I know better.

Can’t think of a worse nightmare. Than being married to an alcoholic. Chances are. The marriage wouldn’t last. Unless she went in for treatment. I’d plead with her to stop drinking. For her sake. And for the sake of our relationship. As a last resort, I’d find a way to more or less stop her from drinking. For an extended period. Perhaps 30 days. To see if that would work. I’d be her shadow. Monitoring her. For 24/7. Never leaving her alone. In an attempt to deny her drink. I’d try to be persuasive. Kind and gentle, too. But forceful. In applying a zero-tolerance policy. She wouldn’t even be permitted to smell a bar rag. Once I got her sober, I’d swing into swift action. As an amiable entertainer. Telling jokes. And exuding good vibes. I’d try to make the 30 days a wonderful and soothing experience. Anyway, at the moment, I’m feeling thankful. And blessed. Because I’ve never been married to an alcoholic. I know better. --Jim Broede

I could stay put...and still be happy.

I like living in my handpicked, chosen element. On a lake. In Minnesota. In a small town. This has been my element. For 50 years. I'm used to being here.  Sure, I travel. Especially in recent years. To Scotland. To Iceland. To the Grand Canyon. To Yellowstone. Even to Death Valley. When it was 116 degrees. Hot as Hell. And every winter, I spend time. With my beloved Italian amore. In the Mediterranean island paradise of Sardinia. But I am most comfortable. Most at home. In Forest Lake, Minnesota. My most familiar environs. My cocoon. Where I write. And walk. And listen to classical music. And contemplate life. I'd not have to travel. Or explore the rest of the world.  I could stay put. And still be perfectly happy. --Jim Broede

The making of peace.

Sometimes, it's not good to make peace with one's sister. That was so. For me. For many, many years. Instead of making peace, I wrote off my sister. Putting her on notice. That we were no longer on speaking terms. Until she stopped drinking. And became my sober sister again. That finally happened. Some 10 years ago. There was no sense in quarreling with my sister. No sense in issuing edicts. No sense in maintaining contact. Because it was doing no good. Maybe even making the relationship worse. That all changed.  When my sister burned down her house. Having fallen asleep. In a drunken stupor.  On her sofa. While smoking a cigarette. That was enough. For sister to 'bottom out.' She quit drinking. And smoking, too. Cold turkey. That was good reason. To patch up our differences. And make peace. --Jim Broede

In a divine stream of happiness.

Life is what I wish it to be. By interpreting. Everything. In my most fervent, wishful way. I'm allowed. To make my own truth.  Because I was created. In the image of the original grand creator. Therefore, I am of his mind. But more than anything, I am of his holy spirit. That is my mission. In life. To enter the realm of  the holy spirit. I am driven. Drawn. And constructed. To head in only one direction. Away from the physical.  And toward the spiritual. Going with the flow. In a divine stream of happiness. --Jim Broede

Be happy again.

I didn’t have to read an obituary. To know the most profound and compelling thing about Ron. Didn't matter that he was Alzheimer-riddled. He was still a remarkable spiritual being. Capable of adapting. To life. As it happens. Even in the worst of times. Ron was able to find spiritual good. In virtually everything. Despite his dementia. That's what I learned. Every time I entered Ron’s world. Not as care-giver. But as genuine spiritual-connected  friend. Ron and I became buddies. The first time we met. When he and Arlene came over for dinner. With me and my Italian amore. One summer night several years ago. So that Julie and Rick could fetch a moment of respite. Suddenly, we all became family. As if it was meant to be. Fated. A blessing. For Ron. For me. For everyone. That’s the way it remains. Even now. We are family. Intimately connected forever. Ron had an uncanny knack. Of picking his true spiritual friends. Kindred souls. In the final weeks of his life, he seemed to be living. With one foot in the physical world. And one foot in the spiritual realm. Now, as I see it,  both feet are firmly planted in the idyllic spiritual domain. Where Ron always wanted to be. I suspect that in the end he craved release from physical shackles. So that he could go about. Exploring the cosmos. All of creation. As spirit. Yes, that’s exactly what Ron probably is trying to convey to beloved daughter Julie and other survivors.  He beckons. Come with me. And edge ever closer to the wonderful and thrilling spiritual side of life. He’s declaring, in no uncertain terms, ‘Dear Julie. Unburden yourself. From physical restraints and mental anguish. And become whole again. Let the spirit be the dominating and freeing force in your life.' Yes, that could go for everyone. But especially for Julie. It's time to listen to father Ron’s spirit. Time to savor his message from the great beyond. Be happy.  That's what I hear your very spiritually alive father saying.  --Jim Broede

In the divine spiritual realm.

Watching a lunar eclipse. Last night. Left me momentarily speechless. Which is good. Best friends tell me. It’s time to shut up. To observe in awe. As life unfolds. In miraculous ways. Seeing it all. In blessed silence. A glimpse. Of solitude. In the divine spiritual realm. -- Jim Broede

Grateful. For what I've got.

The Chicago Cubs. Have clinched a berth. In the National League play-offs. For the first time since 2008. Indeed, quite a feat. For a team that finished in last place a year ago. Believe it or not, the Cubs have a chance. To go from worst. To first. All the way to the World Series. I'm elated. Happy as can be. But even if the Cubs don't go all the way. I'll settle. Happily. For merely having qualified for the play-offs. Yes, I'm the sort of guy. That if I had $1 million. I'd not be disappointed. Because I don't have $2 million. I'd be grateful. For what I've got. --Jim Broede

I'd not waste another minute.

