Broede's Broodings

Wished I had taken the ride.

2012-02-02T05:10:00.000-08:00

I was offered a ride yesterday. And didn't immediately know it. Because when I'm walking, and someone stops his vehicle, and starts talking to me, I automatically assume he wants directions. And I start my spiel. That I don't speak Italian. That I'm an Americano. Well, this guy was persistent. He kept talking to me. In Italian. And I thought he was asking directions to a grocery store a mile or so down the road. And I started pointing. Go straight. Then take a left. When suddenly, I recognized the guy. He's a clerk at the grocery store. And he recognized me and thought I needed a lift. He hand-patted the empty seat next to him. And motioned me to get in. He'd take me as far as the store. Instead, I started jogging in place. To indicate that I'm out for exercise. And that I wanted to walk. And he got the message. But I was thinking. How nice. For him to stop. And offer me a ride. Almost felt like I should take the ride. And wished I had. So that I could thank him. More profusely. --Jim Broede

It's embarrassing.

2012-02-02T04:27:00.000-08:00

My second winter in Sardinia. And seems this one is colder than the last. But still, not cold by my standards. After decades of living in Minnesota. I have yet to experience a freezing temperature or snow in Sardinia. Though I'm told it occurs in the mountains. Oddly, many Sardinians dress like Minnesotans in the winter. Stocking caps. Mufflers. Gloves. Heavy, padded coats. Makes me laugh. They look over-dressed. I wear a light jacket. A sweater. But I'm feeling a bit colder. Maybe my blood has thinned. Because I haven't experienced a Minnesota winter for a while. I have become a sissy. A Sardo, the masculine word for a native of Sardinia. My true love is a Sarda. The feminine. She's a sissy, too. Wears a heavy, bulky coat. Like an Eskimo. It's embarrassing. --Jim Broede

Only good spirits. I love 'em all.

2012-02-02T04:03:00.000-08:00

A loving relationship. Maybe nothing better than that. Not two, three, four loving relationships. But one. That's all I can handle. One at a time. I've had two truly loving relationships in my lifetime. One lasted for 38 years. Until my dear wife Jeanne died of Alzheimer-related stuff. Now I'm into my second one. For about four years now. Guess that's what keeps me going. Love. I'm a romantic idealist. Didn't know it until I fell in love. Though 'falling' may not be the right word. Love is far more than 'falling.' It's a continual floating or drifting. A continual nurturing. Never static. Always in motion. Something new. Every moment. Every day. Brings a vitality to life. I can't fully define love. Any more than I can define god. In some ways, love is elusive. Hard to pin down. I know it. I feel it. Deeply embedded in my spirit. That's another thing hard to define. I know. I have spirit. Ain't physical. That's wonderful. Because that brings me to awareness. Of another dimension. Far beyond my physical being. Another sense of existence. And consciousness. Come to think of it. It's all right to love more than one spirit at a time. I love all of the good spirits ever encountered. Makes me wonder if there's such a thing as a bad spirit. I think not. Only good spirits. I love 'em all. --Jim Broede

Cats, cats, cats in life and death.

2012-02-02T00:46:00.000-08:00

Thank gawd. The dead cat I've watched gradually decompose on a sidewalk in Carbonia in Sardinia, where I'm staying this winter, is gone. Somebody picked up the remains. Maybe the city street sweepers. Maybe a kind-hearted citizen thinking the cat needed a proper burial. Anyway, the cat is gone. And so is the stench from rotting flesh. For a month or so the gray cat was there. Prone. On it's side. I'm moved by the untimely death of an animal. On the roadside. Anywhere. Maybe even moved moreso than by the untimely death of real people. Maybe that doesn't say much for me. But there's something special about an animal, especially a cat or a dog, that draws me in. I want to believe that these animals have souls. That everything living has a soul. Something that survives after physical death. A spirit. Therefore, a carcass or corpse on the sidewalk shouldn't bother me. It's an abandoned, empty vessel. That once contained a soul/spirit. But still it does affect me. When it's an animal. I cry when one of my pets dies. I grieve. For a few days. Maybe a few weeks. I'm sad even when I see a dead cat on the sidewalk. Now there's another one. Down the road a half-mile. Near the gypsy camp. On the sidewalk. Where I walk. Daily. For three days now. A tan cat. Looks a little like a teddy bear. Soft, bushy fur. A very solid, muscular cat. In the prime of life. When it must have been thumped by a passing vehicle. Made it's way to the sidewalk. To die. Looks so peaceful. So tranquil. Maybe the spirit/soul is in a better place. Valhalla. Nirvana. Whatever the idyllic place is called. Maybe it'll take a month for the body to disappear. I won't know. Because I'm leaving in a week. Returning to the U.S. Where I'll be greeted by my two loving cats. Loverboy and Chenuska. It's been a while. I last saw them last September. They're household cats. Never go outdoors. Unless accompanied by me. I don't want them near the perilous road. --Jim Broede

I don't bore myself.

2012-02-01T10:11:00.000-08:00

I know how to kill time. By putting time to good use. Instead of wasting time. When I return to the U.S. next week, it's gonna take the better part of two days. Because I'm gonna have relatively long layovers. But I'll manage my time well. Reading. Walking. Maybe even jogging. Catching naps while I'm sitting up. And not least, talking to strangers. Satisfying my curiosity. I'll eat well, too. Sampling the local ethnic foods. I won't allow myself to be bored. I'll make something of the experince. And I'll even write about it in my blog. When I get home. It's all part of traveling. Some people tell me I might be bored. But they should know better. That is, if they truly know me. I may bore people. But I don't bore myself. --Jim Broede

Thankful that I still have hair.

2012-02-01T03:44:00.000-08:00

I'm gonna get another Sardinian haircut before I return to the states next week. Which means, it'll be very trim. Short. Making me look clean-cut. My barber speaks only Italian. And so I make my wishes known largely with sign language. Hand and arm gestures. The kind that Italians use frequently and with considerable animation. Yes, that's the language I've learned. Demonstrative Italian sign language. I could speak to the deaf. And make myself known. That's the advantage of living in Italy. No need to speak with one's mouth. My barber is an older fella. Maybe not as old as me. But nevertheless, old. Probably old enough to retire. But my guess is that many, many Italians can't afford to retire. They keep going on and on and on. That's my good fortune when it comes to haircuts. There's another barbar in the same shop. Younger. But I prefer the older guy. I walk by the shop almost daily. And when I see that he hasn't got a customer, I'll stroll in. And point to my head. And make scissor-like motions. And off we go. Very thankful that I still have abundant hair (albeit white) that needs to be cut. --Jim Broede

Wonderful. At least in my mind.

2012-02-01T03:23:00.000-08:00

I may have to kill 15 hours in Paris next week when I'm returning to the U.S. And my Italian true love wants me to check into a hotel. With an advance reservation. To get a good night's sleep. But I'm adverse to that idea. I'd rarther stay up. Even if that means sitting around and strolling at Charles DeGaulle Airport. My time could be well spent. Just looking at fellow travelers. Maybe even conversing with one or two. Catching an occasional nap while sitting up. And testing French cuisine at the airport. That's my style. Thing is that my plane back to the states doesn't leave until noon on Friday. And I'm catching a cheap flight the day before to near Paris. The plane goes to Beauvais, a small town 40 miles north of Paris. Of course, that means I have to find my way into Paris and to DeGaulle Airport. Not sure about the connections. And how long it'll take. But presumably I'll play it safe and get to DeGaulle well ahead of time. Again, that's my way. To not cut it too close. And to heck with the convenience of a hotel bed. My true love and I once had a layover of eight or nine hours in Fredrickshafen in Germany. And she wanted to catch some sleep in a hotel. But I thought that was too risky. We might oversleep. And miss our connection. So I was for waiting it out on a bench that circled a mighty old tree in a beautiful park. To her annoyance. But on reflection, it was a nice way to spend spare time in Fredrickshafen. And I have only fond memories of that bench and the park and my true love. From that wonderful experience. And believe me, it was wonderful. At least in my mind. If not hers. --Jim Broede

Gotta pick and choose.

2012-01-31T23:50:00.001-08:00

I find that the world is the world. It is what it is. Some things, I can change. Usually my attitude about this or that. Acceptance of what I can't change. And work for change of things I can change. And then, don't lose sleep over the things I can't change. And I set my priorities. Knowing that I can't possibly get around to everything that I can change. I try to deal with the stuff that's most important. To me. I avoid feeling overwhelmed. Because that does no good. Just drags me down to where I don't wanna be. Also, when someone calls to solicit money or support for something or other, I often say, 'No. I prefer to give my money and support to Alzheimer's. Because my dear wife died of Alzheimer's.' That makes life and decisonmaking simpler. I can't be all things to all people and to all causes. Gotta pick and choose. --Jim Broede

Cultivating nice people in Sardinia.

2012-01-31T07:20:00.000-08:00

My new-found dentist, Rien Uitenbosch, came to Sardinia 25 years ago. And he's stayed. And one reason for that is the lifestyle. 'It's slower-paced living,' Uitenbosch told me. And I couldn't agree more. Another reason why I'm in love with Sardinia. It's paradise. And one of the things that makes it so are the people. They tend to be laid-back. Easy-going. Despite economic worries and difficulties. Maybe it's the climate. Or the surroundings. Everything from mountains to rolling meadows to an endless array of beaches on the Mediterranean Sea. Sardinia is the second largest island in the Mediterranean, about 120 miles off the Italian boot. And it's also the home of my Italian true love. With whom I have been living this winter. Anyway, it's nice that Uitenbosch has fortified my impressions about Sardinia. He fixed a chipped crown on one my precious teeth this morning. Did a superb job. I suspect that if I had gone to my dentist in Minnesota, he would have recommended a new crown at a cost of over $800. Uitenbosch's handiwork was a much cheaper alternative. Costing 150 euros, a little less than $200. He's a classy dentist. And versatile. Even does root canals and dental implants. And he speaks English. He's Dutch. Coming from the Netherlands. Uitenbosch settled in Sardinia because the dentists were few and far between. There are more of 'em now. But still, not nearly as many as one finds per capita in the U.S. And Uitenbosch's services are reasonably priced, at least when compared to the U.S. Uitenbosch's wife, Monique Rach, is a dentist, too. They are in the same practice together. I want to take both out to lunch some day. Maybe when I return next autumn. They're nice people. Worth knowing. That's become one of my favorite pastimes. Cultivating nice people. In Sardinia. --Jim Broede

No need for a gruff voice.

2012-01-30T07:28:00.003-08:00

I can be gruff. Mighty gruff. Interesting word, isn't it? Means to speak in a low and unfriendly voice. But I don't necessarily mean to be unfriendly when I'm gruff. Could be that I'm merely making a point. Acting a role. There's a time for gruffness. Maybe just to let people know that I'm annoyed. Better than outrightly proclaiming, 'I'm annoyed.' Instead, I say it with my tone of voice. It's more effective that way. I can even convey my annoyance silently. With a look. Yes, so many ways to speak. Without uttering a word. Sometimes, all it takes is complete silence. One thing I've learned is to communicate. One way or another. Even with Alzheimer patients. I can read their minds. And I look for ways for them to read my mind. Sometimes, all it takes is a touch. Or a vibration. Yes, a good vibe. Certainly, no need for a gruff voice. --Jim Broede

To not feel obligated.

2012-01-30T07:28:00.002-08:00

I want people to do me favors. Little favors. Not big favors. Because I don't like to impose on people. A big favor is imposing. A little favor --well, that's exactly what it is. Little. Doesn't take much doing. I can tell the difference between a friend and an acquaintance. A friend will do me a little favor. An acquaintance won't. Or at best, will do it reluctantly. I'm capable of doing my dearest friends big, big favors. Because they are extra special. But I don't want them to do me big favors. Other than being honest. I don't like dishonest people. So they probably aren't my friends in the first place. Anyway, I know people who rarely do anyone a favor. Big or little. They're strictly selfish people. Some of 'em know it. At least they're honest about it. They are selfishly honest. And there's something to be said for that. Better than being dishonestly selfish. I'm amused by people. When I ask them for a favor. Often, it's people I've bestowed favors upon. Fairly often. Mostly little favors. Maybe an occasional big favor. Some of 'em don't always wanna return the favors. But that's all right. Because I like them to be free. To not feel obligated. --Jim Broede

I'm bullshit-proof.

2012-01-30T07:28:00.001-08:00

Don't give me real bullshit. Lots of people do. I'm all right with bullshit. If it's meant as humor. But too often, it ain't. Because some people are just plain full of bullshit. That's all they spew. I've been known to bullshit people. But always in a humorous vein. As a put-on. With a straight face. My tongue firmly implanted in my cheek. But some people are mighty serious about their bullshit. They might even believe it themselves. Because that's the only thing they are full of. Real bullshit. There's nothing else to 'em. They are full of bullshit from stem to stern. I grant that some people are only half full of bullshit. Or even only a quarter full. But still, it's real bullshit. And they use it to try to con me. But I'm not taken in. Because I know bullshit when I see it. When I smell it. When I hear it. I try not to use bullshit maliciously or for negative purposes. But rather to counter true blue bull-shitters. The ones with little, if any, redeeming traits. Anyway, believe me, I have a nose, an innate sense, for bullshit. I can spot it from a distance. One might say, I'm bullshit-proof. I'm not taken in. --Jim Broede

Not knowing. That's a pity.

