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Life, actually…

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RE-GIFTING A WORTHWHILE DAY

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Today’s Deep Thought: Isn’t being reincarnated simply re-gifting life?

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Uh-oh, here goes that Red Clay guy, thinking above his pay grade again.

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I hereby leave the idea of re-gifting a life to the philosophers and self-appointed Big Thinkers. All I’m trying to do is let you know what I’m up to these days—thought-wise.

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Here’s what I’m supposing:

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Whenever I have a really good day, I want to share it. Unfortunately, a really good day only lasts 24 hours and will soon disappear along with all the other really good days.

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How can I preserve the good and ignore the bad?

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Here goes.

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Sometime during the day my far-away sister sends me a 1950s snapshot of me…me in my teenage world, wearing bathing trunks and sitting on a rock in the middle of Hurricane Creek in Tuscaloosa. Water is flowing and splashing all around me, and I seem to be happily clinging to the rock and having the time of my life.

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Here’s the funny part of that day. I am young, thin. I have a full head of hair. I even look a bit buff…like a young hunk. This surprises me no end, since I am now a balding, tubby octogenarian whose appearance causes young’uns to avert their eyes in horror.

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How is it that, for at least a day, I was a hunk? How is it that today, I’m a chunk?

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What happened in the ensuing years?

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Of course, I’ll not know the answer to these questions, but I do have to admit that I never considered myself to be good-looking. As the years go by it becomes evident that each of us has at least one moment in life during which we feel worthy of perusal.

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Maybe that one moment for me was the Hurricane Creek moment. All other moments slip and slide away—unless a thoughtful Big Sister takes time to remind me that every good moment in life is filed away, ready for revival, if somebody is willing to re-gift it

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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Hear Jim on Youtube: https://youtu.be/boAnWXsOCUE or read him:

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Life, actually…

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RIGAMAROLE YEARS, IN-THE-MOMENT JOYS

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One of the advantages of living a long time (yes, young’uns, there are a few perks that arrive with the encroachment of elderlyness)…as I was saying, one of the advantages of living a long life is, I just don’t have to go through all the rigamarole of no-see-um swatting.

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I recognize that I am now using decrepit words that you may or may not be used to, but then that’s another perk—my gift to you is the opportunity to look ‘em up and add archaic depth to your vocabulary.

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We are now officially in Malarkey Land.

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No-see-ums are all those annoyances we have to tap dance past in order  to make it from now till bedtime, things we do that we in no way have to do.

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Do I really need to hair-spray the few strands remaining on my pate? Been doing it so long—that is, ever since I had a thick head of hair—that I don’t even notice.

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Does it matter whether I suck in my stomach as the nurse practitioner enters the exam room? Who am I kidding?

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Do I really have to say to no one in particular, “Pardon me!” each time I sneeze? Actually, it’s the polite thing to do, so I’ll probably retain this antiquated notion of manners.

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Can I take time to lovingly enjoy my family’s eyeroll reaction to the hundredth time I make the same smart-aleck wisecrack? You bet I will. It means said family is still listening. It means they must love me, else they’d leave the room. It means I appreciate their idiosyncrasies as much as they tolerate mine.

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Yet another perk of elderlyness is that I am no longer required to join political conversations. These days, instead of arguing my opposing view, I just wander off—why feed the flames?

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And I love making you laugh or chuckle. Before you can dismiss my presence I’m going to toss an oblique and funny remark out of the air and surprise you. You could use a laugh or two.

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And eye contact is a pleasure. I keep trying to engage you in conversation till you look up from your palmed device and actually acknowledge my presence. If we exchange pleasantries we are at least acting more human, more humane, for just a moment.

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And here’s something you can look forward to as you span the years to become a village elder: There will come a time when people will no longer ask you to do heavy lifting…a time when you don’t get invited to that annual party you did not enjoy anyhow…a time when someone will open the door for you, as payback for all the doors you opened for others through the decades.

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There will come a time when people will register surprise when you, the ancient denizen, spout a witticism indicating you are still alert, still In There.

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My New Year’s hope is that you and I will occasionally take an extra second to really see each other. What unexpected eureka! moments we might share!

