No death wish for me.

My brother Bruce ended his life. Six years ago today. On his birthday. Bruce died accidentally. Though I suspect it was more. He fell  in the bathroom. And cracked his skull.  Bruce was in declining health. And seems to me that he had a death wish. He wanted to die. He was ready to die. So many ways to commit suicide. And still make the death look natural. Or accidental. Our father committed suicide. No doubt about it. As for mother, she was ready to die, too. At age 88. She had enough of life. And was blessed with a strong will. Possibly, she willed herself to die. Meanwhile, I’m in love. With life. I wish to live forever. –Jim Broede  

We are both in love. With life.

My Italian true love flew back to Italy yesterday. After six weeks with me. In Minnesota. Before winter arrives, I’ll join her. In Sardinia. An island. In the Mediterranean Sea. Some 120 miles off the Italian boot. It’s a nice arrangement. We flit back and forth. Enjoying the best of two worlds. Together. On Oct. 25, we will celebrate our 7th anniversary. A loving relationship. That started when we met on the Alzheimer’s message boards. We pursue our independent lives.  One way or another. In the flesh. In each others' homeland. But even when we are apart, we still connect. Every day. On Skype. And by love letters. Yes, we are living in a very modern and sophisticated age. Makes it possible to fly back and forth. In a few hours. And to communicate.  Instantly. Electronically.  It’s a rare day when we don’t see each other. Or converse. She teaches English and English literature. I’m a combination of things. A romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer, a writer. Nicest thing about the relationship. We are both in love. With life.  –Jim Broede

Better finding love late than never.

Life that ends happily. That’s my favorite scenario. For a long, long time I thought my sister would live unhappily. From beginning to end. But I could play god. In a work of fiction. And make Babs finally find true happiness.  Fortunately, I won’t have to play god. Babs has found a way to happiness. On her own. With no make-believe assist from me. Because she’s quit drinking. And smoking, too. Cold turkey. Eight years ago. She’s feeling good. Not only physically. But about herself.  Babs and I had been more or less estranged. With each other. For most of our lives. I had pretty much given up on Babs. Oh, we tried. But nothing seemed to work. And we pursued our own lives. Without much contact.   Love for my sister was conditional. She had to quit drinking. And maybe go in for psychotherapy. Some might call it tough love. But I don’t. It was an absence of  love. Anyway, Babs has done what I always wanted her to do. To make a choice. To find a way to live happily. In love. With life. Now we are sister and brother again. Better finding love (and each other) late than never. –Jim Broede

If I had stayed in Watertown.

Watertown, Wisconsin. Used to call the place home. When I was a school-aged kid. Left when I was 17. After graduating from Watertown High School. In 1953. Seldom returned. Maybe the last time was in the 1970s.  That is, until last Wednesday. When I passed through. Stayed for only a couple hours. And was delighted. Because Watertown seemed like it hadn’t changed since the 1950s. The old neighborhoods. Just the same. Even my house. At 132 Riverlawn Avenue. I half-expected the house to have been demolished and replaced by something modern.  But no, there it was. Just as I had left it. My Italian true love was with me. She insisted. Getting out of the car. To take a picture.  While I kept muttering, ‘My god, my god. The place hasn’t changed.’ It was like stepping 60 years into the past. Like I had never left. A weird feeling. I drove down Riverlawn. Past Duffy Street. Then up the Ruth Street hill.  Not a single house was missing. They were all there. All the same. I called out the names of people who used to live in those homes. Friends. Neighbors. Most, if not all, gone by now. Wouldn’t surprise me if a few remained. Living their entire lives in Watertown. Made me wonder. Who and what would I be. If I had stayed in Watertown. –Jim Broede

Good enough for me.

Sure, the world can be viewed as a negative place. So many bad things. Happening. But I’m choosing to be a Pollyanna. In my niche. My little corner. A cocoon, of sorts. I try to isolate myself. From the bad stuff. Can’t do it entirely. But still, I remain focused mostly on the good stuff. Such as being in love. With my Italian true love. And with life in general. Some folks suggest that I have little grasp of reality.  But what do they know? I’m really the sane one. They’re crazy.  I was put on Earth to raise myself above the turmoil. To fulfill my roles as romantic idealist, spiritual free-thinker, political liberal, lover, dreamer, writer. I’m living it all. Today. At this moment. That’s good enough for me. –Jim Broede

A much better pursuit.