2012-01-30T07:28:00.000-08:00

I fix things. I’m a problem solver. That is, when it comes to mental matters. I’m not a handyman. I don’t do repairs around the house. Or deal with anything mechanical. But if something is bothering me mentally, I get to it. I solve the problem. Poste haste. Usually, before I go to bed. Because I like to sleep with a clear mind. Knowing how to deal with life. I’m able to solve other people’s problems, too. By making suggestions. But most people with mental problems don’t wanna listen. That’s why they have mental problems. They have few listening skills. Therefore, they languish. Don’t get to the heart of the matter. I’d make a good psychoanalyst. I’m an amateur at it. But a darn good one. I practice a whole lot. Especially on myself. I can be brutally honest. I can take it. But other people – well, it’s difficult for them to be truly honest with themselves. Because it often hurts. Actually, it can be devastating. Seems to me that’s one of humankind’s biggest problems. People running around. Without a clue. Wandering aimlessly. Everybody should have a psychoanalysis. A true understanding of themselves. Few do. They go through all of life. Not knowing. That’s a pity. –Jim Broede

To give them a lesson. In patience.

2012-01-30T03:24:00.000-08:00

Patience is a virtue. And I have it. I show patience with other people. But often they don't show patience with me. They are too demanding. They want something done right away. Not in 10 minutes. Often, that's all I ask for. A mere 10 minutes. I'm ready to acquiesce. To grant their wish. If only they give me 10 minutes. In essence, I'm asking them to show a little bit of patience. I'm not saying wait 'til tomorrow or next week. Only 10 minutes. But they are in a hurry. They can't wait. And that's utter nonsense. So even if I don't need 10 minutes, I'd rather make them wait. To give them a lesson. In patience. --Jim Broede

I talk to myself.

2012-01-30T03:12:00.000-08:00

If I have a problem, often I don't complain about it. Instead, I quietly fix the problem. Other people rant when they have a problem. But ranting doesn't do any good, it seems to me. So I try to play it cool. And go in search of a solution. Calmly. No need to get all stressed out. In fact, stress is probably the biggest problem of mankind. People get fazed. Because of the stress. And they can't think straight. Some of 'em have nervous breakdowns. Or even commit suicide. Maybe it's wise to talk about one's problems. I do. I talk to myself. Because I'm a good listener. I make sense. There's nobody better to have a conversation with. Than me. And I know it. That's why I talk to myself. --Jim Broede

I'm baffled.

2012-01-30T02:58:00.001-08:00

I marvel at the number of people that go through life with chronic headaches. Tension headaches. Because they are uptight. Nervous. Easily stressed. Yes, they don't know how to relax. Or maybe they do. But they just can't bring themselves around. I begin to wonder if they actually like headaches. Just the way an alcoholic likes booze. Still knowing that it's playing havoc with their lives. I'm amazed at the ways people punish themselves. They don't have to. Some people even commit suicide. Because they don't know how to be happy and relaxed and content. They don't know how to enjoy and savor life. Or again, they may know how. But they can't bring thmselves around. Sad, isn't it? To put up with headaches and stress and unhappiness, when really it isn't necessary. That baffles me. --Jim Broede

I don't wanna make a trade.

2012-01-30T02:40:00.000-08:00

Look at it this way. If we truly and fully understand a situation, it's easier finding a solution. A satisfactory solution. Maybe one that benefits all of the players. The problem often is that we think we fully understand when maybe we don't. Seems to me that when there's a serious problem, something is lacking. What is it? Maybe it's that we don't fully understand. Certainly, I don't fully understand many people's problems. Because I lack information. Or I have misinformation. It's important that I have all of the facts in front of me. Believe me, life can be complicated. But I wouldn't trade life for anything else. Because I have the opportunity to love every minute of it. --Jim Broede.

Care-giving: It was a blessing.

2012-01-30T02:25:00.000-08:00

I took on a new identity when I became an Alzheimer care-giver. Gradually, over 13 years. And now that I reflect on it 5 years later, I've concluded it was a good identity. Did me a world of good. Being a care-giver for my dear, beloved Jeanne. Made me a better human being. I'm still learning from it. What once seemed like negatives have turned into positives. Believe it or not, being a care-giver was a blessing. --Jim Broede

Thanks for the fond memories.

2012-01-30T01:05:00.000-08:00

I came across this wonderful blog today, titled 'Anything Jim Broede won't print.' It's a fascinating blog. Funny. Funny. Funny. Worth reading. For the humorous content. So stimulating. To turn back the clock two or three years. Used to be that people despised me. But maybe it was all a put-on. Tongue-in-cheek. Meant for good laughs. Anyway, they (the funny contributors) all seem to have gone away. But thanks for the fond and funny memories. --Jim Broede

Tuesday, November 24, 2009
This blog is for anyone who wants to respond to any of Jim Broede's comments. If you have followed him you know he will not post any response that doesn't agree with his. So here you can say what you want.
Posted by 'Anything Jim Broede won't print' at 5:43 PM

22 comments:
Anonymous Nov 27, 2009 10:36 AM
Funny how jimbo has blocked his "Broede Bugle" (My German ancestral research blog.)

Anonymous Nov 28, 2009 08:46 AM
It probably rotted.

Anonymous Nov 28, 2009 12:30 PM
Making an adventure.
'I keep discovering things. Such as music. And love. Yes, new concepts. Of emotion. And feeling. And intellect. And I try to put all my discoveries together. Into something coherent. Meaningful. I call it feeling my way. Through life. Lately, I've been thinking out loud. In this thing called a blog. Written words. Random thoughts. Whatever comes to mind. And lo and behold, I get reactions. From others. But even from myself. Because one thing always seems to lead to another. A chain reaction. And often I don't know where I'm going. Which makes all this an adventure.' --Jim Broede

He keeps discovering things? Love?? Thought he was in love with Jeanne. Feelings? He has any??

Anonymous Nov 29, 2009 04:21 PM
Clearly Jim is on a fishing expedition.

'Yes, I really am Jim Broede. I don't hide behind pseudonyms. Or facades. I'm accessible. I can be reached. Touched. Conversed with. I can be perceived as sane. Or crazy. But overall, I'm a nice guy. Kind. Cruel, too, in some ways. Because I don't always think about how I affect people. And they allow themselves to be affected. Negatively. Positively. Often, that's their choice. Not mine. Anyway, I keep coming to the same basic conclusion. Life is wonderful.' --Jim Broede

He feels good about his cruel remarks and using them at the expense of others feelings. Trying to turn the tables insiting that if everyone just followed him life would be merely a amusment park. He lives in his self-centered, shallow life.

Anonymous Nov 29, 2009 04:24 PM
Mr. Narcissist. Narcissism is a pattern of selfishness and self-centeredness that, in the extreme, can be a psychological condition called narcissistic personality disorder. People with narcissistic personality disorder lack a healthy emotional core. They are driven by a moment-to-moment monitoring of their worth. Since they find it difficult to provide self-worth, they seek it from external sources. They must be "right" or the center of attention; their relationships, possessions, or careers must be "the best" and "special." As in the Greek myth of Narcissus, who fell in love with his reflection, narcissistic people are in love with their image and consequently see flaws as mortal sins.

The same basic conclusion.
'I think I'm different. Because I think out loud. Right here. In this blog. Oh, I call it broodings. Maybe just because it sounds good. Good illiteration. I don't know what I'm gonna think of next. I'll just let it come. One does that. When one literally thinks out loud. That's why I could get up on stage. The stage of life. And never shut up. Because I just let it flow. Whatever comes, comes. I'm never at a loss for words. Maybe that's why I make a fool of myself. I just let myself be. A fool. Or whatever I am at the moment. But that's how I discover myself. By just being. Some people think I'm stupid. And hey, I am. But I'm intelligent, too. A little bit of lots of things. But mainly, I'm a romantic idealist. A free-thinker. A liberal. A lover. I have no doubt about it. Because that's genuinely what I wanna be. And so I am. Yes, I really am Jim Broede. I don't hide behind pseudonyms. Or facades. I'm accessible. I can be reached. Touched. Conversed with. I can be perceived as sane. Or crazy. But overall, I'm a nice guy. Kind. Cruel, too, in some ways. Because I don't always think about how I affect people. And they allow themselves to be affected. Negatively. Positively. Often, that's their choice. Not mine. Anyway, I keep coming to the same basic conclusion. Life is wonderful.' --Jim Broede

Clearly a fishing expedition

Anonymous Dec 1, 2009 06:33 AM
oh geeze, now he is asking for saribet's mailing address. DON'T DO IT GIRL! what a perv!

Anonymous Dec 1, 2009 11:10 AM
Sadly he feels the need for personal email addresses. I give my personal email to friends not just anyone on the net. I pretty much have to know the person well enough to trust them first. In NO WAY would I trust jimbo

Anonymous Dec 2, 2009 06:30 PM
He actually asked for her "postal mail address". Spooky.

Anonymous Dec 26, 2009 07:33 PM
I see he is still virtually ignored on the (Alzheimer) message boards. His posts are to no one in particular. Just wandering around.

Anonymous Dec 27, 2009 09:26 AM
Most of us older visitors to that site no (sic) what he is like. The newer ones are quickly seeing his true colors quickly.

Anonymous Dec 28, 2009 10:00 PM
What is with all his "God" crap! I wish someone would set it straight. He is such a liar! He sounds all "holier-than-thou". GIVE ME A BREAK. God should strike him down.

Anonymous Dec 29, 2009 02:23 PM
JUST IN CASE....
in "Teaching me how to love"
12/29/09 4:40pm
You really should keep this trash out of the AZ message boards.

in "God: It's okay to be mischievous"

12/29/09 5:21pm
Well I, for one, am glad you get some amusement from your interactions here. Too bad, you don't get some wisdom out of it. You are a pastime; a diversion; a nonsensical amusement. You are like the little ball, hanging from a stick, which we dangle in front of our cats.

A "price they've gotta pay"??? As if any of this means one inkling, to anyone who posts here, once we close the page?? As if you really effect anyone??? As if ANYONE really cares if you are right or wrong?? What difference does it make, in anyone's but your life??

"Take 'em on"???? HaHa, you couldn't handle that, in the real world.

As for your references to God: pure TWADDLE. Your "god" is some made-up creature, of your own mind, to suit only your needs. "Broede's god", as you have referred to him. Anyone who knows the true God, knows this is rubbish, that you print. Solely for the purpose of getting a response from anyone. I beg to correct you--you HAVE declared yourself "god-like", and put yourself right up there, with YOUR "god".

" And invariably he tells me to do the kind thing, the loving thing. And that if it involves other people, I’m supposed to give the others the benefit of the doubt. And not to be too judgmental." So, you really pay attention to your "god"? AND, he/she/it approves just the opposite? Just proves he/she/it is all make-believe.

Don't stress yourself, telling me to "lighten up". As I said, no one even thinks about all of this, one we close the page.

Yawn

Anonymous Dec 30, 2009 06:24 PM
In:""A sad state of affairs."
"I've known care-givers in worse mental shape than their patients. And I've let it be known. That maybe they ought to get out of care-giving. Because they could be doing more harm than good. To the patient. And to themselves. "

12/30/09 9:22pm
And yet, the one caregiver who is in a near desperate situation; whose mother seems in danger, you tell her she is "doing a good job". Why didn't you tell HER? Why aren't you protecting her patient? Seems you dropped the ball on that one. Gave up too easily, big, brave boy.

Anonymous Dec 31, 2009 02:59 PM
JB won't print anything that criticizes his activities at the AA (Alzheimer Association) forum.

Anonymous Jan 2, 2010 08:06 AM
If Mr. Broede was as aware as he tries to make us believe, he would know that there is help for caregivers. Much more help than just telling everyone that everything will be great with "just" good vibes. There are ofganizations that have volunteers, there are many respite centers, there are many daycare centers. Not everyone has made themselves live in a bubble with no friends or family. If a caregiver states its been a exhausting day, Jim jumps on them with both feet. "You crackpot, you are harming your loved one" All untrue. Everyone has ups and downs. A nursing home (like he did) are not always the answer. Many nursing homes are NOT the answer. With the cost of a home being (normally) over $5000.00 a month. Would that cost the loved one a even bigger amount of stress? Then we have owners of nursing homes that only operate for a profit, causing the aides to work for min. wage. Turn over for most nursing homes is very high. (fact). Alz. unlike something like cancer one can live a very long time. Most die from pneumonia, does that have to do with the caregiver?

Anonymous Jan 2, 2010 03:48 PM
I see he printed yours..here's my second one...he didn't print the first.

In "A sad state of affairs."
"The volunteers would work for free. People like me."

People LIKE you, but NOT you. Why don't you make it your personal goal, to get off your behind, and DO something! You are so quick to judge and patronize. You build a complete scenario from a glimpse in someone's day.

Do you KNOW someone who is harming their loved one? Have you offered to find services for someone? Have you EVER volunteered? Hey, why don't you go back to your newspaper, and write a column-for free-about services available to caregivers. Why don't you take a piece of your precious leisure, and post some resources you can find on the internet? Why don't you post that helpful information in the message boards?

BTW, I am not the anonymous above. That anonymoous is correct-there ARE services in almost every community, if one seeks them out. You cannot get help, unless you ask for it. Unfortunately, some caregivers are sooo consumed with caregiving, they have no time to find help.

But YOU. YOU have the resources, and TIME, to assist, if you cared to do so.

Anonymous Jan 2, 2010 04:12 PM
IN: "Let's call it a crime, and not war."
Whatever YOU want to call it, those who perform(or even attempt) acts of terror, which instill fear into virtual the entire nation, should be dealt with much more severely than a murderer. These are NOT the same crimes. This idiot's mission wasn't to simply kill everyone on board the plane. His mission was to TERRORIZE ALL AMERICANS, i.e., "create and maintain a state of extreme fear and distress."

