Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast for today: https://youtu.be/gUUTaKb0Reg

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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A DRUM ROLL FOR ROY

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   Imagine the horror of being a victim of the bad guys in a Roy Rogers 1940s cowboy adventure movie! Remember, Roy himself never killed or hurt anybody—well, maybe a punch or two stung some bad guys into repentance—and he certainly never did anything mean-minded.

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But when Roy wasn’t around on the big black white and gray screen, bad things could happen.

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One of the scariest things I ever saw in a Roy Rogers movie: the Bad Guys, deciding to rid themselves of somebody who might snitch on them, lock this guy in an empty oil barrel and drop it into a deep lake.

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Holy Cow!

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I was suddenly inside that barrel, feeling the rusty darkness trapping me on all sides, feeling my air running out, wondering if I’d die from suffocation or from drowning, depending on whether the water engulfed me before my breathing stopped, wondering how it would feel for my lungs to burst in a mighty panic of pain and helplessness.

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It was quite an experience, vicariously dying inside that oil drum inside that Roy Rogers movie inside the Ritz Theater inside my little Down South village.

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That’s why one day, when my father brought home an empty human-size oil drum for us kids to play with, I was filled with excitement—now I could act out all my fears by using that drum, controlling that drum, conquering that drum!

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And boy, did we kids do all of the above and more.

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For years, that oil drum was my favorite toy in the back yard. One moment, the drum would become a real drum—we’d bang on the sealed end with sticks and hands and whatever else would annoy adults and neighbors, whatever would delight and excite us.

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Another moment, the drum would become a large log floating in a river of grass. Two of us kids would stand up on either end of the tipped-over drum and pretend to be roughhewn loggers—try to stay in place and force the other kid to fall to the ground first, in a fit of laughter and disorientation.

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Or the drum would become a circus act. I’d stand on it and run rapidly forward, while the drum would roll backwards. This usually lasted a few seconds at most, but in those few seconds the circus fans would be on their feet, cheering in awe of my feat.

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Then, tipping the drum over and getting inside was an entirely new experience. Somebody else would roll that drum real fast and you would hold to the insides as stiffly as possible to keep from being pummeled to death.

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Or, even when nobody was around, you could get inside and roll yourself around, having a grand contest with yourself to see how long you could last, how far you could go before blindly bumping into something or someone—preferably not a disapproving adult.

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Other times, we would play Game Hunter and Cannibals. One or two of us weaker ones would have to play the Hunter victims, being slowly boiled into a fine meal in that vertical drum, while savages danced wildly about, anxious that their food not be overcooked.

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Fortunately, we had no matches, so we were only cooked by the heat of the sun and the radiating heat from inside the drum.

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When it suddenly began raining, you could get inside that drum and tilt it vertical, closed-end up, and stay dry—and hidden, if the need was there. And if lightning were to strike, perhaps the Frankensteinian result would be to become some kind of super-strong masked hero with electrical powers.

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During more deliberative moments, the drum became an encapsulated time-machine, and you could take your own fantastic voyages inside the metal darkness all by yourself.

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Oh, it was a grand toy, that oil drum, the kind of toy I wish I could share with all little kids who are tired of toys that do everything for you, toys you lose interest in immediately or, worse still, toys that hypnotize you for hours and give you nothing in return to imagine, think about later, go to bed tired over.

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The Roy Rogers Backyard Oil Drum will never be listed as a valuable collectible in any antique guide, but it’s the  kind of collectible that’s really important—the toy that stays in your mind and your heart all the way from childhood to old age.

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Wish you had been there

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

https://youtu.be/ywkI7pO2TsE

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…
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THE EASTER EGG THE EASTER WORM AND ME

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There is a glistening, squiggly brown earthworm hiding just under the Easter egg I’m grabbing from the damp red clay near my grandparents’ home in Peterson, Alabama, this bright sunny Sunday, circa 1946.

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Suddenly, my zeal in finding more treasure than cousins and siblings is placed on hold. Standing frozen, clutching the aqua-dyed hard boiled condiment in one hand and a small hand-woven basket in the other, I squint at the alien creature and wonder what it will do, now that I’ve exposed it to a larger reality.

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I am regarding the earthworm, but I wonder whether it is regarding me.

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It curls and stretches and begins burrowing into a deeper earth, so I decide that it has no interest in me and my Easter egg.

