Catch Jim’s 4-minute podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/Jwmr-IIBbfY

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Life, actually…

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SMILES THAT DIM THE SUNLIGHT

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Here’s something to ponder. That is, here’s something to ponder if you happen to be in a pondering mood.

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I’m about to ponder, so let this be a warning to you. If this is not your Ponder Day, maybe you can avoid a preponderance of ponder by skipping today’s Red Clay Diary. There may be much better ways to spend the next four minutes.

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For us, the stragglers who decide to stick around and see what the Reed guy has to say, here it is:

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I am squinting at the front door of my little bookshop. Squinting because the outside sunlight behind an entering customer is brighter than the customer herself. I can’t make her out against the competing glare.

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Still, I do what I think is the right and polite thing to do, I greet the customer with a smile and a “How are you today?”

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The customer scours the merry clutter of the store to locate the source of my genetically deep and loud voice.

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She spies me, then responds to the friendliness within my words. Suddenly the light of day reverses itself. That’s because her smile dims all sunlight and brightens her surroundings. Sunlight is secondary for a moment.

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“I’m fine, how are you?” she replies.

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“I feel great because I’m in a bookstore,” I say.

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She adds a giggle of recognition to her smile and begins her awe-filled journey into the interior, her smile illuminating the darkened aisles.

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As all book people are aware, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in most philosophies. (My apologies to Billy Shakespeare.)

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I am taken by this person’s smile. I am taken aback. I am reminded of all the many smiles, light and dark, broad and fleeting, slow and startling, joy-filled and slightly sad, self-conscious and uninhibited…all the many smiles that have graced my life throughout these flowing years.

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This customer’s smile reminds me that I have not always taken time to appreciate the unconscious gifts of happiness that visitors offer me. How could they possibly realize the effect of these smiles on people like me?

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A natural and spontaneous smile contains more uplifting data than a thousand words of cheer could ever absorb. No preparation or editing required. No apologies or clarifications needed. No politics or wayward beliefs need intrude. No challenges or arguments or explanations are on the agenda.

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Just a good smile.

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I don’t need an interpretation or explanation or retraction. I just need to enjoy the smile, enjoy the effects of the smile, enjoy the moment no-one can take away from me.

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Is this too thoughty to ponder today? Or is it OK to take a mo’ and simply recognize the smiles that are dormant within us? Is it OK to grant permission to the interior smile, permission to surface, take over the face, turn the frown upside down? Just smile?

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I’ve had my say. Now I think I will take a few seconds to appreciate the Land of Smiles. Now I can hope that, despite all disturbances to the contrary, you, too, can be amazed at how easily that buried smile can rise up and give you hope, if only in your dreams

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast at https://youtu.be/DT12u58CyL4

or enjoy the transcript, below…

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Life, actually…

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PARALLEL PARKING A PORTA-JOHN

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After all these years living here in my Down South village, I have learned not to be surprised by just about anything that happens.

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In fact, if something not surprising takes place, I find myself taking a second look to see whether there is a hidden surprise at the bottom of the box. I remember the days when a new Cracker Jack box always contained a swell toy, a fun collectible toy. That shows you how aged I must be.

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My biggest and final Cracker Jack surprise came the day the prizes disappeared, replaced by attorney-approved harmless and boring little squares of paper that seemed to be telling me, FOOLED YOU!

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I miss those Cracker Jack surprises.

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Today, as I turn the main street downtown corner on the way to work, orange construction signs and barriers abound. There’s always something.

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I weave my way through an array of service vehicles and flashing lights and find a parking spot almost in front of the bookshop. The only thing keeping me from landing directly in front of the shop is a parked porta-john.

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I parallel park in the marked space, admiring how neatly the porta john in front of me is situated. And I wonder whether village street workers have to take lessons in how to parallel park a porta-john.

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Silly boy, I think to myself. I’ll never unravel the porta-john mystery because there are way too many questions to ask. Such as, how long will the porta-john grace the space in front of the shop, should I triage customers to the porta-john if the shop restroom is occupied, shall I post a Reed Books sign turning the metal obelisk into a useful billboard, does a street worker feed coins into the meter every two hours, will the local predatory tow-away company remove the porta-john if it parks too long?

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This is heady stuff to ponder on an otherwise routine day.

