Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/aX6NQL-ZBu0

or read the transcript below:

Life, actually…

.

ALIVE AND WELL IN NO MA’AM’S LAND

.

I got two things from my Deep South upbringing: I learned to show respect for others, and I learned that, even when I did not feel respect, my manners would never allow that disrespect to show.

.

This duality of behavior turned out to be pretty danged important as I wove my way through life. It still makes life more livable.

.

When interacting with humans, it turns out that treating them with respect is usually pretty helpful. I’m at my best when I keep my mouth shut—it’s way too easy to make a snarky remark or a judgmental retort.

.

So, at my best, on a good day when the clouds are primping and the birds are chortling,  I act gentlemanly.

.

The first time I met attorney Brian Stevenson he had just said something that sounded Southern Manners-like, even though he is not from the South, “Each man is more than the worst thing he ever did.”

.

I worked this around in my head and wondered why I could not stop pondering this statement—re-worked nowadays as “Each of us is more than the worst thing we ever did.”

.

I walked up to him after his speech and asked, “That thing you said, is it original with you?” He said Yes. I asked whether I could quote him in the future and he smiled and said Yes again.

.

So, for years I have applied Brian Stevenson’s statement to many aspects of my life. I use it to remind myself that people who behave badly, people with whom I disagree, must be more than that one thing that ticks me off.

.

As I say, on a good day when dogs aren’t yapping and traffic drivers aren’t screaming and manipulators aren’t scheming, I can take one extra moment—maybe two extra moments—and examine the goodness that must be hiding within. The dog is happy when petted, the enraged driver is an otherwise kind parent, the schemer does volunteer work for the poor.

.

Brian’s remark fits right in down here in the Deep South, where we are raised to say Yes Ma’am and No Ma’am, and Thank You, and Please, and After You, Sir.

.

The funny thing about manners—if manners is what this story is all about—is that once you behave in a kindly fashion on a regular basis, you actually begin to Be more kindly. I don’t know why, but there is a kind of “Acting yourself into a new way of Being” thing going on here.

.

There’s nothing magic about manners and diplomacy. They simply make for a more peaceful and cooperative environment.

.

After all, when we get along better, Tums sales go down and celebratory toasts arise.

.

Here’s to twenty-four hours filled with Thank You and Please and How Nice You Look Today

.

 

Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

*.*.*.

WEBSITE

*.*.*.

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/ywzfzxq_5wg

*.*.*.

or read the transcript below…

*.*.*.

Life, actually…

*.*.*.

DANCING AND DODGING IN VILLAGE STREETS

*.*.*.

I am an untrained dancer navigating the choreography of village streets.

*.*.*.

Just look around. There is movement and energy everywhere. Here’s what it feels like in the middle of the day in my own downtown neighborhood.

*.*.*.

A lunchtime employee hugs close her to-go carton.

*.*.*.

A disoriented visitor treads the sidewalk, trying to find out what’s where.

*.*.*.

One sidewalk leafblower-worker blasts leaves and trash over to other neighbors’ storefronts

*.*.*.

One large plane descends toward the airport, causing the earth to vibrate.

*.*.*.

An emergency helicopter heads for the medical center.

*.*.*.

A firetruck roars past and shakes the windows.

*.*.*.

Another dogwalker polices poop.

*.*.*.

Security guards change shifts and chat.

*.*.*.

A panhandler trolls for someone to listen.

*.*.*.

Pedestrian and child wait for the right light.

*.*.*.

Motorist after motorist turns the wrong way on one-way streets…free entertainment for street-level employees stationed in picture windows

*.*.*.

Dead-battery victim hopes for a jumpstart.

*.*.*.

Coat-hanger borrower attempts to unlock a car door.

*.*.*.

Choreographed drivers dodge and weave: motorcyclists, scooterists, bicyclists, muscle car-ers, mufflerless joyriders…

*.*.*.

High climbers swing through the air: lightbulb-changers, tower repairers, roofers, AC maintainers, pruners, sign installers, awning cleaners.

*.*.*.

Parking-meter police flash yellow signals and punish at random.

*.*.*.

A trash collector snaps open a fresh plastic bag.

*.*.*.

One homeless person picks for food through a garbage container.

*.*.*.

A lone server retrieves used napkins and cutlery from a sidewalk table.

*.*.*.

A mysterious manhole worker peeks out from beneath the asphalt.

*.*.*.

A letter carrier rushes to stay on time.

*.*.*.

Food deliverers white-rabbit from door to door.

*.*.*.

A freelance window cleaner looks for more work.

*.*.*.

A seasonal window slogan painter totes bucket and supplies.

*.*.*.

A meter to meter quarter collector trudges slowly, each coin increasing the pushcart weight.

*.*.*.

High-lamp installers/replacers lean forward atop cherry pickers.

*.*.*.

Orange cone distributors distribute orange cones, seemingly at random.

*.*.*.

Scooter and bike monitors station rental scooters and bikes here and there.

*.*.*.

A strutting tailored-suit-with-briefcase executive dodges his way through this fine mess.

*.*.*.

One police officer in the center lane directs drivers past bent fenders.

*.*.*.

A blue-shirted worker scrubs away the overnight graffiti.

*.*.*.

Delivery trucks block lanes everywhere, accelerating the dynamics of all this manic movement.

