THE JOYS OF SELECTIVE INATTENTION AND OTHER UNIMPORTANT IDEAS

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/joysofselectiveinattention.mp3

or read his tale below:

THE JOYS OF SELECTIVE INATTENTION AND OTHER UNIMPORTANT IDEAS

Life’s humongous happenings are the things I ponder least.

That’s because I have no control, no input, no influence, no power over the huge events that occur in daily life.

I know but one way to deal with HUMONGOUS HAPPENINGS. More about that later in this little diatribe. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, it is always the tiny unnoticeables that rivet my attention. Things like street signs that do not communicate.

Here’s one: NOT A THOROUGH STREET. What does this mean? The street is incomplete? Is it inadequately constructed? Is it misspelled? Does it intend to say NOT A THROUGH STREET? If so, THROUGH what? Does it suddenly come to a stop just past the sign? Perhaps more communicative would be NOT A THRU STREET. This is easier to read, and there is no confusion about words–thorough and through and trough could blend themselves into an amalgam of meanings. By the time they are sorted out, the driver may have run smack and thoroughly through a trough that runs thru a tough ‘hood.

Here’s another sign of the times: GROOVED PAVEMENT. What am I supposed to do with this instant information? Is it a mysterious command? Am I to spin the steering wheel to conform to the grooves?  Or is it another typo? Does it mean GROOVY PAVEMENT? In which case I can really get it on, man, and go with the flow. By the time I process this information, the sign has been long since passed and I’m on my way to the next challenge.

I recommend the highway department consider some new signs designed to entertain and confuse. What about ESCHEW OBFUSCATION? That would kick-start an inner philosophical debate about meaning, context, semantics…a much more productive exercise than the perplexing THOROUGH and GROOVY and THRU directives that nobody understands.

Or, a sign that reads ROAD ENDS would generate all kinds of excitement and stress. Since all roads eventually end, does this mean IMMEDIATELY or sometime in the future? There is no footnote or added explanation to comfort the driver. The sign may as well read LIFE ENDS, since it is an open-ended truism that one may ignore or obsess over. There’s always something new to wring one’s hands about.

The only way some of us get through the day is to employ a technique known as SELECTIVE INATTENTION. Disregarding the warning signs at least allows us to pay more attention to the road and focus less on things we cannot control.

Now about the HUMONGOUS HAPPENINGS.

As I inferred, there is nothing I can do to quell these HUMONGOUS HAPPENINGS. All I can do is exactly and precisely what I know how to do. When HUMONGOUS HAPPENINGS issue forth, I get back to basics and truisms.

I hug my family and tell them I love them.

I make sure my friends, my strangers, know that I actually care about them.

I look people in the eye to assure them that I am PAYING ATTENTION, for one terrible act of violence and abuse is to ignore someone, disavow their existence, disregard them, act as if they don’t matter, fail to listen to them.

The great sin is not noticing someone. The great abuse is not being noticed.

The great joy is the knowledge that you just listened to me, noticed me, by reading these words

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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HAPPY UNBIRTHDAY TO YOU AND ME

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

 http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/happyunbirthdaytoyouandme.mp3

or read his tale below:

HAPPY UNBIRTHDAY TO YOU AND ME

What do I get each time another birthday rolls around?

What is my reward? Where is my gift?

More to the point, what makes me think I have a reward coming my way, each time another 365 days pass me by?

What is so significant about our birthdays, mine and your’n? (Don’t let “your’n” throw you–it’s just one of those middle English words that a bookie nerd like me finds swimming among the silt in my brain.)

Speaking of silt, how many hundreds of songs are indelibly branded into my memory?

This is definitely one of them:

MARCH HARE:

A very merry unbirthday to me

MAD HATTER:

To who?

MARCH HARE:

To me

MAD HATTER:

Oh you!

MARCH HARE:

A very merry unbirthday to you

MAD HATTER:

Who me?

MARCH HARE:

Yes, you!

MAD HATTER:

Oh, me!

MARCH HARE:

Let’s all congratulate us with another cup of tea

A very merry unbirthday to you!

