventually recognized that was silly. And selfish, too. Now I’m happy. And feeling good. Just trying to make the best of each day.  No matter what. Even if the day doesn’t go my way. Because that gives me the opportunity. To learn. The fine art of coping. Sure beats fretting over what might have been.  –Jim Broede

For a mission of endless discovery.

I’m different. No doubt about it. You know that. By reading my blog.  I don’t hesitate to be different. To write. Whatever comes to mind. That’s tantamount to thinking out loud. When I meet strangers. When traveling, for instance.  I’ll stir a conversation. About all sorts of things. When curious, I ask questions. Which may be deemed too personal. But that’s who/what I am. Personal. Early on. I give a stranger my card. Which identifies me. As romantic idealist. Spiritual free-thinker. Political liberal. Lover. Dreamer. Yes, a quick introduction.  I want the stranger to reciprocate. To tell me. In the first 10 or 15 minutes. Things significant. And personal. About one’s self.  The stranger has my name.  My email address. My postal mail address. My phone number. And not least, access to my blog. That’s a lot of very personal stuff.  Some strangers respond. In like way.  I want to know people. Because I’m naturally curious. I want them to know me. And not be frightened.  I especially like people who are fascinated. About life. And others. Fascinated by the world. By the fact that they exist. Knowing. Knowing. Knowing that they have been put on Planet Earth.  For a mission of endless discovery.  –Jim Broede

Living (in hell) without imagination.

Maybe I died 20 or 30 years ago. But refused to die. So I imagined. That I was still living. Maybe my prior life was imagined, too. Thinking today. That would be a wonderful way to live. Having a choice.  To live or to die. I could choose at the moment of death, to revert back to another time in my imagined life. For instance, when I first came to Minnesota. In 1965. I had the option of accepting another job. In Wisconsin.  What if I had done that? My whole life course would have changed. Perhaps in dramatic ways.  It would be nice. If I could revert back to that time. And start living another imagined life. At that very point. To see what would have happened. So very many times, my life could have taken another turn. And my destiny would have changed. I’m beginning to wonder. If all of life is imagined. There could be worse ways to live.  Such as. Without an imagination. That might be real hell. –Jim Broede

Beyond a doubt.

My cats. Loverboy and Chenuska. Have an awareness. Of being alive. Maybe not the same awareness as I. But awareness, nevertheless. I know my cats are aware. Because we interact. We communicate.  Beyond a doubt.  We make our wishes known. To each other.  In so many ways. Makes me wonder. If I communicate better with Loverboy and Chenuska. Than I do with my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron.  Maybe I have to treat Ron. The same way that I treat my cats. Which ain’t too bad. Because I dearly love my cats. Yes, beyond a doubt. –Jim Broede

Better to have lived.

Bad times don’t seem like bad times any more. Indeed, that’s strange. I'm pondering. When my dear sweet Jeanne had Alzheimer’s. Those 13 years of caring were a vital part of my life. Because Jeanne came through. And so did I. Of course, our lives ultimately end in death. But for now, I’m the survivor. And better for it. Better for the experience. And maybe the same goes for Jeanne. After all, death may be relief. A return to nothingness. Or a continuation of life in another form. Either way, it can be construed as good. Makes me wonder. If it matters. Especially if I learn acceptance. And make the most of life. As long as I’m truly alive. And able to appreciate the grandeur of it all. Yes, It’s my conclusion. Better to have lived than to have never lived. –Jim Broede

The Rick and Julie way.