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Well, there is no such thing as a routine day in my little section of Down South. It is best to grab  a soft drink, take a deep breath and watch for the next surprise-free surprise.

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I have never been a bartender but I may know how one feels. If you are sole proprietor of a bar or a bookshop, you do not have the luxury of delegating difficult duties to someone else. The plight stops here and you have to deal with it regardless of knowledge or skill.

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For instance, a young women enters the shop, wanders around for an unusual amount of time and winds up lying on the floor to thumb through a book, all the while blocking other customers from browsing.

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When I lightheartedly suggest she make room for others she smiles sweetly and says, “No.” I try again, politely. She again says No and spread-eagles, making a considerable part of the store impassable.

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This is what I mean by bartending and bookkeeping. You have to find a peaceful way to solve a problem without risking offending other customers, without coming across as a jerk, without escalating the situation, without creating problems both legal and time-consuming.

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I am up to the task. I act as if this is just part of my day. I take action…

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What would you do?

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I guess learning to parallel park a porta-john is easy compared to this

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Listen to Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/YUL_Nw603E0 

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or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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AUTHORITARIAN BOOKIE WOWS MOM ON A SUNNY DRY DAY

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I am back in recent time, just a decade ago.

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My old Subaru car knows the trolling route so well that it actually seems to drive itself. The ancient pale and pasty bookieman sits in the driver’s seat and watches the world go by while he and the self-driving vehicle head toward just another roadside junk store, sharing high hopes of finding nice old books for customers back at the bookshop.

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I am the bookie, the car is the bookiemobile.

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Our journey is as interesting as the destination.

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By the side of the road in the western shambles of the city, I spy the gigantic WOW sign. It’s been there for decades, and it actually had an original purpose–that of selling bundles of socks for just a few cents. Now it’s a lonely WOW sign, a mileage marker on the way to a bookquest.

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The prankster side of me wants to sneak up to the sign and turn it over one night, thus affording passersby a comforting memory of MOM in our ramshackle lives. Being conscious and in the present, I don’t really need to carry out the prank. The sign is permanently affixed to my mind as a thought about MOM and all good moms past, present, future.

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 After all, I have, in addition to MOM thoughts, a need to forever replenish my trove of wonderful old volumes so that customers will always find some surprise among the plethora of packaged words in the store.

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Later, back at the shop:

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“I hear you’re an authoritarian on used books!” a customer proclaims, presenting a waxed paper package like a swaddled baby in her outstretched arms. “Can you tell me about this?” She means that she wants me to unswaddle the book and tell her whether it’s worth a fortune.

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“Well, I guess I am an authoritarian, at that,” I say, but not aloud. I do attempt to keep my smart aleck remarks to myself now and then. I am no authority on authoritarians.

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I examine the book respectfully while the customer stares in expectation. It is disbound, dusty, stained and missing pages here and there. It is what her family has kept as an heirloom for a century. Now it has become an unread artifact that takes up space. The current generation waits for a rainy day when they can cash in.

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My task is to let this customer down easily but share a reality check at the same time.

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I turn the tattered pages, smile, and remark, “This is a nice book, well worth reading. Unfortunately, people who might want to purchase it will only accept it if it looks brand-new and is in almost perfect condition.”

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“But this is an old book…old books don’t look new,” she protests.

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I escort her to a display case and show her my copy of this exact book. It looks new because it has been well tended and respected all these years.

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She gets the point. “Well, I guess somebody didn’t take care of this one.” She laughs and thanks me for taking the time to advise her, free of charge. I suggest the family retain and display the book out of respect for ancestors.

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I’m done with travels for the day and here I am at the bookshop, arranging orphans and adoptees and fosters, displaying them so that perhaps customers will take them home and give them a little loving.

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The morning’s journey was worthwhile. I have additional company on the shelves. My MOM is safely ensconced in memory, a memory of her love for books and her love for a son who could not keep his hands off books or his mind off the beauty of words and stories.

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Can’t wait till the old junker and I head out once again on our periodic field trips to scan the countryside and dig for treasure for the sheer satisfaction of it

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/lnIK8aO2Dc8

or read his manuscript below:

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Life, actually…

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NOTES WHILE WAITING IN WAITING ROOMS

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Waiting Room One: I sit here alone in a room with no mirrors. No windows. No back door. No skylight. No emergency exit. How can I make this long wait worthwhile? After all, I am not a lifeless mannequin. Yet.

