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.

Life, actually…

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TICKLE ME JIMBO

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When I was a kid, people often called me Jimbo. It’s what they did to guys named Jim back then.

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This was OK with me, since I found it funny.

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Speaking of funny:

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I’m sitting and talking and listening and eating, which is just about the most fun you can have clothed or unclothed—at least, sometimes.

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My friend Jo is sitting and talking and eating and listening, too.

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This is an opportunity to learn something new, so, as is my wont, I pop out a spontaneous question, “When you are alone, do you ever laugh?”

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Jo’s eyes grow wider than usual and, instead of answering, she exclaims, “Why, what an unusual question to ask! Why would you ask that?”

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This gives her time to ruminate and come up with a reply, I suppose.

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I say, “Just something I wanted to know—you don’t have to answer it.”

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But Jo does answer, “Well, yes, I do laugh when I’m alone.”

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I can believe this, since Jo has a wicked sense of humor, thus I’m satisfied.

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So many people I’ve met through the eons don’t seem to have the ability to laugh at much of anything, much less at themselves, much less with themselves. I try not to hang with these folks, since I do like to laugh—especially at myself.

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Just me observing me is sometimes hilarious, particularly as I grow older. Added to that is life, which is increasingly hilarious as well.

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I grew up as a question-asker, which scares some people and intrigues others. When very young, I determined that the best way to find out stuff was to ask questions. I also learned that not asking questions can lead to a very dull time, since lots of people don’t ever think to ask me a question.

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Either they don’t want to know anything about me, or they are content with being quiet and somber.

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When I don’t receive an answer to a question, I learn twice as much as I’ll ever learn from a stiffly proper answer. Either way, I’m going to learn something new in the process. It may not be what you hoped I would learn, but it will be a learning experience.

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Myself when young naturally gravitated to activities that required question-asking, and I therefore learned a bunch—a bunch of primarily useless information, but information that was interesting and exciting and funny and scary, regardless of its uselessness.

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So, I became a child actor and performer and teacher and reporter and writer, all of which require the asking of questions and, further, the listening to answers.

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I’m never bored. I’m often in the presence of others who are bored, but just asking them questions to get their reaction sometimes makes them forget how much pleasure they are deriving from being bored. It’s like shock therapy.

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As I learned from H.G. Wells and the Pet Shop Boys, people who are bored are people who are being boring. Both states of mind frighten me, so I just go on my merry way, asking and listening and treading the maelstrom that threatens all of us—the maelstrom that wants to bore us to death.

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Tell me something funny and uncruel and I’ll have a good laugh. If you can’t think of anything funny to say, just say whatever comes to mind.

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Don’t worry—I’ll find something funny in it

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© 2023 A.D. by Jim Reed

Life, actually…

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A MOM FOR ALL SEASONS

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“Get ready for the Holidays,” a deep-down voice intones.

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“Why now?” I reply to that deep and deep-down inner voice.

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“Get ready for the Holidays, because that is where your Mother resides.”

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I snap awake. I’m half-dreaming, on my morning journey from sleepland to up-and-at-’em land.

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Why am I cloaked in holiday memories on this particular day? Maybe it’s the almost-Fall nearly-Winter feeling in the air. Maybe it’s just dusty old memories shaken but not yet stirred.

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For whatever reason, I’m remembering the way Christmas and Holidays used to be. We village elders have earned the right to jump back and forth from past to present and back again.

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Here’s a Christmas memory that won’t go away. It’s true and actual:

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Christmas comes but once a day!

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Really, Christmas does come but once a day! I can’t keep it out of my mind.

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You see, my mother was a Christmas mother.

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Every holiday provided the excuse Mom needed for bolstering her own spirits and the spirits of those around her.

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Our little family on Eastwood Avenue in long-ago Tuscaloosa, Alabama, was a Christmas family because of Mother.

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You see, Christmas was the very thing our family needed most to counteract the dead of Winter, to bring light to the longest nights of the year, to give us a chance to once again believe in the idea of Spring. Without the idea of Spring in mind, how could we possibly survive the Winter?

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We kids and Mother decorated everything that didn’t move, and some things that did. Our pet dogs Brownie and Sissy might be seen running through the house decked in wreaths or gossamer aluminum icicles. The windows would be sprayed with fake snow. The plastic candles with big red bulbs shone through the fake snow to provide just the right glow to passersby.