"Chances are...", "Quite possibly..." aren't good enough for me. If the guy gets caught with the bomb in his underwear, or shoe, or wherever, lock'em up. He has no rights. He gave them up, the minute he decided to kill himself and hundreds of innocent American citizens with him.

The only way we are to keep from falling victims to these terrorists, is to believe that our Government is going to act swiftly, and severely.

Anonymous Jan 2, 2010 04:16 PM
IN "The nicest of my random thoughts."
Have you ever, ever, EVER thought that you have a purpose to anyone else, but yourself? That you are here to affect someone else's life, and not to just make sure "Jim" has a wonderful day, or life??

Even with your wife, it seemed like it was all about how good YOU were made to feel, by whatever you were doing.

Anonymous Jan 2, 2010 05:52 PM
IN: "A sad state of affairs."
That's right, all for YOU, YOU, YOU. Stroke, stroke, stroke. That's what makes your writings about others needing help so hypocritical. You are only interested in helping yourself.

Anonymous Jan 2, 2010 05:55 PM
Yeah, yeah, yeah, it is good, that you are able to function on your own, with little interaction with the outside world. Good for everyone. Hey, good for the common good, right?

Anonymous Jan 6, 2010 03:38 PM
Seems like jimmy crackpipe is beginning to let everyone what an ass he is. I think he is finally gone over the edge.

Jim Broede Jan 30, 2012 12:49 AM
I came across this wonderful blog today. It's a fascinating blog. Worth reading. I like this kind of interchange. So stimulating. Keep up the good work. I'd like to see the comments double, triple, quadruple. I'm savoring this blog. You've made my day. I like the attention. --Jim Broede.

P.S. No kidding. It's really me. I'm in love with life. And living with my Italian true love at the moment. In Sardinia. Hope you all are still reading my blog. By the way, Jeanne died 5 years ago. On Jan. 18, 2007. I miss her dearly. Though she's still alive. In spirit. She taught me how to live and love.

Another one of my irascible ways.

2012-01-29T14:06:00.001-08:00

Yes, sometimes I'm bull-headed. I need to do things my way. Doesn't matter what others tell me. My way. My way. My way. That's my theme. Of course, I also allow others to do things their way. Just as long as they don't foist their way on me. I choose the way I want to live. I require mental and physical exercise. Daily. Don't deny me this. I don't care how busy I am. I find time to exercise. And tonight, instead of going to bed, I'm staying up later than I expected. In order to do mental exercise. Writing this blog, for instance. And thinking about life. My life. I may get less sleep as a result. But I'll rest better. Because I'm doing what I want. My way. I'd make a bad soldier. Because I don't like to take orders. I'm not too good at giving orders, either. I'm pretty much a live-and-let-live guy. To each his/her own. Oh, I'll act like I'm giving orders. But it'a all an act. Meant to be funny. That's another thing about my way. There's a time to be serious. And a time not to be serious. And people can't always tell which time I'm in. I keep 'em guessing. Which is another one of my irascible ways. --Jim Broede

I'd change the priorities.

2012-01-29T13:42:00.000-08:00

The circus is coming to town. Yes, to Carbonia. In Sardinia. And I and just about everybody knows it. Because signs are plastered all over the city. Including on street light poles. One can hardly travel more than 100 feet without seeing big colorful circus posters. Maybe too many. And I'm wondering if there's an ordinance that prohibits attaching these placards on the light poles. Because today I saw scores of the posters torn down on one of the more scenic entry routes into town. Both sides of the streets are lined by beautiful pine trees. And the posters are detracting eyesores, or so it seems to me. I suspect city crews tore down the posters. And maybe directed the circus people to bring down the remainder soon. We'll see. But if it was the city that ripped down the posters, the crews didn't bother to clean up. Instead, the posters are strewn all over. On the sidewalks. On the boulevards. Blending in with beer bottles and the other litter along the roadsides. Cities all over Italy seem to be indifferent when it comes to litter. But maybe they want to keep their light poles free of advertising. Personally, I'd change the priorities. Pick up the litter and let the circus advertise for a few days. --Jim Broede

Slowly but surly.

2012-01-28T03:57:00.001-08:00

I feel sort of stupid (stupido in Italian) here in Italy because I don't speak more than a few words of Italian. Maybe that's the biggest drawback of living here. But I try to compensate. By cultivating Italian acquaintances and friends that speak English. Better than nothing. And usually, they are well-educated. And very conversant. This may not be a good cross-section of Italians. But hey, situations in life aren't perfect. It'd be nice if everyone spoke a common language. But that won't ever happen. Meanwhile, it's best to make the best of every situation. And that's what I'm trying to do. Fortunately, my Italian true love speaks fluent English. Little wonder. She teaches English and English literature. Anyway, it's another indication that I take advantage of opportunities. Especially golden opportunities. And believe me, she's more than golden. She's a priceless gem. It's because of her that I'm in Italy. The fact that I've found her and cultivated this wonderful relationship shows that I'm really not so stupid. Even though I feel stupid because of the language barrier. The thing is, I've reached the age at which it's difficult to learn a new language. But I'm gonna try. Harder and harder. And when I return later this year, I intend to surprise my Italian friends with an improved mastery of their language. Though it still won't be proficient. Maybe it's because I'm a little bit lazy (pigro in Italian). I don't know which is worse. Being stupid or lazy. Could be I'm something of both. But there's one good thing about it all. My true love is spurring me on. Teaching me the Italian ways. Even the language. Slowly but surely. --Jim Broede

I'd rather be my own leader.

2012-01-27T10:09:00.001-08:00

My Italian true love is a teacher. And she's toying with creation of a provocative new course. About how people enslave themselves. By following a leader. More or less without questioning. Just going along. As followers. With little rhyme or reason. Other than they seem comfortable being enslaved. Rather than free to make their own choices. Though enslavement, I suppose, is a choice. Maybe a stupid one. But nevertheless, a choice. There are many examples. Take the dictator that reigned so many years in North Korea. Until he died recently. North Koreans revered him. Sort of like a god. And I see now that the North Koreans have consulted with the Russians. For advice on how to preserve their dead leader's body. Similar to Lenin's. So the body can be on display. And worshipped. Funny, isn't it? For people to allow themselves to be enslaved. By a dictator. By a monarch. By an individual leader. Almost in an unquestioned way. Anyway, so many ways to be enslaved. Voluntarily. Such as by addiction. To alcohol or other drugs. Of course, I consider myself addicted. To love. And to physical and mental exercise. But one thing, you won't ever find me addicted/enslaved to a leader. Especially a politician. I'd rather be my own leader. --Jim Broede

God ain't a grand manipulator.

2012-01-27T08:58:00.000-08:00

I sometimes wonder if god is the grand manipulator. In addition to being the creator. Sounds a little negative, doesn't it? Manipulators are generally not revered. Such as capitalist money manipulators. Out to gain personal profits. Often at the expense of others. I tend to speculate. All sorts of things. About god. To test what might be. If god really is a manipulator, that implies that he intervenes. He plays a role in outcomes. He might even punish his creatures. For displeasing him. For not following his rules/edicts. Might even send some of us off to hell. While those who please him go to heaven/nirvana/valhalla. Anyway, I suspect that god wants us to decide between right and wrong. For ourselves. Without him dictating. In other words, creating a world in which there is no prescribed god-given right or wrong. It's up to us decide. As free and independent beings. We create our own right and wrong. We set the rules. Not god. That keeps god out of our affairs. No manipulation. That seems to make the most sense. Yes, I've decided that god ain't a grand manipulator. --Jim Broede

Not so certain about my nose.

2012-01-27T04:45:00.000-08:00

Makes me wonder why. Italians not only put up with unsightly litter. But the stench, too. The litter includes carcasses of dead animals. I've walked by a dead cat on the sidewalk for almost a month now. Of course, I know it's dead. Without even looking. I can smell it. And so can the customers at a nearby grocery. As they saunter in to buy food. The stench isn't appetizing. But Italians put up with it. Knowing that sooner or later, stenches go away. On their own, I guess. Not with any help from clean-up crews. Anyway, with all the debris and litter and dead animals strewn about, little wonder that Italy has a well-earned reputatiion for being a dirty country. But beautiful, too, I admit. Too bad Italy doesn't have everything. Such as cleanliness. So many Italians seem indifferent to it all. Like what I wrote about the other day. A woman found dead in her apartment. After 6 months. One would think the neighbors would have sniffed something awry and foul. And done something about their missing neighbor. Such as call in the police to investigate. If nothing else, to investigate the smell. But then, the smell of a rotting body may mix with the smell of rotting garbage. On the streets. In such places as Naples. Where garbage collectors were out on strike. For a long time. But don't get me wrong. I love Italy. Dearly. The good far ouweighs the bad. My heart is in Italy. But I'm not so certain about my nose. --Jim Broede

The ultimate in tranquility.

2012-01-26T08:27:00.000-08:00

I'm no good at performing music. Singing. Dancing. Absolutely no talent in that regard. But still, I've learned a rhythm. A smooth rhythm of life. The way I flow. Comfortably. Slowly. Wasn't always that way. Used to be herky-jerky. Like many people I know. No real rhythm. Don't know for sure what changed me. Maybe I learned to relax. When I fell in love. Twice now. I let myself get carried away. Flowing naturally. Maybe it's that I have discovered spiritual orgasms. Just the opposite of physical orgasms. Tranquility. That's what I have. The kind of peace that comes with floating on a cloud. Drifting. A physical orgasm lasts for a few seconds. But a spiritual orgasm -- well, it lasts and lasts and lasts. For a long time. Think of the kind of music that typifies a physical orgasm. Maybe Ravel's Bolero. Or Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. Music that comes to a bombastic climax. But a spiritual orgasm might be accompanied by the adagio/slow movement in Beethoven's 9th Symphony. The ultimate in tranquility. --Jim Broede

Once again, I am blessed.

2012-01-26T03:02:00.001-08:00

Here in Italy, I'm sort of living on the outside edge. Because I don't speak much Italian. Just a few rudimentary words. Still, living this way is better than nothing. I'm still learning Italian ways. Italian culture. It's different. And fascinating. I'm still a curious observer of life. And I have my Italian true love. She not only speaks English, but teaches it in Italian schools. She also teaches English literature. Shakespeare and others. I'm proud of her. In addition to being in love. It's been my good fortune. To come to Sardinia. And to live with her. And to have her come to Minnesota. It's a very nice back and forth. Something I never dreamed I'd be doing after my dear Jeanne died of Alzheimer's five years ago. Thought I'd just mark time for the rest of my life. Well, if this is marking time, give me more and more of it. Instead, it's life at the zenith. Wonderful life. Life lived fully. One day at a time. Savored. Appreciated. Doesn't matter if I'm on the edge. I'm seeing and experiencing the grandeur of Italy. Once again, I am blessed. --Jim Broede

Too late for fluency.

2012-01-26T02:39:00.001-08:00

Mother had a charmed life. Though she didn’t always think so. She lived ‘til 88. And she had two marriages, the second of which was happy, and lasted for 34 years. Mother may have lamented early in life. Because her mother died at age 27. And her father at 38. And that more or less led to a marriage of convenience. To my father. Lucky for me. But it was not her happiest time. Still, as a youngster, she had the fortune to have learned the Czech language. When she was best able mentally to learn it. Even before she started school in Chicago. Mother’s parents were both born in the U.S. But her maternal grandfather was Czech. And he tutored mother in her early years. In the Czech language. So that by the time she went to school, she really only spoke Czech. Virtually no English. That was still common in the early 20th century. Because ethnics clustered into their own neighborhoods. Especially in the big cities. Mother’s neighborhood was Czech. And even the second generations of many American families still spoke the language. Fluently. That was the case with mother. When she visited Czechoslovakia for the first time, at age 78, she conversed flawlessly with native Czechs. They could hardly believe that she hadn’t lived there before. I’m making this point for a reason. To encourage the teaching of a second or third language in America’s schools. Right from the beginning. In kindergarten. In the first grade. That’s when it’s easiest to learn. Not at age 76. When I’m trying to learn Italian. Knowing full well that it may be a losing cause. By the way, mother made a serious mistake. She didn’t foist Czech on her three children. Talked to us almost solely in English. Too bad. I would have wished to speak a second language. As fluently as I can speak English. Oh, I can still learn rudimentary Italian. But that’s all it will ever be. Rudimentary. Too late for fluency. –Jim Broede

On keeping an open mind.

2012-01-25T18:56:00.000-08:00

When my dear Jeanne had Alzheimer's, I was able to talk to her right up to the end. In her language. Everybody has a language. At least sort of a language. Even dementia patients. I think it'a amazing how some of 'em can be reached. Maybe toward the end, it's more a language of touch. A look. A sound. Or maybe it's merely a breath of fresh air. Or a ray of sunshine. Never, never give up on reaching a dementia patient. Maybe even after they die, they can still be reached. In a spiritual realm. Maybe their thinking becomes clear again. Consider all of the possibilities. My Jeanne has been dead for five years. But that doesn't mean she ain't still alive. In a way other than physical. I try to keep an open mind. About everything. --Jim Broede

A Dutch dentist in Italy.

