Hear Jim’s podcast here: https://youtu.be/7pGw_wTQftY

or read his entry below…

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Life, actually…

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THE SPOILS OF PEACE

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There will always be peace and rumors of peace.

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This is what I keep telling myself.

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Peace does have a habit of breaking out once in a while. Before you know it, somebody somewhere slips up and discovers that there are quiet hiatuses to be enjoyed between wars.

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Just a thought. Maybe this thought arises as a symptom of stress and confusion. There are fifty ways to leave your peace of mind behind, when venturing into the streets each day.

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Wars overlapping wars, conflicts bumping into one another, intolerances busily compounding themselves, grisly thoughts arising from media-driven gossips who creatively puppet-master those who forget to close their eyes or stop up their ears.

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Even the most happily optimistic among us get blind-sided now and then by a plethora of hand-wringing and gnashing…news of the day becomes gloomy doom-saying mantras that are hard to ignore.

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Try to recall the goodwill we experience between the wars. Memories seem elusive after brutal times extend themselves. But memory and artifacts need tending to. Constant reminders do help us scrounge around for hope.

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Not nourishing my good memories is like drinking powdered milk from an anemic cow.

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While despots and self-involved bullies pretend to rule the world, we the people of hope continue to ply our trade. Our job is to fan the embers of good memory, good hope, goodwill, loving gestures. Our task is to embrace the idea that there will always be goodness and mercy. Even if we don’t envision it clearly, we know it is there. It is there because we imagine it. It is safely secured in our hearts and minds.

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Those anti-peacemongers can’t take it away from us because we preserve it out of sight disguised as invisible ideas and dreams

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s latest Red Clay Diary true story:https://youtu.be/XhdB16otMUc

or read it below…

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Life, actually…

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JACK IN THE BOX

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A brief glimpse into my little corner of Paradise…

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In the middle of the shop in the middle of the morning I’m in the middle of a 90%-sided conversation with a caller who wants to know which books I will purchase unseen from her simply by her phone descriptions…when a streetman walks in and hovers before me hoping to deflect my attention from the phone-in book lady.

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All the while, other customers ebb and flow among the stacks.

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Since the phone lady is first in queue, I’m asking the streetman to cruise around and browse until I’m finished—until the phone lady is finished, that is.

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Got to be nice to everybody all at once, in the tradition of good old-fashioned over-the-countering.

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The streetman’s body-shifting tells me he’s not here to buy anything, so after a while, I politely place the phone lady on hold to find out what’s up.

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“I need some meat on the table…I got this jack-in-the-box that’s old.”

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Oh, he wishes to sell me something.

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“Are you wanting to sell it?” I ask. “Yes,” he says.

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I notice that he isn’t carrying anything with him. “Do you have it here?” I ask. “No, but I can go get it,” he replies. “OK,” I say.

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I continue listening to the caller as she names the names of books, most of which I can’t purchase because 1) they are not titles that my regular customers wish to purchase 2) I already have multiple copies on hand 3) they’re in bad shape 4) and so on and et cetera.

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But I keep listening, because about every fifteenth title is indeed something I might consider buying once I examine it. She continues the litany, I continue checking on my other customers to see whether they’re finding what they need.

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The streetman re-enters the store with a shaggy canvas bag, so I motion that I’ll be with him in a mo’. He is sweating from the asphalt heat.

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By now, the phone lady has mentioned perhaps a boxful of books that I would consider purchasing should she bring them in…but she’s not through. I realize what I have suspected all along: despite my imagined super powers I simply cannot properly handle a dozen transactions at once.

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“Could you call back in an hour so we can continue this?” I ask, since I need to deal with the customers and the streetman. She agrees, I hang up and go around the counter to see what’s in the bag. My insatiable curiosity is what drives me and my business.

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 He pulls forth a metal-and-plastic cube from the early 1980’s, and I immediately begin turning the handle to see whether the mechanism works. The tune is unrecognizable, so my next hope is that the pop-up figure will work, allowing me to at least give the streetman something for his trouble and his table meat.

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A clown pops up on cue and looks rather cute, as beat-up music box clowns go, so I press him back into the box to see once more whether it’s a fluke or something an overgrown child might love to fool with once it goes onto a counter at the shop.