My Alzheimer-riddled friend  Ron is in a state of limbo. Or maybe not. Could be this is as good as it’ll ever get. He’s back home. Living with daughter Julie and son-in-law Rick. For two months now. Because nursing homes shun him. Because he’s deemed too difficult to manage. Unless he’s medicated into a stupor.  Little wonder. That compassionate Rick and Julie rescued Ron from the deplorable nursing home environment. And brought him back home. Until they can find a nursing home that will accept him. And do the right thing. Too bad there aren’t more Ricks and Julies running nursing homes. They  know how to provide proper care. Because they really care. Don’t merely go through the motions. They show that it can be done. For five years, Rick and Julie cared for Ron. Before placing him in nursing homes. They needed respite. To maintain their sanity. They naively assumed that professionals in nursing homes knew how to provide proper and humane care. Especially for a monthly stipend of $10,600.  But Ron didn’t get it. Fortunately, he gets it now. From Rick and Julie. This is a tribute to them. They put nursing homes to shame. For being profiteers. Yes, out to make money. By warehousing the likes of Ron. Rather than providing carefully tailored, individualized care. Including mental and physical stimulation. Daily. Turns out. Ron is very manageable. That is, when he gets proper care.  The Rick and Julie way.  –Jim Broede

In sunny, sunny Wrigley Field.

I’m getting old. More evidence of that every day. For instance, I used to watch the Cubs play baseball. In person. In Wrigley Field. When it cost only 60 cents to get into the sun-drenched bleachers. I’d come early. To watch batting practice. And stay late. To mourn another blown game.  Now, six decades later. I begin to wonder. If the Cubs may be the death of me. Had a skin cancer removed several weeks ago. From all that sun. Watching the Cubs play baseball.  In sunny, sunny Wrigley Field.  –Jim Broede  

Keeps me humble.

I have yet to master my computer. Instead, the computer masters me. Takes over. And drives me crazy. Toys with me. Does stuff. That I don’t understand  Plays tricks. Taunts me.  It was so much easier. In the days of the typewriter. I used to revere and collect typewriters. For a long time, at least 15 or 20 typewriters were stored in my attic. I got my first typewriter when I was 12, and in the sixth grade. Way back in the 1940s. Taught myself to type. With one and  two fingers. Could type 50 or 60 words a minute that way. People marveled. As they watched my typing exploits. I became a show-off. Still type this way today. On the computer, of course.   And I’ve learned a few more skills. That one can’t practice on a typewriter. But I’m not bragging. Because my computer keeps me humble.  I’ll never become the master. –Jim Broede  

Call me poet, dreamer, lover.

I feel like a poet. Without knowing what a poet is. Though I suspect. That poets write poetry.  Maybe that’s what I don’t understand. What qualifies as poetry? I could call what I’m writing now. Poetry.  But that doesn’t necessarily make it poetry. Maybe poetry is in the mind of the beholder. There may be 100,000 forms of poetry. If so, chances are. I’m a poet. I know, too. That I’m a lover. And a dreamer.  Does that automatically make me a poet?  Perhaps. If I had to choose. Had to set priorities. What would I put first?  Probably lover. Then dreamer. Poet would rank third. But I want all of these pursuits.  Poet. Dreamer. Lover. The order they're listed doesn’t really matter. –Jim Broede

An easy choice.

It’s better to assume that I’ll live forever. Than not. Makes me feel more comfortable. And optimistic. Of course, not everyone wants to live forever. Some find life far too miserable. Too much to bear. But so far, I’m enjoying the sojourn. Life is good. Makes me feel. As if I’m in love. With life.  Can I ever imagine not being in love?  Yes, I suppose. Because I have a fertile imagination. I can imagine almost anything. Picking and choosing. Between nothingness. And a wonderful kind of consciousness.  Allowing me to savor life. It’s an easy choice. –Jim Broede

A scary thought.

There’s an experiment underway. Psychiatrists are sharing their notes. With their patients. They can learn. Exactly what their psychiatrists think of them. All the details. Good, bad or gory.  Read about this. In Tuesday’s science section of the New York Times.  Surprises me. Because I always thought. That psychiatrists shared. Everything. Seems to me that would be the natural thing to do. And now I’m learning, few psychiatrists do.  The experiment has been greeted with mixed reviews. Some psychiatrists caution. That there may be danger. In the patients knowing too much. About themselves. That it may do more harm than good. Scary thought, isn’t it?  Learning too much about one’s self.  –Jim Broede

Wonderful illusions.