So hard. Losing a friend. To alcohol. Oh, Julie is still around. Physically. She hasn't died yet. But she's only a sliver of her once vibrant self.  Julie's closest friends. Including husband Rick. And me. Suffer,  too. In anguish. Because we watch. Helplessly. As Julie continues to deteriorate. I encourage Rick. To place Julie into treatment. Into rehab. But Rick is convinced that Julie needs to take such a step. On her own. That she has to 'bottom out.' I'm afraid. That Julie will die first. Before she makes a decision to save herself. If I had my druthers. Julie would have been in treatment long ago. Other observers tell me. Be patient. Be Julie's friend. Be kind. Be considerate. Be consoling. Well, that's not good enough. I'd literally pick up malnourished and inebriate Julie. And carry her. For miles, if necessary. To the nearest rehab center.  I'm told Julie can't be kidnapped. Can't be forced. I don't buy into that baloney. I'd not waste another minute. --Jim Broede

My socialist leanings.

I try to fight the urge to always want more.  In terms of material stuff. More possessions. More money. After all, I have enough. Of nearly everything. Including the basics of life. I tell myself. Be thankful. Be happy. With the status quo. Of course, I was brought up. With the notion. That nobody should ever be satisfied. They need to continually better themselves. Especially if they want to be safe and secure. That's supposed to be the American way. Accumulate. Accumulate. Accumulate. Most capitalists seem to believe there's no such thing as being too monetarily rich. Well, I disagree. One can have too much money. Far more than one really needs. Better to spread and share the wealth And not live extravagantly. Little wonder. That I have socialist leanings. --Jim Broede

       

A smile. Makes a difference.

It's a habit. An addiction. Sometimes dangerous. Yes, maybe all-too-often, I speak and write my mind. Without considering the consequences. Hurt feelings, for instance. But that's life. I have a thick skin. Criticism doesn't bother me much. Even when it's unwarranted. But so very many of my friends and acquaintances are thin-skinned. They wound easily. Maybe I should be more considerate. And kinder. In my dealings with them. Even if I have to be less honest. And tell white lies. So that they feel better.  I do. With sick people. By telling them they look good. When they don't. But I seldom do that with friend Julie. I boldly proclaim that she looks awful. As if she was just freed from a concentration camp. I encourage Julie to look in a mirror. To study her face. And to force a smile. Because that always makes her look a little bit better. And younger, too. --Jim Broede

I am grieving the loss.

I am disappointed. Almost daily. In my friend Julie. And I often tell her so. Maybe that's wrong of me. But I can't help telling Julie the truth. She's a disappointment. Because she's slowly committing suicide. By drinking herself to death. Could be that Julie is in denial. Believing that daily doses of  red wine aren't lethal. After all, she's still alive. But she isn't the Julie I used to know. Vibrant. And in love with life. Now she's out of sorts. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. She refuses to take a light dose of an anti-depressant prescribed by a psychiatrist.  Instead, she prefers a depressant. Her favorite drink. Red wine. Doesn't make sense. Or so I tell her. Julie says I don't have the right to tell her what to do. But that doesn't stop me. From giving Julie advice. Because I really like her. It'd be nice to have the once happy Julie around. For a long, long time. To tell the truth, I won't miss the inebriated Julie. I already miss the  happy and vibrant Julie. So sad. I am grieving the loss. --Jim Broede

Makes me feel vibrantly alive.

I love classical music. Listening. Every day. Mainly Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven. Also music from the Baroque period. Makes me think. About times when music only came live. No phonograph records. No CDs. No radio or TV. Makes me grateful. To live in an age of wonderful technology. Gives my life more spiritual dimension.  Merely by listening to the musical expressions of Mozart. Living in Mozart's time wouldn't have been good enough.  I'd not have much opportunity to hear Mozart. Especially if I lived in the hinterlands. As a youngster, I remember hearing Mozart.  And was immediately thrilled. In a spiritual way. Odd, isn't it?  That I can't sing. Or dance. Or play a musical instrument.  Never even had a desire to do so. Possibly because of a lack of raw talent. But still, I appreciate the sounds of Mozart. I'm enraptured. By the vibes. But don't ask me to sing or hum Mozart. I can't do it. Instead, my pleasure is in the listening. And feeling. And watching others perform their extraordinary musical skills. Yes, it's wonderful. To watch and listen to the unfolding of the spiritual sounds of life. All around me. Makes me feel vibrantly alive. --Jim Broede

On the impossible becoming possible

I wonder. If I can capture the mind. Of another human being. A friend. A lover. Anyone. Or do we all live in isolation? Separately. With no pure and  complete mindful intermingling. I'm told that my alcoholic friend must make her own decision. To recover. To get well. I can't make the decision for her. Maybe that's so. Maybe not. I wonder though. If I can capture her mind. And make the decision for her.  In a very convincing manner. I wonder. If that happens. In the spiritual realm. In an entirely different world. In another dimension. Where the impossible becomes possible. --Jim Broede

       

My voyage of discovery.

I love being. Because that gives me opportunity. To be alive. And conscious. In so many ways. To grasp my own reality. To link myself to all sorts of worlds. Real and imagined. Sometimes, I don't know the difference. Which ain't all bad. I imagine being a spirit. Free of my physical shackles. Occasionally, I feel free. Maybe that's all it takes. Feeling. That one has entered a dream world. Paradise. Sometimes, it's momentary. Other times, it's more lasting. Sometimes, I try to write about it. Which makes me feel immersed. In good and pleasant vibes.  Amazing. The discovery of one's self. Life becomes my voyage of discovery. --Jim Broede

Is it asking too much?

My alcoholic friend Julie has pledged to stop drinking. For a week. Of course, I'd like it to be forever. But for now, I'll settle for a week. Julie's motivation: A memorial service for her father Ron.  It's one week away. Next Friday. Julie wants to show love and respect for her father. By showing up at the service. Sober. No doubt, her father would have wanted it that way. Now it's time for Julie to ask herself: What else would her father have wanted? That's an easy question. He'd want her to not take another drink for the rest of her life. And to live happily ever after. Makes one wonder. If Julie thinks that's asking too much. --Jim Broede

A lofty position. In a dreamland.