MAD HATTER:

Now, statistics prove, prove that you’ve one birthday

MARCH HARE:

Imagine, just one birthday every year

MAD HATTER:

Ah, but there are three hundred and sixty four unbirthdays!

MARCH HARE:

Precisely why we’re gathered here to cheer

BOTH:

A very merry unbirthday to you, to you

ALICE:

To me?

MAD HATTER:

To you!

BOTH:

A very merry unbirthday

ALICE:

For me?

MARCH HARE:

For you!

MAD HATTER:

Now blow the candle out my dear

And make your wish come true

BOTH:

A merry merry unbirthday to you!

***

Now, why is it that I can’t remember where I placed my Diet Coke five minutes ago, but I can recall hundreds of songs like this from my ever present childhood?

Don’t strain yourself—I don’t really need to know the answer to this question. I just want to ruminate and contemplate and masticate…eating my breakfast and thinking useless but entertaining thoughts all the while.

Go ahead and laugh at me. It’s a life I’m stuck with.

And during the best of my times, I celebrate at least 364 times a year.

Quick! Let’s appreciate and savor our unbirthdays with gusto, now and then distracting ourselves with the delusion that all is right with the world.

We do deserve a break from all this now and then, don’t you think?

Lewis Carroll and Jack Kerouac and Aldous Huxley and Steve Martin all know the value of self-delusion. Each has a different way of celebrating silliness.

My way is to share random thoughts and allow you to find your own significance or distraction as a result.

Couldn’t hurt.

Precisely why we’re gathered here to cheer

 

ALL THE MORNINGS OF THE WILDLING CITY

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ALL THE MORNINGS OF THE WILDLING CITY

Like a spindly-legged grain of blackened rice, this little critter is dozing at the bottom of my morning lavatory. As I brush my teeth, I contemplate the creature’s future prospects.

Shall I attempt to squash it so that Liz won’t encounter it later? Shall I wave so that it takes the hint that there are larger forces at work here? Will the critter zip away to safer haven?

Most mornings in the wildling city are like that. Decisions must be made. Or not. Every moment of indecision is a moment of decision. As Harvey Cox said, “Not to decide is to decide.”

Moments later, beneath the prickling shower, muffled sounds transmit from the radio, teasing me with snippets of information that I have to string together on my own. Words like Afghanistan…president…teaser…hurricane…blockhead…

The rice-sized spidery critter gathers up what free will is left and flicks itself into elsewhere.

The soap bar diminishes a fraction in my hands, the large towel engulfs me, misted mirrors reflect vague aspects of me, outdoor skies peek in through a high window, morning begs to begin its forward thrust toward eventual dusk.

Later,  I spend a few moments attempting to select an easy-rolling, silent shopping cart in order to cruise store isles unnoticed and meditative. There is no cooperation among the metallic wheeled skeletons. My cart squeaks harshly, as do carts of other shoppers.

Strewn about the cavernous arena, other shopping carts call out to each other like feral animals under stress.

The wildling city teems with beings both animate and inanimate, all wending their special fates in indecipherable patterns that, combined, create a global symphony entitled life on earth

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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TWILIGHT OF THE GODS MY FAVORITE TIME OF DAY

Hear Jim’s podcast:

 http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/twilightofthegods.mp3

or read his tale below:

TWILIGHT OF THE GODS MY FAVORITE TIME OF DAY

 It’s a simple act of nature, this eclipse thing. All mythology and mysticism and symbolism aside, an eclipse is pretty simple from the point of view of us earthbound or moonbound species.

In a solar eclipse, the moon briefly cruises between us and the sun. If you are an Earthling, you wonder where the sun went. Oh! There it is. It was just hidden from view for a couple of minutes. During a lunar eclipse, the earth comes between the sun and the moon. If you are a Moonling watching from atop a crater, the sun disappears behind Earth. Eventually, the sun peeks out and things get back to celestial normalcy.

When I was a kid, the skies above were so much more exciting than the earth under my feet. So, every time I got a chance to escape into the night skies, I took it.