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The Christmas tree had to be somewhat democratically selected by the entire family as we trudged through the cold woods near Uncle Pat McGee’s home in nearby Peterson. It wasn’t really a Christmas tree if it didn’t have to be lugged through what seemed like miles of forest to our waiting Willys automobile. It wasn’t really a tree if we didn’t later find pine or fir needles in our underwear, if we didn’t get our fingers sticky with resin that couldn’t be removed voluntarily.

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It couldn’t be called a Christmas tree unless half the needles had fallen off by New Year’s Day. Those needles were necessary to remind us in the middle of July— when we were still finding them under the sofa and in our socks—that, yes, another Christmas just might come one day. 

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Every part of Christmas was special to Mother and us kids. We got the tree up and decorated as early as possible and sometimes did not take it down till February was threatening to occur. 

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And every decoration counted, every decoration was sacred. 

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There were cheap plastic Baby Jesuses and velvet-clothed Santa Clauses, Bakelite angels and glassy angel hair strands, small ceramic Snoopies and brown-paper handmade stars, miniature mangers and stockingcapped elves, tin whistles and school-pasted wooden shards with glitter applied, strung popped popcorn necklaces and varnished mummified cookies. 

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Mother’s fireplace mantle was fully and carefully decorated and arranged with a mixture of kids’ handcrafted stuff and store-bought doodads. The front and back doors were decorated, the lawn was bedecked, even the bathroom door was all Christmassed-up.

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Christmas was a yearlong idea, a monthlong project, an intense array of garlands and gewgaws, clutter and array.

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So much was put into Christmas that the images stayed with you all year long and in fact all life long.

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Every and each time I smell ginger or apples or vanilla or pine or baking dough or roasting pecans, Christmas comes back to me in a second. Each time I pass an ornately dressed bungalow in a tiny neighborhood, it all comes back. Every time I hear the old carols, whenever I look up in the frozen winter to see a bright star or two, whenever I see the expectant gleam in a child’s eye, Christmas comes back to me.

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Christmas comes but once a day.

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When the very idea of Christmas, the very idea of unselfish giving, the very idea of warm family gatherings and sharings…when these things die from our lives, won’t we all die a bit, too? When the soul goes flat from lack of sweet remembrance, the world will be declared flat, too.

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Thanks to you, Mother, I can hold on to Christmas even when there’s nothing else visible to grab hold of

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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Life, actually…

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PLAYING HYDE-AND-GO-JEKYLL

AT THE HALLOWE’EN BARBIE QUEUE

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In olden days Down South, we used to sit of an afternoon on the front porch and watch the world sneak by. It was great fun.

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We porch-sitters were just us. Everybody who passed by constituted the World as we didn’t know it. All passers-by were mysterious and perplexing—thus, entertaining.

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We had no idea who these apparitions were, but our colorful imaginations allowed us to guess, to make up lives and stories to go along with what we saw. Our unfettered daydreams painted exciting back-stories to go along with clueless visitors.

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Short-attention-spans were not yet invented. At least we didn’t call them short-attention-spans. Probably paid close attention to those split seconds of observation, then filed them away in memory, then awaited the next fleeting visitations. No time to label or distort or criticize. Just along for the ride.

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These days, front porches no longer seem to matter as much. Our motorized vehicles are porches-in-motion. We drive by the world in place of the world’s driving past us.

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One artifact from those old Down South days remains: Dad jokes.

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Yep, I still crack Dad jokes. Only now they have evolved into granddad and great-granddad jokes. They haven’t changed much. Just ask my grown kids and groaning grandkids.

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An example might help. We are in our mobile front porch and cruise by a movie emporium where people are lined up to see the latest trendy film.

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“Looks like a Barbie queue,” I the village elder comment. If any young’un is listening there will be a moan or a chuckle accompanied by a momentary smile. One Dad Joke down and billions to come.

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Luckily for the world and family at large, most of my quips are silently written down for later use. Most are not heard by anyone but yours truly. This is my small gift to world peace.

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For instance, Hallowe’en is coming up. Soon a story about Hallowe’en will compose itself and appear online and on paper. Time to recall horror stories that remain in Recall Storage. We kids used to play a game called Hide-and-Go-Seek. In Dad Joke world, this now becomes a game called Hyde-and-Go-Jekyll. It’s more fun at this time of year.

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And so on.