I dream. Not every night. But often enough. But could be. That my entire life is a dream. And dreams when I sleep are merely dreams within my primary life dream.  Yes, maybe I'm always living in a dream. A permanent dream. That goes on forever. Maybe I have so many, many dreams. That I can't possibly remember them all. Yes, I lose track of some dreams I've lived. I need an index. So that I can peruse my dreams. Call them up. On a whim. Imagine. Being god. And having to remember everything. Impossible, you say? Could be. That god needs assistants.  Maybe even cronies. That help him. Assist him. Makes me wonder. If one of my stored away dreams. Is of being god's right hand man. Indeed, that would be a very lofty position.  With amazing responsibility. And more. --Jim Broede

    

Surviving. A very close call.

I'm beginning to understand the nature of so-called post traumatic syndrome. That all it takes is a brush with death. Some soldiers. In places such as Iraq and Afghanistan. Probably have multiple flirtations with death. And I can see how that could affect them.  Psychologically. Somewhere down the line. Maybe even years later. I've had only one such brush. In an auto crash. Several weeks ago. When a huge RV careened out of control. Head on. Toward my vehicle. Time slowed. And I thought that death was coming. Not only for me. But for my beloved companions. My Italian true love. And another Italian friend. I thought we were all goners. But amazingly. We were all saved. By air bags and our seat belts. And stunning luck. Our vehicle was a total loss. But we all climbed out. Essentially unscathed. Physically. But I wonder. If somewhere down the road of time. If we'll have after-affects. Post traumatic syndrome. I hope not.  For now, I feel blessed. To have survived. A very close call. --Jim Broede

       

Truly living one's life.

I could easily rewrite the lives of my unhappy friends. And make them happy. It's a knack. So easy. Because from the sidelines, I can see routes to happiness. For others. Unfortunately, I can't force happiness onto anyone. Because my mentally and emotionally disturbed and depressed friends have to make their own decisions. I can't force my ways, my desires, my wishes on them. Only they can choose their own routes to happiness. I can't foist happiness on anyone. But myself. Meanwhile, I settle for writing imaginative stories. About the lives of others. But I can only truly live one life. My own. --Jim Broede

Better for Rick to tend to himself.

Julie's husband, Rick, has become Julie's primary care-giver. Which is ironic. Looks like it's more of a challenge than when Rick and Julie served six years as primary care-givers for Julie's Alzheimer-riddled parents. The stress of dealing with the parents was a big contributing factor -- in turning Julie into a raging alcoholic. Both parents have died. Which may be a good thing. By providing relief. But care-giving hasn't stopped, at least not for Rick. Now he's focused on caring for Julie. And it's exasperating. Driving him to distraction. If not crazy.  Rick really needs to take care of himself, first and foremost. Otherwise, he'll end up as a basket case, too. Another casualty of caring, like Julie. Unfortunately, Julie failed to take care of herself.  Failed to get adequate respite. She became exhausted. Every which way. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Rick, no doubt, has been the stronger one. There's no way that Julie could have handled the Alzheimer care-giving alone. Rick did the real hard stuff. And he pretty much held up.  He's the lone remaining care-giver. Caring exclusively for Julie now. And Julie doesn't always appreciate it. Because her inebriated mind is blurred. And it's taking a heavy toll on Rick. He needs respite. From Julie's depressive self. He's attending meetings of Al-Anon. Mostly for moral support. But I'm worried about his health. He needs to find more ways of caring for himself. Including breaks from Julie. He could do that. If only Julie learned to take care for  herself occasionally.  But Julie is virtually helpless. Yes, that's the sad plight of the addicted.  Rick must resist being pulled down into the quicksand with Julie. Better for him to stop struggling, and save himself. --Jim Broede

If Julie ever sobers up.

I'm going to pretend. That my troubled friend Julie won't show at her father's upcoming memorial service. And will get applause. When someone announces that she's in rehab. To deal with her alcoholism. Yes, this is wishful thinking. Not really happening. Fabrication.  On my part. Which I'm allowed to do. As a writer. Of fiction. I assume the role of god. And create my own world. Where things always end happily. Because I call the shots. I design the scenario. And I ignore the real beleaguered Julie in the process.  I pretend that she's the vibrant and healthy Julie again.  Capable of joining me and my Italian true love. In the very real world. This Christmas-New Year holiday season. When we'll be in Greece. On an island. In the Adriatic Sea.  I've invited Julie and husband Rick to join us. That is, if Julie ever sobers up. Long enough to be able to truly savor life again and again.--Jim Broede

One of my best times ever.

When traveling with my Italian amore, my focus is mostly on her. Rather than other things. Travel gives me the opportunity to cultivate our relationship. To get to know her better. By taking advantage of our togetherness. In unusual settings. And often under unusual circumstances. That often come with travel. In unexpected blessed ways. From my perspective, at least. By taking advantage of moments of potential emotional crisis. When things don't go right. Forcing us to improvise. In order to salvage difficult situations. No better example, than when we ended up in the German town of Fredrickshafen. Unexpectedly. Because we missed a flight from Iceland. To Frankfurt. To attend a birthday party for my German cousin. We got our flight departure date from Iceland mixed up. And missed our scheduled flight. Therefore, we had to improvise. And write off our missed flight as a financial and emotional disaster. We had to learn how to put up with unplanned inconvenience. I had no difficulty adjusting. Because I kept telling myself, I'm with my true love. And some how, we'd make the best of it. Together. I certainly did. Cristina had a little more difficulty. But that meant I had to find ways to console Cristina. By taking charge. And finding a solution. Though it meant navigating a labyrinth to places we never intended to go. But now I fondly reminisce about it all. With revered romantic memories. As if it was a blessing. Really, that's what it was. One of my best times ever. With dear Cristina. --Jim Broede

The best sight/site of all.