Used to be that I was outraged. By senseless killings. But now I’m more emotionally aloof. Maybe it’s the recognition that I can’t do anything about it. That senseless killings are a part of everyday life. And what good is it going to do? For me to become outraged. That American journalist. Decapitated. Just for the hell of it. Though the guy that did it claims it’s for a cause.  To make a point. Don’t make trouble, America,  for a goofy righteous religious cause.  Then there’s the unarmed black teenager gun downed by a white police officer in Ferguson, Missouri.  Possible racial overtones in that one. But hey, that’s America.  This is a violent nation. And a violent world, too. Maybe we all should be outraged by the unending violence. But to tell the truth, I’ve given up on being outraged. It’s a waste of my time. Instead, I’m focused on being in love.  That’s a much better pursuit.  –Jim Broede

Alzheimer's is best forgotten.

Ron isn’t Ron any more. It’s been that way for a long time. But still, those close to Ron, cling to him. Because they see traces of the old Ron. They are reminded of what Ron used to be. When he was a research scientist for 3M Co. When Ron was an inventor of the amalgam used to fill teeth. Ron was more or less born with a scientific mind.  He thought of everything in scientific terms. Even in the realm of his emotional life. He took the scientific approach. Calculated. Reasoned. Or so I’m told. I came on the scene late. After Ron was riddled with Alzheimer’s. But I’ve been educated. By Ron’s daughter Julie. And his son in law Rick. They’ve been Ron’s primary care-givers. For six years. In their home.  Now Ron is in rehab. Recovering from a broken neck. Repaired by fusion. Somewhat heroic methods. To keep Ron alive. Maybe for only a few more months. Ron is being admired. Almost revered. For his will to live. To survive. As a semblance of the real Ron. That used to be. Anyway, after Ron dies, we’ll all remember Ron as the Ron prior to Alzheimer’s. Just like my dear sweet Jeanne. She died after a 13-year bout with Alzheimer’s. But I don’t remember much about that. Better to focus on the good times. And recognize that Alzheimer’s is best forgotten.  –Jim Broede

An appropriate diversion.

Not good. To become emotionally distraught.  Over sad happenings. Better to get on with life. In a relaxed manner. Without fretting too much. That’s what President Obama did. He played a round of golf shortly after he declared himself ‘heartbroken’ over the brutal murder of American journalist James Foley. Some of Obama’s critics suggested he should have been grieving in a more appropriate (anguished) way.  But I’m with Obama on this one. It’s all right to postpone the grieving. And become immersed in an activity that diverts one’s mind from the horror of reality. –Jim Broede

The easiest thing in the world.

My Italian true love dislikes the weather. Overcast. Cool. Here in Minnesota. In August.  But it makes no difference to me. Because I am in love. With her. With life. I’m reminded of when we were traveling. In Scotland.  And the weather on the moors was damp and cool. Seemed so perfect. Because that’s the way it was supposed to be. I take perceived imperfection. And make perfection. So easy. So easy. So easy. The easiest thing in the world. –Jim Broede

A delightful journey.

I’ve been on a 100-foot journey. To a delightful movie by that name. And it was made even more delightful. Because with me were my delightful Italian true love and her delightful friend Giovanna. Maybe that’s what I like most about life. The delightful aspects. Turns out I’m delighted most days. Often in multiple ways. That happened with this movie.  Not only with the enchanting story line and fine acting (especially by Helen Mirren), but by the locale. Two restaurants, in rural France, across the street from each other, a distance of 100 feet.  Really, that’s what I enjoyed the most.  The setting. I spent a delightful  afternoon in the South of  France. In Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val.  Without even leaving Minnesota. –Jim Broede

My Mexican bathroom.

My bathroom has taken on a new look. Orange walls. Green accessories. Really, it looks Mexican.  I like the color scheme. Picked by my Italian true love. We’ve spent the past two days. Armed with paint brushes. Amazing. How colors can change the character of a bathroom. Now the plan is to bring in a mariachi band. Of course, that would make the bathroom a bit crowded. And not very private. So I’ll settle for a CD player. For mariachi accompaniment to my robust singing in the shower. –Jim Broede

Far better than being president.