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If I am to find pleasure within this cage, it will have to come from checking out the unnoticeables. When I close my eyes, what do I hear? The thunder rumble of an air conditioning system. Hallway laughter. Pity-pat of rubber-soled shoes. Muffled doctor-to-patient explanations in the adjacent room.

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Waiting Room Two: This public room is littered with waiters—those who obediently await The Verdict. Oddly, no-one is texting or otherwise tinkering with the electronic universe. Some are dozing, others are riffling through dogeared magazines. Unseen voices interact behind a glass booth.

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Waiting Room Three: Another room of no windows or mirrors. Test results are reported. Bedside manner is just as important as good news. Congenial experts count.

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On the way home I pass a glass window leaning against a building. A window with no rooms?

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Waiting Room Four: There is humor to be found. I am sitting beneath a dangling TV set. This means all eyes are staring in my direction. A media interview above me features a whiny celebrity who craves even more attention. The waiting patients slouch and gaze up or phone-speak, or just swipe about, considering their consumer-spending capabilities. Eventually, there will be doctors.

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As I make my escape, I warmly greet people just to surprise them with kindness. They smile despite their circumstances.

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There will be more Waiting Rooms in my life. Stay tuned

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s 4-minute podcast on Youtube: https://youtu.be/0yyMPteP56Y

or read the transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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CLOUD-WRANGLING IN DOWN-SOUTH HEAVENS

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Right this minute, it is seventy-five years ago. The Village Elder is recalling a day from his Down South childhood. In his clear and present memory, this day of yore is worthy of remembrance.

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Jimmy Three is the nickname of the long-ago version of himself. And for a few precious moments, Jimmy Three is suspended, floating somewhere between the core of the planet and the faraway skies. He is alone but seldom lonely.

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Lying flat on his back in a bed of clover and bustling insects, Jimmy Three wonders about things. He is at his best when wondering about wonders. Right now, he is awestruck by the rolling multi-grayed clouds.

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One cloud casts an in-flight shadow over him, then speeds away. Another cloud crosses paths with a companion, melds with it, recombines into a doubled entity that retains no memory of earlier seconds, when they were twins.

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Jimmy Three raises his pointing finger and begins moving the billowed fluffy shapes. He molds them into pirates, then into puppies, then into scenes from Bible stories. He plays with the skies. He begins to suspect that the clouds in turn are playing with him.

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As the shades and textures of the clouds gracefully shapeshift themselves, Jimmy Three lowers his arm, angel-spreads his body, embraces the heavens and hands himself over to them.

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He discovers that allowing the firmament to manipulate him is just as fun as re-animating that high-up deep-blue-and-shaded world. A world above him that is so much more vast than the mere neighborhood in which he dwells. So much larger than his tiny planet.

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Why oh why, wonders the present-day Elder…why oh why do I remember this long-past moment with such happiness, such peace?

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Jimmy Three projects himself into the future and addresses the question.

The Elder leans forward, turning his good ear to the apparition.

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“I’ll always remember you if you’ll always remember me,” Jimmy Three says.

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The Elder leans back, amazed but not surprised. He sort of always knew that all the ages he ever lived were still  deep inside, are still deep inside, awaiting duty, waiting to tend to his needs. Just as Jimmy Three somehow knows that the amazing old dude he will become, will be there to mend his wounds, salve his scrapes, keep him alive and well.

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The octogenarian and his childhood self stroll side by side to this day, each knowing they will journey together until some great embracing moment pleasantly surprises them with additional never-ending journeys

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast on Youtube:  https://youtu.be/E0qfacXrnzg

or read his transcript below:

.

Life, actually…

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FORWARD TO THE PAST

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Doing time Down South. That’s what you and I are equally good at. We are doing time.

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Traveling forward through time is so easy. All I have to do is keep breathing and watch out for meteorites. I can time-travel for decades with very little effort.

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Jumping ahead in time, into unknown futures, is almost as easy. I can grab a book that takes place day after tomorrow and immerse my imagination into a possibility or two. Leaping forward is not quite as realistic as living one day at a time, but it does excite the imagination, it does take me away from humdrum now and then. And sometimes humdrum requires distraction, just to keep the necessary balances.

