An all-too-obvious act of suicide.

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

No such thing as perfect care.

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

No matter my age.

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

The quaint and unusual.

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

Facing the truth.

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

In Northfield, Minnesota.

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

Knowing I am blessed.

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