I like living day to day. And not getting too far ahead of myself.  Oh, I plan ahead. In several months, for instance, the plan is to join my Italian amore. In Greece. For 10 days or so. For the Christmas and New Year's holidays. Never been to Greece before. I'm leaving it up to Cristina. To do most of the planning. To line up the accommodations. And the itinerary. She always does a good job of it. Of course, I dabble, too. Sometimes, I'm the first to arrive. In places such as Scotland and Iceland. I like to mix with the local people. With strangers. That I get to know in significant ways. That is, significant for me. Maybe not for others.  Cristina is more for seeing the sights. And taking pictures. On our recent trip to Yellowstone. I didn't take a camera. Didn't take a single photo. But still, I have quite  a collection.  From Cristina's camera. Of geysers. And all that stuff. That a tourist is supposed to see. But I see other stuff. That one isn't always supposed to see. I'd rather watch and see and study dear Cristina.  She's the best sight/site of all. --Jim Broede

On being misunderstood.

Even my closest and dearest friend. My Italian amore. Misunderstands me. Often enough. Everybody does. But that's all right. I was born to be misunderstood. Because we all speak different languages. It can take a long, long time to be understood. I started out. As a babbler. In 1935. And here I am. Eighty years later. Still babbling. But in a more sophisticated form. I love to babble. Maybe it's the only way that I know how to speak. To clarify my positions on the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. Yes, it's frustrating. To not be understood. Even in moments of extreme clarity. When I most understand my own words. --Jim Broede

On creating imaginary worlds.

Maybe that's why I fell in love. With writing. While I was still a youngster. It gave me the opportunity to create imaginary worlds. Early on, it was funny worlds. That made me and others laugh. My teachers. In junior high. Had me read my stuff. Aloud. In class.  And my cohorts (other students) laughed. I made up mystery stories, too.  They were always funny. Never serious. I discovered irony, too. Without really knowing it was irony. I don't consider myself a serious writer.  Or a talented writer. Just an ordinary writer.  Unafraid to experiment. To take chances. Risks. Maybe that's what has made me a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. It comes naturally. That's what I encourage others to be.  Their natural selves. --Jim Broede

My wish: A love story that ends well.

Oh, if only Rick and Julie could turn back the clock. And do things over. They would not have taken Julie's dementia-riddled parents. Into their own home. For six years. Because that was the wrong decision. Instead, Rick and Julie should have put father and mother into assisted living. Leaving much of the care-giving to the professionals.  With reasonable loving supplemental care provided by Rick and Julie.  On a regular, if not daily, basis. Money was no problem. It was an affordable option.  And practical, too. Instead. Rick and Julie forged ahead. On the impractical and dangerous course. As the primary care-givers.  Risking the possibility that they would become physically and mentally and emotionally exhausted. By doing too much care-giving. Yes, a seemingly admirable endeavor. Both parents have died. As expected. From Alzheimer-related disorders. Now one wonders if Julie is headed for a similar fate. Troubled by severe depression and alcoholism and declining health. Putting a once thriving loving relationship in serious jeopardy.  Yes, it would be nice. To turn back the clock. And start all over. By focusing on what should have been. A love story that ends well. --Jim Broede

To explore all possibilities.

I have no desire to be considered normal. Better to be a little bit crazy. Unafraid to go off the deep end. Never had a desire to be like everyone else. Maybe it's that I like to put life to a test. To explore all possibilities. Maybe that's why my best friends are spirits. Rather than live human beings. --Jim Broede

My kindly quest.

So many skills. That I have yet to master. Unfortunately, I'm too old to master some of my missing skills. Because it takes years and years of devoted effort. Fortunately, I have some kindly skills. But never enough. I must continually find ways to be a more kind and understanding human being. --Jim Broede

       

A little bit confused.

I try to be fair. To everyone. Of course, some people are unfair. To practically everyone.  I'm tempted to treat them unfairly, too. But usually, I find ways to be reasonably fair even to the unfair. Thing is. I'm too often unintentionally unfair.  Only to discover it later. That prompts me to be more tolerant of those who have been unfair to me. Because they might not have known that they were being unfair. Yes, I'm a little bit confused. Over the issue/concept of fairness. --Jim Broede

In search of a decent life.

So many places in the world. Where I would not want to live. Especially in a war-torn country. Such as Syria. Therefore, little wonder, that I have empathy. For the refugees fleeing Syria. I'd welcome them. To the USA. By the millions, if necessary. After all, that's in large part the way America was built. By immigrants. Fleeing hostile environs. In search of a decent life. --Jim Broede

The best part of life. Yet to come.

I'd not hold a memorial service for my friend Ron. Better to allow him to drift away. Unattended.  But there will be a service. Because that's the thing to do. To pay him proper respect. Oh, I'll attend the service. And maybe offer a few words. But I've already paid my respects. When Ron was still alive. And somewhat vibrant. Didn't really get to know him. Until he had dementia, aka Alzheimer's. Ron was a unique human being. Even with dementia. It's fortunate. That others knew Ron before dementia. When he was a flourishing scientist. Discovering products that made a fortune. For 3M Co. Anyway, I took time. To get to know Ron. When he was on the intellectual decline. And I wonder. If that might have been Ron at his best. After all, I was impressed. By Ron's endurance. And his stamina. A sign that he truly loved life. Even on the dementia side. When maybe he had a foot in the physical world. And a foot in the spiritual realm, too.  Yes, Ron seemed to be in a remarkable period of transition. Making a new discovery. About the best part of life. Yet to come. --Jim Broede

The age of entertainment.

The media want to keep us entertained. Rather than informed. Wasn’t always that way. When I was younger, and became a writer, for newspapers, my mission was to be informative.  To let readers know what’s going on.  Primarily in my local community. By the time I retired, my bosses wanted me to be an entertainer. To give the people what they wanted. Entertainment. Preferably in capsule form. So that one didn’t have to spend too much time thinking. Absorbing. Understanding.  I was supposed to become a purveyor of entertaining crap. That’s exactly what’s happening now. In the realm of politics, for instance. Donald Trump. Dishes out crap every day. Rambling. Much of it incoherent. But he’s entertaining. A modern-day comedian. An oddball. He really has nothing significant to say. He’s no intellectual. But give him credit. He knows how to make money. And to entertain us in the process. So that we can go to bed. Every night. Laughing. --Jim Broede

Coping with disappointment.