2012-01-25T04:32:00.000-08:00

I have found a Dutch dentist. In of all places, Italy. Right here in the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. His name is Rien Uitenbosch. Which certainly sounds Dutch. And he speaks perfect English. Italian, too. And Dutch. And maybe more. I didn't ask. Yet. But I will. Because he's become my dentist when I'm in Sardinia. Normally, I try to avoid dentists. But one can't always do that. And still save one's teeth. The other night, I chipped a little piece off a porcelien crown. Thought it might be serious enough to require a new crown. Which can be very expensive. But Rien tells me he can do a patch job. In essence. a repair with a traditional filling. And it'll cost me only 150 euros. Meantime, I've discovered someone I can easily converse with. Because we both speak English. And many Italians don't. Rien is very engaging. His wife, Monique, also is Dutch. And a dentist, too. She's my Italian true love's dentist. And my true love took me by the hand to Rien and Monique's dental clinic. Up a stairways of three or four flights. Turns out that Rien just had a cancellation, and could see me almost right away. And he sized up the situation with precision. Felt confident that I had found a good dentist. Rien said it's almost impossible for a dentist to get established in the Netherlands unless he has lots and lots of money. So that many Dutch after graduating from dental school, go abroad. Mostly to Germany. And to Italy. Rien and Monique came to Italy without speaking Italian. But they quickly learned. And I'm happy that they came. Never dreamed that I'd have a Dutch dentist in Italy. Speaking English. But then, I never dreamed that I'd be living with my true love in Sardnia. Makes me think that the world is a wonderful place. To discover each other. --Jim Broede

I'm also a world traveler.

2012-01-25T03:59:00.001-08:00

In two weeks, I'm returning to America/Minnesota after an absence of over four months. And I have mixed feelings about it. I'm leaving my Italian true love behind. Temporarily, of course. And we'll still be connected. Daily. By Skype, the audio/video hook-up. And by email. And telephone. And other modern technical conveniences. Almost like living together. Like we've done this winter. In wonderful Sardinia. And it helps knowing that the plan is for my true love to come stay with me in Minnesota this summer. Then it'll be my turn again. To fly to Sardinia. This autumn. For maybe an even longer stay than I had this time. So, in that respect, all is well. Life is good. And we'll continue savoring it all. One day at a time. But still, it'd be nice to be physically together. Every day. But I don't covet having more. Because in a sense, I have everything that makes me happy. Making the best of what I have. Instead of wishing for more and more and more. Maybe that's the bugaboo of modern times. People always wishing for more. Never satisfied. Never fully happy. Maybe that makes for greed. The curse of the capitalist system and way of life. Millionaires with the compulsion to become billionaires. And now, even an occasional billionaire wishing to be a trillionaire. It never ends. Makes me suspect that some of us want far too much. I'm willing to settle for today. And tomorrow. And next week. And next month. And next year. But most important of all is today. I'm still in Sardinia. With my true love. And I'm taking advantage of the opportunity. To be what I am. A romantic idealist. A spiritually free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. Come to think of it. Maybe I'm more than all that. Could easily add to this list, world traveler. --Jim Broede

Chills and thrills in Carbonia.

2012-01-24T05:03:00.001-08:00

I witnessed a well-organized protest today. So happy to have been there. To see it all. Maybe 2,000 protestors ambling, marching, stomping down Via Gramsci, the main street of the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. In protest of the demise of the middle class. So encouraging.To see Italians protesting the loss of their jobs. Because factories and other businesses are moving away. To find cheaper labor. And to make ungodly profit. And to hell with the common good. To hell with the workers. To hell with the middle class. Well, the folks in Carbonia don't want to take this new form of capitalism any more. They want jobs. They want a decent, living wage. And they've taken to the streets. En masse. Waving flags. Colorful flags of labor unions and of the province of Sardinia. Oh, so beautiful. The demonstration. Loud. Vocal. Sent chills and thrills up and down my back. I'm proud of these people. We need more like 'em. All over the world. In big cities. In small towns. In the countryside. Everywhere. Many workers went on strike today. To join the protest. Most businesses closed. There's a unity in Carbonia. A fervor. The people are pulling together. To set an example for the rest of Italy. And for the world. --Jim Broede

Time to rebel over a bleak future.

2012-01-24T04:34:00.000-08:00

My Italian true love (she's a teacher) encourages her students to become rebels. To go against accepted norms. But often when she discusses the attitudes of students, seems to me they are anything but rebels. They join the crowd. The ranks. They look down their noses at people who don't fit into their society, their enclave. They reject real rebels. She tells me, for instance, students may consider me unsuitable because I don't wear the proper, prescribed clothes. Or because my jacket is a little bit dirty. I'd more expect that from their snooty parents. Not from teen-agers. By the way, many of the students dress alike. Almost as if they have donned uniforms. Certainly, they are not the uniforms of rebels. But rather of comformists who toe the line. I'm disappointed in these students. Because I want them to be rebels. Annoying rebels. Pissed over the dictates of society. Pissed over the political, economic and social policies of the establishment. I don't want them to accept what my generation is trying to foist on 'em. It's time to rebel over a very bleak future. --Jim Broede

No more middle class.

2012-01-23T19:34:00.000-08:00

I'm on a mission. To save myself. And all that I endear. And I need help. People who care. Other than me. I have a feeling that other people don't care. We are living in an age of everybody for himself/herself. A selfish age. No longer focused on the common good. It's survival of the fittest. Which means the richest. Ain't right. And I know it. But doesn't seem like I can do much about it. Because I'm only an individual. And a member of the fast-fading middle class. I'm feeling more powerless every day. As I retreat to my cocoon. When really I should be on the battle line. Risking my life. It's really my life and your life. Going down, down, down. Because some how, some way, the power has been wrested away from us. By the oligarchs. By the rich. By the money manipulators. They have taken control. And we are living in a sad state of affairs. Many of us don't know it. Because we have been hoodwinked. Hypnotized. Lulled. Made indifferent. I'm starting to feel overwhelmed by the tide. Swept out to sea by the undertow. We are all drowning. The entire middle class. Only the rich and the poor will be left. No more middle class. --Jim Broede

Missing the America I once knew.

2012-01-23T19:07:00.001-08:00

I sense that America is facing a crucial time. A make-or-break moment. Politically speaking. If Republicans dominate the next national election, and win control of the White House and both the Senate and the House, I'm writing off America. Seems to me that I'd be in the mood not to give a damn any more. I'm living in Italy now. And maybe I'd want to make Italy my more permanent home. I'd miss America. The America I grew up in. In which there was a real middle class. In which there was much less of a gap between the rich and the poor. Unfortunately, we Americans have allowed a corporate takeover of our country. It really isn't our country any more. It belongs to the rich tycoons. They have bought/bribed our elected representatives. A few progressives/liberals are sounding the battle cry and alarm bell in the coming election. Including Barack Obama. If they lose, and the ultra conservatives win, America won't be my America any more. I'll miss America. Tne America I once knew. --Jim Broede

Enough to keep me happy.

2012-01-23T07:02:00.000-08:00

I make sense of the world by making sense of my own life. Basically, I decide how I'm gonna fit in. Often, by not fitting in. By deviating from the norm. From what's expected of me. Means I often have to go it alone. Retreat to my cocoon. Maybe only with my Italian true love. But that's all right. I don't need lots of company. Because I'm sort of a loner. Though I like people. Very much. Because I'm curious. But I don't necessarily need a whole lot of people in my life. Maybe that sounds like a contradiction. Guess it's that ultimately, I focus on one other. My true love. I've had two of 'em in my lifetime. Seems to me I can handle only one true love at a time. In order for it to be truly true. Another thing. I can be alone without being lonely. Because I'm really not alone. I have myself. And the spirits. And even the abstract called god. Most of all, I have an imagination. In many ways, I create my own world. Imaginatively. And I'm able to write. A poem. A love letter. A simple thought. That's enough to keep me happy. --Jim Broede

Beats getting myself pissed.

2012-01-23T00:33:00.000-08:00

I get under people's skins sometimes. That's an interesting expression, isn't it? Another way of saying that I annoy people. I have no problem with that. Because on many an occasion, it's nice to annoy people. To make them pissed. That's the way to reach some people. To catch their attention. Once I have their attention, real communication can begin. And I quickly point out that they don't have to be pissed. It's their choice. Often, people get pissed for little or no reason. It's merely a habit. They are addicted to getting pissed. Of course, I consider getting pissed to be more or less a negative addiction. Granted, it can do some good. But more often than not, it's self-defeating. Anyway, I much prefer getting other people pissed. Sure beats getting myself pissed. --Jim Broede

Ah, such sweet slumber.

2012-01-23T00:06:00.000-08:00

I suspect many of us are sleep-deprived without consciously knowing it. So many people tell me they are tired. And I ask them, are you getting enough sleep? Often turns out that they have cheated themselves. They sleep for only a few hours a night. Never take naps. They've gotten by with maybe only 5 or 6 hours of sleep each night. When they really need 8 hours. Maybe even 10. The simple cure, of course, is to get more rest. More sleep. I love the feeling of going to sleep. And waking up. Well-rested. I know people who think bedtime is a set hour. And even if they are dog-tired, they stay up 'til midnight. Stupid, isn't it? Why not listen to one's body?Sure, I go through periods when I stay up for a long, long time. Because I'm enjoying myself. Savoring life. But eventually, it catches up to me. I need my sleep. My rest. And I get it. Peacefully. Contentedly. Ah, such sweet slumber. --Jim Broede

So soothing. So relaxing.

2012-01-22T23:38:00.000-08:00

On the spur of the moment, went beachcombing today. With my Italian true love. To a Mediterranean beach she hadn't visited in many years. That's the marvel of living in Sardinia. So many beaches it's almost impossible to get to 'em all. And every beach seems different. It's own unique personality. The beach we were at today was located in a cove. Protected from the open sea. Ample sand. For bare feet. But we walked with shoes. On flat gray and black rocks. One rock had sort of a backrest. I sat down and leaned back. And took my place in the sun. So soothing. So relaxing. --Jim Broede

Those aren't smiles, but grimaces.

2012-01-22T23:26:00.000-08:00

I know many Nervous Nellies and Nervous Neds. People who allow themselves to be nervous. They live on the edge of nervous breakdowns. Instead of relaxing. Instead of slowing down. I see 'em every day. Often standing in line. Buying petrol. Buying groceries. Waiting to see a doctor. They are frustrated. By delays. It's as if their whole lives are wastes of time. Instead, I suggest that they take time to observe each other. In an attempt to learn something. That's the way I spend my time. In line. In the waiting room. Watching people edging closer and closer to nervous breakdowns. Some of 'em talk to themselves. Maybe without even knowing it. They mumble. Incoherently. Of course, the ones I hear nowadays speak Italian. Because I'm living in Sardinia. And the Italian language sounds quite incoherent. To me. But funny. Really. I can see by their antics. That they are nervous. They have anxious looks. Those aren't smiles, but grimaces. --Jim Broede

The not so secret secret.

2012-01-22T02:15:00.001-08:00

My days in Sardinia are waning. Only three weeks or so before I return to the states. For a while. I'll return to Sardinia sooner or later. After taking care of business in Minnesota and Arizona. And after my Italian true love comes for an extended visit. Anyway, no matter where I am, I always look forward to living. Life. Making the best of my pursuit of happiness. Doesn't matter much where I am. As long as I'm in touch with my true love. One way or another. I've learned to appreciate life. As it is. Maybe that's the secret of happiness. Though it's really not a secret. It's obvious. --Jim Broede

I'm forever watchful.

2012-01-22T01:52:00.001-08:00

I've been watching vast rolling fields being plowed on the outskirts of Carbonia in Sardinia. Acres and acres. With tractors on tank-like tracks. I haven't seen crops on these fields in my two years here. Though I've seen sheep and goats grazing. On the natural growth, I presume. And I'm thinking that maybe the plowing was done just to encourage the growth of whatever comes. Naturally. With no need to plant seeds. The dirt is brown. And much of it has been turned over into big clumps. Difficult to walk on. I often cut across the edges of the fields. Seems that I'm welcomed. I wave to the drivers of the tractors. They wave back. I might ordinarily ask them to stop. For a conversation. But I'm assuming that they speak only Italian. And I speak English. But I'm forever watchful. I'll figure out what's going on. By observing. --Jim Broede

I was destined to be here.

2012-01-22T01:29:00.000-08:00

I like peering out the balcony on the east side of the place where we live in the city of Carbonia in Sardinia. Maybe I look and marvel even more than my Italian true love. She's lived in Carbonia virtually her entire life. And I suspect that makes her less attentive about the scenery. But this is relatively new stuff for me. So I notice. Because it's so different from what I'm used to in Minnesota. I see Italianess. A cluster of homes. Mostly with orange tile roofs. And citrus trees. And flowers. And steep, well-forested hills that almost look like mountains. And I can see the sunrise. Over the hills. It's beauty to behold. Makes me happy that I'm alive and conscious and in Sardinia. I have a feeling. That some how, I was destined to be here. Blessed. --Jim Broede

I imagine me. Therefore, I am.

2012-01-21T21:06:00.001-08:00

I'm aware. Maybe that's another word for conscious. Could be that I always existed. Even long before I became aware. That I was living. Inside what appears to be a human body. A vessel. If not for a body, I wonder if I'd still be aware. Can a spirit still think and achieve awareness without becoming contained in a physical object? Whether it be pulsating flesh or a mere solid, inanimate rock? Maybe I have to take possession of something physical. In order to be aware and conscious. Maybe that's the only way that a soul can exist. But that begs the question, what is existence? Can I really exist without knowing that I exist? Maybe all it takes is imagination. I'm able to imagine life. Therefore, I am. --Jim Broede

I'm daring enough to do anything.