*.*.*.

And so on and so forth.

*.*.*.

You see what I mean? We are all pawns of an invisible choreographer, each dancing small steps of life, each attempting to do what needs to be done, each unaware of what the final performance will look like seen from afar.

*.*.*.

We just go on dancing the dance. The longer we do this the better the chance we have of producing a moment of gracefulness that hopefully will please the gods and entertain the pigeons

*.*.*.

Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

*.*.*.

WEBSITE

*.*.*.

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/A_BSHsIs4-M

 *.*.*.

or read his transcript below…

*.*.*.

Life, Actually…

*.*.*.

THE INVISIBLE SKY

 *.*.*.

Lying on my back in a rickety pinchy folding deck chair, I can observe the nighttime sky and the twinkling heavens.

*.*.*.

There is nothing like this experience. I am face up gazing into the void and imagining what it would be like to stare skyward from atop a rotating planet mere light years from here. What it would be like to gaze at somebody like me from afar. Gazers gazing at one another.

*.*.*.

Back here in the 1950s I wonder whether in the future the skies will remain  so clear, so unobstructed. I imagine encroaching industry and indiscreet lights slowly occluding this cosmic view.

*.*.*.

Many decades from now I will be writing about this wonderful experience, hoping that you and I can compare notes about stargazing. Hoping that someone else besides me actually notices what’s going on Up There.

*.*.*.

By the 1990s I again have the privilege of looking up at the darkened skies and seeing a long-tailed comet hovering in clear view. The comet remains there night after night. Each day I ask most people I meet whether they are awed by this floating diamond. Each person admits to forgetting to look up. Each  promises to catch a glimpse of this imposing phenomenon.

*.*.*.

Next day after next day each person snaps fingers and confesses to once again missing the opportunity.

*.*.*.

Am I the only one making note of this remarkable visitor to our solar realms?

*.*.*.

I want to share and compare, but a million-mile comet does not seem to inspire the people I talk with.

*.*.*.

Back again to the 1950s I am recalling: I note and absorb this glorious moment, just me and the firmament, and hope against hope that I will never grow so old, so distracted, so pummeled by life, that I will forget a special time and place when I realized the skies and the skies realized me

*.*.*.

Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

 *.*.*.

WEBSITE

*.*.*.

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY

Catch Jim’s podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/NAUAVQICKUE

or read the transcript below:

Life, actually…

*.*.*.

A CHIP OFF THE OLD CROCK

*.*.*.

I’m standing at the kitchen sink munching a freshly-washed carrot.

*.*.*.

Directly before me at eye level is an old thick-glassed milk bottle someone tossed  a century-ago. Now it is retrieved, cleansed, shining at me. It is unchipped.

*.*.*.

Some of the wonderful old dishes and cups around here are chipped or cracked. They invite inspection and meditation.

*.*.*.

Each chip reveals something about itself if I will only do the research.

*.*.*.

A countertop blue and white patterned plate complete with quarter-inch notch belonged to my mother. I cannot discard it because it is part of family history. My family breakfasted, snacked, lunched, dined a thousand times on its surface.

*.*.*.

Back to childhood, where I stand before the primal kitchen sink some carefully-counted decades ago. Next to me Sister Barbara accepts a plate I just cleared from the dinner table, scrubs it, rinses off the suds, hands it over to Brother Ronny. Ronny dries and stacks it, preparing for the next dripping dish.

*.*.*.

We kids clear the dinnerware, wash and dry it, later put everything in its assigned place. It’s what we do after Dad has spent the day earning enough income to afford groceries, after Mother has prepared a very special meal of corn on the cob, cornbread, carrot sticks and other nibbles, and the best meat loaf ever consumed thus far in my brief life.

*.*.*.

If I accidentally chip a plate, Mother groans in pain, but nothing more is said. The plate is now a family member complete with boo-boo. No family member would be discarded because of such an imperfection, so the plate resumes its place until the next meal.

*.*.*.

Should a dish fall apart, its shards will be used later as part of garden decorations or pieced together to become an outdoor plant container. The family remains intact even after transfiguration.

*.*.*.

Many years later, as in Right Now, I look around.

*.*.*.

This is a chip day.

*.*.*.

Chip day is when I count and sort and examine chips and cracks. Each is a memory, each a lesson, each a representation of something that must be noted, must be noticed, must be notated.

*.*.*.

These chips remind me of special times when all the world around me felt exciting and secure and hopeful. Each flaw brings out the beauty of an object previously taken for granted.

*.*.*.

I find myself through the years feeling the urgency of life, the urgent need to notice, notice, notice, the compulsion to respect and draw meaning and wisdom from the flaws of a world I cannot control.

*.*.*.

As a child drinking hot chocolate from a chipped cup, I gaze into the fluid, amazed by its swirl, its remaining ring, its heft in my small hands. I rub my finger over the chip, memorizing the feeling. I examine the imprint on the skin after pressing the crack. I want this and every good moment to last forever.

*.*.*.

And at last, as a fully grown and mellow-aged adult, I feel so grateful that all the happenings in my life can be called forth at will, to be examined and cherished as beautiful cracks in an amazing firmament

*.*.*.

Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.

 *.*.*.

WEBSITE

*.*.*.

Weekly Podcast: REDCLAYDIARY