I'm easily disappointed. In events. In people. Happens almost daily. But I try to not let disappointments affect my mood. Better to get on with life.  In upbeat and positive fashion. I'm disappointed. When the Chicago Cubs lose a tough game. Like they did today. Years ago, that might have put me in a foul mood. For the rest of the day. By dwelling on my disappointment. Now I simply tell myself to get over it. Better to find something to be happy about.  Such as the Cubs being in the midst of a a much-better-than-expected baseball season. Indeed, a reason to be thankful. To the baseball gods. Meanwhile, I'm disappointed. In my friend Julie. Because she refuses to take my advice. To shape up. But then I mutter. That Julie will be Julie. And I can't do anything about it. So I might just as well shut up.  And quit trying to save Julie. Better to let Julie save herself. When she's good and ready. Meanwhile, I have better and happier things to think about than a constantly bereaving Julie. --Jim Broede

A glaring and tragic example.

A reminder, folks. Julie is a victim. Of Alzheimer care-giving. She was a care-giver. For many, many years. For both her mother and her father. Imagine that. Both with Alzheimer's. And she took them into her own home. For over six years. Tending to them. Of course, with help from devoted and loving husband Rick. And from a few friends. But the physical and mental and emotional stress proved to be too much. For Julie. She became the victim of too much care-giving. Too much guilt. All of the negatives that go with care-giving. It's a sad story. Often repeated. I know care-givers that have crumbled under the enormous burden of care-giving. When they forced themselves to do it. Almost round-the-clock. With insufficient respite. Little wonder. That they lapse into depression. Into alcoholism and other negative addictions. They are the ones that end up needing the most care-giving. And understanding. And so very many don't get it. Julie is a glaring and tragic example. --Jim Broede

Plenty of space. For everyone.

Here's a possibility. Reincarnation. In physical form. We keep coming back. Time over time. Until we graduate. To a spiritual form. Maybe after 1,000 tries. In the physical realm. By then, most of us are ready for the extraordinary spiritual domain. Seems to me that life should go on forever. No doubt, there's plenty of room. For all of us. Think about it. In our Milky Way galaxy, there are billions of suns. Yes, the possibility for billions of solar systems. And beyond our Milky Way there are billions of galaxies. Yes, think about it some more. The limitless vastness of creation. Plenty of space. For everyone. --Jim Broede

Adding 'living spirit' to my resume.

I'm 80. It's really not my imagination any more. I am 80 years old. Have been for several days now. And I'm still alive. And functioning. Maybe better than ever. Thought about not proclaiming my achievement. As if reaching old age was shameful. Really, it isn't. I'd rather be old and alive. Than young and dead. Better yet, I'd like to be a non-physical living spirit.  So that I could explore the cosmos without physical restraints. That's still my long-term dream. Living forever. In a spiritual realm. With the same privileges and wherewithal of the creator. But if I can't have that, might as well hang around. For another 10 or 15 years. Already, I've evolved. In dramatic and glorious fashion. Into a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer, a writer. It would be nice to add 'living spirit' to my resume. --Jim Broede

If I were god.

The nicest thing about being god. You'll never guess what it is. So, I'll tell you. The ability to control any and every thing. Of course I'm assuming  the creator has such inherent power. But looks like he has chosen not to take control. Instead, leaving everything to chance. I'm assuming. That god would be bored. If he knew all outcomes ahead of time. Before they occur. Maybe he's chosen to relinquish some of his innate and divine powers. In order to be entertained. And surprised. By happenings. I'd probably do the same. If I were god. --Jim Broede

I need my Cristina fix.

I'm addicted. Not to alcohol, fortunately. But to sports teams. The Chicago Cubs. The Chicago Bears. Have been. Virtually all of my life. But I try to not let the Cubs and Bears be a dominant force in my life. I have even refrained from watching or listening to games. Other than occasionally. When I can handle it. Better to check the scores. After the games are over. Then I read the details. Especially when the Cubs and Bears win. Often, I don't read. Especially if they've lost close games. And blew leads. I'm also addicted to exercise. I need to workout. Daily.  Even when I'm a bit under the weather.  With a cold. Or an ache or pain. I exercise. Because it makes me feel better. More relaxed. I'm also addicted to writing. I am compelled. To write. Daily. Blurbs. A blog. Letters.  All kinds of writing. Random thoughts. Musings. And about people. My friends. Associates. Strangers. Nicest thing of all. My addictions are positive. No addiction more positive than my Italian amore. I need my Cristina fix. Daily. More than the Chicago Cubs or exercise or writing. --Jim Broede

I can't watch any more.

I'm convinced. Friend Julie won't stop drinking. That is, on her own. She's so very, very addicted. That she needs help. She needs to be put away. For an extended period. In a setting. Where she's forced to abstain. And even then, there's no assurance that she will remain sober. She's likely to relapse. Though some alcoholics go into recovery. They are never totally cured. They are addicted for the rest of their lives. They are always in danger of a relapse. Alcohol has become Julie's pain medication. She knows it's ruining her physical, mental and emotional health. Ruining her relationships. With loved ones. Essentially destroying her life. Yet, she can't stop drinking. She's willing to lie to herself and others. In order to get her fix. To kill her emotional pain. In a stupor. When she's very, very drunk, she goes to bed. Falls asleep. Julie talks about quitting. But that's all it is. Talk. Julie is an addict. She knows it. But won't admit to it. She's become a liar. Ultimately, she cannot resist the initial sip. To her beloved red wine. Her only true love. Eventually, the sips become a glass. Two glasses.  Three glasses.  Gulps of wine. Julie blacks out. And becomes falling down drunk. It's so bad. So sad. So excruciating. I can't watch any more. Julie loves wine more than she loves life. --Jim Broede

The art of whiling away time.