Here is one memory of those long-ago days:

When I was a young one just trying to absorb the fact that I’d never be a Babe Ruth or an Albert Einstein or an Edgar Allan Poe or a Gregory Peck, I received for Christmas, sitting there just beyond reach of the carnival-decorated gaudy fir tree, a SPITZ JUNIOR PLANETARIUM, manufactured by HARMONIC REED CORPORATION OF ROSEMONT, PENNA.

It was a most special Christmas gift.

Just looking at it now, in my mind’s eye, it has remained crystal-clear all these many years: a shiny black flexible-plastic globe bifurcated by a yellow rubber equatorial flange that represents the stellar ecliptic and incidentally holds the two half-spheres together. The black globe sits atop a white plastic observatory-shaped base, and the whole thing can be rotated round and round as well as moved up and down to simulate all the naked-eye observable movements of the stars.

To appreciate the planetarium, you had to take it into a pitch-dark, preferably cube-shaped room and slowly turn up the rheostat just above the off-on switch on the front of the base. If you did it just right and just slowly enough, you would suddenly feel yourself transported to the middle of a darkened field in the middle of the night in the middle of the planet in the middle of the universe because, all around you, there would suddenly appear stars in exactly the same positions, the same configurations, as they would appear if you actually were in the middle of a darkened field in the middle of the night in the middle of…etc.

Even if you couldn’t go outside to see the stars, even if it was cloudy and raining, even if you had just come indoors from the humid sunshine, you could still go into that darkened room and be somewhere else in time and space and feel all alone in a crowd of billions of others whose names you did not know.

One day way back when, my sister Rosi got my SPITZ JUNIOR PLANETARIUM out of storage and presented it to me and I took it home and now I sleep again in the middle of a darkened field in the middle of the night in the middle…

Whenever the demon insomnia causes my eyes to flicker open, I can see the old familiar stars keeping me silent company and reminding me that they will always be there and that any problems that seem gargantuan now are minuscule compared to the distant silent coolness and the close-up noisy fury of those suns upon suns upon suns out there. The mathematics and physics of astronomy escaped me early on, but the sheer personal poetry of the tiny points of light so large and so far away still affects me and still makes me remember what it was like to be a small boy and open an incredible shiny gift that pure and lonely Christmas so many eons ago in Tuscaloosa, Alabama

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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BONGO MAN DISRUPTS DUM DUM DEARTH QUEST

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/bongomandisruptsdumdumdearthquest.mp3

or read his story below:

BONGO MAN DISRUPTS DUM DUM DEARTH QUEST

The idling motor of the muscle car is rhythmic and sputtery. All the windows of the car are down, so that passersby can hear what goes on inside, so that the driver can hear what’s happening all around.

His baseball cap reversed, the driver is leaning over the steering column. His fingers and palms are beating out complex tempos upon the wheel, as if it has suddenly become a set of bongos.

He stares straight ahead at nothing. He is lost within a labyrinth of chuckling carburetor, puffy leaping hands, dipping chin, unheard lyrics, imagined tunes, recalled memories, imagined symbols and meanings.

I walk past the crookedly parked vehicle, not daring to interrupt the flow, the flows, of this bongo dream-man. I am my own reverie, he is his own reverie, and the two of us are just comets passing and bypassing one another, each with our own celestial small wisdoms, each with our solitudes enforced.

Does the bongo man know that my only quest this humid morning is for a supply of Dum Dums to re-fill the take-one-free basket at the bookshop? Dum Dums are not always readily available, so I’m making several stops in my trek. Do I know what back-story drives the idling-motor bongo man to perform his audienceless concerto? Does the bongo man know about Dum Dums and old bookstores and tiny insignificant quests such as mine?

Is each of us equally significant in the schemelessness of things? Do we count?

He counts his beats, I count my Dum Dum blessings, the sad and scruffy parking lot spreads heavy and forlorn beneath us.

And our universes part ways unheralded by time and space and journey

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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DISCOVERING AND ABANDONING THE CATHEDRAL OF BOOKS

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/discoveringandabandoningthecathedralofbooks.mp3

or read his tale below:

DISCOVERING AND ABANDONING THE CATHEDRAL OF BOOKS

 Diving headlong into the pages of my lifelong Red Clay Diary, I find these notes.