I’ve learned. To not let stuff bother me. Especially if it’s stuff over which I have virtually no control. Such as most goings-on in the world. Bad stuff happens. Every day. And I pretty much ignore it. Don’t lose any  sleep over it.  Of course, if something has a direct negative effect on me, I swing into action.  To remedy the situation. If I can. If I can’t, maybe I have to learn to live with the reality. A little bit like the weather. If it’s stormy. Maybe I have to remain indoors. Until the storm blows over.  Same goes for political matters. I’m ashamed to say it. But my congresswoman is Michelle Bachmann.  I’ve been able to more or less pretend that she doesn’t exist. Especially when I retreat to my cocoon. I just plain shut out any unpleasantness. By creating my own world. Full of wonderful illusions. –Jim Broede

No mercy. No let up. No prisoners.

My Italian true love is pulling against Germany. In the World Cup finals. And why is that? Because Germany humiliated Brazil, 7-1, in the semi-finals. She says that running up the score was unnecessary. That after scoring three or four goals, Germany should have eased up. And merely coasted. Rather than keep rubbing it in. She saw Brazilian youth crying. Saddened. Grieving. Now it’s time for the Germans to get their comeuppance for what she deems an act of cruelty. Anyway, I’m pulling for Germany. Because I like sport played with a killer instinct. I wish that’s the way my Chicago Cubs played baseball. With swagger. With no qualms of conscience. If the opponent happens to be humiliated, so be it. Last night, the Cubs built a 5-0 lead over the Reds. Then apparently decided to coast. To be kind-hearted. Rather than humiliate the Reds. Instead, the Cubs were humiliated. They lost the game, 6-5. Time for the Cubs to recruit Germans. Players that play the game with a killer instinct. No mercy. No let up. No prisoners. --Jim Broede

I'm still in love...with the Cubs.

There’s more to life than winning a baseball game. True Cubs fans know that. They put life in perspective.  And see the humorous side of losing. They laugh about it. And get on with the rest of their lives. Many of us fall in love. With life. Really, the Cubs are only one small part of life.  I survive. As a Cubs fan. By finding solace in losing. The Cubs have invented endless ways to lose. They are masters at the craft. They lose every which way.  It’s uncanny. Just when I think they’ve found every way to lose – they amaze. And find still another way.  The Cubs are a team of unique destiny. Even when they are only five outs from the World Series, they lose.  Some fake Cubs fans take that as a heartbreak.  Really, it’s close to the ultimate success. Which will be losing when only one out, one strike away from the World Series.  All the more reason to get on with life. And relish the joy of losing. And telling one’s self, it’s merely a baseball game.  There have been so very, very many baseball games in my lifetime. And I have fond memories of ‘em all.  Win or lose. I’m still in love. With life.  And with the Cubs.--Jim Broede

Finally. Asking the key question.

I have interesting thoughts. Intriguing thoughts. Don’t I? That’s why you come to me. You like to eavesdrop. On my mind. You are curious. But you don’t dare share your thoughts. With me. Or. Perhaps with anyone. Maybe that’s the difference. Between the two of us. I’m not fearful. Of going naked. Into the world. I open up. With some of my innermost thoughts. Makes me wonder. Why I do this. And you don’t. Perhaps you do. But not with me. Anyway, I practice. Thinking out loud. With my friends. But with strangers, too.  My thoughts don’t have to be in writing. I blurt them out. To the stranger. Sitting next to me. Or that I bump into. On a solitary walk. Tonight. I approached a stranger. When I was disembodied.  In a dream. Seemed so fanciful. I inquired. About what’s going on. Seemed as though I was being inducted. Into another world.  I was being processed. Wondering. Wondering what comes next.  Feeling my way. Becoming acclimated. I stepped out of line. And shared my thoughts. With anyone that crossed my path. I was looking for clues. To discover. Where I am. It didn’t yet occur to me. To ask, who and what I am? So. That’s what I’m doing. Now.  –Jim Broede

Obama belongs in an ivory tower.