2012-01-21T02:30:00.001-08:00

I like the weather today in Sardinia. Blustery. Too cold for some. But nice for me. Much warmer than it'd be in Minnesota. I wouldn't even mind going to the beach. Because the last time I was there, it was calm. And sunny. I like a contrast. A rough sea. Big waves rolling in. Rather than a soft surf. Also, there are unlikely to be other beachcombers. They'll stay away. Waiting for 'better' weather. Which means, my true love and I would have a private beach. We could even shun modesty and go skinny-dipping. But I'm sure it's too cold for her. Maybe for me, too. But I'm just daring enough to do anything. --Jim Broede

The bad get their just deserts.

2012-01-21T02:14:00.001-08:00

I know people that see the bad/sad side to everything. The eternal pessimists. But I see something good about these people. Because they make me laugh. In essence, make me feel good. Because they are so funny. They are predictable. Which has given me opportunity to learn to cope with 'em. Oh, I'm perfectly capable of seeing the bad side, too. Especially when it comes to the realm of politics. But once again, every politician makes me laugh. Take the Republican aspirants for president, for instance. Every last one of 'em is a natural born comedian. A fool. Entertaining, to say the least. Of course, there's always a chance that one of 'em could get elected. But even then, I don't worry. Maybe it would mean the decline and fall of the American Empire. But hey, empires come and go. That's the natural way of history. No empire ever lasts forever. I'm living in Italy now. Where the Roman Empire used to reign supreme. Now Italia in many ways is the laughing stock of the world. Maybe soon to be replaced by America. That's good. Not bad. Because that's a sign that the bad get their just deserts. --Jim Broede

Without a mind, one cannot love.

2012-01-20T21:48:00.000-08:00

I'm a thinking sort of lover. In that I put my mind into the relationship. I become a poet. Yes, a poet of love. I allow my mind to dominate. Even more than the physical act. I've learned that love must be mindful to be real love. One must think love. Every day. Because the mind elevates the spirit. Makes for real passion. Real emotion. One must dream about love. Employ the imagination. Write a sonnet. Write a poem. Write a love letter. A loving, mindful thought. Counts more than physical touch. It all counts. But to varying degree. Without a mind, one cannot love. --Jim Broede

How to improve Carbonia's image.

2012-01-20T03:27:00.001-08:00

I oughta be the city of Carbonia's public relations director. I'd make a good one. By coming up with hundreds of ideas to improve the city's image here in Sardinia. And I'd start by cleaning up the city. Removing the tons of scattered debris and litter. Maybe by convincing the city's gypsy population to set an example. By making for an immaculate road leading to the gypsy camp at the north end of town. It's a mess now. One of the worst spots in the city of 30,000 inhabitants. Piles of garbage strewn along the roadside. Maybe put several families (volunteers) in charge of the clean up. Erect a sign saying that the roadside has been adopted by such and such families. Name 'em. Something similar is done along roads in Minnesota. And it's worked wonders. Clean, clean, clean all over. I'd start with the gypsies. Because the gypsies have less than a sterling reputation. Not necessarily deservedly so. Just happens to be the ethnic stereotype. Unfortunately. Anyway, the clean-up would have a potential double-barreled benefit. Improving the image of the gypsies and the city. Assuming the rest of the city follows the gypsies fine example. --Jim Broede

In a constant state of flux.

2012-01-19T23:09:00.001-08:00

Maybe I've lost control. Of my ego, for instance. It's become a big fat ego. Bulging. Knows no limits. That's a funny thing about me. I like to brag. Make off that I'm egocentric. Make a joke of it. I can go in the other direction, too. Be humble. Or at least act humble. Depends on my mood. Thing is, I like to sample life. In many forms. Playing many, many roles. Like an actor. On the stage of real life. Keeps people guessing. About the real me. I even keep myself guessing. That's the way I like it. Being in a constant state of flux. Always curious. Growing. Expanding. Learning. Delving. --Jim Broede

Beyond the navigable cosmos.

2012-01-19T20:44:00.000-08:00

I can read the mind of my Italian true love. To some extent, that is. Not totally. And it makes me wonder if I'm reading her spirit. Rather than her mind per se. Maybe I can talk to spirits. That maybe we all can. If we try. And if we listen. Tune in. Of course, all this may be my fertile imagination. At work. Doesn't seem preposterous to me that people talk to god. Whether it be in prayer. Or in actual conversation. Assuming that god is spirit. And that spirit exists. In a spiritual realm. Assuming that a spirit lacks a physical form. Or at least lacks a human physical form. Spirit exists in another dimension. One that can be imagined. And in that sense, entered. Like a peek from a far/afar end of a tunnel. Maybe that makes me crazy. From a human perspective. I find craziness fascinating. Gives me the ability to write. With my imagination. Think of what the world would be without an imagination. It'd be far too limited. I need to stretch my imagination. To as far as it can reach. Into infinity. I want no limits. A boundless imagination. One that reaches beyond the navigable cosmos. --Jim Broede

I do what works. For me.

2012-01-19T10:12:00.000-08:00

I set a fine example for friends and acquaintances who are overweight. If I may so. And some of 'em wish I'd not. They would rather that I shut up. And not flaunt my relatively svelte, trim look. I tell 'em, you can be svelte, too. Do as I do. Workout, physically, for at least two or three hours a day. Skip lunch. Or have a light lunch. Such as an apple. Eat a good, healthy and bountiful supper. Yes, enjoy life. Without overeating. And by exercising. Simple. Simple. Simple. So simple. Discipline one's self. Of course, I'm accused of acting superior. Of having no or little empathy for their plights. Fact is, I may be superior when it comes to weight control. I do what works. For me. --Jim Broede

The blessed spirits.

2012-01-19T00:05:00.001-08:00

Today is the first day of my sixth year without dear, sweet precious Jeanne. She died five years ago last night. After a 13-year bout with Alzheimer's. I think nostalgically about our 38 years together. It was a good time. But seldom have I ever had anything but good times. Before and after Jeanne. During Jeanne. Life is good. Even when bad things happen. Such as the loss by death of a true love. I opened this piece with an error of fact. That I am without Jeanne. But that's not true. Because Jeanne's spirit still lives. And I always have access to the spirits. Maybe that's what makes life so fulfilling. So worthwhile. Everybody that I have known and passed away still lives. In spirit form. I can talk to 'em. Any time. Just as easily as talking to god almighty himself. I can even write to the spirits. There's no limit. And I can hear back. By merely listening. By tuning in. That's the nature of life. Used to be that I didn't recognize the true nature. But now I do. I discovered the spiritual dimension years and years ago. And that is what brought me true happiness. And love. The blessed spirits. --Jim Broede

I'm very adaptable.

2012-01-18T08:16:00.000-08:00

Spent part of the day. At the beach. On the Mediterranean Sea. A wonderful day. Sunny. A little cool in the shade. But comfortably warm in the sun. Hardly any breeze. Just enough to make for a gentle surf. I found a nice spot. On a flat rock. In the sun. I'm prone. The back of my head cushioned. By a folded headband. I covered my face. With my black Sardinian wool cap. Closed my eyes. And listened to the surf. Soothing sound. Tranquil. My Italian true love is with me. She got the day off. Unexpectedly. So she suggested a romp to the beach. No protest from me. I could live on any Sardinia beach. Year-round. Even in the middle of winter. Like today. Reminded me of the north shore of Lake Superior. In mid-summer. Comfortable. Comfortable. Comfortable. In listening to the surf, I turned my ears into eyes. I coud see the surf. With my ears. Maybe some day, I'll try to turn my eyes into ears. I'm very adaptable. --Jim Broede

It'd make a difference.

2012-01-18T01:29:00.000-08:00

I like regimens. Positive ones. Ways of doing things. On sort of a regular basis. The way one lives. Such as going for walks. Daily. Writing. Daily. Thinking loving thoughts. Daily. Does me good to have a regimen. I encourage others to do the same. But I don't require it, of course. Everyone is free. To make their own choices. But I suspect some make the wrong choices. For whatever reasons. But that's no skin off my back. And maybe what I perceive as wrong choices happen to be their right choices. But I see people who are obviously unhappy. In a state of depression. And worse. Makes me wonder why they do it to themselves. I'm told that many can't help themselves. That it's a chemical imbalance. Or genetics. Something over which they have no control. But still, I surmise that if they developed a regimen. A positive regimen. It'd make a difference. --Jim Broede

The meaning of grand & glorious.

2012-01-18T01:17:00.000-08:00

My Italian true love often calls my attention to sunsets in Sardinia. She thinks of them as grand and glorious. But seems to me most of 'em are rather ordinary. Not spectacular like the ones I often see in Minnesota. Makes me wonder. If one has to go north to see a grand and glorious sunset. The sunsets in Sardinia lack vivid colors. Sardinia has grand and glorious cloud formations. Almost always. Even at sunset time. But relatively ordinary sunsets. This may hurt the feelings of my true love. But she's gonna have to face up to the facts. I've seen much better/beautiful sunsets in Minnesota. And she knows it. She's been there. And I'll prove it to her time and again. If she comes to Minnesota this summer. The words grand and glorious will take on new meaning. I guarantee it. --Jim Broede

My ultimate pleasure.

2012-01-17T20:47:00.000-08:00

My father was an addict. A habitual gambler. Eventually, it drove him sort of crazy. He committed suicide. Some psychiatrists argue that gambling is a death wish. Gamblers tend to take high risks. For the euphoria that comes with winning. But losing can drive them into despair, into depression. Yes, into suicide. I'm an addict, too. Using my father's genes to good advantage. To turn myself into an addict with positive addictions. I'm an exercise freak. Both physically and mentally. Feeling compelled to exercise daily. Mentally. Physically. I write. Daily. Willingly. Compellingly. With pleasure. Relish. Used to write for newspapers. Now I write a blog. Daily. And love letters to my Italian true love when we are separated. And even often when I am with her. And I workout daily. Walking 17 miles today. And when I don't walk, I take to my bicycles. The stationary one. Or the real mountain bike. Never ever gambled the way my father did. With real money. Oh, I gambled my emotions. Fervently. On the Chicago Cubs, for instance. But I'm in control now. Wasn't always. A Cubs heartbreaking loss used to send me into sort of a doldrum for a day or two. Now for only a minute or two. Because I fully understand. I have absolutely no control over the outcome of a baseball game. Unless I'm one of the players on the field of competition. And I don't play baseball. Too old and too inept for that. Meanwhile, I pursue happiness. Life as a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover and a dreamer. Taking control when I can. And when I can't, I accept the fact. I have control over my attitude. Toward life. I have learned acceptance, if nothing else. Such as perennial losing seasons by the Chicago Cubs. But then I often go into my dream mode. Dreaming of the Cubs winning the World Series. In my lifetime. This year. Every year. That has become my favorite pastime. A positive passion. Dreaming. Wonderful, satisfying dreams. And often I live my dreams. Such as living with my Italian true love. This winter. Here in Sardinia. That's my ultimate pleasure. My most satisfying addiction. Being in love. With life. Day in and day out. --Jim Broede

Not the curious sort.

2012-01-17T03:50:00.000-08:00

Makes me wonder about people. A woman. Found dead. In her apartment. In an Italian city. And apparently she died last August, six months before the body was discovered. Guess the neighbors weren't curious. Not seeing the woman for a long time. Or getting an occasional whiff of a decomposing corpse. Better to mind one's own business? Apparently, the woman died of natural causes. Alone. Don't know if she had any relatives. If she did, maybe they're like the neighbors. Not the curious sort. --Jim Broede

Getting on with life. Amicably.

2012-01-17T03:33:00.000-08:00

On the Alzheimer message boards, some care-givers have bigger problems than the ones they are trying to address. And occasionally, I call that to their attention. And it can and does piss off a few people. Because, it seems to me, they don't wanna address the real problem. One lady, in particular, isn't getting along with her mother. A case of conflicting personalities, as I see it. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm right. Anyway, I suggested that the daughter focus more on becoming truly independent. Getting a life away from her mom. They live together now. In the same house. Owned by the mother. But the daughter doesn't want to go out on her own. And why? Because she wants to make sure she inherits the house. From her mother. So she wants to stick around to protect her own best economic interests. The daughter suspects that mom may be lapsing into some degree of dementia. Anyway, daughter and mom are having conflicts. Regularly, it seems. And it's becoming a strain on both of 'em. My advice would be to do what's best for both of 'em -- mom and daughter. And to quit worrying about the inheritance. Yes, and to just get on with life. Amicably. --Jim Broede

I'm wondering, who is she?

2012-01-16T17:40:00.000-08:00

Startling. She drew my attention immediately. Upon entering the waiting room at a medical clinic. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. In Italy. She looked far older than her years. Yes, I thought she was younger. Maybe 60. Not 70. Her face weathered. Skin no longer smooth. And she dressed in the old ways. Everything in black. Even her purse. Loose clothing. And a black babuska on her head. Like the peasants in the old country used to wear. Interesting. Hair black, too. Maybe a few traces of gray. A nice smile. Maybe she emerged from another time. Anything but a modern woman. She was likely here for a medical test. The pink and white form in her hand. The same one that other patients held. Signifying the procedures. She looked worried. And leaned forward rather than sitting erect. Almost as if she was leaning on a cane beneath the clothing. If I had any guts and gumption, I'd gently bring my digital camera out of pocket and sneak a photo. Over and over again. Coyly. Maybe with the camera on my lap. The flash turned off. This woman was worth a photographic study. Such character. Vivid. So unlike everyone else in the room. She could be in a movie. A star. Or in my dream. Why was she wearing black? As if in mourning. I'd have loved to strike up a conversation. She's Italian. No doubt. Doesn't speak English. My Italian true love seated next to me. Seeing all this, too. I whispered, 'Look at that lady. Would it be all right for me to take her picture?' Of course, I knew the forthcoming answer. 'No way.' But I thought maybe I could pull it off. In an unobtrusive way. But no, I didn't. With regrets. But still, I have the woman's picture riveted in my mind. Maybe forever. I can still see her. Every detail. And I'm wondering, who is she? I'd like to know her. --Jim Broede

Less gloom on a gloomy day.