They are both actual and true:

The spindly used and tape-repaired thin-wheeled bicycle is my rocket machine to all parts of the city of Tuscaloosa in the 1950′s. I can hop on that black spider vehicle and escape Eastwood Avenue, Northington Campus and all points east, and ride westward down the breeze toward Downtown and freedom for a few hours.

I yank the front of the bike up to climb curbs, skid parallel to railroad tracks, nearly lose control, then cross several more tracks diagonally to get to the main street of Tuscaloosa.

First stop is the Cathedral of Books, the Tuscaloosa County Library, where the 19th-century Friedman home houses all there is of a public library for the town. Climbing the stairs is like ascending the steps of a Mayan pyramid, for from the top, I can turn and survey passing traffic and pedestrians in the sure knowledge that wherever they are headed, it cannot possibly be as exciting as where I am going. Poor peasants!

Inside the library, it is quiet and creaky, and the odor of musty books is everywhere. Rubberstamped tramping upon library file cards is about the loudest noise. I can spend all the time I want, running my fingers over the spine titles, trying ever so hard to decide what I can actually read by book-return time. How will I ever possibly get to read all those books, go to all those special places that the poor deprived pedestrians and motorists outside cannot even imagine?

I head for the science section, reading all the astronomy and simplified physics books I get my hands on, books by Willy Ley, Chesley Bonstell, George Gamow, Isaac Asimov…then go for the adult fiction area and pick out the authors I have already fallen in love with: Aldous Huxley, George Orwell, Max Shulman, Thorne Smith–authors who aren’t really writing fiction at all–they are writing about what I know now, what I know might happen, what I hope won’t happen, what I pray will happen. 

Then, poetry, making friends with Robert Frost and Sara Teasdale and Carl Sandburg and James Whitcomb Riley. And on to theatre scripts, plays by Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams…

And then, science fiction! Ray Bradbury and his followers, Arthur C. Clarke, Shirley Jackson, Robert Heinlein, Fredric Brown…and Ray Bradbury again. After reading every science fiction book in the library, I find I need more. Is this all there is? Are there no other books in the universe?

Scouring the shelves each time I go to the Cathedral of Books, I finally realize I have read everything I’ll ever want to read of what is here. The librarians are of no help–they can’t understand my passion for more, because I don’t know how to tell them what more is.

So, I finally stop visiting the Tuscaloosa County Library.

For two reasons, actually. I have read everything I care to read there. But primarily, I do not want to return the books I read. It is very difficult to tumble headlong into a book, fall in love with it, live it, then have to return it to the care of impersonal strangers. The book is my adopted child. How can I return a child? Once born into my hands, once borne by my hands, the child is my responsibility.

The solution comes soon enough, out of sheer desperation. I discover the secret of Lunch Money! Mother gives me lunch money each day, so that I can eat heavy chewy buns and glug pasteurized homogenized Perry’s Pride milk and scarf macaroni and cheese in the Tuscaloosa High School lunchroom. None of this tastes as good as words, written words. It doesn’t take long to realize, with a stretch of ethics and logic, that Mother’s lunch money is a gift to me to do with as I please. I don’t really have to eat! This will leave me with enough money to buy a book or two a day.

So, the Cathedral of Books transplants itself to the Drug Store and the Dime Store, where 25-cent paperback books are available by the hundreds.

At Parkview Drugs in the Parkview Shopping Center across the street from school, I walk my fingers through the racks of randomly un-arranged paperback books–some costing as much as 35 cents!–and select the day’s readings. To heck with milk and bread. Man–er, teen-age boys– cannot live by milk and bread alone, much less government-surplus macaroni and cheese!

The great thing about the paperback book racks is, there’s only one title of each book at any one time, and they are never alphabetized or arranged by subject, as they are at the library. Therefore, I have to go through each and every book, one by one, reading the short blurbs on the front cover and the longer blurbs on the back, then the come-on blurb on the front first page, to find out what each book is about. This means I am exposed to many, many subjects and authors I would never have known about at the Library. I have to learn a little of everything to find out anything!