Barack Obama lacks a temper. Or so it seems to me. Don’t know if that’s a good trait, or a bad one. If I were president, I’d try to cool it. Most of the time. But Obama cools it all of the time. Republicans mistreat and belittle Obama virtually every day. And Obama takes it. In relatively easy-going stride. Like a cool cat.  He doesn’t fight back. He just gets on with life. Probably has a nice dinner. With his family.  Reads a book. And goes to bed. And sleeps soundly and peacefully.  For eight hours. Not the least bit perturbed about the day’s actions and events. He knows that presidents are subjected to criticism. So he takes it. Even the unjustified kind. And doesn’t get the least bit bitter. Figuring that whatever will be, will be. I like that style of life. But it’s an ill-suited style for the president of the United States. Makes me think that Obama missed his calling. He should have been a college professor. Teaching a course on how not to be the president. Far better than being president.   –Jim Broede

Into something truly meaningful.

My Italian true love. Has ideas. For projects. All around the house. That’s fine with me. Because she has mostly good ideas. Ways to lighten up the house. To make it look more Scandinavian design. With a little Italian touch, too. I’m all for change. I’m willing to be enlightened. To see things in different ways. Now she’s talking about projects for next year. Next summer. That’s a good and welcome sign. Because she apparently recognizes that it would be foolish to try to do everything now.  Better to proceed slowly. Yes, to live life slowly. Not to try to do everything at once. Enjoy the feast of life. Not by gorging one’s self. But savoring it all. A morsel at a time. Even when we go sightseeing, I want to schedule very little. I’d rather see one or two things. Rather than 10. To savor what I’m seeing. Without having to rush off to the next site. And I hardly ever use my camera any more. Instead, I store the experience in my memory. My mind. And I write about it later. Time and time again. Because I keep discovering something. A new twist. I allow life experiences to percolate. Into something truly meaningful. –Jim Broede  

To savor being alive and conscious.

Fame and fortune. I’d not want either one. Watching others. Deal with it. That’s close enough for me. I’m not rich. Nor poor. Not well-known. Have only a few friends. And a true love. That’s good enough. For me. Keeps me content. Satisfied. Happy.  I feel comfortable. In my own little world. In my own skin. Away from the masses. I abhor crowds. I could live on a desert island. Preferably with my true love.  With no fame. No fortune. Instead, give me good health. A long life. To savor being alive and conscious. And in love. –Jim Broede

With no need for a crying room.

My granddaughter Erikka has three kids. Ages 2, 4 and 6.  And they are wonderful. Fortunately, I’m still a decent great grandfather. Mostly because I see the youngsters only now and then. Adjusting to a daily dose of young children would be difficult.  I was able to handle it in my younger days. It’s not my forte any more. At age 78, I want peace and quiet. Without having to tend to children. Except occasionally. When I’m rested and in a position to truly enjoy children. For a day, that is.  Certainly not for a week. Of course, I had no qualms being with Erikka when she was growing up. Time to teach Erikka how to stop crying. When the tears flowed, she was dispatched to the crying room. Welcome to return to our gathering only when she stopped crying. Maybe that’s why she’s blossomed into a superb mother who’s learned to take life in stride. With no need for a crying room. --Jim Broede

An endless stream.

My best days are spent thinking  In a slow and casual manner. Thinking about virtually anything. Some day soon, I want to schedule an entire day. Of doing nothing else but think, think, think Endlessly. Non-stop. For 24 hours. I could do it. But only if I proceeded ever so slowly. It’s difficult for me to think. When I’m in a hurry. Easier for me to walk a marathon. So much easier than running.  Another thing. I could walk all day. At a leisurely pace, of course. And probably think at the same time. But it’s far easier preserving my thoughts, when I’m sitting at the computer. Writing my blog, or whatever. Otherwise, I would forget many thoughts. Too many to remember. I tend to remember only the thoughts that I deem important and significant. But by the next day, the significant thoughts may lose their significance. To be replaced by new and more fascinating thoughts.  An endless stream. –Jim Broede

Maybe Ron was misdiagnosed.