2012-01-15T05:10:00.001-08:00

It's a cloudy, cool day. Cool for Sardinia. And I've just returned from the graveyard. Where my Italian true love's parents are buried. It's a big, sprawling cemetery. A quiet place. Subdued. But not nicely designed, it seems to me. Too crowded. Too many graves. Yes, a hodge-podge. And on a relatively gloomy weather day, it seems like maybe the graveyard is haunted. By sad spirits. On a sunny day, the spirits seem happier. Usually, there are beggars at the graveyard's huge yellow archway entrance. The women beggars carry cups in hand. For coins. Euros. But today, there were no beggars. I wondered why. Maybe discouraged by the weather. Or scared away by the spirits. Don't know. My true love bought tulips. For the graves. Sort of pinkish tulips. They hadn't fully opened yet. Some yellow lillies left a week ago were still blooming. Nicely. And my true love salvaged some of 'em for her father's grave. Mixing with the tulips. But she left only tulips on her mother's grave. Which was a good decision. Tulips look better standing alone. Without competition from lillies. Anyway, the tulips were selling for 1.5 euros each. Sort of expensive. But the friendly flower lady gave by true love a discount. Don't know exactly how much. But she considered it a good deal. On the way home, we went shopping. At the grocery store. And at a discount store. Where we bought a variety of soaps and toiletries. But we had to rush. Because the place was closing in 10 minutes. At noon. That's the custom here in Sardinia. The store will open again tonight. For a few hours. After the employees and customers have been well-rested and well-fed. Makes for less gloom on a gloomy day. --Jim Broede

Forever, plus a day or two.

2012-01-15T04:40:00.001-08:00

When I write this blog, I write what's meaningful for me. If it's meaningful to other people, that's a bonus. But not a necessity. I'm doing this to satisfy myself. Not necessarily to please other people. In fact, I don't mind if I piss 'em off. But don't get me wrong. I like to cultivate other people. Relationships. But I don't wanna sell my soul in the process. Before I retired, when I was writing for newspapers, I had to cater to some extent to other people. To editors. To subscribers. To readers. Couldn't always do exactly as I pleased. Maybe I still can't. In some ways. But I certainly feel more free than I used to. In this blog, for instance. I don't submit what I write to anyone. Maybe other than to god himself. Or a divine spirit. And I don't know for certain if either one exists. I merely know what I wanna believe. That's good enough for me. For now. Guess I believe some things. Without proof. Without a convincing, sensible, logical argument. In that sense, I'm stubborn. Bull-headed. I have to believe something. Even when I'm a doubting Jim. I'm feeling my way through life. And I hope it lasts long enough for me to come to some bona fide conclusions. About what it's all abouit. More and more, I'm thinking that's gonna take forever. Plus a day or two more than that. --Jim Broede

Why I was put on Mother Earth.

2012-01-14T20:05:00.001-08:00

Take advantage of life. Rather than let life take advantage of me. Guess that's what I'm trying to do. Living life one day at a time. To the best advantage. Living part of the year with my Italian true love in Sardinia. Where I am now. And part of the year back on my old stomping grounds. On a lake. In Minnesota. With my true love coming over to stay. For the summer. Of course, life doesn't last forever. That's the only drawback. But that's a plus, too. In that it prompts me to live one day at a time. Making the best of each day. And not worrying particularly about the long-term future. Because after one dies, there may be no future. Nothing. That's the pessimistic view. But I can more or less shunt that prospect aside. As long as I'm focused primarily on today. On now. That's sort of my philosophy of life. And since I'm living in retirement, and I'm a writer, I write what and when I please. Such as this blog. I stay active. In my own way. I'm also a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover and a dreamer. That's my multiple profession. My bottom-line, I suppose, is the pursuit of happiness. Seems to me that's what the founders of the USA deemed to be very important. And it's one reason why I stay flexible. About where I live. I think that to some extent, America has let me down. Though I also can concede that maybe I've let America down. I could do more. I could be more politically active. But an individual can do only so much. I can't change the system. It's too overwhelming for an individual. And therefore, I have to make decisions. Such as not wasting my time on politics. Instead, I pursue happiness in creative ways. By focusing on love. Of my true love. And of life. That's why I was put on Mother Earth. --Jim Broede

Talk I like to hear.

2012-01-14T08:29:00.001-08:00

Elizabeth Warren. I like her. She's a professor at Harvard. And probably will be elected to the U.S. Senate from Massachusetts in November. Filling the seat once held by Ted Kennedy. And now held by a Republican. Warren is a liberal Democrat. And here's an example of what she has to say:
“There is nobody in this country who got rich on his own. Nobody. You built a factory out there, good for you. But, I want to be clear: you moved your goods to market on the roads the rest of us paid for. You hired workers the rest of us paid to educate. You were safe in your factory because of police forces and fire forces that the rest of us paid for. You didn’t have to worry that marauding bands would come and seize everything at your factory and hire someone to protect against this because of the work the rest of us did. Now look, you built a factory and it turned into something terrific or a great idea. God bless. Keep a big hunk of it. But part of the underlying social contract is you take a hunk of that and pay forward for the next kid who comes along.”
Now, that's talk I like to hear. --Jim Broede

I like igloos and ice palaces, too.

2012-01-14T08:16:00.000-08:00

Stone and brick. Stone and brick. Stone and brick. I see so much of it in Italy. Those are the building materials. Very little wood. Unlike America. I like the stone and brick. But the sad part is that many of the stone and brick exteriors are covered with mortar or stucco. And painted solid colors. Nice colors. But not nearly as attractive as the stone and brick. But the stone and brick often is left exposed in the interiors. That's a plus. And few homes are carpeted. Tile floors abound. Tile roofs, too. I like what I see. Maybe because it's so different from what I see in Minnesota. But then, I like igloos and ice palaces, too. --Jim Broede

Can't say that I miss the snow.

2012-01-14T07:59:00.000-08:00

It's warming up nicely here in Sardinia. In January. In the middle of winter. By 11 in the morning, on sunny days, I'm usually carrying my jacket in arm. And strolling in my shirtsleeves. And I may not don my jacket again until 3 in the afternoon. When the temperature cools again. But I have yet to encounter anything close to a freezing temperature in two winters. And I often sit in the parks. In the sun or the shade of palm trees. And close my eyes. And dream of the snow and cold in Minnesota. Can't say that I miss it. --Jim Broede

It's a nice way of life.

2012-01-14T07:47:00.001-08:00

I like what I see on Italian roads. Not the least being three-wheel vehicles. A wheel up front, and two in the rear. Small wheels. Small tires. I imagine they get good gas mileage. And there are small cars. Squat cars, I call 'em. Room only for the driver and one passenger. We need more of these vehicles in America. For the sake of economy. Although I'm not sure they'll maneuver well on Minnesota roads in the wintertime. Especially in the snow. Though I've seen them in the Italian Alps. And there's an abundance of motor cycles and scooters. But many Italians choose to leave their vehicles parked. And they merely walk. All over town. It's a nice way of life. --Jim Broede

I'm a slow, but good learner.

2012-01-14T07:24:00.000-08:00

I wanna become known as the world's slowest eater. I'm practicing. Getting slower and slower. Often finishing supper 45 minutes after my Italian true love. I like to make a ritual of supper. Making it last. I don't eat more than most people. But I savor every little morsel. It's a way to relax and enjoy life. And food. I don't understand why so many people eat so fast. In a hurry. It's bad for digestion. Generally, I like to slow the pace of life. Even to the point of thinking slowly. Gives me time to digest my thoughts. Mull 'em over. Slowly. Especially the best thoughts. About love. I make an exception or two. I like to walk briskly. Exercise briskly. But I like to stretch out my workout over a long, lingering time. For hours. Like today. I walked 9 miles in a little over 2 hours. Some days, I go non-stop for 3 or 4 hours. I eat breakfast slowly, too. But not as slowly as supper. And I often skip lunch. Or have half of an apple. And when I'm relaxing, I try to breathe slowly and deeply. Maybe 3 breaths a minute. Sometimes only 2 breaths. And when I open a book, I read slowly. Digesting each sentence and paragraph. Rolling it over in my mind. No hurry to finish a book. I want it to last and last and last. And I like slow, melodic music. Adagios. And give me slow dancing. Slow as can be. Helps to disguise my ineptness. I'm a slow, but good learner. --Jim Broede

A smug feeling of satisfaction.

2012-01-13T08:46:00.001-08:00

My Italian true love is a good teacher. One of the best. Because she tries to make learning interesting. And fun. Two great attributes. She becomes frustrated. Over the educational bureaucracy. It can be very aggravating. In Italy. And I suppose in America, and all over. I don't envy her being a teacher. I wouldn't want the job. I'll settle for being a writer instead. She teaches English and English literature at the high school level. Not all teen-agers are ready to learn. No matter how good the teacher. But she's also teaching unemployed adults English. In an effort to enhance their job opportunities. It's part of an Italian government program. And among other things, the government dictates things about the class structure. For instance, a day's class is supposed to last for 5 hours. My true love thinks that's far too long. Better to break up the classes. Maybe into 2 hours. Because the students have diminished learning results after 2 hours. Of course, she has to adjust, and follow the rules. No mattter how stupid. But she can improvise in the 5 hours. Maybe by giving frequent breaks. And there are trade-offs. The class sizes are relatively small. Which allows for more individual attention. I encourage her to focus on the good things. And to try to make the best of the bad things. Such as the dictates of the educational bureaucracy. Life is a matter of coping. One way or another. I love to skirt the bureaucracy. She does, too. Gives one a smug feeling of satisfaction. --Jim Broede

About care-giving, love, life.

2012-01-12T03:41:00.000-08:00

For 13 years I was an Alzheimer's care-giver. Learning on the job. For my dear sweet wife Jeanne. I made a choice. Seems to me if men can choose to get in, women can choose to get out. I made that point recently on the Alzheimer's message boards. When a woman care-giver said she was feeling like she was in 'forced slavery.' Many women choose not to get out, in part, because of the pressures of the societal structure. We need to change the structure so that more women truly have the option to opt out of 'forced slavery.' It's a shame that some women feel 'forced.' By the societal structure. By what's expected of them. It ain't fair. I don't look down my big nose at anyone who chooses not to be a care-giver. Man or woman. It's a mammoth task. An incredible responsibility. Some are up to it. Others not. Maybe the best care-givers do it out of an act of love. That's nice. But even some of those break down. They can't handle it any more. And I empathize with them. It often requires immense physical, mental and emotional endurance. And not all of us have that. Which is no shame. There are human limits. All I know is that I have learned great respect for Alzheimer care-givers. I know what it's like. I'm reflecting on this now. Almost five years to the day that Jeanne died. Leaving a big void in my life. But at the same time, I've gotten on with life. Maybe because Jeanne taught me something. About care-giving. About love. About life. -Jim Broede

Francesco always seems happy.

2012-01-11T08:59:00.000-08:00

I consider Francesco a friend. Because he's friendly. To me. We don't speak the same language. He speaks Italian. I speak English. When I need a favor, Francesco is usually there to help. Such as dropping me off or picking me up at the airpiort in Cagliari. He's also my Italian true love's handyman. Yes, he's very handy when it comes to repairs around the house. Francesco also works for the forestry department in Carbonia. And I often see him planting trees when I go for walks. We recognize each other. Even from a distance. And Franceso waves. The last time Francesco picked me up at the airport, I managed a little bit of a conversation. In Italian. I asked him if he was happy (allegro). And he replied, 'Sempre.' I didn't understand the word. But I later asked my true love for a translation. Means always. That's one of the things I like about Francesco. He always/sempre seems happy and upbeat. --Jim Broede

Let's all be personable.

2012-01-11T08:41:00.001-08:00

Sometimes, I'm accused of being too personal. About myself. And about others. Right here in this blog. But seems to me I'm not personal enough. See, I like being personal. To tell what's going on in life. My life. And other lives. I'm consumed by life. By happenings. By people. Especially the people I encounter. People close to me. They intrigue me. Fascinate me. Little wonder that I write about 'em. To some extent. Of course, I also respect their privacy. I don't tell everything. For instance, you don't even know the name of my true love. None of your business. Maybe I tell too much. But I don't think so. Because I'm telling about life. The story of life. As I see it. Meaningful stuff. And some of it happens to be personal. But how else can I write about life without being personal? Very personal. There's nothing more personal than real life. And so many aspects of life. The intimate, as an example. But that's where I draw the line. I don't share intimacies. They are to be shared with only one other. But one can be personal without being intimate. I wish more people were personal. Sharing their lives. Even with strangers. Maybe out of curiosity. How else to get to know a stranger? Than getting personal. Early on. If not from the start. Yes, let's all be personal/personable. With each other. --Jim Broede

Like Clementine, I guess.