Nothing wrong with whiling away time. Yes, sort of killing time. Without having to do anything productive. It's a way to collect one's breath. Quite often. I while away time in the evening. When I'm home. Alone. If I feel guilty about wasting time, I merely sit down at the computer. And write. About whiling away time.  --Jim Broede

The matter of giving a damn.

Don't know why I give a damn . About anything. Life might be a lot easier. If I didn't give a damn. Then I could just idle away my life. Without fretting. Without getting involved in so many political and social issues and causes. If I didn't give a damn. I'd not follow world events and happenings. Knowing I have no control over most stuff anyway. Unfortunately, I'm hooked. I really do give a damn. About all sorts of things. But when I go to bed at night, I pretend that I don't give a damn. About anything. Helps me fall asleep.  With a clear and peaceful mind. --Jim Broede

In search of a precious moment.

It's too bad we don't spend more time celebrating life. So many missed opportunities. Instead, we mourn. And grieve. The loss of life. The loss of loved ones. Don't get me wrong. It's all right. To mourn and grieve. I do my share of it. But not to the point of being devastated for a long, long time. I need to find a reason and a way to savor life. Or I couldn't go on living. I keep telling myself. Death is an unfortunate part of life. But still, I'd rather be the survivor. Than the dead one. I'm committed. To life. I will have a good day. Today. In search of at least one precious moment. --Jim Broede

Sad, isn't it?

Amazing. How people have trouble living. In this world. Unable to find peace and tranquility and happiness. They become destitute. Refugees. Fleeing. Fleeing. Often not knowing where to. And not only refugees. Take my friend, Julie, for instance. She wanders in a labyrinth of mental illness. Depression. Grief. Despite having the financial wherewithal. To have the material things of life. But even if she had millions and millions of dollars, she can't find a way to buy happiness. Meanwhile, America could do far more. To aid the refugees. I'm proud of my German heritage. The Germans, after all, have pledged to take in 800,000 refugees.  I feel kinship with the refugees, too.  Because they are trying to do something about their hellish plights.  Sad, isn't it? We Americans lag far behind the Germans. In doing the right thing. --Jim Broede

Doing what I have to do.

Don't know why I interfere in other people's lives. Maybe I should merely sit back. Withdraw. And let things happen. Take Julie, for instance. Really, it should be none of my business. As to how she behaves. Whether she goes into depression. And drinks. And becomes self-destructive. Maybe I should merely manage my life. And leave others manage theirs. And I should just butt out. What am I trying to do? Save Julie? From what? From herself? Julie is being Julie. Maybe I should learn to accept Julie. Just as she is. And if I don't like it. I can opt to steer clear of Julie. Ignore her. And get on with the rest of my life. Just like I ignored my sister. For many years. Because she displeased me. What if I did that? With not only Julie. But with everyone. Of course, I can't see me doing that. Instead, I choose to interact. Especially with people that I like. Doing what I have to do. For one reason or another. --Jim Broede

We're both full-fledged Athenians.

Getting on with life. That's my credo. Always something new. Moving forward. Staying in motion. My Italian amore. Cristina. Wants me for the Christmas and New Year holidays. Not in our usual environs. Minnesota. Or Sardinia. But Greece. We've never been to Greece before. Only dreamed of it. Now I dream of flying to Athens. Kissing the ground upon arrival. Then kissing Cristina. We'd make our way to the island of Syros. And check in. At a place called Guest House Paradise. I tell Cristina that I'm an Athenian at heart. I kid her. That she's more Spartan. But I know better. We're both full-fledged Athenians. --Jim Broede

Fond memories. Of old times.

The nice thing. About a trip. In some ways, it lasts forever. Because I keep thinking. About the experience. Of Yellowstone. And so much more. Like now. Meeting people. And their dogs. Two sleek Great Danes.  While traveling. Oh, wonderful coincidence. They're from Ripon in Wisconsin. In Fond du Lac County. My first newspaper job. After discharge from the U.S. Army. Went to work for the daily newspaper, the Fond du Lac Commonwealth Reporter. In 1960. Imagine that. Over a half century ago.  I'm able to impress the dog owners. With my knowledge of Ripon. The birthplace of the (personally) despised Republican Party. But there's a nice restaurant there. That I used to frequent. Called the Republican House. Good food. Good drink. Fond memories. Of old times. --Jim Broede

Don't give me a Donald Trump.

I cringe. When hearing Donald Trump. Criticizing Jeb Bush. For speaking Spanish. On the political campaign trail. Yes, I’m for more multi-lingual Americans. Sure, it’s best and useful to speak English – the predominant language in the United States. But hey, nothing wrong with having a second or third language.  Nothing wrong with Americans honoring their ethnic backgrounds. My mother was born in Chicago. But when she started school, she didn’t speak much English. Mostly Czech. Because she was raised in a Czech neighborhood. And tutored by a grandfather who spoke only Czech. Really, that was a blessing. Because she spoke fluent Czech for the rest of her life. Of course, she learned English, too. Even better and more fluent than Czech. But my mother was misguided. In one way. Because she never made a concerted effort to teach her children Czech. I learned only a smattering of Czech. Wished I had mastered Czech. When I was a youngster. When learning a language comes easier. Now it’s too late for me to master another language. I’m a too typical English-speaking-only American. Wish I were more like my mother, or even Jeb Bush.  But please, don’t give me a language-impaired Donald Trump. --Jim Broede

Other than drinking.