Makes me wonder. If Alzheimer’s is misdiagnosed. More often than one might think. Take my so-called Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. I say so-called. Because I have doubts that Ron has Alzheimer’s. No doubt, he has dementia. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he has Alzheimer’s. Unfortunately, it’s too easy to construe many, many kinds of dementia as Alzheimer’s. That’s too often a serious mistake. Alzheimer’s is more or less incurable and untreatable. But some dementia can be dealt with. And often treated. Effectively. Maybe that’s happening with 86-year-old Ron. A retired research scientist. He fell. Broke his neck. And underwent fusion surgery to repair the break. It was a delicate and risky procedure. But amazingly, Ron has come out of it. Looking and feeling better than he has for a long, long time. He’s alert. Conversing. Some on the scene call it a miracle. I don’t. Instead, it could be that the break and the subsequent surgery cured Ron of a congenitally deformed neck. And the repair job  increased the flow of blood to Ron’s brain.  Eureka! Ron is functioning better. Mentally. Physically. I chatted with Ron. In his hospital room. He understood my words, my questions. He answered. Directly. Succinctly. He smiled. But mostly, it was his alert and penetrating eyes. They spoke to me. Ron was communicating. That maybe he was misdiagnosed. –Jim Broede

To hell with the political realm.

My best guess. Most people don’t have time for politics. Therefore, they don’t participate. Or even understand the issues. Don’t know if that’s good or bad. The goodness comes from having an inclination to live life without much concern about politics. Instead, other more important things take precedent. Leaving politics to the politicians. And getting on with the rest of life. I happen to take an interest in politics. Because I covered politics when writing for newspapers. I had to educate myself. On political matters. On the ways of politicians. Fortunately, I’m retired. I still pay attention to politics. But  not as avidly as before. Furthermore, it’s obvious that I have virtually no political influence. Like most people.  Political elections and political outcomes will be the same. No matter whether I’m alive or dead. So I’ve learned acceptance. Even if I don’t like it. Better to focus my life on things over which I have some semblance of control. Such as my love life.  My relationship with my Italian true love. Means I’m gonna be happy. Because I wear blinders. So that I can focus totally on her. And to hell with the political realm. –Jim Broede

Peace. In an unexpected place.

I was about to write off downtown Menomonie. A small town in western Wisconsin. When I stumbled across a college  campus. Stout, a polytechnic university. A branch of the University of Wisconsin. I fell in love with Stout. Because the students were gone. A summer recess. All was quiet. Except for a bell tower. That chimed every 15 minutes. And nice winding walkways. Sprinklers, too. Turned on to keep the grass green. Park benches. One in the shade. Where I found refuge from the sun.  I wandered. From one ivory tower to another. Older buildings. Probably erected in the late 19th century. And a mix of modern buildings.  My Italian true love and her friend Giovanna were more interested in the commercial stores. Along Main Street. That was all right. With me. I was on the Stout campus. Didn’t matter if the gals shopped all day. And all night. I had found cherished peace and tranquility.  In an unexpected place. –Jim Broede    

Disappointment. In Chippewa Falls.

Chippewa Falls. Sounds like a nice place to visit. To see a spectacular waterfall.  Never had been there before. Anyway, I’m disappointed. There is no waterfall.  Merely a man-made dam. I wanted Mother Nature’s hand-carved creation.  I knew a fellow once. From Chippewa Falls. A long, long time ago. By the name Jim Smith. About my age. Made me wonder, if he’s lived long enough. To retire. Maybe back to Chippewa Falls. Thinking. That maybe our paths would cross.  Maybe they did. Without me knowing  it. Another disappointment. In Chippewa Falls. –Jim Broede

The making of one's day.

Rob and Jenny. Two strangers. Riding a motorcycle. On the Great River Road. Along the Mississippi River. Near Wabasha. In Minnesota. They stop at a scenic overlook. To see bald eagles. Soaring in the sky.  Now there are five of us. My Italian true love. Her friend Giovanna. Observing. Conversing. An unlikely linkage. Of people. In a single moment of time. For some unknown reason. A memorable experience. Something to savor. That’s all it takes. To feel alive. An unlikely chance encounter. That makes one’s day. –Jim Broede

A quest for a higher reality.

A wolf. Pacing back and forth. At the Minnesota State Zoo.  Reminded me of myself. I do the same. Frequently. In order to stay in the shade. On a sunny day.  Because I want to stay in motion. And avoid sunburn. And to remain relatively cool. But mostly, I’m thinking. And getting lost. In a rhythm.  Maybe it’s similar to a swimmer. Swimming one lap after another. Fifty laps. Anyway, it’s apparent. I’m a wolf. A lone wolf. Pacing.  Pacing. Pacing. In a zoo. Being observed.  By a higher form of life.  Without really knowing it. Because I’m wrapped up. In my own little world. Oblivious of the observers. Wondering if I’ll ever experience a higher reality. Where I am the one and only true observer. Of creation. –Jim Broede

On being real and human.

