Pursuing a favorite pastime.

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

Not knowing one is supposed to die.

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

My shameful day.

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

Life is what I want life to be.

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

Presto! God comes into being.

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

Winona can wait.

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

Better than a lingering death.

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