2012-01-11T02:51:00.001-08:00

Had a dream this morning. A scary dream. That I had Alzheimer's. That I was driving a car. And I couldn't find my way home. Had a feeling that home was nearby. But felt I was trapped in a labyrinth. No matter what turn I took, it was the wrong street. And I was gonna try to get to the point where I started from. Thinking that might jog my memory. But I couldn't find my way back. To any place. I was lost and gone forever. Like Clementine, I guess. --Jim Broede

One of the lucky people.

2012-01-11T02:39:00.001-08:00

Retail businesses abound in Carbonia. In Sardinia. Where I live. Guess this is true all over Italy. I've read that Italy has three times more retail businesss than Britain. No, the proliferation of retail businesses isn't a sign of a booming economy. Instead, it's a sign of people barely scratching out a living. I wonder how so many businesses survive. Because I see few customers. Only a trickle in many of the retail stores. Maybe the exceptions are the grocery stores. The bigger ones seem to do all right. Full of customers. But the little retailers. How can they make a go of it? Makes me wonder. It must be a hard way to make a living. And there are street merchants. Many of 'em immigrants from Senegal. They roll out blankets along sidewalks. And in parking lots. Selling everything from caps to belts to trinkets. I was sitting on a park bench the other day, and was approached by a street vendor. His wears in a back-pack. He showed me everything. But I didn't buy. I told him I had everything. And I do. More than I need. Because I'm a retired American. Living in Sardinia. With my Italian true love. I'm one of the lucky and blessed people on planet Earth. --Jim Broede

The hoodwinked Americans.

2012-01-11T01:43:00.000-08:00

The New York Times editorial page has it right. The Republican presidential candidates’ economic arguments are disturbingly disconnected from economic reality. They speak of government spending as if it were the sole cause of the federal budget deficit and cutting it the sole solution. In reality, it was tax cuts for the wealthy, an assault on social programs and a deregulatory zeal that allowed a recklessness that led to near economic collapse. The Republicans are calling for more of the same things that got us into an economic mess. And the tragedy of it all is that many Americans are stupid enough to be hoodwinked into believing Republican babble. --Jim Broede

An image full of tomfoolery.

2012-01-11T00:00:00.001-08:00

I don't wanna create an image. A particular personal image. Because it's probably not me. I'm capable of changing. From day to day. I doubt that any one image would fit me. I get a kick out of people who try to create an image. Of themselves. Usually, it's a fake image. A facade. They want a nice image. When really, they often aren't very nice. I've met and been close to people who have wanted to shape my image. My mother, for instance. And some teachers. And friends and acquaintances. All sorts of people. Wanted a hand in creating my image. That's rather presumptuous, isn't it? My mother always wanted me to wear clean clothes. And clean underwear, too. Just in case I'm in an accident and hospitaliized. She wanted me clean. Funny, isn't it? I don't mind going out in a dirty coat. Especially, if I've been working on a dirty job. I'm likely to get dirty. Nothing wrong with that. When I go out gardening, I don't always wear gloves. Because I like the feel of dirt on my hands. Often, if I come in with dirty hands, I feel I've had a good day. And I like to misbehave, too. To be the cut-up in my grade school class. And to hell with the image. And I like to portray myself as perfect. When I'm anything but. It's all tomfoolery. That's the nature of life. Come to think of it, maybe that's the image I'm creating. An image full of tomfoolery. --Jim Broede

To be mistaken for a bum.

2012-01-10T04:42:00.000-08:00

I don't care what people gossip about. Even if it's about me. And even if it's wrong. Because gossip is mostly silly stuff. But I have friends and acquaintances that abhor gossip. Especially from busy-bodies. My Italian true love is one who detests gossip. Because gossip often deals with private stuff. And private stuff should be private. As for me, I don't give a damn about my reputation. Yes, I have a thick skin. The other day, I was wearing a spotted jacket. Which looked a little bit dirty, I suppose. And I got the message that people might think I was a recluse or homeless or a derelict. Which would not bother me in the least. Because I know I'm a clean-cut, responsible guy. Really, the equivalent of a dashing, handsome Italian gentleman. And to be mistaken for a down-and-out bum -- well, that's funny. Especially when I think so highly of myself. --Jim Broede

Yes, I could be more decent.

2012-01-09T04:14:00.000-08:00

Over the years, I've told my sister to go to hell. On numerous occasions. Without apologies. We're on good terms now. Because she's a recovering alcoholic. She finally took control of her life. But when she wasn't recovering, I had little empathy. Because she had the ability to recover. But chose not to. I reserve my empathy for people with disabilities or diseases for which there's no recovery. Alzheimer's, for instance. And some forms of cancer. I tried to get my sister to kick the booze addiction. Time and again. Tried to get her help. But nothing worked. And I sort of gave up on my sister. Maybe that doesn't say much for me. But my attitude was that I ain't gonna allow her or any alcoholic drag me down with 'em. At some point, I say adios. I remember my sister coming to our step-father's funeral soused. Drunk. To the gills. And I had it out with her. Our step-father died of lung cancer. My sister was diseased, too. With an addiction. Capable of recovery. It was her option. Yes, I know an addiction is an addiction is an addiction. Ain't easy to cope. To deal with the situation. But not impossible. Maybe that makes me a mean bastard. Depends on one's perspective. I occasionally draw lines. Maybe selfishly. In order to protect myself. Overall, I'm a decent guy. But hey, I'll be the first to admit that maybe there are times when I could be more decent. And more understanding. --Jim Broede

A way to make me less scared.

2012-01-09T01:19:00.000-08:00

Hillary Clinton for vice president. On the ticket with Barack Obama. Bill Keller, the New York Times columnist, has made such a proposal. And it's a great idea. It might ensure that Obama gets re-elected. And it'd set up Clinton as the heir apparent in 2016. When she'll be 68. Clinton is the most admired woman in America. She's done a very credible job as secretary of state. She's more a politician than Obama, who tries to stay too aloof, too above the fray. And Clinton brings along her husband, Bill. The master politician. He can smooze just about anyone. Maybe Obama would oppose Clinton on the ticket. More for egotistical reasons than anything else. But Obama is capable of setting his ego aside. Especially if he deems that the Republicans have a chance of recapturing the White House if Mitt Romney becomes their candidate. Romney won't be a pushover. He's the only Republican aspirant with a chance to unseat Obama, it seems to me. Especially if the economy doesn't take a significant upturn. The other Republicans are totally looney. Romney is only half looney. Americans elected a looney George Bush twice. If that doesn't scare liberals like me -- well, then nothing will scare us. Frankly, I'm scared. But I'd be far less scared if the Democrats select an Obama-Clinton ticket. That would be enough to convince me to spend at least a half year in America. Instead of all of my time in Italy. --Jim Broede

Any and every thing is possible.

2012-01-08T04:57:00.000-08:00

I like to talk about life. Maybe it's my favorite subject. Because I think life is wonderful. There's nothing I'd rather be. Than alive. Seems odd to me that my father committed suicide. In his 38th year. He didn't want to live. And here I am, cherishing life. Wanting to live forever. Odd that we came from the same gene pool. But then, maybe my father went crazy. Maybe he didn't know what he was doing. But I suspect even crazy people have an idea of what they are doing. I'm sort of crazy. And I relish the craziness. I want to be crazy. In love, for instance. There are all kinds of crazy. Some of 'em very nice. Maybe my father was crazy enough to believe there was life after physical death. A spiritual life. Something even more wondrous than the physical. And he wanted a taste of it. I don't rule anything out. That's the nature of life. As I see it. Any and every thing is possible. --Jim Broede

Waiting for nature's course.

2012-01-08T04:36:00.000-08:00

I wrote about a dead cat. A week or two ago. In a gutter. Along a roadside. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. Someone lifted the carcass out of the gutter. On to the curb. And it's been there ever since. The body gradually deteriorating. Becoming decomposed. Though there hasn't been much noticeable visible change. Except that the once peaceful looking cat now appears fierce. Because the lips have shriveled. Exposing the cat's fangs. I wonder if the city picks up dead animals. And tosses them into an incinerator. Or buries 'em. Maybe I should buy a shovel. And bury the cat in a nearby meadow. Seems to me that back in Minnesota, a vulture or a crow or some svavenger would make a quick meal of the cat. But that doesn't seem to be happening in Sardinia. Maybe there aren't any scavengers. There's no odor. No death smell. So I guess pedestrians just ignore the cat. Which not so long ago was alive and moving. And now lies still. Waiting for nature to take its course. --Jim Broede

I say what's on my mind.

2012-01-08T03:48:00.001-08:00

I've just read comments from an Alzheimer's care-giver. And she claims to be 'forced' to do so very many things she doesn't want to do. And it's making her life unhappy and miserable. Guess she feels trapped. With no way out. I'm not sure what advice to give. If any. Maybe I should just ignore making a reply. But that ain't me. I'll even risk alienating the woman. By encouraging her to find life alternatives. Maybe something as little as an attitude adjustment. So that she doesn't feel forced. So that she becomes more accepting of her plight. Even to the point of feeling happy. By savoring some aspects of her life. Because it can't be all bad. Easy for me to do that. Because I'm relatively happy with life. Even joyous at times. I often try to cheer up someone in depression. And it doesn't work. Maybe it even does more harm than good. Makes 'em pissed. But still, I do it. Over and over again. Makes me seem like a mean bastard. But I like to practice psychotherapy. In my own amateurish way. Because I have an attitude. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I take risks. With myself. With other people. I say what's on my mind. --Jim Broede

A dreamer, too.

2012-01-07T19:42:00.001-08:00

I know people with illnesses. All sorts of illnesses. Mental. Physical. Illnesses that eventually will take their lives. And others that will go away. Be cured, so to speak. We are all ill at one time or another. Usually, many, many times. Too numerous to count. For instance, it ain't unusual for me to catch a cold/virus two or three or more times in a year. And I deal with it. Because I know colds go away in a few days. But if a cold were to last for two or three years or even become fatal, I'd have more difficulty coping. So I can imagine how one would feel with an illness that's gonna be lethal. Some day. Guess it's all about dying. And the way and time it's gonna happen. Nice to stall the inevitable date. But many of us cope, I suppose, by imagining eternal life. Life that goes on forever. In a spirit world. Or another dimension. That's the basis for many religions. If not all religions. I live a life of imagination. In a sense, that makes me religious. Or spiritual. Makes me something hard to define. I'm capable of living in sort of a fantasy. Maybe even in a dream. That's my nature. Not only am I a romantic idealist, a political liberal, a spiritual free-thinker and a lover. But a dreamer, too. --Jim Broede

A strange and elusive thing.

2012-01-07T19:20:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I like to get up at 4 in the morning. Just to collect my thoughts. Even though I don't have any particular thoughts on my mind. But I always figure some thoughts must be hidden away. All I have to do is turn on my thinking apparatus. And now I'm thinking that back in Minnesota, it's only 9 p.m. on Saturday. Hasn't turned Sunday yet. Though it's been Sunday here in Sardinia for 4 hours already. Goes to show that time is a strange and elusive thing. I can look into the sky. And see light that left thousands and even millions of years ago to reach planet Earth. That's how long it took for the light to travel here at a speed of 186,000 miles a second. Could be the light left a world that doesn't exist any more. I find this fascinating. Makes me wonder if it's possible to capture light that's gonna shine at some time in the future. Before the future arrives. Though I have no compulsion to know the future. But maybe if I were god I have the ability to ordain the future. And if so, I wonder if I'm able to intervene. And actually change the future. Or would it be easier to change the past? And create alternate lives. By merely entering another dimension. Anyway, goes to show that almost anything can pop into my mind at 4 in the morning. --Jim Broede

No need for an umbrella.

2012-01-06T08:17:00.003-08:00

Hardly ever carry an umbrella when I go walking in Sardinia. Oh, it rains. But I find shelter. Often under the canopy of a billowy pine tree. The foliage is so thick that it takes a long time for the rain to find it's way down. Especially, if it's a light rain. It might stay dry under the tree during an all-day rain. Other days, the umbrella would do me no good because of the fierce wind. It'd turn the umbrella inside out. Or lift me off the ground as I try to keep the umbrella from blowing away. But I have no complaints. I like coping with all sorts of weather conditions. Besides, most days it's sunny and pleasant. Even in the wintertime. Today, I jogged in a light jacket. --Jim Broede

True love rates ahead of the Cubs.

2012-01-06T08:17:00.002-08:00

I'm being lured back to the USA. Not by any improvement in the political, economic or social systems. But rather, improvement in the Chicago Cubs. Seems to me the Cubs are on the upswing. Because of moves being made by new management. Changing the Cubs culture. For the better. From loveable losers to, presumably, loveable winners. With young ballplayers. Sort of a rebuilding of the baseball team and organization. We Cub fans have been waiting for a long time for a World Series winner. Ever since 1908. Anyway, I'm coming back from Sardinia by the end of February, so that I can spend March with the Cubs in spring training in Arizona. Means I have to leave my Italian true love for a little while. She'll be busy teaching school in Sardinia. But when we are separated, we connect daily by audio/video on Skype. She is my most beloved. I even put her ahead of the Cubs. She gets my devoted attention 365 days a year. Some days, I don't even think about the Cubs. --Jim Broede

If she happens to be my true love.