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The music doesn’t work this time, and the streetman is getting apprehensive. At this point, I’m ready to pay him something just to be a good Samaritan—uh, good Down-Souther—but he tries once again to make the box work, holding his mouth just right.

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It does work this time, which is enough for me. I offer him five dollars and he is grateful and leaves the shop gracefully, leaving me stuck back here in the best of all possible worlds—at an ancient bookstore where broken toys and busted memories co-exist and, on some days, make a rather nice home for themselves

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/lOVfuPhJDr8

or read his new true story below…

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Life, actually…

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THE Y’ALL-COME BOOK LOVERS OF THIRD AVENUE NORTH

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“Air conditioning!” Rhondrae enters the bookshop, smiling full speed ahead, and inhales deeply. “Do y’all know how lucky you are to have air conditioning?”

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Rhondrae freezes in place for a moment, experiencing the breeze. Her Goodyear Shoe Hospital is just across the street from Reed Books. It is more than a century old. Her youthfulness keeps it going.

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Rhondrae is one of many visitors today, each of whom arrives with tailor-made light and spasmodic energy. There are two New Yorkers enjoying the Bama vibe. There is a tattooed black-tee-shirted couple on their way to needle and ink sessions next door. There is a wee bit of a four-year-old who is excited about Dr. Seuss books and books about steam shovels.

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The sunshine these browsers gift to the shop produces an ambient glow that is hard to describe. You have to be here.

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Meanwhile, Rhondrae produces a bag of nibbles and sweets to share with us. She’s always feeding us with her energy and her goodies. Another customer bounces in and is ooing and ahhing at the plethora of books and goofy collectibles on display. She has found her bliss.

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I am grinning ear to ear. I am pleasured by the good feelings that pop up each time the door clangs open. Who will be next?

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A young man from DC arrives to roam the aisles and let us know what is happening in Xanadu these days. A family from the Panhandle is chuckling over a joke book, a nearby loft dweller pops in to add Agatha Christie to her hefty collection.

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I suppose this could be called Mr. Reed’s Neighborhood. At least it feels that way at times.

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Civil rights students and Louis L’Amour fans mingle with Nietzsche seekers and Lewis Grizzard lovers. Studiers seek Calvin and Hobbes and E.O. Wilson and King James Bibles and Mad Magazine. You just never know what people will ask for.

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I’m happily grinning again. I guess this is the kind of day I love recalling later on, when I’m home resting up for the next day’s onslaught of random goodwill and well-lit souls

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute true-story podcast:  https://youtu.be/e9VUrU7rLyg

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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FROM SMUGLY TO SNUGGLY IN ONE LIFETIME

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“It is useless to attempt to reason a man out of a thing he was never reasoned into.”

–Jonathan Swift

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I suppose that this Jonathan Swift quote I just came across is just as true today as it seemed way back when.

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During my extended journey from dolt-age to dotage I have been reasoned and de-reasoned in and out of temporary truths…again and again.

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During my misspent youth I believed in, then dis-believed in, flying saucers and grisly things that go BOO in the night. Can’t say that I am smarter now, it is just that I don’t believe in them anymore. More accurately, they don’t occupy space in my imagination anymore.

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Other things that were seemingly true and real for a jiffy don’t weigh on my mind as they once did. I’ve had failed flings with a dozen isms, a modicum of romances, a taste for all things chocolate, an obsession with trading cards, a belief in this braggart or that braggart. All have arisen, all have become jaded and faded.

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What replaced all these mini obsessions? What if anything occupies my better spirits? Is all seduce-ability gone bye-bye?

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Every time I’m ready to build my wings and flail about in some far-off cause or far-flung fantasy, I tend to blink. Blinking pulls me back to the land of earthlings and face-to-face realities.

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Blinking clears the vision, simplifies the circuitous ramblings of pundits and philosophers and politicians and wise guys. Blinking grounds me, astounds me, with its simplicity.

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Simplicity is so complicated. Once embraced, I can see what’s before me, I can allow focus to resume. I can clap my hands in pleasure. I can re-examine what is real and concrete, what is unique and blatantly important.

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What seems corny in our times of snarky-ness, in our days of cynicism and shaming…what seems corny is that CORNY is the new reality, the forever reality.

