Pre-Release Sale: It’s Just the Way It Was

Now available for pre-release order for Kindle.

In It’s Just the Way It Was: Inside the War on the New England Mob and other stories, Joe Broadmeadow and Brendan Doherty take you inside the investigations, covert surveillances, and murky world of informants in the war against Organized Crime.

Make no mistake about it, it was a war targeting the insidious nature of the mob and their detrimental effect on Rhode Island and throughout New England.

Indeed, the book reveals the extensive nature of Organized Crime throughout the United States.

From the opening moments detailing a mob enforcer’s near death in a hail of gunfire to the potentially deadly confrontation between then Detective Brendan Doherty and a notorious mob associate, Gerard Ouimette, this book puts you right there in the middle.

Most books on the mob tell a sanitized story of guys who relished their time as mobsters. As Nicholas Pileggi, author of “Wiseguys,” put it, “most mob books are the egomaniacal ravings of an illiterate hood masquerading as a benevolent godfather.”

This is not that kind of book. This is the story of the good guys.

It’s just the way it was.

Order your Kindle pre-release copy here and check back for information on the release of the print version,

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WV49RGX

Book Signings

October 11, 6:00 p.m. Barrington Books Retold, Garden City Shopping Center, Cranston, RI

October 17, 5:00 p.m. McTs Tavern, Mendon Rd., Cumberland, RI

It’s Just the Way It Was…

On March 14, 1986, a dark, cold, and quiet night in Providence, Rhode Island, an ex-con with a penchant for violence, dropped into a local bar. He didn’t realize he’d just entered lion territory, and the lions were hunting…”

It’s Just the Way It Was by Joe Broadmeadow and Brendan Doherty

Thus begins the opening lines of a soon to be released book, It’s Just the Way It Was: Inside the War on the New England Mob and other stories, by Joe Broadmeadow and Brendan Doherty.

Coming this Fall

In It’s Just the Way It Was: Inside the War on the New England Mob and other stories, Joe Broadmeadow and Brendan Doherty take you inside the investigations, covert surveillances, and murky world of informants in the war against Organized Crime.

Make no mistake about it, it was a war targeting the insidious nature of the mob and their detrimental effect on Rhode Island and throughout New England.

Indeed, the book reveals the extensive nature of Organized Crime throughout the United States.

From the opening moments detailing a mob enforcer’s near death in a hail of gunfire to the potentially deadly confrontation between then Detective Brendan Doherty and a notorious mob associate, Gerard Ouimette, this book puts you right there in the middle.

Most books on the mob tell a sanitized story from the point of view of guys who relished their time as mobsters. As Nicholas Pileggi, author of “Wiseguys,” put it, “most mob books are the egomaniacal ravings of an illiterate hood masquerading as a benevolent godfather.”

This is not that kind of book. This is just the way it was.

Check out the video preview here https://youtu.be/n_eEP01PkMM

Signup for information on book release date and book signings here https://mailchi.mp/53bba54494da/authorjoebroadmeadow

When in the Course of Human Events…

When did America become a country of people who say “we can’t?”

When did America become a country where our children… our children… cannot afford the medicine we invented?

When did America become the country where we shake our heads at gun violence, wring our hands, and say there’s nothing we can do?

When did America become the country incapable of separating the needy and desperate from those who seek to take advantage?

When did America become the country that runs away from a challenge?

When did America become the country that once put a man on the moon, at the cost of the lives of several willing American heroes, yet is now afraid of risk?

When did America become the country hiding behind the most powerful military in the world instead of projecting that power to protect those who need us?

When did America become the country of people who only listen to others with whom they agree?

When did America become the country where the value of the media is questioned but random, inarticulate social media postings are taken as the truth?

When did America become the country of people whose idea of analyzing a problem consists of Google searches and Facebook polls?

When did America become the country of people who do not have even a basic concept of the separation of powers or the process behind our government?

When did America become the country that hands the power of government over to the highest bidder?

When did America become the country that is a shadow of it’s former self?

And, most importantly, when will America return to the path of greatness tempered by wise and merciful justice?

______________________________________________________________________________

As always thanks for reading, thanks for sharing the posts, and I welcome all to comment and post their own thoughts here.

Click here to check out my books on Amazon

Did a Comma Kill Americans? Grammar and the 2nd Amendment.

Let’s try a different approach to the 2nd Amendment.  Instead of historical analysis, let’s do something simple like a basic grammatical breakdown of the sentence.

Here is the language from the Constitution

A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

A basic approach is to strip out both independent clauses separated by commas thus the sentence would read,

A well-regulated militia shall not be infringed.”

The meaning is unclear, thus the need for the modifying phrases which, one might argue, are subordinate clauses and thus elemental to the meaning. We need to clarify what they modify.

The subject of the sentence is “a well-regulated militia.” Everything else modifies or describes the subject.

The first phrase, “being necessary to the security of a free State,” defines the need for the subject. In different language one might say “To maintain security of a free state, a well-regulated militia is necessary.”

The meaning is the same.

Let’s look at the second phrase separated by a comma. “the right of the people to keep and bear arms.” What does this phrase do? What does it change or describe? The next phrase, also separated by a comma, complicates the matter.

One method is to remove the intervening comma separated phrase and see what that reveals. Thus, we have,

A well-regulated militia the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

Makes little sense without the missing language.  Let’s put it back and take out the last phrase.

“A well-regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms.”

Again makes no sense without the ending phrase. Suppose we add it back without the comma?

“A well-regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

Now it makes sense. The subject of the sentence, “a well-regulated militia,” modified by the phrase “being necessary to the security of a free state,” followed by the phrase “the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.”

It’s that last comma that confuses things.

If we write it this way, “A well-regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” The meaning is clear and brings clarity to “a well-regulated militia.”

Richard Henry Lee, one of the leaders of the revolutionary period, is best known for his resolution in the Second Continental Congress where he said,

That these united Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States, that they are absolved from all allegiance from the British crown, and that all political connection between America and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved….”

Lee also had said something very interesting about the right to bear arms.

“To preserve liberty, it is essential that the whole body of people always possess arms, and be taught alike, especially when young, how to use them…” (emphasis author’s)
Additional Letters from the Federal Farmer, 1788

Perhaps, even back then, the men who crafted the right the bear arms knew it came with responsibility and required training, thus the “well-regulated militia” now makes sense.

As with any sentence, breaking it down to its parts clarifies the meaning. The subject of this sentence is “a well-regulated militia” everything else is there to support and describe what makes up this “well-regulated” entity and the right of the people to equip themselves and participate.

“A well-regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”

Could it be a misplaced comma contributed to the unnecessary deaths of thousands of Americans?

Who said grammar doesn’t matter?

Click here to check out my novels and non-fiction books

Facebook Sparks a Memory

A recent Facebook reminder sparked a memory long encased in the past. The post was a notice of a birthday for a childhood friend, Eddie Reilly. When I read the post, a memory burst forth in my mind from August 1963 or 1964. Not sure of the exact year, but I am certain of a memorable moment in my youth and how priorities change.

Several of us were riding our bikes along the then under construction Route 295 in Cumberland. We had ignored any signs warning us against such trespassing. The lure of racing along newly laid asphalt was irresistible.

Riding with normal youthful abandon–without helmets that none of us owned and wouldn’t even consider wearing—we raced up and down, sliding and skidding, breaking many personal speed records.

Now this wasn’t just an ordinary summer day. This was Eddie’s birthday and we were going to his party at the ultimate place for youthful celebrations. The 1960’s equivalent of a trip to Disney World. The mecca of amusement and entertainment to which we looked forward and thought of nothing else for several days before.

We were going to Jolly Cholly’s.

Life did not, could not, get any better than that.

Back on 295, we made one more racing run and then headed home. Approaching the still unfinished off-ramp, there were several layers of road surface. I jumped the first one but misjudged the second one. The front wheel hit the raised edge and the bike stopped dead.

I did not.

Using my enormous acrobatic skills, I used my face to stop my forward motion. It worked.

In the memory I hear others laughing, but I may have made that up. Although my memories of those times laughing would fit in with the character of Eddie Reilly, John Johnson, and whoever else was there.

Standing up, I reached up to wipe the dirt and tar off my face and discovered two things; blood covered my face, and my two front teeth were no longer attached.

Yikes.

I don’t recall crying, but I knew I needed to get home right away. I had to make sure of one overriding concern and there was only one person in the world who could answer the question, my mother.

Jumping back on the bike, I raced home. Blood dripped onto my shirt and the coppery taste infiltrated my throat.  Yet I rode hellbent to seek my mother’s advice.

Dropping the bike in the driveway, I burst into the house. My mother was in the kitchen and I could tell by the look on her face my bloodied appearance was the last thing she expected to see. I had covered my mouth, hoping to conceal the missing teeth since I felt responsible and had now lost them.

“What happened to you?” my mother said, walking toward me. “Where were you?”

“I knocked my two front teeth out.  We were just riding our bikes (which was a true statement, the location wasn’t critical) and I fell off.” 

And then I asked her the most important question. One I considered more important than two missing teeth, trespassing on an interstate highway, or bleeding on the kitchen floor.

“Can I still go to Eddie’s birthday party?”

That was the only thing that mattered at the moment.

My mom cleaned things up. Got the bleeding to stop and then made everything better. “Well, they were gonna fall out anyway. You can if you want.”

So I got to go to Jolly Cholly’s and eat what then tasted like Nirvana but probably was the worst pizza ever. I gummed my way through the cardboard crust, and all was right with the world.

On an interesting side note, the truth of our escapade came out. We were cautioned under penalty of severe consequences never to ride there again. But we didn’t sue the state, the manufacturer of the bike, or anyone else.

We just learned a valuable lesson. No matter what happens, there is always a way to eat pizza.

Every time I drive northbound on 295 and pass the Diamond Hill Road exit I still think of my teeth and how good that pizza tasted.

Reason to Believe

After the election of Donald Trump as President of the United States, I was disappointed and disillusioned about the future. But I am an optimist and have a great deal of faith in the resiliency of the American people and our government.

I am also a firm believer in focusing on the things one can change, not living in a state of mind focusing on or lamenting the past. Trump was the President. At the time of his election, the Republicans held both the House and the Senate. There was the real possibility of multiple appointments to the Supreme Court.

This was the reality of the time.

I looked for a reason to believe Mr. Trump, as coarse as he is, would rise to the occasion and find inspiration to greatness once the politics of the election was over and he sat, for the first time, at the desk in the Oval Office.

I looked for a reason to believe the rhetoric of pitting us against the world would give way to tough but rational negotiation.

I looked for a reason to believe Mr. Trump’s patina of business success would lead him to follow sound economic policies designed to improve the lives of all Americans for the long term.

I looked for a reason to believe the jingoistic, rabid nationalism of many of his supporters would be wisely suppressed by Mr. Trump’s recognition of the changing nature of this world and the interconnectedness of a global community in which we are one among many nations.

But like the lines from the song Reason to Believe, disappointment followed the lies.

If I listened long enough to you
I’d find a way to believe that it’s all true
Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried
Still I look to find a reason to believe

Songwriters: Tim Hardin Reason To Believe lyrics © Spirit Music Group

Now, some three years into the Presidency, profound disgust and despair have shattered my optimism and robbed me of a reason to believe something positive will come from this Presidency.

Now I have reason to believe we have a President who openly and notoriously encourages the politics of hate.

Now I have reason to believe we have a President who surrounds himself with sycophants blindly following the President’s policies, walking behind him sweeping up the fetid waste spewing from his tweets and pronouncements.

Now I have reason to believe we have a President who, when he appoints a competent individual to a position of responsibility, soon castigates and isolates them, forcing those with a conscience to recuse themselves from dealing with an irrational President.

Now I have reason to believe we have a President who openly encouraged a foreign government to interfere in the election process. All because it inured to his benefit and, I fear, he will do it again. Most people of character, the kind we usually have leading the nation, confronted with such foreign interference, would have put country before self and removed himself from consideration.

Now I have reason to believe we have a President who attacks sitting members of Congress with unforgivable exhortations to “go back to where they came from.” That any American would applaud such remarks paints a dim view of our society.

Now I have reason to believe we have a President who would launch a personal attack against one of the most respected leaders of the civil rights movement, also a sitting Congressman, with vile and hateful language playing to the basest of the emotions of racial bias.

Yet the Trump Train continues down the track. The engineer has the throttle wide open, blasting through the country, immune to the carnage at the crossings.

The passengers laugh and smile with reckless abandon, drinking in the hyperbole and nonsense. Red-hatted spectators, drunk with the fermented vile of hate, oblivious to the destruction of this once great nation.

But the track, like all things, does not go one forever. Those aboard hold to the irrational belief the engineer knows what he’s doing and will bring the train safely to a stop.

Now I have reason to believe the President does not know where the brake is, doesn’t care to find out, nor does he have the will to use it. He believes this, no matter what happens, he will survive. What happens to the passengers and the train is not his concern.

It never was.

My Country, Love it or Leave it

I wrote a piece critical of President Trump’s despicable Tweets about four sitting US Congresswomen and the responses fit into two categories; those who agreed and those who think people like me should leave the country because we criticize policy or this president. (https://joebroadmeadowblog.com/2019/07/17/when-did-america-become-a-land-of-cowards/)

Reminds me of the pro-war signs (yes there were some) during the Viet Nam war.  “My Country, Love it or Leave it.” Thus, the title and image cleverly designed to lure in those who read it and said, “Damn straight.” (It’s called bait & switch marketing, although they may have stopped reading by this point.)

Trump’s response to the widespread if disappointingly one-sided criticism was to carry on with the message with more tweets.

“In America, if you hate our Country, you are free to leave. The simple fact of the matter is, the four Congresswomen think that America is wicked in its origins, they think that America is even more wicked now, that we are all racist and evil.”

“IF YOU ARE NOT HAPPY HERE, YOU CAN LEAVE!” (https://twitter.com/realDonaldTrump/status/1151700953030123522)

To oppose or disagree with policy, according to Mr. Trump et al. (you may see that term again), is to be un-American. If I understand his logic–as challenging as THAT is–this means the mark of true Americans is blind adherence to government policy and eschewing open discourse and discussion.

If we accept Mr. Trump’s “logic,” this is what history should reflect and what the future looks like.

If you disagreed with the genocide perpetrated against Native Americans, you should have left the country

If you disagreed with the legality of slavery, you should have just left the country.

If you disagreed with the Jim Crowe Laws, you should have just left the country.

If you disagreed with the denial of civil rights to minority men and women, you should have just left the country.

If you disagreed with segregation, you should have just left the country.

If you disagreed with giving women the right to vote, you should have just left the country.

If you disagreed with the Affordable Care Act, you should have just left the country.

If you disagreed with the Paris Climate Agreement, you should have just left the country.

If you disagreed with the loss of 56 thousand American military members in Viet Nam, you should have just left the country.

If you disagreed with the lack of aid to Puerto Rico or New Orleans after recent hurricane disasters, you should have just left the country.

If disagreeing with the current or future policies of the US Government demands one leave the country, no one would remain after just a few years.

Opposition, dissent, and disagreement are the three of the cornerstones of our form of government. The fourth, the one that makes the whole thing stand firm and tall, is compromise.

Without compromise, nothing works. Without dissent, there is no compromise. Blind adherence to government policies generally comes at the point of a blade.

If you love this country, as most Americans do, you work to right the flaws not ignore them. America is a far better place than many other places in the world. However, it is not perfect and to ignore problems is to be complicit in their continuity.

Dissent may in fact be the highest form of patriotism if the intent is to achieve what could be not just destroy what is.

When did America Become a Land of Cowards?

When did this country become a land of cowards? This is not the America I
knew. Americans do not fear those seeking asylum. We do not demonize those who seek a new life in America.

We used to welcome such people. Now we fear them because we put blinders on in the face of reason.

We used to take on separating out those who deserve asylum from those
seeking to take advantage of our open generosity. Now we label all as criminals, with no basis in fact, and stick them in cages.

ChildWorse yet, we separate them from their children and cage them. If our goal is to create more people who hate America, we are well on our way to accomplishing that goal. If our goal is to destroy the once respected, if imperfect, view most of the world had of America we are succeeding.

We have become a country driven by a fear of everything we do not, or will
not, understand. We have a President who tells sitting members of Congress, who by law must be American citizens, to go back to the country from where they came.

America is that country. It is the country facing severe problems so inelegantly put (to be kind) by the inciter in chief. Problems of intolerance and prejudice exasperated, if not created, by the President himself.

He would do well to remember, this is as much their country as it is yours or mine.

More so, I would argue, since they at least have the courage of their convictions to challenge the status quo or the headlong retreat to a mythical and whitewashed past.

The ignorant arrogance of the President and those who remain silent in the
face of such vitriol from this man is astounding. The lack of universal
condemnation across the country for such remarks is a national embarrassment.

Let us make one thing clear, no rational American wants unregulated entry
into the United States. Despite the President’s pandering to uninformed
jingoistic nationalism, most Americans are wise enough to understand the
difference between illegal entry and those seeking asylum.

To put this in perspective, perhaps some numbers might help.

According to the Pew Research Center, “The United States has more immigrants than any other country in the world the U.S. foreign-born population reached a record 44.4 million in 2017.” The same report found that immigrants and their descendants will drive 88 percent of the United States’ population growth through 2065.

Consider that for a moment.

Out of a population of 300 million, almost 15% are foreign born. Soon, this will be a country with a significant change in the ethnic origins of many of the people living here.

No matter. They will still be Americans.

They are not any different from those who have been here longer. My family has been here for just four generations. Let me disabuse those who see people of different ethnic or racial origin as foreigners that if the measure of a real American is one born here, there are descendants of slaves going back longer than many white Americans. There are generations of people living in Texas descended from the original Mexicans when Texas was part of that country.

Native Americans go back even further. If any people suffered from the
ill-effects of illegal immigration, they would own the discussion.

Immigration—controlled, regulated, and intelligently managed—is good for America. It always has been, always will be. To ignore history, to ignore the realities of the changing demographics of the country, to ignore the basic human decency characterized by the American people is to lose the very thing the makes America great.

Those four Congresswoman demonized by the ravings of a madman may be naïve in the policies they pursue. However, it is that same naivete that sparked a revolution in 1776. A young nation, populated by idealists and dreamers, saw the necessity to throw off the fetters of a repressive government and fight for fundamental human rights against overwhelming odds.

Those efforts gave us the government we have now. Almost to a man, each of those founding fathers was foreign-born. Still, they rose to the occasion to create this great nation.

I wonder what they might think of this President and his silent enablers?

We are better than this. We are smarter than this. We are nobler than this.

It is time we remember that and take a stand against such idiocy percolating in the country.

 

UnMade: Honor Loyalty Redemption

By Bobby Walason and Joe Broadmeadow

The story so far on my latest book

Joe Broadmeadow retired with the rank of captain after 20 years with the East Providence (RI) police department and on special assignments to the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force and FBI.

Broadmeadow possesses a great understanding of crime, criminality, and the courts and uses this knowledge well in his writing.  He has written two fictional crime thrillers, Collision Course and Silenced Justice, featuring East Providence Police Lt. Josh Williams, and a historical legal thriller, A Change of Hate, about a Vietnam vet and retired Green Beret- turned-lawyer.

Bobby Walason is a successful businessperson and entrepreneur living in Florida and Rhode Island.

In 2016, the producers of Crimetown (Season 1) convinced Bobby to tell his story. His character became one of the most popular on the enormously successful podcast.

Urged to tell the whole story of his remarkable life; living on the streets by age 12, an enforcer for the mob, escaping the wiseguy life and living to tell the story, Bobby worked with Joe Broadmeadow to write, UnMade: Honor Loyalty Redemption. It is the culmination of a story years in the making.

UnMade: Honor Loyalty Redemption, casts a light onto the flow of a dark and authentic side of American society, a look at the forces that play havoc with the lives that go adrift on the streets of all our cities.

Book Summary

Bobby Walason lived a childhood no one should ever endure. Forced out on his own at age twelve, he survived on the street. Although “survived” is a stretch.  

At 16, the second youngest person ever sentenced to the ACI, Rhode Island’s notorious adult prison, Bobby must survive in a world of predators and prey. He does more than survive, he thrives building a fierce reputation.

This reputation drew the attention of the wiseguys.

Rising in the ranks as an enforcer for a notorious Mob Captain, Bobby realizes the hopelessness of his situation. He devises a way out that does not include prison, witness protection, or dying.

An attempted hit lands him in the hospital with a horrendous wound from a 9mm.

Before the gunman left Bobby to die, he put the gun to Bobby’s head and pulled the trigger–twice–and the gun misfired. Bobby survived, more determined than ever to escape “the life.”

Turning his work ethic and determination to legitimate businesses, Bobby rebuilt his life from the ground up, met the woman of his dreams, and became a successful businessman.

This is a story one will not soon forget.

Buy it here https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B07NKRJKW5

Leaving Home, Homeward Bound

In our lives, most of us live in many places but few we think of as home. For the less fortunate, home may be as distant as the nearest galaxy. I have been most fortunate to have several places I could call home.

In my first few years on this planet, home was Robinson Avenue in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. Vague, swirling memories hide in the deepest synapses of my brain’s cortex and limbic system. Flashing to the surface through unexpected and random stimuli.

I know I lived there, some memories and old home movies confirm it, but it wouldn’t be my first answer to the question where did you grow up.

In 1962, we had the good fortune to move to Harriet Lane in Cumberland, Rhode Island. This was my first home. Aside from saving me from the impending doom of Catholic School in Pawtucket, it plopped me down into the most fantastic place to grow from childhood to adulthood.

This opened a whole new world to me, free to explore to my heart’s content. My friends and I spent countless hours climbing trees, wandering the woods, capturing frogs, snakes, turtles (and releasing them.) Sledding down the street after snowstorms, playing kick the can in the road, lying in the sun on a warm summer day, or catching fireflies as night fell with nothing to concern us but what caught our fancy.

I can still see the trails we followed along meandering streams to scum covered ponds. Hopping from mound to mound in swamps. One swamp we referred to as Alligator Swamp, although no one ever questioned why.

Some claimed they saw ‘gators, our own version of an urban myth. We doubted it but avoided the place just in case.

The home expanded over time. Three more siblings to the original two of my sister Peggy and I. To accommodate the growing troop of children of Peg and Joe Broadmeadow, physical additions were built.

The memories here are closer to the surface. Easier to recall. Almost endless in number. This was a home. And while some may see sadness in the way we left there, for me, it will always be my first home.

Like many young adults, I entered what can only be described as a nomadic period. I had nothing resembling a home.

I had an address. A space. A focal point. One that changed every few months or years.

The nomadic period ended, as it often does with young men, because of a woman.

In 1981, Susan and I married and moved into a house on Belview Street in Seekonk, Massachusetts. This became my second home. Our original plan of staying there for five years turned into nineteen, punctuated by such events as a pool, two dogs, a fence around the yard, eight fruit trees, vinyl siding, redone hardwood floors, and many hours cutting the grass and painting the house.

And then there was a child, Kelsey Broadmeadow, who turned what was already a home into the best home ever.

Kelsey can speak for herself—which she does well and without reservation—but I would hazard a guess she thinks of this as her home.

But time, like yesterday’s breakfast, moves on.

After nineteen years, we built a house in Rehoboth, Massachusetts and moved—lock, stock, and barrel—to a new home.

This became the home where Kelsey would launch her own nomadic period. Moving out on her own to college in Florida, then law school in Connecticut. While Quinnipiac Law is an excellent school, the decision to go there, tempered by her time in Florida where the memories of winter in New England mellowed, caused moments of regret. Something she experienced soon after the first snowstorm turned her car into an unrecognizable mound of snow.

Part of the learning curve of nomadic life.

Facing the specter of the empty nest, my wife and I entered a temporary period of nomadic existence ourselves. Flirting with a move to Florida before deciding to sell the house and downsize into a condo in Lincoln, Rhode Island.

The condo became our base of operations for various expeditions. Ecuador, Costa Rica, Germany, Aruba, Southeast Asia, Morocco, and a short walk along the entire Appalachian Trail. It is a perfect base of operations. Pleasant, quiet, convenient to the bike path and fishing in the Blackstone River (who’d believe that?)

But to call it home would be a stretch. We’ve enjoyed living here, but we also enjoyed living in a tent.

None qualify as a home.

Thus, it is time to end the last of the nomadic wanderings of Joe and Susan Broadmeadow and go home. We began packing boxes and taking stock of things to keep and things to let go. Soon, we will move into our house in Cranston near where Kelsey and her husband, Chuck, have their first home.

For now, the proximity makes it easier for us to get to our unofficial but critical function of caring for their dogs, Ralph and Seamus. More servants, than caregivers. Fulfilling the demands of dogs who see themselves as superior to all other creatures.

Dogs have a much different concept of home. Home is where they are as long as someone feeds them, nothing else matters.

No one can predict the future, but we hope something more complicated will arrive in the home of Kelsey and Chuck. We look forward to expanding our creature-sitting skills to include sentient beings with interests in things other than slimy dog toys and taking turns peeing on each other’s heads.

All possibilities exist.

But I know this. My days as a nomad are over. The cycle is complete. I started out in a home, and this is the home where it will end. I will carry boxes in but leave wearing a toe tag in a body bag with someone else carrying me out.

But not yet. I follow Dylan Thomas’s advice and rage against the dying of the light. I will not go quietly into that good night, but I will go someday.

I intend this to be the home I lived in longer than any other. To make that goal, I need to be here a little over nineteen years. Let’s round up and call it twenty. If I stay until 2039, when I will be eighty-three years old, it will set a record.

I intend to break that old record by a wide margin. For now, I will just enjoy being home “where my music’s playing.”

“Homeward bound
Home where my thought’s escaping
Home where my music’s playing
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me…”

(Paul Simon, Homeward Bound Homeward Bound lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group)