To achieve the impossible.

Sometimes I suppress the real me. In order to be nice to people that I don't like. In essence, to be accommodating. And reasonable. And fair. But then, perhaps that's the real me. Don't know for sure. I'm always trying to figure things out. And that ain't easy. Maybe I'm merely slow-witted. Takes a while to make sense of life. And to correct my daily mistakes. I have yet to live a day without some kind of blunder.  But I keep trying. For the perfect, error-free day. Yes, nothing wrong with setting a goal. To achieve the impossible. --Jim Broede

Addicted to happiness.

I tend to alienate unhappy people. Because I constantly exude happy vibes. Apparently, that rubs some of the unhappy ilk in negative, caustic ways.  They blame me. For making them even more unhappy.  But I can't help myself. Because happiness comes in natural and unrestrained ways.  I am compelled to be happy. Yes, addicted. To happiness. Therefore, I am helpless. In efforts to suppress my happiness. Even in the presence of the unhappy.  That makes me a mean but happy bastard. In the eyes and hearts and minds of the forlorn and depressed. But I'm working on it. By searching for ways to be happily unhappy. --Jim Broede

More than a care-giver.

When I talk to my care-giver friends, often the subject doesn't focus on care-giving. That's by design. Best to steer on to other aspects of life. The good life. Maybe baseball.  Or nature. Even politics will do sometimes.  Care-givers tend to be preoccupied with burdensome care-giving. And they should be. To a degree. But they need to digress. To wander away to other topics. Preferably, cheerful stuff. After all, life goes on. And it ain't all bad. Some care-givers need reminders about that. They need respite. Breaks. And that's what I try to give them. I encourage them to muse. About all sorts of things. Not always about care-giving. Yes. Find a balance.  Try to become a whole human being. More than a care-giver. --Jim Broede

A case of jealousy, perhaps.

 I would hate to think of myself as cursed. Yet I know some people who feel cursed. Because everything seems to have gone awry. Really, it isn't everything. But that's the way they feel. Absolutely cursed.  And here I am. Feeling blessed. The cursed ones sometimes blame me for their curse.  That I'm a lucky bastard. And that I have no right feeling so good. When they feel so bad. I don't know. But they want me to feel guilty. About being blessed. When really I deserve to be cursed.  Don't know about that either. Maybe they are cursed because they are jealous of the uncursed. --Jim Broede

       

Yes, even in Idaho Falls.

My Italian amore Cristina isn't in love with Idaho Falls. Which, by the way, is a nice city. In Idaho. About 100 miles from Yellowstone National Park. I picked out Idaho Falls. As a place for us to stay. For three nights. On our daily excursions into Yellowstone. Cristina would have preferred a place closer to Yellowstone. Maybe only 50 miles away. Didn't really matter to me. After all, distance is a relative thing. For me, it's just a matter of feeling good. No matter where I am. And that's especially an easy thing to do. When I'm with Cristina. I probably could even be happy. With Cristina. In Hell.  Because she makes my day. In some ways, I was more focused on her. Than on Yellowstone. She's an amazing woman. And an Italian to boot. A very nice combination. I've been with Cristina. In many locales.  Venice. The Italian Alps. Edinburgh. The Scottish Highlands. Iceland.  Yes, even in Idaho Falls. I fondly remember them all. Mostly because I was with Cristina. My trusted and talented travel guide and loving companion. --Jim Broede

In a roomful of my harshest critics.

Critics tell me I am too self-centered. Some call me egocentric. Or narcissistic. Really, I take all this as a compliment. Better to be confident. Than to hide behind false modesty. But I also like to exaggerate by egocentricity. In humorous ways. For instance, by proclaiming that Lake Superior was named after me -- the superior one.  This galls my critics. The ones without a sense of humor. I like to gall people. Especially the ones that take life far too seriously. Actually, I don't take myself very seriously. Though it doesn't always seem so. When my humor goes awry. In a roomful of my harshest critics.  --Jim Broede

A beautiful relationship.

Such a nice arrangement. Splitting my time. Between living alone. And with my Italian amore Cristina. The togetherness. And the separation. Benefit both of us. We love to interact with each other. In the flesh. But hey, sometimes it's nice to live alone. In solitude and tranquility. When I was married to dear sweet Jeanne. For 38 years. We were separated for maybe 10 days. Imagine that. That's real togetherness. And I loved it. Thrived on it. But now that I'm older. Things are different. Too much togetherness. Could make for difficulties. Cristina and I are well-suited for each other. By living apart more than together. I spend winters with her. In Sardinia. She comes to me. In Minnesota. In the summer. But still, we are in contact. Daily. When we aren't living together. On Skype. That almost seems like being with each other. Every day. Anyway, it works. Keeps us happy and contented. And in love. In what might be termed a beautiful international relationship. Or a de facto marriage. --Jim Broede

At the center of my imagined world.