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Corny means not only loving the good in people, corny means acting out this love, actually saying kind and comforting things, actually taking time to listen and respond and give back. Actually being a good example for others to emulate. How is that for ultimate corniness?

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Also, corny can replace those emotionally-charged but infinitely useless minutes that can make you doubt hope and abandon good deeds. Corniness can cause you to become useful, make you matter, fill you with hope and possibility.

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If you decide to follow the path of emotional maturity you may see that you are acting out the person you always were. Maybe that person was timid for a while. But boldness in the cause of spreading goodness and mercy is not such a bad thing.

“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

–Mark Twain

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Join the convoy and see where it takes you. You just may become a spreader of random acts of surprisingly fun times

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast:

https://youtu.be/JZwVCVRNs_g

or read today’s story below…

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Life, actually…

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DOWN-SOUTH NOTES ON HOW TO NOTICE BOOKS AND BOOKIES

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As curious booklookers stream into my bookshop each day, things happen. You know, Things Happen.

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Browsers want to know stuff.

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“Have you read all these books?” That’s like asking a shoestore manager, “Have you worn all these shoes?”

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“Where’s your oldest book? I just want to see your oldest book.” Like going into a convenience store and asking, “Where is the oldest expire-date candy bar section?”

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“I just read history. Got any?” I want to ask, “History of snails, history of street repair, history of grumpy old men?” What is the customer’s idea of “history” books?

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I like helping browsers find something worthy of adoption. But first I must de-layer and decipher exactly what the potential customer is asking for.

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For some, “history” just means books about the Civil War. Down South, this usually means only books about the Down South idea of what the conflict was all about. History is in the heart of the beholder.

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There are two ways to answer the “Have you read all these books?” question. If lightheartedness seems appropriate I’ll reply, “Yep. I’ve read them all.” Depending on whether the asker gets the joke, I’ll add, “Except this book–the one right here. Haven’t finished it yet.”

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Of course the gag is obvious to most, but for some it seems like a reasonable answer. If you haven’t been raised in a reading environment, or if you’ve seldom read anything voluntarily, you just might believe someone could read a few hundred thousand books in a bookstore.

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I don’t judge, I just bemuse and observe.

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As to the matter of examining a centuries-old book, I enjoy getting to know the customer’s motivation better before bringing out an ancient volume.

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If the customer is simply gawking, with no intention of learning or reading beyond sightseeing, I might hesitate, perhaps only complying when there are no other customers awaiting assistance. But it is fun, showing off a 500-year-old book.

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Helping all customers properly is pretty much impossible. It pleasures me to hand someone the exact edition of the precise book being requested. It disappoints me to announce that a book is not available today—just sold my last copy yesterday.

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So in a bookstore, things happen. Books are cherished, adopted, recited aloud, hugged, occasionally chewed on (toddlers run loose sometimes), ordered, read within the shop, placed on hold, even put on layaway as we say in this part of the nation.

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The secret of running a joyful book emporium is to observe and assist, not criticize. The secret of running a bookstore is to see a favorite book through the eyes of an avid collector, not wonder why anyone would waste time reading this particular author. The secret of running a cathedral of books is to swim among the titles and find the secret behind every page. There’s always a secret to be found, even hiding behind the most inconspicuous-looking covers.

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You can dive into a bookstore and hone in or home in on what you want today. Or you can declare today a holiday and just wander the aisles, stop on a dime, close your eyes, reach for an unknown and unknowing author. Then, undercover of night and blanket, flashlight at the ready, surprise yourself by getting to know the words of a stranger…a stranger who spent years dreaming up and constructing the story you now hold open undercover

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute true-story podcast: https://youtu.be/G_L4MrqTEtU

or read his tale below…

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Life, actually…

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PLEASE DON’T CORRECT ME, ESPECIALLY WHEN I’M WRONG

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Truth be told, the whole truth and nothing but the whole truth is seldom revealed in polite company.

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I was raised and tutored in the ways of good manners and positive social interchange. My parents extolled the virtues of kindness and the golden rule.

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I cherish these ideals and wish that I could be a well-behaved icon of excellent behavior.

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Of course, hard as I try I often fall short of posturing myself as an exemplary role model.