Barack Obama.  He’s too nice to be an effective president.  I made a mistake. Six years ago. In suggesting that Obama was the best politician to run the show. Thing is, he’s not a true politician. Instead, he’s a fake. A true politician is a son of a bitch. Nasty. Mean-spirited. Ruthless. A liar. A cheat. Willing to sell his soul. In order to get his agenda implemented. Republicans constantly slap Obama in the face. And Obama turns the other cheek. He doesn’t get angry. He merely accepts unjust criticism.  Makes me wonder. Why Obama entered the world of politics. When he has no aptitude for playing politics. He should be a college professor.  And live in an ivory tower. –Jim Broede

Back again. On Planet Earth.

I wonder. If people with dementia. With Alzheimer’s. Dream. In very perceptive ways.  Thinking. Thinking. Clearly. Because they are temporarily in the spiritual realm. Where they will arrive. Some day. To set up permanent residence.  A new reality.  Think. Think about it. When I enter the dream world. I often have deep and penetrating thoughts. That elude me.  When I am in the physical world.  But in the dream state, I have perhaps left my body. Entered another dimension. Unencumbered. In paradise. Until I awaken. And find myself. Back again. On Planet Earth. More physical than spiritual.--Jim Broede

A glimpse of paradise.

Sleep. Thinking how wonderful it is. To lapse into sleep. Did so. Tonight. Because I was tired. Didn’t bother turning off the lights. Or the computer. No need to make the usual preparations. For sleep. Better to just succumb. To the urge. To the pleasure. To  the tranquility. Of sleep.  Knowing the reward. The replenishment. That comes. By submitting. To the unconsciousness. Of sleep.  I know insomniacs. People cursed. With continuous thought. They lie awake. Denying themselves. One of life’s greatest stimulants. Really.  A break. A respite.  So they can begin life anew. Over and over   With a rested mind.  Now awakened. I’m aware. Of often leaving  my body.  Entering a dream world.  Catching a glimpse.  Of the spiritual realm. Paradise. –Jim Broede

Friends and acquaintances.

I have friends. To prove it. All I have to do is to go to Facebook. A handful of people are calling me friend. And I’m calling them friends, too. It’s reciprocal. But I’m puzzled. Don’t know what I’m supposed to do. As a friend. Is there some sort of friendly gesture? Friendly words? What if I start an argument? By taking  sharp issue with one of my friends. Is that to be condoned? Could it be construed as an unfriendly act?  Thing is, true friends probably wouldn’t let that bother them. They’ll be forgiving.  They accept each other. Sort of unconditionally.  If not, they probably never were friends. It was all a sham. Guess I draw a line. Between friendship. And true friendship. Same goes for love. Love is one thing. True love, another. I’ve had only two true loves in my lifetime. Makes me wonder, too. How many true friends have I had?  Maybe precious few.  Seems to me that it’s too easy. To call many of my associates friends. When really, they don’t qualify as true friends. More likely, mere acquaintances.  –Jim Broede

Bring me on, you Chicago Cubs.

My Chicago Cubs are going into a funk. I can tell. I sense those things. The negative vibes the team is emitting. Since their best two pitchers were traded Friday.  The Cubs had been on a roll. Winning four straight games. On the road, too.  They also had a winning record in their last 50 games or so. And they had a decent chance of reaching .500. For the season. If not for trading away their best talent. One of the pitchers didn’t have a good won-loss record. Winning only two of nine decisions. But he had an earned run average of less than three runs per game. I don’t necessarily base the player’s worth on his won-loss record or batting average. Just his presence. Can be a lift for team morale. Adds to the team chemistry. The flow.  That’s important in baseball. The way players interact with each other.  Cubs management has  decided to disrupt the chemistry. In exchange for possible long-term benefits. Getting young players with high potential. For the future. Not necessarily the wisest move – for the immediate now.  And for the rest of this season. Because some of the remaining  players seem disconsolate over the departures. Reason to go into a funk. The Cubs lost yesterday, 13-0. And today, it was worse. By 2-1. I say worse. Because that’s a game they should have won.  And might have. If the players had been in a better frame of mind.  Rather than a funk. Psychology has something to do with winning and losing. Especially in the game of baseball.  Really, the Cubs need a full-fledged, full-time team psychiatrist. They had  a part-time one. For a while. Anyway, I’m only an amateur at the psychological game. But I’m available. And I work for free. Bring me on, you Chicago Cubs. -- Jim Broede

A masterpiece. In my kitchen.