2012-01-06T08:17:00.001-08:00

For the most part, I ain't gonna change my ways to please other people. Guess I'm not a pleaser. I also don't expect others to change their ways to please me. Call it a live-and-let-live philosophy. I try to not bother others. As long as they don't bother me. I make exceptions to my rules. For instance, if shown that I've treated someone unfairly or indecently, I'll try to change my way. And make things right. Chances are, I did it inadvertently. Not intentionally. Although I am capable of being indecent or unkind to someone who's being indecent and unkind. Not necessarily to me. But to others. Guess it's a little bit like the golden rule. Treat others the way you wanna be treated. Of course, I have a relatively thick skin. So I can take a fair amount of verbal abuse. But I draw the line at physical abuse. I want none of it. I have to admit that I may occasionally change my way. Just to please someone. If she happens to be my Italian true love. --Jim Broede

More proof that I am perfect.

2012-01-06T04:03:00.001-08:00

I'm so perfect that I act imperfectly sometimes. So that people don't think I'm perfect. Because it makes some uncomfortable to be in the presence of perfection. I even make mistakes intentionally. So that I give the illusion that I am mistake-prone. When really I'm not. I'm merely play-acting. Pretending that I'm making a mistake. Thing is, if I really let people know that I'm perfect, they might become jealous. And I don't want that to happen. So in my perfect way, I ease that burden off the shoulders of others. By keeping the jealous types from becoming jealous. By play-acting imperfection in my perfect way. That means I'm the only one in the world that truly knows that I am perfect. Even more proof that I am perfect. --Jim Broede

I'll make Italians chuckle.

2012-01-06T03:12:00.000-08:00

My Italian true love discourages me from using self-deprecating or tongue-in-cheek humor. Especially here in Sardinia. Because Italians often don't understand that sort of humor. They tend to take such stuff literally. Seriously. For instance, when I tell Italians that I don't speak their language, I tell them in Italian that I'm stupid and lazy. Well, they don't laugh. They think I really mean that I am stupid and lazy. Of course, I'm intelligent. A genius. Which is also meant to be funny. I'm joshing. Kidding. I'm trying to lighten up the conversation. And I want everyone to know that I don't take myself too seriously. I am capable of poking fun at myself. And at others, too. My philosophy is to have a good time. Maybe in my old-age, I'll pursue a new career. As a stand-up comedian. Maybe I'll make it some day to Letterman or Leno. If not on an Italian comedy show. My true love didn't know what the term tongue-in-cheek meant. Until I explained it to her. Guess I'm trying to Americanize her. While she tries to Italianize me. But one thing's for certain. She's never gonna rob me of my sense of humor. Even if I can't make every Italian laugh. Uproarishly. But I'll make 'em chuckle. One way or another. --Jim Broede

I am what I am. And I accept it.

2012-01-05T04:55:00.000-08:00

I instinctively do what's good. For me. The way I eat. The way I exercise. The way I love. Some people tell me that I'm doing it all wrong. That I could eat better, exercise better, love better. But I know better. I'm my own man. I know what's good. For me. Because I know me. Others don't. At least not as fully as I know me. I'm doing the healthy and beneficial things. In my selection of food. In my daily and often extended and vigorous workouts. And in the pursuit of my Italian true love. Which is tantamount to the pursuit of happiness. I scoff at people who suggest that my diet tends to be unhealthy. That it has too much fat or too much carbohydrates or too much protein. Actually, I have a nice blend of all three. And the nice thing is that I ain't overweight. I'm svelte. And some of my harshest food critics are overweight. So, there. The important thing is to not be overweight. As for exercise, some couch potatoes think I'm addicted. That I overdo it. But really, I exercise because it feels good. Relaxes me. If I became sedentary, I'd soon be dead. I've gotta keep moving. Keep flexing my muscle. Then there's the allegation that I'm crazy. Crazy in love. That I should be more restrained. But I can't help it. I'm a natural born romantic idealist. That's what I am. And I accept it. --Jim Broede

I'm very content. And in love.

2012-01-04T10:33:00.001-08:00

It's the winter of my content. Never have I been more content. Because I'm spending the winter with my Italian true love. In Sardinia. I've always wanted to be content. And for the most part, I've been content with life. For almost all of my 76 years. I don't like everything that's going on in the world. I'd change some things. If only I had the power and ability. But I don't. So I've learned to retreat to my cocoon. With my true love. And that makes me content. I live one day at a time. And try to make the most and best of each day. Can't do much more than that. I walk. Twelve miles today. I write. My blog. And maybe a love letter. And I chat and dine with my true love. She's talking of us taking the train tomorrow into Cagliari, the capitol city of Sardinia. Where we'd go shopping. I've promised to buy her a nifty Italian-made walking shoe. Because I want to encourage her to walk more. And we'll have lunch or dinner at a restaurant. Good Italian food. And maybe we'll sit at the Mediterranean seashore. Or visit the botantical garden. Especially if it's a sunny day. And I'll tell my true love, 'You know, sweetheart, I'm very content. And in love.' --Jim Broede

The Italians know how to spout.

2012-01-03T08:59:00.001-08:00

My Italian true love likes the emphasis on oral exams in the Italian school system. Much better than written exams, she says. My true love is a teacher. Of English. And English literature. Imagine that. An Italian choosing to teach English. I'm learning more about Shakespeare than I ever dreamed I'd know. Because my true love knows Shakespeare backwards and forwards. And she makes it interesting. I've been subjected to her oral exams. Charles Richards, author of the book, 'The New Italians,' says that one reason why Italians have such a gift for language, such a fluency with words, is that their whole lives have been trained for this. 'Their educational system is directed towards verbal fluency,' he writes. 'All their schooling is a test of oral skills. Most examinations are oral, rather than written, and test a pupil's ability to spout cogently on a given subject. These examinations need long, elegantly constructed, well delivered answers. Short, concise responses do not work.' --Jim Broede

Is it a birthright or a death wish?

2012-01-03T05:36:00.000-08:00

Cars have been described as a national obsession in Italy. And I think righty so. But not everyone is obsessed. Including my Italian true love's brother. He doesn't drive. Never has. And he's in his 50s. And my true love doesn't like to drive. She gladly relinquishes the driving to me. Charles Richards, in his book, 'The New Italians, says the Italians may not be the most considerate drivers in the world. 'They may have scant regard for any traffic regulations,' he writes, 'particularly those seeking to restrict what they see as their birthright and others their death wish to drive at speeds only marginally short of supersonic. Yet they must have the best natural feel of any drivers in the world. No other nation can race through the tightest of corners with such perfect judgment of distance and speed.' --Jim Broede

Playing the game -- well.

2012-01-03T05:14:00.000-08:00

I believe Charles Richards, in his book, 'The New Italians,' when he writes: 'Many reasons are given for the lack of respect the law enjoys. In part, the Italian way of doing things entails finding any way possible of achieving the required result. It is deeply engrained in the culture to try to get round laws, to try and improve on them. L'arte d'arrangiarsi, finding a way, is what it says: an art form.' Gotta give Italians credit for that. Beating the system by creating one's own system of defeating the bureaucracy. Not only is it an art form, but a game. Played well. Richards concludes that some laws and regulations are so absurd they are an invitation to be broken. --Jim Broede

I pretend to see only wildflowers.

2012-01-02T10:27:00.000-08:00

The fierce high winds ripped off most of the plastic roof on a shelter at a bus stop where I'm staying in the city of Carbonia in Sardinia. And the debris landed in a nearby meadow. I'm betting that the remains of the roof will stay there. If not forever -- well, then for 5 or 10 or 20 years. Italians don't believe in picking up litter. The meadow is full of yellow wildflowers. Beautiful flowers. But scattered all around are papers and boxes and beer bottles. Almost every imaginable form of litter. I try to block it all out. Pretending to see only the waves of wildflowers. But it's difficult. When I walk through the city, I find stone and brick and stucco walls. So Italian. They'd be a picturesque delight. Except for the graffiti. --Jim Broede

Balanced and unbalanced love.

2012-01-02T07:29:00.000-08:00

There's nothing I like better than cultivating a loving relationship. By giving love. That's far more important than receiving love. And more satisfying, too. Seems to me that in a loving relationship, there's no such thing as a constant balance of love. Because love can't be weighed. It's weightless. And those who try to weigh or measure love, really aren't in love. Love is love is love. One knows it. But one can't define it. A little bit like knowing god. Without the necessity to define god. I suppose god is love. And love is god. To be a true blue lover, it's necessary for me to give love. Without having to be loved. Because real love is unconditional. I'm assuming that in loving relationhips, one partner gives more than the other at any given time. And the degree of love may be in a constant state of flux. But that really doesn't matter in a truly loving relationship. Because lovers try to meet each other's needs. And those needs may vary from moment to moment, day to day, week to week, month to month, year to year. My Jeanne needed more than the usual amount of love when she had a 13-year siege with Alzheimer's Disease. And I had to be prepared to give more love than I received. But at earlier times in our marriage/loving relationship, Jeanne gave more love than she received. Seems to me that things tend to balance out in a truly loving relationship. --Jim Broede

The one thing that hasn't changed.

2012-01-01T14:18:00.000-08:00

I adapt to change. Whether I like it or not. Change is inevitable. In just about everything. But I don't always readily accept change. I cope anyway. Usually, by withdrawing into my isolated cocoon. My own little world. Which ain't bad. Every day, I hear people complain about change. They think the world is changing far too fast. I've read that since the cave man, we've had about 800 lifetimes. Assuming that a generation runs about 62 years. And there's been more change in the 800th lifetime than in previous hundreds of lifetimes. And there are predictions of even bigger changes to come in the next one or two lifetimes. I was born in 1935. Think about it. The changes that have come in my lifetime. Maybe more changes from the time of Julius Ceasar to the start of the 20th century. I find that I can't keep up with it all. Therefore, I often retreat into my cocoon. To buffer myself from some change. I live with my Italian true love. Here in Sardinia for half of the year. And to my lakeshore home in Minnesota for the other half. Where my true love can join me every summer. Guess that's all I want in life right now. True love. Maybe it'd be the same if I had lived during the Roman Empire. --Jim Broede

All's quiet after a noisy night.

2012-01-01T09:07:00.000-08:00

On New Year’s Eve, the city of Carbonia in Sardinia sounds a little like a war zone. Explosions galore. Fireworks lighting up the sky. Far more revelry than I’ve experienced in the USA. We Americans are more sedate in welcoming in the new year. I don’t know why folks in Carbonia feel they have to celebrate in such raucous manner. I’m puzzled. Maybe they’ve perceived 2011 as a bad year. And they wanna say good riddance. I’m told that much the same goes on all over Italy. And that it’s been that way for a long, long time. Every New Year’s Eve, at least one or two Italians kill themselves with explosives. Just for the sake of making a big bang. They take all sorts of risks. Fortunately, nobody was killed in Carbonia. But I’d be surprised if there weren’t a fire or two. From all the fireworks. Anyway, now I’m amazed that all is so very quiet on New Year’s Day. I went for a 13-mile walk, and hardly spotted anyone. They must have stayed home. To recover. Businesses were closed. Except for one coffee bar. I suspect it did brisk business. From customers trying to sober up. –Jim Broede

The wind whispers in my ear.

2011-12-31T20:09:00.001-08:00

The winds have been howling. Something fierce. Out of the north. And laced by rain. For two days now. That's the way it is in Sardinia. At year's end. In winter. But there's no snow. No freezing temperatures. For me, a Minnesotan, it ain't quite like winter. But a reminder that weather can be inclement. Even in Paradise. Still, I like the winds. The enormous gusts. But straight-line winds. This ain't tornado country. When I'm walking north, I can hardly move. Like bucking the force in a wind tunnel. When I turn south, the wind whispers in my ear. Move along. Faster. Faster. Faster. --Jim Broede

That life goes on and on and on.

2011-12-31T19:51:00.000-08:00

Marred my day for a while. Made me feel sad. I spied the cat. Dark gray. Seemed to be resting. Lying on its side. In the gutter. Eyes open. In an expressive, relaxed way. But that cat was dead. Must have been hit by a car. No readily apparent physical injury. Except a small trickle of blood from the mouth. Probably from an internal injury. The kind of death I don't like to see. Wishing it never happened. Surprised there aren't many more dead animals along the Italian roadsides. Because of the madcap way Italians drive. But still, here in Carbonia in Sardinia, I see many drivers brake for animals. Stop. Give the animals the right of way. But stray dogs and cats. They are numerous. On my walks. I see them. Broken and battered and crushed. This one was still intact. Looked alive. On a later round, the corpse was on the curb. Out of the gutter. Some one must have lifted the cat. Checked to see if maybe it was still alive. I briefly mourned. Grieved. But got over it. Assuming that the cat was still alive. In spirit. In another dimension. That every life goes on and on and on. --Jim Broede

I want to savor every bit of Italy.

2011-12-31T01:25:00.001-08:00

On a side street, near where I live in the city of Carbonia in Sardinia, there are two nice residential homes. Consisting mostly of glass. They are beautiful homes. With a view. Out of massive windows. But the view -- well, it could be better. Across the street, there's a wall. Filled with graffiti. And there's not much landscaping. Some litter, too. I would have picked a better location. Maybe on the outskirts of the city. Or well out in the country. But I suspect many Italians living in cities build for indoor comfort. Not for the scenery. The balconies on buildings are seldom occupied. Even where I live. We have balconies looking east out of the kitchen and west out of the living room. But we don't sit out there. Instead, we hang out clothes to dry. Or put out potted plants. There's no furniture. Only a washing machine. But I'm thinking about setting a new standard. Taking to the balconies. With chairs. And maybe a small table. Where I can read a book. Drink cappucino in the morning. And watch the sunset in the evening. I want to savor every bit of Italy. --Jim Broede