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There’s always the hope that the world will shift one inch toward goodness and mercy as it tumbles down the Universe

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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Listen to Jim’s youtube storytelling:

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Life, actually…

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NEVERENDING STORIES BEGIN WHEREVER YOU ARE

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My beat-up old leather wallet bulges with everything but money.

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So why do I carry this musty time capsule around each day?

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I can’t let go of it because contained within are dozens of notes and notations…notes and notations I do not wish to toss. Notes and notations I never wish to forget.

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Here’s one folded sheet of browning paper. And I quote…

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Sometimes, great literature, inspiring literature, is literature that has never been read by anyone but its author.

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For instance, if you write in your diary or journal and no one else ever reads it, does it have any significance at all? It is that old tree-falling-in-the-forest question–does the falling tree make a noise if nobody is there to hear it?

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At last, that age-old question will be answered right here, right now! For some of the greatest passages in the history of storytelling will never be heard or read by you or me–and they will still be great passages.

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Here are three true and honest passages. Each was written long ago through the eyes of an eleven-year-old. Can you tell me which were composed by now-famous writers? Can you tell me which was written by a young girl in an unpublished—till now—un-read diary?

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Here goes:

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PASSAGE #1: “I lay in my bed and the town slept around me and the ravine was dark and the lake was moving quietly on its shore and everyone, my family, my friends, the old people and the young, slept on one street or another, in one house or another, or slept in the far country churchyards. I shut my eyes…”

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PASSAGE #2; “And then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”

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PASSAGE #3: “I got up at 5:15, ate breakfast, then went to Philadelphia all day. We went with Rev. Ammons, but we were in Paul Dean’s machine. We saw some interesting sights, and we saw the zoo. I had an ice cream cone and some candy and a pin of Betsy Ross’s house, and a picture of Jesus. And then we came home and I went to bed.”

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These are excerpts from three paragraphs of great writing, all told through the eyes of children. One passage is taken from a discarded diary I found at a flea market. The others are from works by renowned writers.

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Perhaps they all were first conceived on scraps of wallet-paper, then later saved from perdition. Now all three are published and available to the world.

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Now it is time for you to issue forth your own diary entries. As you compose them, do not judge them. Simply hold on to them for a few years, then re-visit. You may be astonished at their simple beauty, their simple power.

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If curiosity keeps tapping on the windowpane of your imagination, just drop me a note and I will identify the three writers, the writers whose works remain timeless and forever pure

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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E EQUALS A QUIET AND KINDLY ELDER

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Decades ago, when we were younger and mostly hopeful, when stars above were stoically pure, when we were on the verge of dismissing all the surrounding beauties, when we nevertheless continued our quest for perfection, our search for impossible perfections in all dusty pasts…

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Way back then, before Now seemed impossible…

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This actually happened:

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My since-childhood friend Pat, who now resides in Arlington, Virginia, keeps telling me she wants to take me to see Albert…I just have to see Albert, she keeps saying. So, petite granddaughter Jessica and petite spouse Liz and dumpty Me visit my lifelong pal and follow her.

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One night in the still and cold darkness near a famous boulevard next to the seat of human power in North America, we four make our way to see Albert.

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As we round old greenery, we come face to face with Albert.

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There, seated beneath the godly stars, atop a fabricated field of stars, sits Albert, ruminating upon the universe, a larger-than-life-itself presence who at once seems both dignified and cosmos-struck,

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The impressionistic and truly wonderful statue of Albert Einstein, star-molder whose thoughts have toyed with the heavens and thus begotten users and abusers—those who seek to re-form the world in peace and those who seek to control by fear the very solemn and gentle people like Einstein, who simply want to be left alone to live and eventually with grace dissipate into the ether once more.

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The statue is a magnificent tribute to the human gossamer spirit that brings us joy, and now and then gets us into trouble.

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Albert just sits there, gigantic, small, solitary…holding a writing pad in his lap with a few simple formulae jotted down, his sandals and sweater and flowing hair the very symbols that bring nonviolent power to a moment in time.

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The sculptor has done the right thing, for Albert’s statue is not your typical noble horse-astride general nor your toga’d god nor your brave-in-battle fighter. Albert’s statue is designed to be touched and hugged by humans. You can sit on his knee, gaze at The Formula. Stare along with him at the twinkly-scattered universe.