Yes. Yes. I know. There are billions and billions of people. Alive. At this very moment. On planet Earth. But still. I am the unique one. The only me. I am at the center. Of everything.  Because I am aware. Of my existence. Wow! Incredible! I not only imagine being. One of billions. But also a very specific one. Cognizant. Meanwhile, I surmise. That I won't always be. I am only momentarily alive. For a relatively brief time. Though I wish this weren't true. Thus the need for a religion, of sorts. An unscientific approach to life. As a free-thinker. Capable of manufacturing my own religion. Just for the hell of it. Yes, it does no harm. To put me. At the center of my imagined world. --Jim Broede

       

Better to drown herself.

I'm not so sure that my friend Julie is in love. With husband Rick. With her so-called friends. With herself. With nature. With life. With anything. Because she seems bent on committing suicide.  In a slow and methodical way. Yes, indeed, that's sad. Doesn't matter how much anyone tries to intervene. She's decided to become morose. And out of love. With life. Wasn't always that way. Julie used to be in love. And vibrant. Occasionally, she pretends. That she's going to get well again. And fall back in love. With something. With someone. But it's all pretend. Julie prefers a life of sorrow. She'd rather forget. That she's alive. Better to drown herself, I guess. In her favorite beverage. --Jim Broede

       

To be happy. In Yellowstone.

When traveling, I'm always looking for solitude. Yes, peace. Contentment. Tranquility. Even when mixed in. With hundreds or thousands of tourists. I isolate myself from the crowds. Of course, I try to matriculate. With the natives. The locals. In order to catch the flavor. The vibes. Something to glamorize. In my soul. In my being. Dispensing with my camera. Wondering why I even own one. Better to record the meaningful stuff directly into the depths of my photographic memory. I'm sitting on a rock. Under a pine tree. On the edge of a gentle-flowing stream. In Yellowstone National Park. My companions, amore Cristina and friend Giovanna, have wandered away. To see gushing geysers. The big attraction. Where the tourists flock. I can settle for less. Which really is more. Alone. Away from other people. A break. A respite. I'm watching the rays of brilliant sunlight bounce off the water. In dazzling and sparkling fashion. Give me this setting. Forever. I don't need other stuff. Not even a spectacular geyser. I can settle for smaller and lesser stuff. Better to be absorbed in my precious moment. No need to explore the rest of the world. Because this little spot. In space. In time. Is sufficient. I need no more. To be happy. In Yellowstone. --Jim Broede
Back to top

A good place. For salvation.

Salvation. Salvation. The small Montana town of Livingstone. That was my salvation. On my visit. To Yellowstone National Park. With Italian amore Cristina and Italian friend Giovanna. Both gals  enjoyed Yellowstone immensely. I did, too. But not quite as immensely as Cristina and Giovanna. Instead, Livingstone was my highlight. My delight. My unexpected salvation. If  I had been traveling alone, Livingstone would have become my permanent home base. I fell in love. With Livingstone. And some of the other small and quaint towns an hour or so drive. Outside of Yellowstone.  A safe distance from the beaten tourist tracks and traps.  Give me the relative quiet and peace and solitude of Livingstone. Where many of the downtown buildings still have their 19th century Western American facades. After driving endless miles. In a rental car. And having a near-death experience. In a crash. In Yellowstone. I had a need. To stay in one place. For a day or two or three. Livingstone was my breather. Where I found solace.  At the moment, Cristina and Giovanna are back at the lodge. In the swimming pool. Cavorting and splashing. Like mermaids. I am in downtown Livingstone. Happy. Happy.  My soul. My sanity. Is being saved. Right here. On the streets. I meet a woman. From San Francisco. A writer. Like me. She's scouting Livingstone. As a place to live out her retirement years. She's not so sure about Montana in the wintertime. I tell her that I solved the winter problem. By spending winters with my amore. In her homeland. Sardinia. Where there's no snow. No freezing temperatures. All winter. Where I sit under palm trees and umbrella pines. Meanwhile, Cristina spends summers. With me. In Minnesota. Giving us the opportunity to explore America. Together. Two years ago, the Grand Canyon. Now Yellowstone. And so much more to come. Opportunities. To find the likes of Livingstone. Where I have tracked to the post office. To mail postcards. For Cristina and Giovanna. I sit on a bench. In front of the post office. Until the rain. Forces me to seek shelter. On another bench. Tucked under the overhang of an interior decoration business. Called Paperairplane Design Co. It's closed. But a half-hour later the owners/proprietors, a husband and wife team. Come by. And we have a casual and friendly chat. Getting to know each other.  She's a lifelong resident of Livingstone. He came 20 years ago. Expecting to never leave. We may stay in touch. Forever. That's the way it is. In Livingstone. Where everyone seems to stay acquainted.  Yes, a good place. For salvation. --Jim Broede

I would have wanted to die, too.