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This is not false modesty, mind you. I do come through now and then, now and then doing the right thing and helping others survive their plights.

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But I am far far distanced from perfection, perhaps because of membership in the human species. Perhaps because I am a gumbo of good and bad and naughty and nice, stirred not shaken.

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My silent urge to correct and improve those among us who are flawed, just doesn’t work. I’ve learned you can possess great knowledge about the ways things should be. But I’ve also noted that pointing out the Right Way to direction-challenged people has no effect whatsoever on their subsequent actions.

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Indeed, often the best way to assure bad behavior is to tell someone it is better to behave. It’s a challenge to them. I’ve wasted my breath. The equivalent of demanding that plate tectonics must cease immediately.

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Not sure what my point is, but I do know this: humans be human and there is not much each of us can do to stop or slow down the drift.

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What I can do is stubbornly continue to follow my parents’ advice, when and if I can.

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I know that this is the right thing to do. I know that I will succeed. I know that I will fail. I hope that in the long run I will succeed more than fail.

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And I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I’m not worth much if I don’t try and try again and again to resist the shadows

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary: https://youtu.be/Y-XnBkTIN5Q

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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FRIENDS OF THE TALKING GAS PUMP

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Routine activities help structure my day. Without these routines the clock would advance even more erratically.

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I need my routines. Add just a few pleasant surprises and the brew grows more flavorful. Toss in an unattractive distraction or two and I begin to mumble and grow disoriented.

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It is enough that life spews distractions and shrapnel in my path. It is satisfying that most days, these gnats are just no-see-ums I grow used to swatting aside.

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However…

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Just when I’ve completed decades of slow-growing acceptance of this daily stew, somebody finds a new way to throw me off course.

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At the convenience store gas pump I meditatively insert my credit card and await the sucking sound of money removal. I’m used to that. But suddenly a hyper-happy voice emanates from the instruction screen, demanding that I consider the immediate purchase of candy and sugared fizz drinks and two-for-one-today-only cup holders.

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The jolly words equate with BREAKING NEWS announcements and overly medicated dancers holding pizza parlor posters beside the road. They seem to belong to a union of speed bump denizens. They include large lighted billboards with messages that disappear faster than I can read them.

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I thought that not listening to commercial radio stations while driving would bring calm and peace to a troubled mind. But even my beloved Public Radio station self-promotes with a rapid-fire frequency similar to its competitors’ ads. Preaching to the choir. Jolly yelling.

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Geez.

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This must be grumpy-time on an otherwise lovely morning.

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When I was a child, door-to-door salespeople would knock at Mother’s door to hawk their wares. I’ve seen foot-on-the-threshold ploys up close. I recognize you had better-pay-close-attention moves of every kind.

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Some folks enjoy this form of attention and distraction. For some reason I prefer to be gently wooed by sales forces too big to be ignored.

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Don’t yell. Don’t call me eight times a day with UNAVAILABLE caller ID signals. Don’t send endless streams of emails, do not add incessant pop-ups to my screens, don’t freeze my computer long enough to hustle me.

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Being a contrarian, I will boycott each and every company that forcefully hazes me. I will give due respect to any entity that approaches me in a non-threatening manner and appears to listen to my reply. I prefer discourse and exchange. I respond negatively to aggressive pitches. I prefer polite humans to cheerful robots.

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I’m that village elder who likes to spend money pleasurably. I am not that fragile dude who looks like a pushover for an overpriced purchase.

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I am every merchant’s dream customer if treated with respect

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Life, actually…

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 GETTING AROUND TO READING A BOOK

 “I don’t read.”

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My brother Ronny states this most emphatically. He explains after noting the alarm on my face:  “I don’t read books. It’s boring. I fall asleep.” 

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Ronny does read. He admits that he reads trade publications, the Internet, road signs, instructions, legal notices, prescription labels, spread sheets, etc.—but to him, that doesn’t count as reading.

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Ronny’s not alone…I hear this statement in one form or another each and every week.

Hear today’s 4-minute edition of Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/V58U4AGnzbI

or read the real story below:

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Life, actually…

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SHOO-FLY DAYS ON THE WATERMELON ROAD

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Uncle Pat McGee and his wife, Aunt Elizabeth, are about to end their Sunday afternoon visit to my little Down South childhood home on Eastwood Avenue.