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Which end is front, which is back? How does it eat? How does it even see?

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I can’t help pondering during this extended moment. I know something special has happened, but I cannot quite express what that something special is.

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Suddenly, I become the worm and begin feeling the soft red clay sliding past my extended exterior. It is getting darker as I leave the sunshine behind and head for home. Is my wormy family waiting for me to relate my adventure? How will I explain my excitement? How will I describe objects that I cannot name?

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“Ma, this gigantic roundish object was on the ground, and I thought I would hide beneath it for a time, but suddenly these five pudgy pale pink worms came down from the sky and just missed squashing me. They lifted the big round thing up to the sky and disappeared!”

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What will Ma say when I tell her this? Will she dismiss the whole thing as something I dreamed up? Will she curl around me and comfort me till I settle down? Can she actually see in the dark?

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“Jimbo! C’mon over here and let’s count your eggs,” cousin Jerry yells. I snap out of my tiny worm world and run over to other relatives and family to continue the Easter egg hunt.

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Later that night, Mother gives me permission to eat the aqua-colored egg. As I crack and peel away the shell, the soft shiny white surface reminds me of the shiny earthworm family I’ll never get to know.

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I silently nibble on the egg and pay secret respects to the critters that surround my small world…the worms that may become fish bait, the fish that may become food, the egg itself that might have become a baby chick…and the worms that, a few decades down the road, may become the diners rather than the dined

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

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Listen to Jim’s 4-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/tvspqp2oBB8

or read the transcript below:

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HOW YOU HELP ME BROWSE THE DAY

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An idle mind is a playground that in ungrammatical Latin might be called Idioticus Moronicus.

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If you are a Down South Latin scholar, try to treat me kindly. I’m just having fun here and I don’t want to shake the Universe asunder. Just want to cause a smile or a giggle.

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Anyhow, Idioticus Moronicus is a term I use to dismiss incredibly silly thoughts that arise when I am not at my most intelligent best. The way I remain semi-sane is to stay alert and swat away all things moronic.

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People wander through my life at a leisurely pace, here in the bookshop at the center of the galaxy. Each browser brings baggage that consists of such things as attitude, mood, tentative ideas, hope, despair, humor, playfulness, curiosity, tragedy, anecdotes, avoidance, anger, sunlight, willingness to be seen and heard, desire to be invisible. And so on.

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Owning a bookstore is both a spectator sport and an advanced course in species behavior. If I don’t pay close attention to each and every denizen of the aisles, I will miss something important. So I take notes, I file away observations for later contemplation. Sometimes I try to engage. Sometimes I surprise or even frighten perusers with my curiosity, my avidity. Sometimes I awaken a sleeping mind and end up having a delightful conversation.

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How a customer reacts to the bookshop tells me a sidebar story about a life unseen.

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For instance, entrances and exits are profoundly interesting.

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Here are a few reactions that browsers display as they enter the store:

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“Omigod!” Open-mouth wide eyed surprise at the plethora of overlapping objects.

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“Wow! Never seen anything like this before. I was warned.”

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“Good grief! Where did you get all this stuff?”

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“Is this a liberry?”

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“Have you read all these books?”

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“I don’t read. I’m just looking for old stuff.”

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“Look at this, Maud. Do you know what this is?” Handling a drive-in movie speaker.

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“Oh, the best book I ever read!” Picking up a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird.

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“Where did you get all this stuff?”

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“You got any books on witchcraft?”

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“I had this book when I was a kid, but I never found a copy anywhere in the country. I can’t believe you have it. Can I buy it?” All smiles, all excitement.

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You can tell that I take great pleasure in hearing these comments, in helping people who wish to be helped, in being merely available to those who do not wish to be helped. I also take pleasure in showing off special books or sharing unique facts when a customer seems open to new ideas.

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It is a random life, this bookie profession. Each moment is filled with expectation because I have no idea who or what will enter the door next. Keeps me on edge in the most exciting ways.

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I don’t need to be electronically entertained or wooed. All I have to do is unlock the door and await the next adventure

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

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Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/L75U6Hh6Gzg

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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LEARNING WHEN TO BLINK

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I have lived during cold wars and hot wars, cold cuts and deep-fries, tornadoes and heat waves, during politics glorious and vicious, during hopeful times and monstrous periods, in hopefulness and despair. But if I blink at the correct  rate, I still see mostly the good, the kind, the smiles, the tendernesses. To catch most of these wonders in the act, I have to blink at just the right times.