Call me a failure.  An incompetent. A loser. Won’t bother me.  Because I either know better. Or accept what I am. I’m pretty good.  At lots of things. But not so good at others. And above all else, I don’t mind failing. Making mistakes.  That’s my nature. Being myself. Maybe that’s why I’ve never had bouts of depression. I feel good. About myself.  Doesn’t matter if some people say bad stuff about me. I can take criticism. Even if it ain’t legitimate. After all, being misjudged is a part of life. I accept life. As it is. Maybe because I’m in love.  Not only with my Italian true love. But with life in general. I’d much rather be alive than dead.  At the end of each day. Before going to bed.  I sit down and write. An evaluation of each day. And no matter what, I always find something to savor. Even if it was a somewhat bad day.  Often reminding myself of what I’ve become. A romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. A writer  and thinker, too.  That’s a nice blend. Sure, I could be more. A complete success. Totally competent. Always a winner.  But that would make me less real, less human. –Jim Broede

My nervous friends.

Several friends tell me I make them nervous. But I’m not buying it. Instead, they make themselves nervous. It’s their choice to become uneasy. They don’t have to. I confess. I get nervous, too. Not very often. But when I do. I’m totally to blame.  I choose to get into a dither. I don’t have to.  I have friends that are natural born Nervous Nellies and Nervous Neds. And it’s silly to blame me for their plight. They have the ability to reform. To seek help. To take life in stride. No need ever for a nervous breakdown. I have a habit of psychoanalyzing friends. Maybe that’s cause for nervousness. With a few friends. But most see the humorous side of analysis. And don’t take me or themselves too seriously.  –Jim Broede

Putting life into his own hands.

Robin Williams. Found dead. Apparent suicide.  Every time I hear of one. Makes me wonder. Why?  In my lifetime. Many suicides. Of people I knew. Or thought I knew. And maybe didn’t. Including my father. I’ve concluded. That many of the suicides were for legitimate reasons. Mostly, unhappiness. With life. I’ve never contemplated taking my own life. Maybe because I’m happy. Or able to fool myself into thinking so. But hey, I can imagine other people being chronically unhappy. In so-called depression. I’m lucky. No bouts of depression.  I refuse to become depressed. By having multiple ways of turning unhappiness into happiness. Call me an expert. In cultivating happiness and joy and pleasure.  But I have no objection to other people taking their own lives. If that’s their choice. So be it. Some people just don’t want to live. For a variety of reasons. Some legitimate. Doesn’t surprise me when someone in the early stages of Alzheimer’s opts for suicide.  Or someone dreadfully ill decides he’s had enough of life. And doesn’t want to cope with the pain any more. In the case of my dad, he was in mental pain. In depression, I suppose. He didn’t want to put up with it any more. So he ended his life. That took an act of courage, it seems to me. Though some would say he was a coward. For not facing life. But that was exactly what he was doing. Facing life. Putting life into his own hands. –Jim Broede

With words. With thoughts.

Music. Music. Music. Wonderful music. All on Sunday. Starting in the afternoon. An Irish band. Altan.  At an Irish Fest. On Harriet Island. In the Mississippi River. In St. Paul, Minnesota. So superb.  That we (my Italian true love and her friend Giovanna) came back two days in a row.  To savor, savor, savor. I’d go to Ireland or anywhere to listen to this group. They perform all over the world. Two fiddlers, a guitarist, bouzouki and accordion players and a singer.  Wow! Wow! Wow! I wanted 100 encores. Got only one.  Therefore, we settled for concluding the day. At the St. Paul Civic Center. For concerts by Santana and Rod Stewart. Good. Good. Good. But not as superb as Altan. Meanwhile, the Italians got fully carried away. Everywhere.  They appreciate all kinds of music. That’s the nature of Italians. They get into the flow. And I mean gyrating flow. Two days later they are still gyrating. Rocking and rolling. I’m more subdued. More contained. But still, I’m more emotional.  Than they. With words. With thoughts. –Jim Broede

Pursuing a favorite pastime.