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He is hidden from direct view, so that he is not beckoning tourists.

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He is waiting to be quietly discovered in the middle of a quiet night, where he sits and contemplates the uncontemplatable and thinks the private thoughts we all have the right to think, too

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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DINNER ON THE GROUNDS

SOUNDS LIKE A WASTE OF GOOD COFFEE

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Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore…

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A few choice words from an old song tend to immerse me today. As the comic Steven Wright might have said, “Whenever I think of the past, it brings back memories.”

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As ditsy as it sounds, this does ring true.

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One remembrance stirs other remembrances, then more flow forth.

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Watch out, Memory! You might make us smile or cringe, or both.

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One recent morning, a series of phrases started tumbling out. What if we (that is, Me and Y’all) resorted to the manners of ancient times and named people based on their behavior?

This might happen:

My spouse would become Liz of the Leaping Mind and the Quick Eye.

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Or Liz of the Patient Mate, Liz of the Wise Mom, Liz of the Powerful Presence

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A favorite friend is Joan of the Thoroughly Spun Tale, her husband is Frank of the Witty Well-Timed Quip.

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The list would continue:

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Becky of the sassy legs

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Jim of the Vocal Face, James of the Hidden Treasures, Jimbo of the Scrabbled Words

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Dotty of the speedy mouth

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Bill of the orange grove kayak

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Geoff of the Hilariously Spun Tales

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Others who pass through our lives might become Winnie the Whiner, Sam the Snarky, Gail the Giggler…

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Have you found yourself among this ragged list? Maybe not. Names are sometimes changed to protect the guilty.

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You can make up your own list of favorite acquaintances and their trademark idiosyncrasies.

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If you are not partial to quickie labels, you can go on a fully-described-character rampage:

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“Phil eats like he’s never eaten before, smacking and stuffing and sopping and glugging, blow-dried sprayed whitening hair and monogrammed track-pullover shirt…”

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or

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“Gary the Mustachioed baseball-capped good ol’ boy with hand in lap and mannerly dining habits.”

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Well, there you are…some 400 words later, I still have not revealed the Meaning of Life. Or even the menu for your next breakfast.

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If this is fun, go make your own list. It beats staring mesmerized at virtual images of virtual people doing virtual things both naughty and nice

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Happy, happy New Year, Y’all

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 © Jim Reed 2023 & 2024 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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JUST ANOTHER  FRABJOUS DAY

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Here at the center of my little universe, I busy myself sifting through all Mortal Confusions, in search of sweet moments of pure human goodness.

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Looking for small kindnesses is not as hard as it sounds. It’s simply something you decide to spend your time doing. Or not.

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Two things I do on days when I am at my best: 1. Listen to visitors who pop in and out of my life; 2. Sort out the best parts of what they say and do, leaving aside what can at first glance seem negative and wasteful.

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As I conduct this unscientific research, I find that basically what is happening is that I am trying to cheer myself up.

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Being of good cheer is nice in any season of the year.

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For instance, I listen intensely to a longwinded orator whose every word causes his long nose to reveal more of itself. Later, I try to recall what he was talking about. Since his streaming verbal delivery is so tumbleweed random, I notate his accentuations and flourishes and digressions and usages and gestures and volume…they are more memorable than the content of his monologue. I mainly visualize the content of his characteristics. 

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Next time, I’ll record his ramble so that I can actually hear what he was saying.

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A visitor to the shop asks where the “classic” books are, causing me to jokingly retort, “All our books are classic.”

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To me, I’ve spoken a truth. To the browser it’s more important to tell friend and family he just obtained a work of “classic” literature.

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All I’m really wondering is whether he will display the book or actually read it.

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Using my pseudoscientific philosophy, what I should be doing is focusing on the positive—if the customer purchases a book, he’s doing the world a favor by not ignoring it, by making sure it isn’t tossed, by showing it off to others who might want to read it, by contributing to my income so that I can pay the rent and continue offering books classical and nonclassical to future perusers.

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And so on and so forth.