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Traveling backward in time is exciting, too. In fact, I have learned that living in the past is a safe and secure exercise. The Past is the safest place to be, especially for avoidance-experts like myself.

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Here at my bookshop, my Museum of Fond Memories, my Cathedral of Books…here, I can dip into any past that ever was. Or I can dip into imagined pasts that never were. What choices I can make!

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For instance, the first object I see this morning is a 1951 high school yearbook. This yearbook was incredibly important to the student who owned it in 1951.

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As high school experiences faded into the past, as 1952 encroached, the 1951 yearbook remained solid proof that youth and experience and experimentation once existed. As life edged forward, piling year upon year, at least that 1951 yearbook collected dust and preserved memories as best it could.

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Every decade or so, it could be dusted off, pages could be flipped, dedications and signatures and times good and bad could be reconsidered.

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And, at last, some time after all memory is spent, this 1951 yearbook is discarded by survivors and winds up in a thrift bin on its way to perdition. It is only here, in my hands, because I rescued it.

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Thumbing through its interior, I spend time appreciating the life of the previous owner. I wonder at the fresh young faces reflecting dreams and aspirations and fears and hope. I wonder how many of those reflections came true, how many were managed, how many directions their paths took them. How did they wind up?

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Even if I could manage to assemble a lifetime yearbook for myself, for you, will there always come a time when some future person who never knew me will make a decision? Dumpster or thrift store? A puff of discarded memory or a chance for yet another life in the hands of a browsing yearbook-lover?

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All those long-ago hopeful lives. It’s up to a handful of us to honor them or forget them. Our choice is ready to be made

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 © 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=efyI2eRhTUA

or read his transcript:

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Life, actually…

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A STUPEFYING GATHERING OF WHAT-IFS

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What if hand-wringing and whining, whimpering and wailing, complaining and cussing, all went away for a day?

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Bear with me. I’m rolling out a fresh thought for your consideration. Ignore at will.

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What if politeness and good manners came over us and made us civil and courteous for 24 hours?

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I’m trying hard to imagine these what-ifs. I’m trying hard to take these what-ifs seriously, just for the fun of it. Just in case straining my imagination might actually change the texture of the earth for a day.

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How to apply these what-if thoughts? An idea: What if we elected or selected our leaders solely on the basis of politeness and good manners, civility and courtesy, kindness and respect? Would the world shift for the better?

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I’m not being delusional, I’m just thinking beyond the borders of my limitations. A little exercise couldn’t hurt.

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What if we had something better to do with our time—something better than hand-wringing and whining, whimpering and wailing, complaining and cussing?

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Granted, it might take some adjusting, this living in a land bereft of meaningless sniping at one another. We’d have to unwind, let down, cool it, chill, relax, take time to chat and compare notes about life and love and the pursuit of happiness.

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What if anxiety and all-stove-upness just settled to the ground? What if we learned that easy breathing could be breath-taking? Even fun?

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What if we reached out to just one person we normally wouldn’t be caught alive with, and just introduce our better selves? What might we learn? What might surprise and please us?

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What if each of us took eleven minutes each day to sit motionless and make a list of well-meaning what-ifs?

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Ok, I know that’s a stretch. Would you settle for eight minutes a day?

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What if this pleasant serial thinking caught on?

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What if we all got a case of the what-ifs

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast on youtube:https://youtu.be/Q3ld67RV7aw

or read the transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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THE IMPORTANCE OF TURNING ORDER INTO CHAOS AND CHAOS INTO ORDER

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I’m about to wax philosophic right now, so you may wish to duck and run.

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If you are feeling adventuresome, you can stay around for a couple of minutes and hear me out. Either way, my condolences to your state of mind.

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Here goes.

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Maybe I’m living too long, but I still enjoy the journey so much that I keep hanging on. After all, I long to see how you and yours turn out, in the scheme of things.

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I know too much already about the things I do not want to know too much about, and I will never know enough about the things I really want to know everything about.

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In order to maintain any kind of positive attitude about living and loving and laughing, I have to be flexible. Sometimes I have to be wishy, other times I must be washy. I notice that if I decide Life is just one single one-way journey upon a smooth and shiny track, I am bound to be brought up short and chastised by the Cosmos. Sometimes, one track serves me well, other times I have to switch to another track to avoid mayhem.