A near-death experience. I had to wait almost 80 years. For my first one. But some how, we escaped. Miraculously. With no more than cuts and bruises. Not only me. But my Italian amore, Cristina. And another Italian friend, Giovanna. Hard to believe. If you looked at our car. Smashed. A total wreck. Inside Yellowstone National Park.  A rude interruption to our vacation. When a mammoth recreation vehicle. Veered into our lane of traffic. And headed straight for us. It happened so fast. In an instant. A fraction of a second. But it seemed like time had slowed. Time to think. Possibly my last thoughts. Forever. Must be someone intent on committing suicide, I initially surmised.. He wasn't going to avoid us. He was going to hit us. Head-on. As if it was intentional. A suicide mission. Just before impact, I turned left. Maybe that's what saved our lives. Made for sort of a T-bone collision. Rather than a full-blown head-on. Prevented the motor from coming into the vehicle and crushing us. Still, on impact, I felt we were certain goners. But I never lost consciousness. Nor did the others. Our seat belts and air bags saved us. We were able to climb from the wreckage. Almost unscathed. On our feet. Incredible. Incredible. To be alive. And walking, too. Five minutes after the crash, Cristina had camera in hand. Taking pictures of the wreckage.  A confirmation. That she was all right. I reached into the back seat, to help a stunned Giovanna to safety. Then I felt a pang of joy. With the permeating knowledge. That we had all survived. Intact. Wasn't until we were all riding to the hospital. In an ambulance.  That I became aware. I was in shock. Trembling. So badly. That I couldn't fill out the forms handed to me by the police and paramedics. In the hospital, I cried. When the thought occurred. What would I have done? If Cristina and  Giovanna had perished.  I would have wanted to die, too. --Jim Broede

A MOMENTARY INTERRUPTION

If I had died instantly. On impact. My last living thought would have been, 'This guy is on a suicide mission.  He wasn't going to avoid us. He was going to hit us. Head-on. It was intentional.' Turns out. The driver claimed something went wrong with his steering. A mechanical malfunction. I'm skeptical. As I wait for the results of the investigation. Coming in two or three weeks. So many possibilities. In my fertile imagination. Maybe the driver of the RV was having an argument with his wife. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he was phone texting. Maybe. Maybe. So many maybes. I'll try to keep an open mind. Just give me the facts.  The most important one, of course, is that we all are alive. It wasn't a tragedy.  Merely an accident. A momentary interruption in our wonderful and blessed lives. --Jim

The little big stuff.

For 10 days. I'll deviate from my usual regimen. Traveling. Exploring parts of the United States. Some places I've never been to before.  That's an advantage. Of being with my Italian amore. Showing her America. When I'm with her. In Sardinia. Every winter. We explore, too. Italy. And other European countries. But my favorite is her homeland.  I could venture. Daily. From a 20-mile radius of Cristina's hometown. And discover something new. Daily.  Merely being with Cristina. That's sufficient for me. She's grander than the Grand Canyon. More pertinent. More significant. In our travels together, I tend to rivet beautiful memories. Of Cristina. In my mind. Deep into my soul. I don't take pictures. Better to set the camera aside. Absorbing and savoring precious moments. Yes, every day. I have precious moments. That's why I'm a writer. I put into words. Stuff that's meaningful to me. Not necessarily to others.  I'm cultivating my being. My existence. My consciousness. My purpose. My love for life.  Cristina may want to see 100 things today. And take 100 pictures.  I can settle for five. Maybe even one. Because I like to savor a moment or two. That's all I need. Anyway, I write about these moments. By hand. When traveling. And when I get home. I'll share. In writing. Thoughts. Reflections. Stuff that I gleaned. On my discovery of America. And Cristina.  The little stuff. That really impacts my life. In big, big ways. --Jim Broede

Doesn't matter.

I'm addicted. To speaking my mind. Which is all right. Because I have nothing to hide. I'm not ashamed of any of my thoughts. My reflections. Furthermore, my thoughts aren't meant to be hurtful. Of course, some people may feel hurt. By what I have to say. Can't do much about that. Because not everyone is thick-skinned. Like me. There was an adage. Oft repeated. When I was growing up. Sticks and stones can break my body.  But names can never hurt me. Because I'm resilient. Mentally and emotionally. Doesn't bother me if I'm called derogatory names. After all, I'm a nice guy. And know it.  That's good enough for me.  Doesn't matter what uninformed people think. --Jim Broede

I am enchanted.