Wandering aimlessly. Through small towns. With  my Italian true love. And her friend Giovanna. It’s become my favorite pastime. Great company. And good times. Yesterday. It was Cambridge. No, not the famous town in England. But eastern Minnesota. Off the beaten track. Away from the freeways. Where several thousand souls call Cambridge their home.  The outskirts have been taken over by big box stores. But Cambridge still has a flourishing downtown. Nice little homey businesses. Herman’s Bakery. Where I latched on to peach strudel, cinnamon and walnut caramel breads and apple kolacky. Then a visit for lunch. At the People’s Café. Where we engaged in conversation for several hours.  And had homemade soup and an afternoon breakfast. The café was too cold for the Italian lasses. I like cool, cool air-conditioning. But the waitress turned off the cold air flow. For a while.  To accommodate the Italian visitors.  All in all, it was a pretty cool day. Pursuing a favorite pastime. For all of us, really. –Jim Broede

Not knowing one is supposed to die.

My Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron refuses to die. Doesn’t matter that he’s got a broken neck. Surgeons fused the break together today. And they expect Ron to recover. Physically, that is. He’s an 86-year-old wonder.  His vital signs are like those of a teenager. If Ron didn’t have Alzheimer’s, he’d probably live to 100. I was a pessimist. Thinking that Ron’s number was up. No way would he survive the delicate surgery. But what do I know?  Not much, apparently.  I also assumed that Ron wanted to die. But his primary care-givers, daughter Julie and son-in-law Rick, have always thought otherwise. They say that Ron instinctively craves for life. No matter the difficult and painstaking circumstances. Could be, they are right. And that Ron has learned to live with Alzheimer’s. That it’s better than being dead. Indeed, a hard concept for me to fully buy into. But then, maybe that’s an advantage that comes with Alzheimer’s. Not knowing that one is supposed to die. –Jim Broede  

My shameful day.

I people watch. Maybe that makes me a spy. They probably don’t know I’m watching. Did it today. At an Irish Festival. In St. Paul. Most of the watching was at an outdoor concert. By a small Irish band. Called Altan. Very, very good music. I looked around. At people. A guy with a beard. Reminded me of pictures I’d seen. Of famous author Leo Tolstoy. I felt like asking him. How long did it take to grow such a long and rich beard? But I didn’t. Then there was a woman. Attractive. Bespectacled. Big walking boots. A bulging brown back-pack. Hanging below her waist.  A camera, too.  Focused on the band. Maybe she was 50. Closely-cropped salt-and-pepper colored hair. She was alone. I spotted a ring. On her left hand.  Maybe a wedding ring. Wished I had approached. To start a conversation. To satisfy my curiosity. Next, a one-legged man zoomed past. On crutches. Faster than I walk on two legs.   The entire leg was gone. All the way to the groin. No doubt, he had a story to tell.  If only I had asked. Yes, it was a shameful day. For me.  Didn't even collect their names. –Jim Broede

Life is what I want life to be.

A novelist. Has the option of playing god. That’s what I do. I don’t write the novel. But I live it. By romanticizing my life.  That’s tantamount to playing god. I have had two true loves. My wife of 38 years. Until she died of Alzheimer’s. And now my Italian true love. For the past seven years. I divide my time. Between Italy and America. And I write. Not novels. But about happenings. About me. And the people around me. And I give almost everything a romantic twist. I define friend. And foe. Sometimes, I pretend. And make people what they aren’t. Depending on my mood. And my desire. Yes, it is a little like playing god. And why not?  It makes for an interesting life. Allows me to create. That’s really the essence of god. The creator. I have created god. From within. In my fertile imagination.  God is what I want god to be. Same goes for life. Life is what I want life to be. –Jim Broede  

Presto! God comes into being.