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Thanks for paying attention. It won’t last long because you are probably busy composing your next Dad Joke or Mom Joke.

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I hope you cause groans even louder than mine

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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Life, actually…in my way-back memories of times past…

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1987: THE PERSISTENCE OF A DOWN SOUTH MEMORY

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The persistence of memory and its everchanging neverchanging indelibility is a mystery I’ll take with me to the end, I suppose.

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It is one day in 1987. I wander the downtown streets of hometown Tuscaloosa for the first time in twenty years, looking for something comforting from my past. It is a day that I know is about to bring me surprises unpredictable.

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I am between frenetic tasks. I have a few minutes to take a deep breath or two. I feel like a time traveler.

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I am treading the suspense by trying to find niches with familiar faces staring out, icons that will wave back at my glossed-over remembrances of younger and simpler times.

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I recall the old Ritz movie theater, the one on the Other Side of the street, the side with the pool hall and spittoons and roughneck hangouts—in other words, the more exciting side of the street.

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When I was a kid, the Ritz Theater always screened second-run Republic pictures with cowboys and spacemen and serials and double features and cartoons for kids during Saturday matinees. The Ritz was also constructed rather compactly in contrast to the other theaters in town, and its balcony was narrow, its restrooms dank and smelly, and its patrons a little shabbier.

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Something about the Ritz insinuates itself into my dreams over the years and becomes a kind of fevered presence during restless nightdreams. The theater haunts my mind and makes for some nicely scary imaginings.

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This wandering-around day in Tuscaloosa, the Ritz comes back to me and I try to find it. Where the Ritz once stands, there is nothing left but a parking lot occupying the narrow space between two buildings. It simply isn’t there anymore.

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Do I have the wrong street? I look around, walk a way down and up the block. No, I am right. The Ritz has evaporated.

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I return to the lot and look for signs of the Ritz. And there they are. Shadows of stairs two stories up one exterior wall. Remnants of arches on another wall.

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Part of the balcony can be detected in one-dimensional profile, where workers have not bothered to patch the gaps they left.

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It is a haunt of a theater now, with gargoyles wistfully filling holes where theater stuff once was.

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I stare for a while.

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Finally, I step back onto the sidewalk and look again, blink my eyes. At this moment, I realize the Ritz is still there. It will be there as long as I am here. It is in my dreams. It doesn’t need to be an actual structure anymore.

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My Tuscaloosa recollections are a mixture of childhood adventure, scary interludes, romantic notions, pretend-swordfights, loving family laughter, hugs that can never cease.

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Like the Ritz Theater, all my memories comprise a permanent companion, one I don’t have to forget, one I can continue to puzzle over and learn from.

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I am in a state of disturbed comfort now. I can smile more often because I’ve learned how to put on the Ritz…and use it as a reminder that I never have to be without the people I love, the things I love

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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Listen to Jim’s 4-minute podcast:  https://youtu.be/UZnbff1NVcU

or read on…

Life, actually…

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IGNORABLE ADVICE FROM THE PAGES OF GEEZER QUARTERLY MAGAZINE

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These notes fell out of my Red Clay Diary this morning. They apply solely to guys who are so far gone in age they are largely invisible to younger folks. Here goes…

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Personal-appearance tips from the Down South imaginary pages of GQ (Geezer Quarterly) Magazine.

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FASHION TIPS FOR GEEZERS:

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If you’re going to primp, do it once a day, preferably right before you let anybody else see you. It looks vain to keep checking your cowlick or your comb-over or your bald pate all day, so just do it right one time and forget about it. One of the perks of being aged and over the hill is you can walk around all day looking unkempt, simply because nobody notices.

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Throw away all your socks and get a dozen pair in just one color, maybe black. That way, you don’t have to waste time finding matching partners. Black goes with everything. If you’re a geezer, people expect you to wear unmatched socks. Black dissolves that problem.

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If you don’t want your considerable gut to call attention to itself, wear a black (there’s that color again!) shirt or a Book-‘Em-Danno shirt. Book-‘Em-Danno shirts are so colorful and distracting that nobody will focus on your flab. Besides, it’s kind of OK to be chunky when you’re wearing a Book-‘Em-Danno shirt. But if you want to remain invisible, do the black shirt thing.