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I call it Editing.

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I spend a lot of time editing or deleting things that are difficult to deal with. For instance, political rants. I’ve heard as many political rants as I can absorb, so I edit them or store them out of sight. Enough is enough. If I’m not selective they will take up all the space in my brain, rent-free. I need that space for things more important than politics. Such as tending to family and friends and those in need, and sweet ideas.

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Then there are the oft-repeated urban mythologies that lots of people believe and live by. Once I have vetted these mythologies one by one, I dispose of the ones that are simply that—mythologies. And I retain the ones that are actually true—not too many of these nowadays, but just enough to alert me to tread carefully through the briar patch. I don’t want to miss anything good.

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And so on and so forth.

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At times I feel that it requires a lot of effort to stay the course, to ignore the obstacles, to navigate safely the troubled waters. But I also feel that if I succumb to these unholy distractions I will become someone who is not Me.

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I keep on testing those waters to make sure I am paying attention to the kindnesses that must be initiated and perpetrated, that must sweep aside everything that endangers the good will hunting that is worthy of my time.

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Did I say it is easy, this do-gooder path I have selected for myself?

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No way.

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But Doing Good the hard way sure beats Doing Bad the easy way. Less stress, less guilt, less atonement, less glancing over my shoulder.

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And some days, the best way to be true to myself is simply to get the heck of the way and not block the view for other do-gooders. Some days it is best for me to shut my mouth and allow others to say things both profound and ridiculous.

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On those lips-pursed days I learn things, things both useful and frightening.

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Today I think I’ll do a bit of expounding aloud, then close down the preachy sounds and spend the rest of the time listening and/or avoiding.

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Avoidance can work wonders, especially when coping skills flounder and flop.

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For the time remaining, I will endure roadblocks, rants, potholes, traffic cones, icebergs, sour grapes, sour gripes, missing-crust finger foods, endless barking, newspapers hiding within thorny bushes, notices of intent, incessant car alarms, bad breath, come-ons, come-backs, sales spiels, white lies, nervous laughs, sucky mosquitoes, sulky subteens, sticky handshakes, snooty walk-bys…

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For the time remaining, I will cherish spontaneous laughter, tiny good deeds, unrequested thank-you notes, babbling babies, pretty hair following the breeze, gratuities, thank-yous, smiley smiles, jokes at no-one’s expense, good listeners, people who actually pay attention, and those who stop to gaze upward in awe…

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It is possible that the day may not be as bad as I imagine. It is possible this day will turn out to be almost like fun

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Catch Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/h1WApKQduHw

or read the 4-minute transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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GRUMBLINGS OF MUTINY, WEAPONS OF PEACE

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“Arrgh,” mumbles Jimmy Three, the junkyard kid who is straining to be old and tough and unbeatable.

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He is rehearsing for the day he will face bullies and ne’er-do-wells on the playground. Maybe yelling “Arrgh” will put those toughies and toadies in their place, should he encounter them any time soon.

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Jimmy Three is not a prodigy. He knows words and phrases like arrgh and ne’er-do-wells and toughies and toadies and bullies, because he reads books for pleasure and ecstatic diversion.

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He’s actually never heard anybody yell “Aargh!” in real life, but the stories he enjoys are filled with dangerous-sounding things like aargh.

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So, basing his attitude toward self-defense upon illustrated pages he adores, Jimmy Three stands before the full-length living room mirror and, when nobody else is present, tries to transmogrify into an ageless strongman that fellow nine-year-olds would not dare confront.

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He decides aargh needs to sound scarier, so he yells, “AARGH!” at his reverse-image self.

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Maybe I shouldn’t smile when I do this, he decides.

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Making a ferocious face and glaring piercingly at the mirror, he screams “AARGH!” with full-fanged teeth bared.

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He almost scares himself, so he feels it is logical to assume this posturing will also scare potential enemies.

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He practices strutting like a don’t-mess-with-me fairy tale hero. Then, becoming aware that he is wearing summer short pants and a scruffy tee-shirt, no shoes and a crew cut, he starts to giggle. Jimmy Three realizes that no matter how awesome he pretends to be, he is actually merely a scrawny kid with nothing but dreams and imaginings to get him through the day.

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“I guess I better not try to be what I can’t be. I’ll just get one-upped and shoved aside as usual.”