I’ve lived with brown kitchen cupboards. For years and years and years. Seems like forever. Enough. Enough. Enough. I finally decided. To go white. Something called old white. Painted the cupboards yesterday. With something called chalk paint. At the behest of my Italian true love. She’s a good influence. Encourages me to lighten up my life. In so very many ways. Including a lighter, more airy kitchen. All one needs do is change color. She’s coming over soon. From Sardinia. To spend the rest of the summer. With me. In Minnesota.  She’ll be pleased to see. The new look kitchen. Transformed. With a paint brush. I’m feeling like an artist. Van Gogh. Matisse. Picasso. I’ve borrowed their lighter sides. And created a masterpiece. In my kitchen. –Jim Broede

Another weird fantasy.

Let’s require everyone to have a personal religion. Designed for one’s personal needs. One wouldn’t be allowed to adopt a prescribed, ready-made  religion. Because that would be too easy. Requires too little thought. Of course, my approach won’t work. Because it would meet with resistance. People like to flock together.  And live by often idiotic rules. Shared beliefs. Makes them feel more like robots. They no longer have to think for themselves. Easier to say that one is a Christian or a Jew or a Muslim or a Hindu or a Buddhist. Or for that matter, an atheist. Better, it seems to me, if one decided to borrow a little bit of each. Of everything. A blend. That fits one’s natural and personal essence and spiritual needs. –Jim Broede

True believers.

Jeff Samardzija. Might have been the Chicago Cubs best, most talented pitcher. He was traded. Yesterday. To the Oakland Athletics. Along with the Cubs second best pitcher, Jason Hammel.  The deal. Doesn’t bother me. Because  both pitchers weren’t true believers. In the Cubs being a team of destiny. Instead, they see the Cubs as perennial losers. That especially goes for Samardzija. He had a 2-7 record this season. Despite a very low earned run average. Giving up less than three runs a game. But Samardzija was cursed. Because he didn’t fully believe that he and the Cubs could win. Couldn’t go all the way to the World Series in his lifetime.  Samardzija will be happier where he’s going. To a team with the best record in major league baseball.  Almost certain to be in the play-offs. Easier for Samardzija to be a true believer. In Oakland.  But still, he will miss the ultimate  grand prize. A few years from now. When the storybook Cubs. Go all the way. For the first time since 1908. Little wonder. I like the trade. The Cubs are seeking. Exactly what they need. Ball players. That qualify as true believers.  –Jim Broede

Little wonder. I'm called a dreamer.

Yes, I’m a dreamer. On this Fourth of July. A national holiday. I want my country, America, to welcome immigrants. From all over the world.  But especially from places where they live in horrible conditions. Politically. Socially. Economically. I want the immigrants to come by bus loads and plane loads.  I’d roll out the red carpets. And erect ‘welcome’ signs. I know. I know. This makes me an unwelcome American. Because many, many Americans, especially those of the politically conservative stripe, want to keep America for themselves. Even though their ancestors were immigrants. Fleeing from persecution and poverty and political plundering.  I suspect many of the modern-day immigrants merely want to survive. And live decent lives. They’ll settle for the basic necessities. For opportunities to pursue happiness. Those are nice goals. I’d establish government programs that help them along the way. The dividends would be immense. For the entire country. For all Americans. America would be setting an example for the rest of the world.  By serving the common good. Little wonder. I’m called a dreamer. –Jim Broede

As if it was just any other day.