I buy books I’ve never heard about because of those blurbs–and mainly because of the lurid covers each title sports. Illustrators are assigned the task of making the customer want to purchase the book, so even the most serious titles display scantily dressed women and action-packed scenes that often are not even found inside the books. But it works! I read widely and eclectically because of those lurid pictures and come-on blurbs.

I feel quite sorry for anybody who doesn’t know the joy of randomly browsing through hundreds of subjects and titles, learning more and being exposed to more than teachers can possibly imagine or control. 

My self-education is a joy and a spine-tingling challenge. I must sacrifice something to get what I want–lunch, for instance–when I have to peddle all the way downtown on a spindly second-hand bicycle to grab that new book off the rack and rush my quarter to the checkout counter before anybody else can snatch it ahead of me.

Drugstores also have enormous magazine racks that display every kind of subject–Scientific American sits next to the Saturday Evening Post and Good Housekeeping. Mad Magazine can be picked up along with Sky and Telescope and Popular Mechanics. I even read the self-grooming ads! I give up my hair tonic money and my acne medicine money for more and better books, which might explain why studious kids like me are always depicted as being pimply, bespectacled and unkempt. We are.

No matter. I get what I want, and I don’t hurt anybody in the long run. I believe my Mother forgives me, too, for she knows that words give me more pleasure than food and grooming. Of course, if I go too long without using soap, she will draw the line.

To this day, every time I pass through a small town and see an old Victorian House that’s been converted into a library or a bookstore, I have to stop in to see what’s what. Each time one of those little towns has an old drugstore, I go in to explore what’s left of the paperback books and magazines.

And I still find, now and then, something well worth reading that I do not know exists until just this moment, waiting on the rack for me and me alone

 

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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PRAISE BE THE HONEST AMONG US

PRAISE BE THE HONEST AMONG US

When you invest all your dreams in writing a book, you never expect to receive the Ultimate Revew—you know, the review of all reviews, the review that shows that the reviewer not only read every word, but that the reviewer understands the book, actually gets what you are trying to say.

Through the decades, I’m lucky to have received enthusiastic reviews from people I respect. They mean so much to me. They range from  Ray Bradbury and Abigail van Buren (Dear Abby) to  John Shelby Spong, Fannie Flagg, Robert Inman, Charles Ghigna, Irene Latham, Howell Raines, Allen Johnson Jr., Martha Hunt Huie, Pat Bleicher…and on and on. I am grateful.

But I want to share with you the Dream Review, the review that is so honest, negative and positive at the same time, that it sweeps you off your feet. The review that indicates your book forced the reader to FEEL, to RISE UP, to REACT, to CHANGE DIRECTION.

Here’s Kellye’s review (for my book, HOW TO BECOME YOUR OWN BOOK):

*

Dear Mr. Reed,

I have spent the afternoon contemplating the purpose of this letter, among distractions, and concluded that my true intent is simply to share with you the effect your book, “How to Become Your Own Book: The Joy of Writing for You and You Alone” has had on my little world. I have read it, shut it, written in it, threatened to rip it to shreds, and cried into its pages. I guess I thought you should know.

I have experienced a roller coaster of emotions. I put in on the shelf for a while because there was an invisible shield that reflected a blinding light any time I saw a prompt about family secrets. Then one day, I opened it and discovered a light and whimsical side to it…I took colored magic marker pens and doodled on a few pages…I allowed myself to write outside of the provided boxes. There were times of laughter and color and music, there were times of bitter, painful remembering, when black ink spilled into the margins like ivy. I hate this book. I can’t wait to turn the page. I love that quote! I want to burn it…yet I am afraid of forever losing the previous parts of my life that seeped into the pages and hardened, past the point of no return, bled with ink confessions. So instead of torching it I throw it across the room, having to lunge across the room soon after to smooth out the bent and crinkled pages because that drives me crazy. So I put it on the coffee table and stack four or five books on top of it (also to help with the crinkled pages) and pull it out again only when I am compelled to. Like now…because I know there is a page inside where I can impeccably articulate the last few days, and all that I felt and remembered and smelled and tasted. Where I can describe how Birmingham has opened me up in indescribable ways. Birmingham Festival Theatre, Horse Pens 40, Lake Logan Martin, my little studio in Forest Park and under four books on my coffee table…Reed’s Book.