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This nine-year-old reality-check encourages him to use the defenses he already knows.

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When a bully approaches from afar, Jimmy Three quickly makes himself invisible behind a tree or a trash can. What Big Bubba doesn’t see cannot become his victim.

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Should Bullyboy bump into him, thus noting he is not invisible, Jimmy Three resorts to his Bugs Bunny defense. He cracks a smart-aleck remark so silly that it temporarily confuses the enemy. Jimmy Three uses that moment to poof! out of sight and live another day.

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One smarty pants remark usually works. He glances at the invisible watch on his wrist and suddenly exclaims, “Oops! Gotta go. I left my baby on the bus!” Bullybrain is confused by  this non sequitur and double-takes the empty space just held by his intended victim.

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Jimmy Three adds another day to his artful dodger life.

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To heck with “Aargh!” thinks Jimmy Three. I can just keep my mouth running and my feet moving and maybe, just maybe, find a way to weave and dance my way through life.

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He returns to the pages of his real life, the one contained within books

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Listen to today’s podcast:

 http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/waybackwhenweknewmore.mp3

or read Jim’s story below:

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WAY BACK WHEN, WHEN WE KNEW MORE THAN WE KNOW RIGHT NOW

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I go fishing for books now and then. I just rev up the old bookmobile, pop open what we down here call a Soft Drink, turn on the radio, and head Thataway, never knowing what adventures will impose themselves upon me.

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My routine treks among the hills, valleys and byways of rural Alabama give me time to ponder and think and reminisce and wonder.

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Sometimes I have to switch the radio off to clear my head, especially when I hear just one too many grating grammar errors. The announcer says, ”The price of cigarettes have gone up.”

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Is she aware that she have made a grammatical error?

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Another radio announcer constantly refers to somebody called Utha Listener, never once explaining who Utha might be.

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Yet another voice pontificates, “They have just showed up.”

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She’s never been showed how to use shown correctly.

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I go through a train crossing, noticing that some railroad cars do not have graffiti coating their sides. Somebody has fallen down on the job.

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Howlin’ Wolf’s song pops into memory and makes me forget the errors and typos of the world around me and just feel some joy for a moment, “My baby she’s a good-looking thing you know…she’s the one who spins me round and round, one who turns me upside down” Now, that’s Love!

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I pass town water towers that look somewhat like the steel-legged robots H.G. Wells imagined were filled with invading Martians. I recall that I have actually seen one of these mechanisms, a tall shiny facsimile in the town square at Woking, England, near where the attackers landed.

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Cruising past strip malls, I observe many women and men and children getting out of their cars, parents elaborately extracting squirming kids from car seats, lifting the ones who still like to be lifted and grumbling back at grumbling kids who like to grumble.

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It’s fun to pay attention. So many people I see are not watching, not looking around to see what’s what. What thrills they are missing!

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Every image, each person, seems to be about me, about my life. It’s impossible to close them out, difficult to forget them.

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My fishing day is fruitful. I gather some special books here and there, hear sounds that make me cringe and smile, see faces and shadows that awaken my senses, and get to look behind things to see what I might be overlooking.

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There are probably worse ways to spend a morning in the gossipy and secretive hills of sweet Alabama

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Catch Jim’s 3-minute original podcast:

https://youtu.be/upQKKPXQVgE

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Life, actually…

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FIRST, YOU DREAM

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Carl Sandburg said it, and I’m glad somebody did:

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“Nothing happens unless first a dream.”

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What was that?

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“Nothing happens unless first a dream.”

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Carl Sandburg’s words keep haunting me as I go through the motions of getting ready for another day to envelop me.

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Ever since I met Carl Sandburg in Tuscaloosa, back in the late 1950’s, I’ve found pleasure and hope in his words. But today, driving down these grey streets, I’m reminded once again that great thoughts have incredible staying power, if only we will preserve them.

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Anyhow, I’m passing an intersection. On my left, a loft dweller is walking his large dog, pausing at the corner to wait for the traffic light, wait for a poop break.

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Coming toward the dog man is one of the village’s scruffy street people, one who, along with dozens of others, works the avenues for cigarette butts and quarters.

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The dog man is about to be solicited, but for a brief diverting moment, the street guy loses his attention, forgets his spiel, his story about why the dog guy should give him money.

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He forgets because he sees the large dog and freezes in place.