Don’t particularly like holidays. Or anniversaries. Or celebrations. Because they are supposed to be special. Better than other so-called ordinary days. I’d rather live every day at the same level. In a calm, cool and collected way. Savoring whatever happens. Doesn’t have to be jubilantly. Just in an even-keel manner. Doesn’t have to be any special preparation.    Better to go with the natural flow. In my case, I happen to love life. The tranquility.   The occasional exuberance, too. But I stop short of doing double flips in mid-air. I’m more restrained. On the American Fourth of July, I can do without the fireworks. And the noise-making. The stupid stuff. I go about my business. As if it was just any other day. –Jim Broede

The nature of love.

Israelis and Palestinians. Why can’t they settle their differences? And live in peace and harmony. With each other. Seems like the ideal option. There must be Jews and Arabs that have fallen in love with each other. And live together. Even as married couples. If they can. Why not others?  Love comes about. In strange and mysterious ways. Sure beats hatred. I’d much rather love someone. Than hate. Matter of fact. To the best of my knowledge, I don’t hate anyone.  And I’ve had two true loves in a lifetime. Weren’t think-a-likes. Different thoughts. Different ways. Different ideologies. But still, we fell in love. We  gave each other balance. And acceptance.  Anyway, there’s no reason why Israelis and Palestinians can’t tolerate each other. Sure, it would be an odd match. If they fell in love. But that’s the nature of love. –Jim Broede

The myth of perfection.

Individuals. Real people. Extraordinary ones. They’ve entered my life. From time to time.  Including two true loves. Maybe that’s the nicest thing about life. True love. And even love that may be less than true. Less  than perfect. I don’t need perfection. To be happy.  Actually, I’m not sure what perfection is. Maybe it’s a myth. And perfection doesn’t exist. My true loves aren’t perfect. Neither am I. But we learned to accept each other. More or less unconditionally.  That’s the nature of true love.  Thing is. I’m not sure that I could accept a perfect being. –Jim Broede

The matter of loyalty.

I can be loyal to my true love and to a handful of friends. But to pledge unequivocal allegiance to any country – that’s asking for too much. A country is a country. A political entity. A conglomeration of lots of things.  Not nearly as personal as my true love and my chosen friends. I’m pro-American. Because I’m an American. But I’m not totally proud of my country. I oppose many of its actions. Including most wars and conflagrations. I dislike many American politicians. Especially Republicans. I spend much of my time living in Italy. With my Italian true love. I’m pro-Italy. If the American and Italian soccer teams had met in World Cup competition, I’d have rooted for Italy. On July 4th, I’ll be flying the Italian and Sardinia flags in my backyard.  I don’t own an American flag.  But if I did, I’d probably hoist it. Really, I consider myself a de facto citizen of the world. Though I am an American citizen. By birth. I wouldn’t mind holding dual citizenships. If there was such a thing as world citizenship, I’d apply for it. Immediately.--Jim Broede

My annoying ways.

I annoy people. More than I please people. And that’s all right. Because my mission in life stops short of being a pleaser. Maybe I was brought up. To be a people-pleaser. To please my mother. If no one else. Though she would have liked me to be a pleaser. In general. To obey the rules of society.  To do things the conventional way. But I was born to be a misfit. A maverick. Unconventional. For me, that meant doing what comes naturally. No matter the rules. Discovered soon. That I like to write. About my feelings. About right and wrong.  About life, period. And if people didn’t like the way I expressed myself – well, then that was their problem.  I was entitled to my opinion. I even had the right to become a fool. And to poke fun at people. Including myself. And I questioned everything. The stuff I was being taught.  Much of it was malarkey. Lies. Fabrications. Distortions. I was being hoodwinked. At first, I didn't know it. Being a naive youngster. I was duped for a while. Until maybe after I got out of the third grade. By the sixth grade, I was publishing my own neighborhood newspaper. Reported neighborhood scandals and other goings-on. Much of it in satirical vein.  Yes, knew then that I was destined to be a newspaper reporter.  With a goal of stirring  controversy. And not caring if that happened to annoy people. –Jim Broede

Forever.