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Judging a patron by appearance and performance is just as dangerous, just as fun, as judging a book by its cover. Customers carry within them hundreds of stories and wisdoms. I like to turn their pages and appreciate their contents, before they are remaindered and forgotten.

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Come judge my books by their interiors. While here, appreciate all the unclaimed unconscious baggage each peruser carries down the aisles.

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Maybe on your good days you will reminisce about the marvelous tales that can only be known and appreciated by those who cruise slowly, carefully listening to the paginated whispers

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast

https://youtu.be/yUXusDrOajA or read his story below:

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Life, actually…

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THE JOYFULLY ANNOYING HOT DOG TRUCK

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Now you just have to be patient for a moment here and listen to my true tale about THE JOYFULLY ANNOYING HOT DOG TRUCK.

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It goes like this:

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More than a couple of decades ago, my two-year-old grandson Reed received from friends of the family a beautifully crafted bright yellow purple-tired red-hubcapped red-fendered battery-operated toy HOT DOG TRUCK. 

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Now this is not just your regular run-of-the-toys-r-us hot dog truck. This hot dog truck is nine inches long and nine inches high and has clear-plastic display panels on each side which display six small hot dogs (wieners to you, weenies to us Southerners). 

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In the open front cab of the truck sits a pink-faced mustachioed guy with a blue hat, orange shirt, white pants and white gloves—not to mention blue eyes… shaped like this: + + 

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The green headlamps, bright green bell and slogans animate everything—”Happy Hot Dog” on the front hood, “Yum Yum” on the side doors, “Chili Cheese Dog 99 cents Mustard Dog 59 cents Deluxe Combo (fries and drink) 99 cents.” 

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Behind the six vertical hot dogs (no mustard) is a sign, “Happy Hot Dog Dancing for You.”

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Did I mention the fact that atop the hot dog truck is a great big hot dog (with mustard snaking across the top) that looks almost real if you squint or if you’re two years old? 

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Now this hot dog truck toy is pretty cute and quite unusual looking, but what makes it really fun and annoying is what it does. When you throw the switch on the bottom of the hot dog truck, it suddenly begins playing loud, rhythmic and unidentifiable music, and the front purple wheels begin walking (not turning) the front of the truck in time with the beat.

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The truck walks! 

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Then, after the tune goes on for a few seconds, the hot dog truck driver yells, “Hot Dog! Hot Dog!” in a clipped accent of some kind—could be Brooklyn, could be Hispanic. Part of the mystery, you know.  While he’s yelling, his upper body shakes back and forth, he rings the green bell, and the six hot dogs (three on each side) start dancing! Then, the truck repeats this routine until an annoyed adult turns it off or stomps it. 

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A most wonderfully annoying toy! 

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Well, two-year-old Reed was afraid of that hot dog truck and wouldn’t have anything to do with it, but I loved it. It was just the thing every kid dreams of having—a toy that makes you laugh while annoying all adults within hearing distance.  Even after you turn the truck off, you can still make it yell, “Hot Dog! Hot Dog!” twice by pushing a rose-colored button next to the driver, or you can make that funky music go on for a couple of seconds by pushing the violet button.

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Gosh, did I have fun with that hot dog truck! Nobody else did. 

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As we were leaving my daughter’s home after the Christmas weekend, she presented me with the bright yellow hot dog truck. “No,” I said. “This belongs to Reed!” She looked at me for a second and said, “Dad, I want you to have this toy.”

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The steel in her voice made me realize that she not only NEEDED for me to remove this toy from her home, but she knew that it would make me a lot happier than it would ever make her or Reed. 

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I grabbed this gift and drove the five hours back to Birmingham, occasionally annoying my wife and granddaughter by pushing the rose-colored button. And, once in a while, by pushing the violet button. What fun! 

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Now, the Happy Hot Dog truck sits atop my bookloft counter (I’m at least smart enough not to take it home) for me to show off to annoyed customers and annoying little kids. 

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If you know anything about other annoying toys made by the Metro Toy Company in the Philippines, please let me know. My joy may be your pain, but what’s wrong with making an old guy happy

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© 2023 A.D. by Jim Reed

 Life, actually…

Life, actually…

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LIVING WHILE STAYING ALIVE

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In the quiet pre-populated morning hours of this Down South neighborhood, a sole grocery-cart pilot rattles his descent.

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He steers downhill, relying on gravity and momentum to transport the cardboard-and-doodad-laden vehicle to the next street.

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The momentarily barren and foggy incline blends with his gray coat and gray helmet and the gray asphalt. He fades into the distance and becomes part of the landscape of the gray and muted-green village.

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I am his silent witness as I prepare to mount my metal steed and wend my way through morning errands. During this one second of time, no other member of my species is present. It is up to me to transcribe the existence of this rattletrap man so that there will be a record. A record of attention paid to a gossamer life

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A one-syllable dog barks his presence and is satisfied until the next bark.

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A neighborly neighbor materializes and beeps open trunk and door, loading schoolkids up for the rote journey. A green next-door scrub-suited med heads to work, silently nodding in my direction and receiving a return nod.

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There is just the right humid chill in the air. Not too warm, not too cool. Perfect for this miracle jiffy of activity.

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Just above me, a dispassionate cast-iron statue gazes east to the sunrise and prepares to warm its innards when new rays visit the pedestal beneath his sandals.

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I work my way around a humongous city-enforced plastic trash pail, check for leavings in the grass (dogtritus), click the doors of my dew-slicked car, and descend into its small man-capsule for a two-mile workaday journey toward commerce.

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NPR entertains me with news of the wretched and forlorn activities of nations and bully leaders, adds a dash of anecdotal humor to give me 2 1/2 seconds of hope, then re-enters the sausage machine for more, more…then asks for donations.

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I parallel park next to my parallel universe of a bookstore. I gather my sheaves and enter a daytime of bliss, a day of challenge, a day of opportunity, a day of variegated personalities and quirks.

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I have an aha! moment and realize that I am always safely at home wherever I go on this lonesome village-by-village planet.

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I realize that living within paradise requires examining carefully each passing blink…double-checking to make sure I don’t miss the pure, the simple, the beautiful, the inherent teeming lives that surround me.

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Living here is a privilege and a gift. It’s up to me to reciprocate and spread the message

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

Listen to Jim:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/TheSolitudeoftheLongAgoDiaryKeepers.mp3

or read on…

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Life, actually…

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THE SOLITUDE OF THE LONG-AGO DIARY-KEEPERS

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The small worn leather-bound diary on my desk offers up clue after clue about its owner, who lived way back in 1919. Whether I truly understand these clues is something that cannot be determined. So, I weave my profile of the diary-keeper, unfettered by fact and evidence.

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Here it is. The title page of this century-plus old diary says much, reveals little:

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Bought at “Fowey”

Dec. 6, 1918

U.S.S.C. #352

Ray P. Rogers

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The facing blank page states:

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Belonging to Ray Rogers

U.S.N

Radioman

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The first day of the calendar, January 1, 1919:

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Stayed on boat all day

Stood 10 to 12 watch

Wrote some letters

turned in

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An action-packed day for a man at sea

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Skipping over to February 6, 1919:

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Loaded depth bombs all day on Lake View

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Skip to April 7, 1919

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At sea between Lisbon and Azores.

At last I am able to give my thoughts

full sway. My friend has been at home with my girl

and pals all day. I seem to be bursting open with

pleasant thoughts of the things I am to do when I

reach the best place in the world—home in Alabama.

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You can imagine the rest, since the actual diary is in safe but unknown hands by now.

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What intrigues me most about forgotten letters and diaries and scrapbooks is the economy of words, the shorthand thoughts and, mainly, the unwritten reflections that rest between the lines.

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As I read the words of people long gone, I begin to get an image of what they must have been like. The astounding revelation is that no matter how blustery or humble the entries are, each diarist winds up sounding like you and me.

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Just folks alone with themselves, writing down what their fingers dictate.

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The poet Rilke called all of us Solitudes.

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We diarists and poets and authors are all solitudes, no matter how many people surround us. When it comes to recording thoughts and feelings, each of us has to do it alone. Each of us has to face our own solitude as squarely as possible.

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Each of us makes the Journey hand-in-hand with ourselves

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.