Steak And more steak.

When my German friends go shopping for beer. In America. One might expect that they’d spare no expense.  Because they want the best. Something equivalent to the German world-class beers. But hey, they surprise me. And go cheap. And for quantity too. Busch beer. Brewed in St. Louis. On sale. At Wal-Mart. In Las Vegas. A 30-pack. For $14.97. Yes, a mere 50 cents a can. They store the bulky pack in the trunk of their rented Chevy Impala. Transferring a few cans to  an ice-filled cooler. Making the brew ready for their gala picnics. On their three-week tour of the American South and Southwest. The cooler also contains sandwich fixings.  American-style white bread and bologna, salami and cheese.  Fritz, Dieter and Dirk tell me, though, that they’ll indulge themselves once a day. By dining out. At nice restaurants. Serving their favorite American cuisine.  Steak. And more steak.  –Jim Broede

A German invasion.

My German cousin Fritz. And two of his buddies. Dieter and Dirk. They’ve come to the USA. To travel. In German style. Which means having lots of fun. On the cheap. And ignoring the summertime heat. In the American South and Southwest. They flew in last week.   From Frankfurt. To Washington, D.C. Then to Las Vegas. Where I met them and spent three days. No, we hardly gambled. Fritz and Dieter were winners. About $25 each. I lost 90 cents. Didn’t go to any shows.  Instead, we journeyed into the Valley of Fire. Named, I presume, after the blazing red rocks. We also ventured into Death Valley. Where the afternoon temperature peaked at 114 degrees.  In the shade, of course.  Could have fried an egg. In the sunshine.  Anyway, the Germans are driving a rental car. A Chevy Impala. Down to the Grand Canyon. They’ll take Route 66 East. Through Arizona and New Mexico. Then across godforsaken Texas. And into Louisiana. With a stopover in New Orleans. They’ll get a taste of Southern cooking and confederacy-loving bigots in Alabama and Georgia and South Carolina and North Carolina. Before ending up, in three weeks, in the nation’s capitol once again.  For the return flight to Deutschland. They’ll mix well in America. I’m sure. Traveling with an open mind. And curiosity. This is Fritz’s 10th trip to the U.S. He loves America. More than I do. But then, I’m in love with the entire world. With life, period. I’d even adjust to life in hell (aka Texas).  –Jim Broede

In less time than a snap of fingers.

Think about it. We are conscious beings. Able to grasp stuff. And give meaning to it all. Beautiful. And magnificent meaning. Doesn’t necessarily matter if other people are around. One can savor solitude. Being alone.  Being alive.  Makes me wonder about the Alzheimer-riddled. Maybe they still know aliveness. But I wonder if they have lost meaningfulness. True awareness. Maybe their minds have to be stimulated. On to one track. One thought. A single focus. More than one thought at a time becomes dangerous. Causes confusion. When I am with my friend Ron, I try to get him to focus on what we are doing. Going for a walk. I tell him, put on blinders. Enjoy what we are doing. At this very moment. Even if he can’t remember it 20 seconds later. He still feels a momentary burst of pleasure. Meaningful pleasure.  Meaningful consciousness. No matter how elusive. So many ways to experience momentary pleasure. A shoulder massage. A sip of water to quench a thirst. The caress of a breeze.  Even five seconds of consciousness can seem like forever.  A blink of an eye.  I wonder if Ron experiences 1,000 blinks in a single day. If so, they add up. Into something stimulating and maybe meaningful.  A lifetime of 100 years. It’s no more than a fraction of a blink in time. But that’s long enough to experience true love. Wow! A miracle. Achieved in so little time. In less time than a snap of fingers. --Jim Broede

The way life is supposed to be.