I complain. A whole lot. About stuff. Politics. Economic matters. Social issues. But still, I’m in love. With life. Every day. I’m happy. To be alive. And conscious. And able to enjoy the pleasures of life. But I do understand. Why some people are tired of living. They’ve had enough.  It’s too painful. Unbearable. They welcome death.  Lord knows. I may be in that position some day.  But I’ll do it. With a vision. With the dream of a romantic idealist. Of better times to come. A new form of life. A new dimension. Merely because that’s the way I want it to be. No other reason. Not because of religious belief. Just because…that’s my choice. I want to experience the pleasure of love. Forever. Not for a mere moment. –Jim Broede

Was Methuselah dementia-riddled?

I would have hated to die in my 40s, 50s or 60s. In the so-called prime of my life. And most likely, I won’t ever be enthused about dying. Particularly if I’m healthy. But I suppose death will be easier to take. In my 80s or 90s. Or beyond 100. Because by then I’ll have outlasted most people. Beaten the odds. It’s too bad that I can’t live as long as Methuselah. That is, if he was real. And not mythical. Imagine stretching out one’s physical life for 900-plus years.  How can that be?  If there was a real Methuselah, I’d have liked to interview him. To determine if he had a favorite time. Maybe it was around his 400th birthday. When he started to edge into middle age.  I suppose he nudged into senior citizen status around the 750th year. Makes me wonder, too, if he was ever riddled by dementia. –Jim Broede

Crazy. In funny ways.

Some people fear me. Because they don’t know me. I find that amusing. Downright entertaining. To think. That I am feared. They think of me as an enemy. Out to make them look ridiculous. Because I poke fun. Especially at those of a conservative persuasion. Thing is. There’s no ill intent. I’m kindly. Rather than mean.  I’m friend. Not foe. That’s my nature. Can’t help it. Because I’m in love. With life. I like to engage people. In talk. Mostly, philosophical discussion.  In the process, I can easily be taken as Crazy Jim. Yes, it’s true. I am crazy. I try to be crazy. In delightful and funny ways.  –Jim Broede

We're all closed-minded.

I admit it. I’m prejudiced. Against the conservative leaning majority. On the U.S. Supreme Court. They’re closed-minded. From my perspective as a far-out liberal. Politically. Socially. Economically.  In almost all walks of life.  I am a devout liberal. I can hardly wait. For the conservatives to be replaced. By liberals. Of course, I’m deemed as closed-minded. By conservatives. But hey, I’m not any more closed-minded than they. It’s only that I’m closed-minded in the other direction. Meanwhile, I accept life. Pretty much as it is. Because many of the conservative decisions don’t really affect me directly.  I still go about  my business. Of living in a liberal manner.  I spout liberal thoughts. I poke fun at conservatives. At the risk of being persecuted. But then. I have the option of seeking refuge. In another country. In Sardinia. With my Italian true love. By the way, in the city in Sardinia. Where I reside. There are communists on the city council. And the main street is named after the late Antonio Gramsci. One of my heroes. A communist. –Jim Broede

Color has everything to do with it.

If Barack Obama’s skin color could be magically changed. So that he passed as lily white. He’d probably be better received. By white zealot Republicans. But maybe it’s too late for re-coloring. Because Obama would still be remembered by bigots. As the son of a black father and a white mother. Amazing, isn’t it? Why that makes a difference. When it shouldn’t. Unfortunately, racial bias has been engrained. In the conservative American psyche. There’s a longing among so many, many white Americans for the good old days. When blacks knew their subservient place in apartheid society.  When they knew. Beyond a doubt. That they would never become president of the United States of America. That they had better settle for being cotton pickers.  And only 60 percent equal to white humans. Little wonder that Republicans don’t want immigration reform.  Most immigrants aren’t lily white. Therefore, they don’t deserve fair and humane treatment. –Jim Broede