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The no-iron rule: select all casual clothes based on whether they have to be pressed after washing. Ironing is a waste of time and, like I said, after a certain age, everybody expects you the geezer to be wrinkled, but nobody expects your clothes to be wrinkle-free. Beware of friends and acquaintances who have their jeans washed, starched and ironed. There’s something a little bit wrong there.

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Never, never do a comb-over…unless you go all the way. Comb-overs have the same effect on people as toupees and hair club do-overs. Everybody notices them. And the best un-kept secret about toupees and wigs is: If you wear one, that’s all anybody will ever remember about you. Period.*

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*Exception to the toupee rule: Give actors and performers a pass on their toupees. It’s how they make their living. They have to look good to get jobs. Just enjoy how good-looking they are and stop with the snarky remarks.

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All day each day, avoid looking at yourself in mirrors. It will only demoralize you. Nothing more disturbing than seeing the reflection of some old saggy baggy guy and suddenly realizing it’s you. Best to cherish how you appeared at your best in high school. You can edit out the remembered acne, of course.

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Each pocket you add to your shirt ages you another decade. One pocket is useful, two pockets are overkill—you might as well wear a protector. The coolest thing to do is wear shirts without pockets, since pockets only encourage you to stuff things into them, thus bulking you up even more.

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On the other hand, make sure you utilize all the pockets in your trousers. Keep everything in them for easy access…and don’t ever wear a belt pouch/fanny pack (it looks like a snake that just swallowed something really huge). This allows you to keep both hands free, swinging loose and easy.

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Don’t get me started about shoes. I learned early on that the only shoes worth wearing are the ones that fit comfortably from the first moment you put them on. If they hurt in the store, they’re never going to stop.

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Don’t wear trousers unless your pockets contain a set of keys, IDs, money.  This prevents hours of lost time searching for the above. Don’t put them down anywhere, ever!

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Had enough of this for one sitting?

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Why not absorb today’s GQ tips and see whether they work for you? If you don’t happen to be a geezer yet, look what you’re missing!

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And stay tuned for more geezer wisdom as it occurs. Or recurs

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2023 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Life, actually…

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BIG SHUNNARAH IS WATCHING YOU

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“How’s your mom’n’em?” asks Dora, as she fills a fresh-licked white plastic bag with thrift store wearables. Her register is asking for  payment of $15.45.

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Alice, her friend on the other side of Dora’s counter, is riffling through a large slouchy handbag in search of wallet and workable credit card. As she fishes she smiles and provides Dora with a truncated genealogy of life-up-to-now family facts.

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I’m the eavesdropper in line just behind Alice. I take my time and listen and observe. This is more fun than anything on the internet or the tube.

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I’ve dropped a few eaves in my time.

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Alice and Dora have known each other a long while, but at this moment one is customer, the other is accepter of payment. Family ties run through the conversation as smoothly as Jergen’s Lotion salves a rough spot. A few phrases transform updates into small endearing stories.

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I am relieved to learn that all is well with mom’n’em and, with an occasional sidebar about kin being arrested or taken ill, life is proceeding with surprise and predictability.

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Dora and Alice finish their exchange and part ways with smiles and warmth and mutual “Y’all come to see us!” declarations.

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I’m next up. I place selected books on the counter and Dora begins scanning prices into a keyboarded device, pausing each time the machine fails to do its job, mumbling while she has to hand-enter rows of numbers. She pulls a fresh plastic bag from its rack, licks her fingers to make opening the bag easier, slaps the bag by its body-shirt handles, and balloons it big enough to drop the books in.

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“You need to press this button and sign this screen with your finger and then sign this paper receipt in order to please the pencil-pusher who set up this redundant and time-wasting system,” she says. Only, she doesn’t say anything of the kind—she just thinks this with a bored frown. She and I silently agree that the only way to get through the day at the counter is to take breaks, grab lunch, gossip with other employees, and occasionally catch up on friends and relatives and strangers who pass by.

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As I drive away from the store and head back to my village, I glance here and there, amazed at the gigantic billboards mostly filled with images of a smiling attorney screaming “CALL ME ALABAMA.” No commas needed.

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What would my normal day be like if I didn’t see and hear a dozen BIG SHUNNARAH IS WATCHING YOU messages? What would my day be like if I couldn’t catch up on mom’n’em and all the real, living adventures that await friendly inquiry?

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Knowing about mom’n’em enriches my time and makes me want to call distant family and catch up. Big Shunnarah doesn’t seem to matter at all

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© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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