I learned to like being an Alzheimer care-giver. So much so. That after my dear sweet wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer's, I remained a care-giver. To others. Oh, not to many. Only a few. On a voluntary basis. Because I became intrigued. By the nature of good vibes therapy. It worked on Jeanne.  Made sense. To test it on others. Lo and behold. It worked. Time after time. So I started promoting the idea.  Suggesting that exhausted care-givers were practicing the opposite. Therapy filled with too many bad vibes. Of course, some took that as criticism. And in a sense, it was. But all I was saying was that there are better and more effective ways. Anyway, I've never stopped caring. For obvious reasons. I am enchanted. By the pursuit. --Jim Broede

In the quest for truth.

Maybe I reach people. When they become angry. With me.  Because I've hit a nerve. Exposed a vulnerability. They call me an agitator. Because they have heard the truth. And don't want to face it. Therefore, I am the enemy. By daring. To bring them the truth. About themselves. That's the way I look at it. Maybe I'm right. And maybe I'm wrong. But I leave no stone unturned. In the quest for truth. --Jim Broede

Observers without clues.

I'm trying to reach a friend. While she's in depression. Ain't easy. I truly care about her. Which prompts me to use good vibes. At least most of the time. I want to come across as empathetic. Maybe that's the same as being sympathetic. Don't know for sure. Just how to proceed. Other than caring. And oh, there are so many, many ways to care. Sometimes, even in blunt ways. So many ways to search for and find one's truth. To find one's real self. Anyway, let me say that being someone who genuinely cares about someone, and about life, can be a dangerous occupation/pursuit.  Easily misunderstood. But that's a peril of life. Being misunderstood. By sideline observers who have no clue.  And really don't care. --Jim Broede

Yapping away.

I'm in a good mood. Without even thinking about it. A sign That my good moods come naturally. I don't have to work at it. In order to achieve a good mood. I just am. Yes, that annoys some people. Because they are in a bad mood. Almost all of the time. It grates on them. When I hop, skip and jump in their presence. And gleefully exclaim, 'I'm in a good mood.' Occasionally, they tell me to shut up. But I keep yapping away. Happily, of course. --Jim Broede

Insane jealousy.

I never get angry. That is, over other people's comments. Even if they insult me. Maybe it's that I have a thick skin. And believe in freedom of speech. Everyone has a right to his/her opinion. They are even allowed to think that I'm a dirty rotten scoundrel and an egotist. Of course, I'm not. I'm really a nice and modest guy. With a good sense of humor, too. Maybe that's why I don't get angry. Possibly, that's why I make some people quite angry.  They think I'm too nice, too modest, too perfect. They're jealous. I wish that weren't true. But wishing isn't good enough. It is what it is. Insane jealously. --Jim Broede

Believe me. I kid you not.

If I wanted to be unhappy. It would be easy. I could find ample reasons. And justification for being unhappy. I suspect that's what many people do. They want to be unhappy. And they go to it. With fervor. Fortunately, I'm of another persuasion. I crave happiness. So I go about pursuing happiness. With fervor.  Funny thing. That annoys some unhappy people. It's almost as if they wish everyone to be unhappy. Maybe a case of misery loves company. They take me to task. For being a Pollyanna. A happy-go-lucky fella. Even when I was an Alzheimer's care-giver. I found ways to be happy. Even learning to make care-giving a pleasure. Sometimes I'm kidding. But not this time. It really became an uplifting spiritual experience. Like I was doing something right and proper and fulfilling. Like I was on a mission of love. Some unhappy care-givers tell me that can't be. That I'm making this stuff up. Because they can't comprehend any care-giver being happy and full of good vibes. But believe me. I kid you not. --Jim Broede

Makes me laugh every time.

I've noticed. That people under great stress. Such as Alzheimer care-givers. Have a difficult time lightening up. Which should come as no surprise. That's the nature of the beast. Took me a while. Nearly 10 years. To learn how to cope with the care-giving stress. Fortunately, the last three years of tending to dear sweet Jeanne turned out to be a pleasure. I let go of the stress. By focusing on the humorous aspects of my dilemma.  And by getting ample respite. Wow! It worked wonders. For me. But more importantly, for Jeanne. Wish I had found the magical formula. Right from the beginning. But better late than never. Most care-givers that I've encountered are cranky. They exude bad vibes. Far too often. I learned to exude good vibes. In Jeanne's presence. Always. I became a master of  the art. Oh, I didn't always feel good inside. But never let Jeanne know it. I was always on my good/best behavior. In Jeanne's presence. That's primarily what made me a pretty good care-giver. Maybe even close to perfect some days. I say that tongue-in-cheek. I also tell people that I am superior. And that a lake in Minnesota has been named after me. Lake Superior. Imagine that. Some people take me seriously. Makes me laugh every time. --Jim Broede