My sister says. Don’t give Julie advice. About her drinking problem. Instead, merely be her friend. And listen. Yes, shut up. Let Julie do the talking. Sister Babs says alcoholics don’t want advice.   In fact, preaching. Or giving advice. Is the worst possible approach. Just listen. Listen. Listen. Allow an alcoholic to talk. To ramble.  Because they won’t right the ship. And quit drinking. Until they are good and ready. They have to do it on their own. They can’t be forced. They have to come to enlightenment. On their own. In their own way. Babs should know. She spent most of her life as a drunk.  Babs told me that the more I preached, the more she resisted. The more entrenched she became. In resolving not to get help.  She kept drinking to spite me. And other preachers. My sister finally came to her own reckoning. Just over 10 years ago. When she quit. Cold turkey. Not only stopped drinking. But quit smoking, too. All in the same day.  She’s a recovering alcoholic. And vows to stay that way. For the rest of her life.  I’m encouraging Babs to connect with Julie. If she did, Babs wouldn’t talk to Julie about her drinking problem. Instead, she’d come to Julie. As a friend. A listener. Talking about everything but drinking. About Julie’s interests. About life in general. Yes, about the stuff she likes to do. Other than drinking. --Jim Broede

Makes me svelte and handsome.

I wonder. If there's a study. Of Alzheimer care-givers. That have taken to drink. Thinking. That's a way to cope. When really, it often leads to disaster. They become the ones in dire need of care. I observe.  Tipsy care-givers. Overweight ones, too. They tend to eat. Gorge themselves. With food treats. Day and night. At the least sign of stress.  Yes, makes me wonder. If it's better to be addicted. To food. Rather than drink. I confess. I'm an addict,  too. Addicted to exercise. And to the Chicago Cubs. Fortunately, exercise is a positive addiction.  Makes me svelte and handsome. Helps, too, that I have a sense of humor. --Jim Broede

Without falling off the edge.

Julie feigns happiness. By mouthing platitudes. But I can tell. By looking. At her face. In her eyes. She ain't happy. She grieves. And mourns.  About something. Or other. She still needs her fix. Her crutch. Red wine. She keeps a stash. Hidden. Indoors. And maybe even outdoors. Something to fall back on. In stressful and crisis times. And she lies about her addiction. To others. But even worse, to herself. Oh, she talks about quitting. With a caveat. That she'll still be able to take a social drink. A way of telling herself. That she's really not a true alcoholic. That she can handle it all. When really, she can't even sip. Without falling off the edge. --Jim Broede

Ample reason to celebrate.

When my mother died. It wasn't particularly traumatic. I didn't grieve or lament for a long time. Oh, I loved my mother. Very much. But I accepted the fact. That people are likely to die. By the time they celebrate their 88th birthday. As she did. My father's death was far more traumatic. Unexpected. At age 38. From suicide. But still, I found ways to cope. To get on with life. And reached the stage where I'm not bothered. In the least. Knowing that death is an inevitable part of life. My friend Ron. Just died. But I won't mourn or grieve. Instead, I am truly celebrating Ron's life. There's no need to shed a tear. Didn't even cry when my mother checked out. After all, it was time for her to die. No sense in lingering on and on. Better to shed one's physical being. Thereby allowing one's spirit to thrive. On it's own. Unburdened by a physical anchor. That was best for my father, too. Even at a younger age. Yes, there was still ample reason to celebrate. His death. --Jim Broede

Amazed. And perplexed.

I'm being kind. To my friend Julie. In my own way. By being a little bit cruel. By telling her the truth. About herself. That she's mentally ill. And needs help. And that she has friends. Willing to extend helping hands. And that now. It's time for Julie to reach out. And grasp those hands. Yes, it's that simple. But still. I am amazed. And perplexed. By Julie's refusal. To accept help. When she needs help the most. Another sign. That Julie is mentally ill. --Jim Broede

Before Julie got lost. In despair.

Daughter Julie isn't taking her father Ron's death well. That's to be expected. Because after years and years of care-giving, she's distraught. Exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. She's in the throes of depression. She's drinking. Her favorite beverage, red wine. She's become an alcoholic. That, more than anything, exacerbates the situation. Makes everything worse. She's lucid. When not drinking. For periods that seldom last for more than three or four days. That's when I talk to her. About going in for treatment. But she never does. Instead, she takes to drinking again. In order to forget. Her unhappiness. Her instability. Her inability to cope. If I had my way, I'd force Julie into treatment. For a sustained period. She's in dire need of psychotherapy. The rest of us are celebrating Ron's demise. We are happy for him. For his escape from the ravages of Alzheimer's. I'm sitting in a lawn chair. Chatting with Julie's husband Rick. About Ron's wonderful and long life. Yes, we are celebrating. Not mourning. Not grieving. We did that long ago. Before Ron died. But Julie has been mourning and grieving. For years and years. Non-stop. Makes me wonder. If Julie will grieve herself to death. Yes, some people die of grieving. Rather than getting on with life. It's just a matter of time. For Julie. Unless she gets help. To stop her slow and methodical march to suicide. When that happens. Rick and I will grieve and mourn. For a day or two. About what could have been. Then we'll get on. With living life. The way it should be lived. Living. Happily ever after. With fond memories of Julie. When she was the real Julie. Before she got lost. In the labyrinth of despair. --Jim Broede

No reason to grieve.

Ron died today. Just as well. Because he was Alzheimer-riddled. No reason to mourn or grieve. Because Ron's spirit has been freed. And remains alive. After being shackled in his physical body for 87 years. I'm celebrating Ron's physical death. Didn't make sense. For Ron to linger on and on. With a physical mind plagued by dementia. Fortunately, the spiritual mind isn't physical. Which means, it's free of dementia. And functioning with remarkable clarity. In a spiritual dimension. I'm connected with Ron's spirit. Which is possible. When one truly believes in spiritual existence. I'm able to listen to Ron. And he's able to listen to me, too. Meanwhile, I'm encouraging Ron's loving and devoted daughter, Julie, to jump high and click her heels. In celebrating Ron's new and lofty existence. Really, there's no reason to grieve. After all, Ron's spirit keeps him very much alive. Forever. --Jim Broede

On becoming a healthy mermaid.