I spent six hours with my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron last night. So that his care-givers, Rick and Julie, could go out to dinner. With friends. Respite. Respite. Respite. That’s what they need. Really, daily respite. But that’s very difficult. To achieve. I didn’t get it. When I cared for my dear sweet Jeanne. That is, until Jeanne entered a nursing home. For 38 months. I put in 8 to 10 hours a day. Providing supplemental care for Jeanne. But I was generally at home by 10 p.m. And didn’t show up until 10 or 11 the next morning.  That gave me 12 or 13 hours of respite. And solitude. Every day. Time to replenish myself. To regenerate. To rejuvenate. To refresh. That’s why I’m willing to step in. Occasionally. And give Rick and Julie time off. Every care-giver needs it. And many don’t get it. But those that do get respite are far better care-givers. They are able to exude good vibes. And actually enjoy the care-giving. There’s a sense of accomplishment. Achievement. Success. Good vibes permeate the environs. People with dementia know it. Sense it. They tend to be more calm. More responsive. In positive ways.  It’s good for everyone. Meanwhile, when Rick and Julie were gone, I worked with Ron. Stimulated him. Mentally.  Physically. Emotionally, too. He’s a man of many moods. For a while, he was agitated. But I worked on relaxing him. I use all kinds of tricks. Good vibes stuff. I don’t force him to do anything. Instead, I try to create an environment. That puts him at ease. That stimulates him. Into an upbeat/positive mood.  I work with him. One on one. Face to face.  In a soothing tone of voice. I’ll give him a shoulder massage. Tell him to relax his muscles.  Because that tends to relax the mind, too.   I walked him down to my house. For supper. My cats jumped up on his lap. He was focused. On having a good time. Focused on feeling pleasure. Sure beats sitting on a sofa in a nursing home. Watching television. Ron and I were socializing. Truly socializing.  Making each other feel good. Meanwhile, Rick and Julie were out. Feeling good. Everybody was feeling good last night.  That’s the way life is supposed to be. –Jim Broede

Cooling it. In paradise.

It’s a trade I’d not make. Giving up Minnesota. For Las Vegas and Nevada. No way do I want to go from heaven to hell. But Maureen made the trade. And likes it. She’s a former Minnesotan. Left the state nine years ago. To live in the hellish hot Las Vegas area.  We sat next to each other. Last Monday. On a plane ride. From Minneapolis to Las Vegas. We chatted. And I speculated that Maureen has Irish ancestry. Her first name sounds Irish. She confirmed the accuracy of my guess. Maureen has seen snow only once in Vegas. And doesn’t miss it. But confesses. She could live without the stifling heat. Summertime temperatures of 100-plus degrees most days. But a price worth paying. Because she’s near her son. Other children are back in Minnesota.  Providing a good excuse. For  Maureen to escape the heat. And to cool it. In paradise. –Jim Broede

Long live Finland!

I’m blessed. Virtually every time I board an airplane. Because I invariably sit next to interesting people. Strangers. That I come to know. In significant ways. Most recently. Vil and Sumo. Finns. Young men. Just ending a one-month tour of the U.S.  Like me, they are headed from Las Vegas. To Minneapolis. I’ll be home. But after a 4-hour layover, they’ll head to Iceland. Then to Helsinki.  Their home sweet home.  And believe me. Finland is sweet. And progressive. I learned delightful stuff.  In chatting with Vil. He spells his first name. With a hyphen. And another name. But I shortened it up. To three letters. And dropped the hyphen. Vil is studying. Getting an education. On his way to becoming a medical doctor.  He’ll reach his goal. Partly, because in Finland education is affordable. For everyone.  Vil pays only $200 a year. To matriculate in medical school.  Indeed, a sign of a progressive society.  Imagine. An affordable education. For everyone. Goes to show where the Finns put their priorities. Of course, rich Finns end up paying higher taxes. And they pay more for other things, too. For instance, the size of the fines in the court system are generally based on one’s income.  A speeding ticket for a very, very rich man driving a luxury sports sedan might be as high as a six-figure amount. Compared to a nominal fine for the less affluent.  Yes, I could adjust to life in Finland. Sounds like my kind of place. Hell for Americans of the Republican persuasion. But heaven for the likes of me. Furthermore, language may not be a barrier. Vil speaks good English. Finns are well-educated. Many of ‘em being multilingual.  Finland seems to be a place where everyone is guaranteed the basic necessities of life.  Makes for easier going, I suspect. In one’s pursuit of happiness.  Long live Finland! –Jim Broede

Remembering...the scraggly coyote.

Going away for four days. Poses dangers. In that I lose my sense of rhythm. Mentally. Physically. Maybe even emotionally. Going into a different environment. A different setting. That can throw me for a loop. At home, I’m more regimented. Able to stay in a groove. But an odd thing. When going away, time seems to pass more slowly.  Maybe that’s the result of doing different things. Stuff that I normally don’t do. Eating out. Conversing with strangers. Living life in more of an unplanned way. Having to adjust to the unexpected. For some, that may be a relaxing and stimulating experience. It is for me, too. But only some of the time. Little wonder. When traveling, I’d rather stay put for a long time. In one spot. And preferably in a country setting. In a rural environs. A quiet place. Where life is pursued at a slow and leisurely place. Tranquility. Solitude. Isolation. In a primeval forest. On a mountain path. A seashore. Certainly, not Las Vegas. All the glitz. The lights. The crowds. The fanfare. The traffic.  I can live without all that. Better to escape. To the desert. To Death Valley. A scraggly lone coyote wandering aimlessly down the highway. That’s what I remember most.  Not the action in Las Vegas. –Jim Broede