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This true story takes place seventy-five years ago, but it seems like yesterday to octogenarian me.

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“Here,” my mother says to Aunt Elizabeth, “I think this is everything.”

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Mom is referring to two large brown paper bags she is handing over.

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Inside the bags are one-of-a-kind fond memories—a freshly-washed casserole dish that my aunt left after a previous visit, at that time filled with leftover chicken and dumplings, devoured by us kids in a matter of minutes.

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What else is in the bags? Well, there are aluminum serving spoons. Cotton napkins now freshly washed dried and folded by Mom (who never returns anything that hasn’t been thoroughly cleansed). There are two baked cupcakes, surprise gifts to be discovered later. There is a black-and-white snapshot of us kids cavorting in the back yard. There is a fresh tomato picked just this morning.

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And one construction-paper HELLO note crayoned by sister Barbara, the artist in the family.

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And so on.

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In these days, seventy-five years ago, there are no disposables. No toss-away plastic containers. No paper napkins, no  electric dishwashers, no automatic washing machines, no shower stalls. Only linen and hands-on scrubbing and laundering, only tub baths and terrycloth textures, only pre-air-conditioning front porch cool breezes. Only walk-by-and-friendly-wave neighbors sharing kids and pets and private-garden overstocks.

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And now and then, there is dinner-on-the-grounds.

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An annual family reunion takes place next to the Bethel Presbyterian Church on the red-dirt washboard Watermelon Road.

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Dinner on the grounds means that a covered-dish afternoon food fest is about to happen. Dozens of relatives and in-laws and out-laws and hangers-on descend from the nearby countryside, bearing freshly-grown and just-baked-from-scratch goodies to share on long wood plank tables.

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Older kids crank away at a homemade ice cream bucket, younger young’uns dodge and play under the tables and run between adult legs, watermelon seeds spurt from squeezed fingers in non-violent giggling warfare.

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Deviled eggs appear next to hot pecan pie slices and crusty fried chicken parts.

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Today is the day we are allowed to overeat and overreact.

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There are no drive-through quick-food restaurants, so all food is purchased from family grocery stores or slowly put together via family-scrawled handed-down recipe notes.

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We share the festivities with curious ants, daring daytime mosquitoes, and energetic houseflies. I can still hear Uncle Brandon McGee intoning, SHOO-FLY! STAY OFFA MY PIE!

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Thanks to the houseflies, the term Covered Dish is self-explanatory. We keep the flies away, knowing they will enjoy more than their share after dinner remnants are discarded.

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Everything is saved and protected and preserved. Food is bagged and shared and taken away to become late-night snacks or treats for house pets.

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Memories are carefully tucked away, too. They will emerge later as break-time anecdotes, playground myths, fireside narratives. Some will even appear as storybook tales, later to emerge in books or podcasts or just plain tweets and texts.

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But for this moment, seventy-five years back, all those indelible gatherings will be kept in sanctuaries of the heart. All will remain on call for times when a warm memory or sweet laughter are necessary when a good day is imperiled

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast at https://youtu.be/DiBF01N3Zgc

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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CHECKLIST OF THINGS TO DO ON A DO-A-LOT DAY

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Weave onto interstate, dodging any vehicles in my way.

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Go to retail store, furtively avoiding scavengers who hog the non-squeaking metal carts.

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Scan merchandise for quick bargains.

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Engage in aisle conversation with old-time friend.

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Pick up unneeded but necessary items. Try to avoid this contradiction.

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Head to library. Quickly bypass said library because it is closed for the day.

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Aim for pharmacy. Pay whatever surcharges and tariffs that are randomly added on.

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Share a little and hide the rest. I don’t know what this means exactly but I have a hunch.

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Arrive at location of air conditioning system conveniently located within my home.

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Whew! Nice and cooled down now.

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Grab fistful of cookies and alight for a moment to scan today’s daily yard-tossed newspaper.

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Grin and grimace at the alternating stories.

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Brush cookie crumbs aside and arise in time to follow the next things-to-do-today list.

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Try to convince myself that I am not an obedient and superbly-trained consumer

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed