Opportunity NOW re: Write it Down posted 10.28.2011


Opportunity exists only in the present moment.

Opportunity arrives during  moments of awareness.

Opportunity is Formless.

Accepting Opportunity is the act of Adding Form to Formlessness.

The primary impediment to the recognition of opportunity is a lack of self-awareness.  Though this condition is normal and provides an occasional benefit, it prevents us from the acknowledgement of the millions of opportunities to improve our quality of life that arrive within each of us every day of our lives. 

I’ve  heard it said and seen it written that Fear is a way of blocking Opportunity but if you think about that for a minute, I think you’ll agree that fear is a great motivator. We probably make more decisions in this state of mind than any other.  

Opportunity is not something that comes once in a lifetime.

Opportunity does not present only to the Lucky, the Gifted and the Wise.

Opportunity arrives  twenty-four hours a day in the form of pictures, ideas and dreams. I mentioned in an earlier post, the importance of writing ideas down.

Another good habit is to learn to question ideas from other sources outside ourselves. Questioning motivate us to seek answers. Seeking develops awareness. That’s what I think. How about you?


Eddie Basha re: Sip Holes and Brand-Ops.

Eddie Basha Jr. CEO: Basha’s Markets and AJ’s Fine Foods

Hello Eddie,

Twenty years ago you gave me a piece of business advice that was enormously helpful to me and my family and to Lee Broom Gallery. I’d like to return the favor.

I’ve been enjoying coffee and pastry at nearly all your AJ Stores since before we met in the late seventies. With thousands of cups of your coffee to start those days and a pastry for breakfast and with subsequent trips during the week to the best produce market in the valley, I have noticed very few marketing mistakes. There is one however, that appears to occur in every valley AJ Market and which has existed for decades.

Your bakery seems to be the busiest part of each store. For years I have begun my day by purchasing an apple turnover or muffin, perhaps two peanut butter cookies. But always I order the coffee of the day in a medium cup. The best coffee anywhere, Starbucks doesn’t even come close. But there is a branding opportunity with every sip. Think about that. How many cups are sold each day; hundreds? Times how many sips; dozens? Times 365 days a year. The opportunity for branding in any given year must surely be numbered in at least, the hundreds of thousands.

The sip hole on the coffee cup, if placed directly over your logo can present that logo to the customer with every sip. If the customer is sitting at a table across from another AJ coffee sipper, the branding opportunity doubles and doubles again. I have watched and waited for this opportunity to occur and in spite of what one would expect, if simply for no other reason than the laws of chance, the logo should be in postion often. In fact, the sip hole is nearly always over a white area or somehere in between.

So stunned was I at this initial observation that I began keeping a record of coffee cup lid placement in AJ bakeries beginning in August of 2008. I sent you a letter about this six months later. With all that was going on with the economy I didn’t expect you to read it but I do hope you have the opportunity now to do so.

I am older today and because of the recession my daily allotment of AJ coffee is now a special event on Monday mornings at 44th street and Wednesday evening at PV with a business meeting on the patio or in the bakery with a dozen friends.

Jay still notices as I enter your 44th and Camelback store and has my cup of coffee ready for me along with an apple turnover by the time I reach his counter. He takes great pride in giving the very best possible service not just to me, but to everyone he greets; I would not criticize his methods even for an instant. He will surely be a store mangager someday soon

I do however, challenge you to take time to see for yourself, that this problem does exist. And, I hope you will correct this within each of your bakeries and perhaps even to track increased sales in those areas from that day forward and to notice corresponding sales increases in other departments.

Thank you again for the tip you gave me so many years ago when you took a minute and described to me a better way to invite my customers to keep coming back for more. Thank you for your time, Eddie Basha. (You would have been a great Governor.)

Lee Broom.

Adding Shape Where None Appears to Exist

To forgive someone in response to their request is an act of love.

To forgive someone without their knowledge requires a judgement call. 

The practice of tolerance results from an inner command of silence. The resentment however quiet, remains unchanged. No longer a threat to others, the still angry thought continues to threaten the serenity of the tolerant.

The ability to accept others as they are appears to require no deliberation by those who possess this wonderful quality. That which  seems to be a thoughtless kindness to some, is often misunderstood by those of us who must learn the substitute band-aid of tolerance and hopefully to eventually learn acceptance. Those people who possess this kindly trait often become leaders and rarely know it. The rest of us hunker down and practice, practice, practice.

I acquired these ideas by watching a film years ago about a man who was oblivious to inner conflict.  Of course he was an imaginary human. His name was Forrest Gump.

This post was originally published on September 29 of this year, but out of respect to my oldest daughter Dixie who seemed to think that the attention-getting words that I used were a bit strong, and even went so far as to let me know that they felt threatening to her own beliefs, I have reworded, in some cases re-structured and most certainly re-thought my original words, the result of which are here for the consideration of those who would care to make the comparison.

And, to another daughter, Please forgive me Mary. I allowed my emotions to influence the words I used in an email to you some weeks ago.  My statements were downright pompous. I wish that I had never made them.

The Art of Stanley Grosse

I have a friend. His name is Stanley Grosse. Some of us call him Flat. Though my goal for the moment is to talk about the artist known as Stanley, I mention his nickname to remind us that he is more than that. A caring friend a loving husband and father, Stanley the Flatman is not flat at all, and his entire persona is revealed in his work.

Go to his website. Look at his work. I’ll add two links, one is a post called Jazz for cows. Enjoy.  Lee.



“An image from the past that has had poor care, gone through many hands over time but still has a quality of dignity…………………”

The Art of Stanley Grosse The Creative World of Making Art

My Father Was Horace Dixie Broom

Excerpt from the book in progress, DIXIE, by Lee Broom.                                                                                                   

 (This excerpt is from a chapter on Dementia as it relates to the final days of my father.)

“…….Father spoke as a small child. He wore diapers and nothing else. Knowing that I would never see him again, I acted on a hunch and asked him candidly if he could talk to me Man to Man for a few minutes, that it was very important. ‘Sure’ he replied. ‘What’s on your mind?’ For several minutes Father Dixie and I engaged in the most important conversation of our lifetime together. After a few minutes my aging parent heard his brother, my Uncle Turner in the hallway and he returned to childish gibberish. An hour later our family bade Horace Dixie Broom adieu.”

The exchange described in the opening paragraph took place in 1976, thirty-five years ago. I was thirty-seven; father was eighty-four.

Here is another story of the experience of aging. This is the complaint of a man I have known all of my life. In my view this is a person that I would describe as ageless. To hear him he is just a man. To see him he is just a man. His face has no wrinkles, though it bears the scars of the surgeon’s knife. Forty years or more of jogging in the hot Arizona sun has for some reason done little to age him but those same activities made his body’s protective covering vulnerable to the varying types of skin cancers. It is hard for each of us to accept the surprises that life hold for us. Here is what this old man has to say about that. And yes, he prefers to remain anonymous.

“People are beginning to treat me differently; my younge friends, my family. They treat me as one would treat a very old man. And frankly, I am beginning to see myself in that same way, a disheartening view to one who as recently as a year ago still received a lot of flattering attention. There are days when I find myself losing hope. I have lived alone so long that I sometimes have trouble understanding how to fit into a waning social life. I need income more than I ever did and I spend several hours daily in pursuit of a solution to this problem. Prospective employers often fail to hide their own fear of aging as they greet this old face of mine. And, my own memory is often in question. There was a time not very long ago when my senses reported dependable information. And, now with failing eyesight and painful joints, it is becoming more and more difficult to believe the lies that I tell myself in the mirror each day. The fact that I’ve lost what one lover once described as “a cute ass” becomes obvious within minutes after cinching the belt on my trousers as tight as my waist will allow. No longer is there that important set of muscles to hold my britches in place. Two hours a day at the gym only slows the aging process, it seems; my ass is gone for good and the chest is nothing but a garden of liipid paste, host to a graying hair farm. After my nightly shower as I shave and brush my teeth I try to avoid noticing that a former lover’s missing breasts are now hanging from my own chest. And, those occasional, candid photos of me reveal a very sad appearing persona.  And, finally, after the bed sheets are drawn back and the lights turned down low, the classical music station KBAQ is perfuming the airways with the scent of a Parisian park setting as imagined by Debussy, I crawl into bed. And then out of bed . And then in again, out again, in again as I keep remembering last minute things to do; my meds, a handkerchief, the remote control for the radio. All my life I have had problems focusing. All my life I have had a bad temper. Neither of these attributes are as great a problem today as they were forty years ago but today they are seen as evidence of senility.”

Okay, so I didn’t fool ya. That old man whose words you just read resides in me and occupies the first two minutes of each day trying to drag me down. He doesn’t fool me. And he also resides in you, dear reader. If you are twenty, take him seriously or he’ll take you by surprise when you are seventy. But, when you are seventy, don’t even give him the time of day.

The Rise and Fall of Kevin Cooper, an unforgettable man.

Obituary: Kevin Cooper.  Founding  father.  Neither signer nor a whiner, escaped fame but is remembered, nonetheless by those who cared.


This 18th century Kevin went to heaven at the age of forty-seven, precisely at eleven, AM.

Kevin was survived by his twin Brother Devin and an older Brother Nevin and their father. Mr. Cooper, was his name

Now, a Cooper as a Hooper, earns his living barrel hooping and this Cooper also really loved parades. 

      ( So…….He tried his hand at making a float one time but with limited raw materials, eventually settled for rigging wheels on a well hooped and sturdily cooped barrel. Folks in town called his newly designed contraption a wheel-barrel and suggested that he tag along at the rear of the parade with this new contrivance and abetted by a shovel, scoop the poop left behind by pony poopers, as they left their undigested hay…….. in the way……………. of those behind. )

 Now, let me tell ya……………….. Kevin Cooper was a super-duper-hooper……..pooper scooper, and became absolutely….. the biggest hit in these parades.

( Hence….. the eventual creation of the word, hit-parade which would arrive in popular language sometime in the twentieth century.)

And, as his popularity increased, the crowd would whoop it up, the loudest of the whoopers, the Cooper Brother Nevin. 

Nevin’s daughter however, was frequently a close second and the family called her Whoopee and she married Mr. Goldberg and as a child…… had been a very cute kid.

Whoopee stood beside her Daddy, Nevin Cooper….. and, as the parade passed ….. each vied to be the louder whooper as their super-duper cooper-hooper, pooper scoopin’ family member Kevin, trudged the fetid path with his home-made wheel barrel. He might have finished the parade, observed his twin brother Devin and his older brother Nevin were it not for Kev’s surprise on this particular festive day.

Kevin Cooper, Super Hooper, turned to listen to the Whoopers as he passed them while he scooped along the way.

And as he did so………Kevin slipped on super poop and when he did he flew the coop and in the air he did a loop and banged the scoop as he landed on his head.

Oh…….Poor Kevin, now in Heaven, having left us at eleven, did a Super-duper, Cooper-Hooper, scoopin’ loop d’ loop in his very last parade.…………. Now who…… could ever….. forget… that man.