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Maybe he’s afraid, I think to myself. But no, he is not afraid. Suddenly, he’s a younger, more dapper version of himself. He bends over the dog, places his ragged-gloved hands on each side of its head, and pets him in a gentle and warm manner, smiling ear to ear and talking with the animal as if he’s his best friend.

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The dog responds and the two have 25 seconds of bliss, looking into each others’ eyes, one panting while the other laughs. Then, as suddenly as it begins, the moment disappears, the dog man continuing his leashed walk, the ragged man putting on his best streetdwelling face and heading the other way on his daily rounds.

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The observer man (me) continues driving by, feeling a bit warmer and remembering all those endless childhood summer days when he and his dog Brownie ran the streets of the village and knew without doubt that they would live forever.

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Is the 25-second-smile enough to sustain the wandering man, enough to make him remember a childhood dream pet, enough to make him feel life is worth facing a few extra days, just to re-live wonderful old memories?

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Is the dream of a better time enough to make the dog owner and the observer decide to do something besides dream, decide to make some extra effort for untethered villagers, give some extra time to nudging someone else toward a better life?

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“Nothing happens unless first a dream.”

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Thanks, Carl. Thanks, homeless guy. Thanks, dog man. Thanks, Dog and Brownie.

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You’ve all provided me with the dream I need to make something happen

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/MAbPWaZpk8s

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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BUT WAIT–THERE’S MORE!

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“While you are still alive, try to enjoy the things you won’t miss when you are dead.”

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Where did that thought come from? It suddenly appeared from somewhere inside my head.

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Guess what this means?

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Just when I thought it was safe to put aside my latest book and its sequel, yet another book is forming without my permission. The first book, “What I Said,” was forty years in the making. The sequel to “What I Said” is called “What More Can I Say?” It just popped out when I thought my brain was depleted of short wisecrackery remarks that might cause laughter or tears.

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Once the original book and its sequel were out and about, I thought I could move on to my next, unrelated projects.

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That is not the case. Suddenly my mind is streaming all these things that cry out to be heard. So far, fifty thoughts have invaded this sequel-to-the-sequel.

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The title, “But Wait—There’s More!” seems to be appropriate.

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Have you had enough background?

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Want to hear the first ten thoughts of my next book? It may take years to complete, so here’s your chance to tell others you got here first.

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10 ONE-PAGE THOUGHTS FOR MY NEXT BOOK, “BUT WAIT—THERE’S MORE!”

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“The future isn’t what it was last week.”

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“Is premature death different from mature death?”

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“I prefer pitted prunes to pitied prunes.”

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“The diapers they are a-changing.”

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“Sometimes people will actually tell you how they are doing. Dang!”

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“He was arrested for public plant propagation.”

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“Why does it feel good to believe what is convenient, even if it is fake?”

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“Each day something almost happens.”

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“Rule of life 431: Always keep an ALDI quarter on hand.”

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“Return her smile, even if it is a doofus smile. She will love it because it is unexpected and unrequested.”

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There you go. Ten inexplicable thoughts designed to lease space in your imaginings for a few seconds.

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Stay tuned for more meaninglessness. It’s out there

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

Catch Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary at

https://youtu.be/EdhvRpzWOX8

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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THE FORTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD BOOK TOTE

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Forty-five years! That’s how long it has been since I established Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories. Forty-five years ago.

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All I can say is, Yikes!

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For forty-five years I’ve done what I can do. Just trying to provide browsers and fans with the great and insignificant questions, the great and insignificant answers, through millions of pages of wisdom and silliness.

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Questions such as, “Just how much does succotash suffer?”

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Questions like, “If you spread sunshine all over the place, won’t that annoy insomniacs?”

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And how about this? “If Mary had a little lamb, wouldn’t there be hearings about a possible ban on gene splicing?”

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And “How much does a forty-five-year-old book tote weigh?”

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And so on and so forth.

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These questions and a thousand others are perhaps the most important questions. All those other questions about the meaning of life and the pursuit of happiness will be debated forever plus at least one day.

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The sensuous pleasure of turning textured pages just to see what surprises they hide…that’s the precious aha! worth having.

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Drop by and wish us well. And ask a few questions. We can troll the stacks to find the answer that serves the moment.

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The moment after that moment belongs to you

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© Jim Reed 2025 A.D.

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www.jimreedbooks.com