So here is my feedback: I love your book and I hate your book. I cherish it and I loathe it. I wonder if other purchasers have had similar feelings…the wretched torture of breaking through fear in writing…in an unassuming place. It has been a wonderful and horrible adventure. Thank you for sharing what you write and for sharing your charming store with me. Birmingham and I wouldn’t be the same without it.

Sincerely,

Kellye Marie Whitmer

*

See what I mean? How can any review of any of my writings, past or future, compare to this outburst?

I am one lucky writer

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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UNTELLABLE TALES, BOTH ACTUAL AND TRUE

Listen to Jim:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/untellabletales.mp3

or read his story below:

UNTELLABLE TALES, BOTH ACTUAL AND TRUE

As my time in this planet’s orbit wobbles ever forward, the cracks between the cracks fascinate me more. And more.

Much of my writing career is spent looking between the things that might be missed, gazing up as others are looking down, peering under when all focus is above and over yonder, turning away from sudden loud noises to see what is going Back There where no attention is being paid.

After a lifetime exploring the significantly insignificant, I find I have accumulated stacks of notes that don’t seem to have a place to rest.

Some for instances reside within the following lines.

What do I do with the receipt-printed CVS information that reports I can get $2 off my next eye-shadow purchase? (How can I do something NEXT when I haven’t first done it and won’t ever do it?)

A stranger walks into the bookshop carrying an elephant head. He wants to sell it to me but I can’t recall any recent need for such an object.

A couple drops by to obtain my opinion of what appears to be a small Russian satellite they have recovered from a NASA junkyard. I’m not kidding. It is singed from re-entry. There is a small porthole through which some creature once peered out. There are numbers and cyrillic letters stamped clearly on the asbestos-like surface. They do not know what to do with it but they know better than to sell it. They disappear along with the knowledge of what eventually happens to this modern artifact.

A jobless man wants to get a paying job here but talks himself out of it in four minutes flat. That’s in the category of “Let me tell you why you would never want to hire me.” I get that a lot, though I’m aware that each applicant hasn’t the vaguest idea why unemployability is such a mantra. I long for the day when one of them pauses thoughtfully and asks me to share my observations as to why the jobs are not happening.

In order to enter the shop each day I must wade through gusts of smokers’ smoke (holding my breath as long as possible) and dance around critters who tread the sidewalk oblivious to passersby but enthralled with their own screen-dancing thumbs. I actually don’t mind this so much, since it is a kind of entertainment that adds color and spice to the day.

My store has become a kind of sanctuary where, for a few hours, I can enjoy the fragrance of books, recall encountered characters, ignore any horrors or crises outside, appreciate customers and browsers—trying my damnedest to pay attention to them and see what new and exciting lessons they can teach me unaware.

And I always thumb through newly-arrived books to find evidence of readers’ lives. An old greeting card, a bookmark, margin notes, underlinings, a folded page, a list of things never completed, one snapshot of all those unknown family members who deserve re-cherishing, a theatre ticket stub, mustard stains, a feather.

All of which are totally unsaleable totally unappraisable totally unclassifiable…

Totally keepable to any appreciator of cracks between cracks

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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HAVE YOU VISITED MY MOTHER’S GARDEN?

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/haveyouvisitedmymothersgarden.mp3

or read his story below:

HAVE YOU VISITED MY MOTHER’S GARDEN?

My mother’s garden is overflowing with old, unusable objects that she fills with flowers and plants and soil. And love.

Do you like my mother’s garden so far?