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I know now that I never know the right way all the time, no matter how hard I wish, no matter how hard I push.

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The above chaotic rendering of bumper-car thoughts is obviously one of the reasons that GOIN’ FISHING was invented, the reason taking a long walk became fashionable, the reason that karate classes and meditation groups and garden clubs and horse breeding exist, the reason playgrounds have slides and monkey bars. All these things and all things similar to these things are mandatory in order to momentarily distract us from the chore of contemplating the uncontemplatable Universe. The more contemplating, the more confusion…the more Facing Reality, the more sleeplessness.

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Quick, take me out to the ballgame before I scramble my brain.

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Since the Cosmos has no sense of humor, you and I have to maintain our bemusements. Our amusements. Our bouts of unrestrained laughter. Laughter at the senselessness of things. Laughter at our conceits and struts and fantasies.

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Laugh and the world will or will not laugh with you. Regardless, the laughter must be revived every Monday morning, just to produce the energy required to face down the obstacles. A good laugh breaks the pattern for a split second. A good laugh helps me re-boot my attitude. A good laugh at its best breeds yet another good laugh, and another.

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This is great for indigestion, this burst of laughter. It is also a very human way to deal gently with the concerns of our companions—the people we are on earth to help and encourage and nurture.

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If I can put aside my concerns over things I cannot alter, then I can concentrate on offering a helping hand to my fellow travelers as we figure out how to get through the week in one peaceful piece.

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You can breathe now. At ease! Please proceed with your daily journey. May you love long, live long, laugh long

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute Youtube podcast at https://youtu.be/fP86PhnxTHU

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Life, actually…

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THE SHOP OF TRICKLE-DOWN BEAUTY

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“Omygod!”

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A first-time visitor bursts into the old bookstore and shouts his reaction.

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He is in awe of the unexpected sights on display before him.

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“This is wonderful!”

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He instantly begins to touch each ancient book and artifact as if making sure he is not dreaming.

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His broad smile pushes his eyeglasses upwards an inch, amazement flushes his face and forces grunts of appreciation into the bookie air.

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He spies the proprietor and eagerly asks, “Is everything here for sale?”

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Proprietor replies with tongue in cheek, “Yes. It is a store!” He and the customer chuckle in unison. The customer wanders the aisles in stunned awe. The proprietor awaits the customer’s next reactions.

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All the customer can see during his hour of browsing is the beauty and the wonder of old memories in display.

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He will pass along his thrill to family and friends for years to come. He will become an evangelist of things lost, then found, in an ancient shop.

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The visitor eventually exits the shop and leaves behind the echoes of his joy. The proprietor inhales the silence, brushes dust off a stack of volumes.

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“Geez, what a mess!”

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A new visitor enters the store, frowning his disdain for what is before him.

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“Is this a junk place?”

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“No, it’s a bookstore.”

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The visitor sniffs, casually opens a rare tome, says, “Does anybody ever buy this stuff?”

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The proprietor is patient. “Yes, we make a living.”

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“How do you know where anything is?” He fails to see order and logic.

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“I’m the owner. I know where everything is. I’m happy to find whatever you are looking for.”

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“Well, of course, a place like this probably doesn’t carry what I want.”

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The proprietor smiles. Nothing is going to sadden him this fine day.

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“You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO, would you?”

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The proprietor walks past the customer, picks up a century-old unabridged CRISTO and hands it over. The customer, not expecting this, doesn’t quite know what to do with the book. He seems afraid to open it.

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“Uh, I would prefer a paperback (as in, less expensive) copy.”

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Proprietor reaches behind him and produces an abridged version of CRISTO and patiently exchanges it for the older copy.

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“Uh, yes, I’ll get this one.” He is surprised.

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As they walk to the front of the shop, they exchange pleasantries. The proprietor hopes for a return visit, the customer just wants to escape.

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The proprietor is an optimist. If he were not an optimist he would not be operating an old bookstore in a beautiful old village all these years. He even holds out hope for the disdainful customer, based on his own concept of trickle-down politeness. He knows that he has implanted an image in that customer’s mind—the customer will forever know that at least he was treated with patience and respect, he will forever know that, should a grandchild or neighbor wish to find a good read, this may be the shop he recommends.

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“This is so lovely! I knew I’d love this place.”

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The next customer arrives just in time to chase away the darkness

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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