I encourage my friend Julie to think more like me. As a romantic idealist. In order to climb out of the doldrums. And onto the plateau of happiness. It's real easy, I tell her. By looking at life from a romantic perspective. By refusing to be unhappy. By insisting on being happy.  Every time that I feel unhappy. I refuse to go to bed. Until I find a reason to be happy. 'Nobody thinks like that,' Julie replies. My immediate response:  'I certainly do. And you know it. Because I have a compulsion to be happy. I'm addicted to happiness. Unfortunately, you are addicted to unhappiness. And to red wine.' I remind Julie that she was once addicted to exercise. Mainly swimming.  She once upon a time was able to swim across Forest Lake. Virtually every day. And that's a mile and a half swim. She could assume the role of mermaid again. If she set her mind to it. And more than that. She could become a happy human being. Yes, by setting her mind to being a true blue romantic idealist. --Jim Broede

The happenstance of luck.

I think. About one's fate. And if there are ways. To avoid. Or control one's fate. For the most part. I have been in the right place. At the right time. Maybe if I had altered my movement. By a second or two. I could have avoided a bad fate. Such as an auto accident. That could have claimed not only my own life. But the lives of my beloved Italian amore Cristina. And Italian friend Giovanna. When an oncoming RV veered out of control. Into our lane of traffic. And smashed into us. More or less head-on. Luckily, without any serious or life-threatening injury. For that, I am grateful. But for a while, I couldn't stop thinking. About how the accident could have been avoided. If we hadn't been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If we hadn't stopped earlier. For breakfast. Or for gas. Or to take a picture. Of course, it could have been worse, too. If the RV had hit us at a slightly different angle.  We might have all been killed. In that sense, we were lucky. This causes me to ponder. To muse. What's the difference between good luck and bad luck? --Jim Broede

A spiritual message for Julie.

I connected with a spirit today. Belonging to Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. Seems that Ron's spirit is hovering. Half in the spiritual realm. And half in the physical world. Or so his spirit told me. While I was out for a walk. Waiting for Ron to die. He's barely hanging on. To his physical life, that is. But his spirit is very much alive. Now that it's ascending. Separating bit by bit. From his physical being. The transition will be complete. Very soon. In a few hours. Or a few days at the most. There will be no more physical Ron. Only spiritual Ron. With a new-found clarity of mind. Already, Ron's spirit has found a way to communicate with me. While I was walking. On a trail. In a woods. Where I used to walk and wheel Ron. Seems that Ron's spirit was drifting. Overhead. Near the tree tops. He asked. That I tell his daughter Julie. To stop lamenting. Instead, she's to rejoice. And celebrate his physical death. And to get on with her own life. In exuberant and kindly fashion. By being happy. No matter what. To find ways to savior life. And especially the precious moments. Better that. Than to stay in depression. And drunk. Ron's spirit said it's time for Julie to get on with living. A joyous life. That she shouldn't even come to his bedside any more. To watch him die. Because there are better things to do. Such as living the rest of her life to the utmost. Perhaps as a romantic idealist. --Jim
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How to truly care. About life.

Maybe there is a right way and a wrong way. To care. My friend Julie often practices the wrong way. She allows herself to be consumed. By caring. Without respite. She makes a task of caring. She beats herself up. Emotionally. Goes on guilt trips. Drinks heavily. In a sense, commits a slow and  methodical suicide. That really isn't true caring. One must learn to savor the life force. In order to truly care. About life. --Jim Broede

My easy spiritual access.

So important for me. To be focused on living. Even when watching someone/Ron die. Celebrating his wonderful and blessed life. And the fact. That I'm alive. Capable of celebrating. Rather than mourning. I'm still here. And will be. For a while longer. Able to keep Ron and so many others. Alive. In my memory. Amazing. That I am able to give them spiritual life. With thoughts. With pondering. With musings. Maybe that's the closest I come. To having the divine powers of a/thee creator. For instance, Jeanne is still with me. Seven years after her death. So many others, too. Friends. Acquaintances. Anyone I choose. Is kept alive. By me. Mozart. Haydn. Beethoven. Shakespeare. I have direct access. To all of them. They have found ways. To leave their spirits. Here. With easy access. To the living. --Jim Broede

The danger of too much caring.

It's dangerous. Having friends and acquaintances with all sorts of problems. Marital. Financial. Health. My close associates also include Alzheimer care-givers. Seems like every day I hear complaints. From friends in depression. I try to be understanding. And try to help them cope. But sometimes it feels like I've been dragged down. Momentarily. Into their horrid pits. I'd hate to be a psychiatrist. Or a psychologist. With deeply troubled patients.  It would be essential. To compartmentalize.  To separate one's self. From the rigors of caring too much. Fortunately, I had the sense to cutback. From 24/7. To 8 to 10 hours a day.  When I was caring for Alzheimer-riddled wife Jeanne. Even now, while on the sidelines, observing other care-givers. I have to step back. For respite. I find ways. To focus. On other stuff.  Of a refreshing and rejuvenating nature. Otherwise, I'd risk falling into despair. From too much caring.--Jim Broede

Ron's last wish.

Now it's time to die. With Alzheimer's. Ron is in hospice care at his five-bed residential nursing home. And is expected to die in a week or two. And he seems ready for death. Taking it all in stride. He seems to be at peace. And knows/senses what's coming. Seems to feel that he's at home. I'll visit him on Wednesday. Meanwhile, daughter Julie seems to be pulling herself together. In a mood of acceptance. She's in her fifth day without a drink. Indeed, a good sign. Husband Rick seems exhausted by it all. In some ways, Julie is being the strong one. Maybe she knows this is the end of the long and arduous journey. Maybe it is bringing her a sense of relief. Maybe now she will be able to get on with the rest of her life. Both of her parents gone. A new era. No more responsibilities or obligations to one's parents. Maybe now she can focus more on her self. Ron would have wanted it that way. --Jim Broede