My mother’s garden is a museum of reclaimed objects. Things like old metal and wooden cola cartons brimming with plants, a coal fireplace grate ready to sprout, tin cans with seedlings, a broken stone pony, a splintery white swing, a brick barbeque pit budding, a graceful tree, a nameless score of would-be sprouts, wild flowers that you’d better not mow down.

My mother keeps everything. Nothing goes to waste. In her hands things turn useful.

My mother’s greatest fear is that when she dies we will throw everything away. She feels we may not cherish every cracked vase, every old bottle.

My mother is wrong. We will not allow her treasures to be buried.

Have you smelled my mother’s garden?

My mother’s garden is scented with memories, memories of a small boy named Me hiding in a bush and changing into a Batman costume, crawling under the house to discover musty memories, swinging Tarzanlike from a lassoed tree, huffing behind an extinct pushmower.

My mother’s garden is filled with memories of a young mother named Mine, serving iced Pepsis on the baking lawn to prune-dry kids, pulling unwanted plants from around wanted ones, talking with stray animals as if they were children, cherishing every pebble and old toy.

That is my mother, a relentlessly warm and happy memory that does not fade.

Now, take a seat beside me on the swing. Here’s a cool drink. Close your eyes.

Tell me all about your mother

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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WHAT I MIGHT HAVE MISSED HAD I BEEN TEXTING

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or read his story below:
WHAT I MIGHT HAVE MISSED HAD I BEEN TEXTING
*
*
My hand, wrist deep into jacket pocket, searches for a bookmark to turn over to a chatting stranger. Then, that oddly human experience of being able to sense many things all at once kicks in, and I realize that the pocket is in reality a time capsule filled with interconnecting disparate bits of history, the history that is part and parcel of my minuscule life.
*
From the innards of the jacket, I pull forth a rumpled sticky note, part of a napkin on which are scrawled earth-shaking notes that must be preserved, a Dum Dum wrapper (cherry), one plastic toothpick (bent), three semi-shiny pennies, a ticket stub (Doc Severinsen concert), and three bookmarks.
*
I hand over a bookmark (my business card) but quickly retrieve it because I see handwritten Haiku on the back. I replace it with a clean bookmark and re-pocket the paper cunieform.
*
I won’t bother you with the contents of the other two jacket pockets and the four pockets of my trousers. Troves!
*
Later, I become aware that my bookshop is one big pocket of ongoing experiences melded with tiny and large mementos of what the past contains and what the future might bring.
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Reaching into the shop, here’s what is going on right now, in memory and metaphor:
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One deliberative and unsmiling customer is fragranced with powerful perfume and powder, his long multi-colored fingernails clacking at the smart phone screen…two
timequake skateboarders gaze up, down and around in awe of the books and doodads…a happy flower child straight out of a time machine purchases St. Exupery…one customer devoted to G.K. Chesterton and H.G. Wells exits the store, beaming down at his cradled books…a no-read (as in, “I never read books”) tagalong wife waits patiently for her WWII-collecting spouse…several different millennials wander around, unable to caress a book but eager to texttexttext…a South African tourist says his kids could not understand why he would mail them a postcard instead of simply texting (they did not realize the card itself is a gift of love)…somebody who knows me but whom I don’t know merrily relates true anecdotes but leaves unidentified…the flower child talks with a jolly guy about Ray Bradbury’s DANDELION WINE, which she is purchasing…a Senior Games photographer buys one biker hat and several photo books…one table tennis champ buys a Kellerman mystery…one man scours the shop, diligently filling his I Oughtta Read These list…
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By now, you may be as overwhelmed and delighted as I am at all this blend of humanity and ideas and emotions.
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One good thing about being a metaphor hoarder is that I never run out of people and ideas to write about. All I have to do is reach into a pocket or a corner of the bookshop.
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There I will always find reminders of where I have been, where I am now, where I could wind up.
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There I will always find evidence of life, with its curious mixture of loathing, laughter, loving, languishing, lollygagging, lashing out, lullabying…and those are just the L’s.
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I am forever grateful for the things I do not overlook.
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I am always wondering what I do overlook.
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And I look forward to digging into a pocket or two to see what messages I sent to myself way back when…when I was an earlier version
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