I like to play god. It’s not good enough for me to ask, ‘What would Jesus do?’  Instead, I bypass Jesus and all the other religious leaders. From every faith. And ask not only what god would do. But what god should do. I do that, by playing god. Pretending that I am god. Nothing wrong with that. Helps me exercise my imagination. I figure that god uses his imagination. And wants me to do the same. With mine. Maybe that’s why he gave me an imagination. Or maybe he didn’t. And he’s pissed. Because I have one. But really, god may be impressed. By my acting ability. By playing a complex god.  Certainly, I have the wherewithal. The talent. To decide what’s best for the world. For all of creation. Because I have been endowed. By god himself. With great perception. Of course, I’m trying to be funny. To some extent. But also, one must have a gigantic ego. To be. Or to play god. It takes some daring. Because god may conclude that I’m usurping his authority. And I’ll be put in my place. Taught a rude lesson. But I’m pretending that god is kindly. A true god of love. A god that really doesn’t want to interfere with the ways of mankind. It’s a possibility that mankind existed even prior to the birth of god. And it was mankind that created/invented god. Imagine that. All  it takes. A vivid imagination. Presto!  God comes into being. –Jim Broede

Winona can wait.

Our intention was to spend the day in Winona, Minnesota. Sightseeing. All that stuff. But we never got there. Because on the way. We discovered the small Mississippi River towns of Prescott, Red Wing and Wabasha. Winona will have to wait. For another day. Another time. I like the unexpected. Such as stopping at a scenic overlook. And sighting eight bald eagles. Gliding in criss-crossing fashion. In the sky. Above the river. Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. We were in awe. My Italian true love. Her friend Giovanna. And wide-eyed me.  We learned that Minnesota has over 1,300 active eagle nests. Second only to Alaska in the USA. Information abounds. At the National Eagle Center in Wabasha. Where live eagles reside. Injured. Beyond full rehabilitation. Unable to fly.  But there they are. Tethered. Almost in arm’s reach. Felt like I had entered their nests. For the opportunity to commune. Little wonder. That Winona can wait. –Jim Broede

Better than a lingering death.

My Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron is hanging in there. Refusing to die. Despite a broken neck. He acts like he wants to get out of his hospital bed. And go for another walk. He’s being restrained. And fed sedatives. Because when he struggles against restraints, his pulse rate soars to 150 beats per minute. That ain’t good.   His primary care-givers – daughter Julie and son-in-law Rick – are prepared to take measures to keep Ron alive. Because they think he can still find pleasure in living. Albeit, limited pleasure. I’m not so sure about that. I suspect that Ron would prefer to die. Without wasting another day. But then, Julie and Rick probably know Ron better than I. Ron doesn’t have a quality life any more. Of course, that’s merely my opinion. If I were the merciful and all-powerful creator, I’d let Ron die. Sooner than later. Better than a lingering death with a depleted mind. –Jim Broede

An all-too-obvious act of suicide.

I know someone. With diabetes. And she’s committing suicide. Slowly. It may take another five or six years. She eats  too  much. Exercises too little. She’s obese. But also a lovely human being. I wish she’d choose to live. To savor the real meaningful stuff of life. Instead, she gorges herself. On food.  Tells me she’s enjoying life. But I suspect otherwise.  Because she knows. That she’s on a deadly path. No, she isn’t in love with life. Only pretends. To be happy. Of course, she could turn things around. If she faced the truth. And  truly fell in love. With life.  She’s a friend. And I’m remiss. In not doing something constructive about it. Instead, I watch.  An all-too-obvious act of suicide.  –Jim Broede  

No such thing as perfect care.

My Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron may have wandered away once too often. Possibly for the last time. He’s in a hospital. In intensive care. With a broken neck. He was found. On a road. A mile from his home. Apparently having fallen. Ron liked to walk. Often. With me. He was in no condition to walk alone.  Unfortunately, that didn’t stop Ron from sneaking away. When  he wasn’t being watched.  And that happened. On Tuesday.  Yes, another sad turn of events.  Seems almost inevitable. Because there is no such thing as perfect care in the Alzheimer realm. Maybe examples of half-way decent care. But nobody has yet figured out how to protect the Alzheimer-afflicted from themselves. –Jim Broede

No matter my age.

Aging. I think about it. Not a lot. But I look around me. And often, I’m the oldest guy in sight. I’m 78. Soon to turn 79. When I see 80 year old guys, they aren’t always in the best of shape.  And those that reach 90 – well, they aren’t exactly spry.  But worst of all, many of ‘em are plagued by dementia. The one good thing for me. At 78, I’m still able to walk 10 miles. Daily. And write. Maybe stupid stuff. But that’s better than nothing. And I have an Italian true love. She’s younger than me. But I joke. By reminding her that woman age faster than men. Anyway. Today is today. And I’m happy to be a thriving romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover and a dreamer. No matter my age. –Jim Broede

The quaint and unusual.

Pine City. Sounds like a nice place. With lots of pine trees.  But turns out that Pine City is nondescript. Too ordinary to suit my taste. Normally, I like small towns. And Pine City is small. Along Interstate 35 in Minnesota.  The Chamber of Commerce won’t like me. For not liking Pine City. Though before I left on Saturday, I was lucky. To have wandered into Sauser’s Hardware store. Located off Main Street.  Been in business for 105 years. Run by the same family all that time. Grandfather, father, son, grandson. I bought two light bulbs. And the purchase was rung up on a 105-year-old silver-plated cash register. An original. Meanwhile, I took notice that much of Main Street was lined with lawn chairs. Maybe 1,000 or so. Of all colors and shapes and designs.  Thought for a while that maybe there was a unique lawn chair festival going on. Not so. A parade in conjunction with The Pine County Fair was going to traipse through town in a few hours. And townsfolk had their personal reserved seats ready and waiting. But I didn’t stick around. Instead, my choice was to drive 20 miles to the east. Into Wisconsin. To the small town of Grantsburg. With a tiny downtown. Including a café. Where I wanted to catch lunch. Unfortunately, everything was closed. Grantsburg shuts down on weekends. Open for business only Mondays through Fridays. Makes the town a little quaint and unusual. Now I’m looking for a small town that stays open only on weekends. If you know of any, please tell me.  –Jim Broede

Facing the truth.

I’m doing too much. And know it. But it’s difficult. Reining myself in. I have yet to fully learn. To pursue life in moderation. Which means. Drawing the line. Doing only so much. And letting everything else slide. Yesterday, I failed to post a single thread in my blog. A signal that I’m doing far too much. Because I didn’t make time. For my precious blog. Instead, I was out gallivanting.   With my Italian true love. And her close personal friend Giovanna. And tending to my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. So that his usual care-givers could get respite at a Paul McCartney concert. Yes, all worthwhile endeavors. But my busy schedule didn’t give me time to pursue my daily exercise regimen, or to think and write. That’s bad. For me. Takes me out of my usual rhythm. And makes me more mistake-prone. I screw up. Maybe not in spectacular or grievous ways. But still, I make mistakes that I shouldn’t ordinarily make. Because I don’t take time to get my act together. Others may not know it. But I do. I mismanaged the day. I’m not supposed to say this. Especially. Here. In my blog.  Because it’s public. Anyone can read it. And assume – erroneously -- that I am lamenting. But that’s not so. Instead, I am facing the sometimes hard truth. That managing one’s life isn’t the easiest thing in the world.  Yet, I remain in love. Not only with my dear sweet Italian true love. But with life. –Jim Broede

In Northfield, Minnesota.

Unanticipated pleasure. Yesterday. In my first visit ever. To Northfield. A city of 20,000 population. In southern Minnesota. It’s a college town. With not one. But two colleges. Carlton College. And St. Olaf. Each with about 5,000 students. It’s a sedate little town. With a cozy downtown. Buildings that look like they came out of the late 19th century. Nice residential neighborhoods. Mostly with homes that look 1920ish.  Streets lined with bulky branched oak and maple trees. Pines, too. Northfield annually celebrates Jesse James Days. When Jesse’s gang tried to hold up the local bank. On September 7, 1876. Local citizens. Went for their guns. And thwarted the robbery. Ah, gun-toting America. It’s been the American way. Forever. Anyway, my Italian true love and her Italian friend Giovanna and I settled down in lawn chairs. Beneath shade trees. On the idyllic Carlton College campus.  And chatted away. About life. And pleasure.  In Northfield, Minnesota. –Jim Broede

Knowing I am blessed.

A nice thing about life. It’s on-going. A continuous flow.  Sure, I grieve for a while. After a true love. That lasted for 38 years. She is still with me. In spirit. But I also have a second true love. An Italian. I flit back and forth. Between Minnesota and Sardinia. She does, too. She’s with me now. In Minnesota. For the remainder of summer.  Life is good. As long as it lasts. I wish forever. But I’ll take what I get. And find ways. To savor it all. One day at a time. Moment to moment. Knowing I am blessed. With life. –Jim Broede