Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast at https://youtu.be/vJgw7oFgk9M

or read his comments below…

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Life, actually…

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SPEED BUMP TREKKING IN THE VILLAGE OF THE DANGED

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I’m trekking along an asphalt byway this morning, motoring forth, minding my own and everybody else’s business.

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The easy part of this slow motion adventure is the minding-my-own-business moment. A time when I ponder my fortunes and fate privately and silently. It’s a trouble-free hiatus because nobody can critique my thoughts, nobody can hear them expressed.

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Ahhh…

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There is peace in this speed bump valley right now. I can pretend that all is well. At least for a second or two.

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Then, the world outside my fuel-guzzling pod encroaches.

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A stop-sign warning places me on notice.

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The stop sign itself pops into view.

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I am suddenly rescued from inner bliss by the village and its musts and don’ts and no’s and warnings, its confusion of striped lines and indecipherable universal symbols, its mysterious illuminated yellow-then-red arrows, its grammar-challenged signs and signals.

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NO LOITERING VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

I guess I can loiter freely.

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REMOVE MOUTH WRINKLES FROM HOME

OK. I’ll scrape them off.

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My inner quips are too silly to be shared aloud, so I thought I’d throw a few into this essay.

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Where was I?

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I am happiest when minding my own business. The anxiety begins when I slip and slide into the media-driven habit  of snarking myself into everybody else’s business.

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Three minutes into the worry-hive of the internet provides me with enough cynicism and negativity to last a month. In 180 seconds I am shown the dark side of all imaginable things. The evil that is real or imagined is gleefully screamed at me in all CAPS.

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Before I can switch off this swirling wind of useless diatribes, a few rude images stick to the corners of my mind. Dang! I hope positivity and laughter can diminish these pasty annoyances.

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I can’t get no satisfaction from the world’s gnashing and whining. I need good people expressing good thoughts in sunshine ways. It may sound wimpy to you, but a few minutes alone with a book of Fred Rogers’ simply-expressed quiet wisdom may save my day.

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Or just the sweet smile of a happily-browsing customer might renew all hope.

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Be it Fred or bookfriend, I will be so much better off when listening to the Quiet.

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Remind me to do this when I get out of sync

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast here: https://youtu.be/dLYOvhTD74A

or read his entry below…

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Life, actually…

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SOUNDS OF SILENCE IN A NERVOUS TIC WORLD

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Within this bookshop lurk those elusive moments of quiet you sometimes long for in a noisy, creaky and hustling world.

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This simple fact can heal or disturb, depending on what you seek on your journey toward bliss.

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If you need to duck into our entrance to escape the madding loud, we are here to welcome you. Should nurture be sought you can trawl the bound pages of books ancient and new, sometimes finding gems of wisdom or laughter in the most unlikely volumes.

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We are here, awaiting your presence. We are always here when you need us.

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No kidding, this bookstore and all the other wise and loyal bookstores in the firmament are placid, patient, filled to the brim with the excitement and energy needed for your next “Aha!” epiphany.

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We cannot tell you exactly what you will experience within these time travel walls. That’s because whatever you experience here will be processed and tailored by your mind, your gut, your timespan, your fears, your hopes.

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By the time this newfound wisdom reveals itself to you, it will exist in your own image.

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We won’t tell you what to experience.

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But we will avidly pay attention to you as your let us know details of your adventures, as you reveal to us what has been discovered.

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We keep the sanctuary doors open. You continue your quest for revelation and wonder.

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Together we will prove to this nervous tic world that there exist things like bookshops, where mirrors called books will help you discover and embrace the timid joys that always wait deep down inside, always prepared to hop skip and jump their hopscotch playfulness into the cobwebbed corners of you, the only you that you will ever be.

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If all this sounds whimsical or silly or effete, or even scary, we guarantee you that you are safe here within these shelved walls. You can have your own internal enlightenments and wonders with no fear of reprisal or disapproval.

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Inside your head, within the bookstore, all that ever was, is or could be, is here for your discovery, for your reinvention

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/liQToKkZgiQ

or read the original story below…

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Life, actually…

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GOING BUMPITY-BUMP THROUGH WASHBOARD DAYS

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“Shiver me timbers!”

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That’s the first shout that pops forth in my young mind when the family car encounters a sudden red-clay puddle on the Watermelon Road. It’s the late-1940s.  I am a wee lad holding my breath till fanny and backbone plop back to seat cushion.

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Such a bump! And such an adventure!

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I’ve been reading stories by Robert Louis Stevenson and Daniel Defoe. My imagination excites itself with pirate terms such as Shiver Me Timbers!

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To add to the joys of this bumpity-bump journey, next up is a wonderfully long stretch of washboard roadway.

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I hesitate to ask whether you know what a washboard is. Just enjoy the tale.

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Teeth chatter as the car vibrates awhile. Asphalt and concrete have not yet discovered the Watermelon Road. But they are soon to pounce, as commerce and a post-WWII boom loom over this Down South village.

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My timbers are indeed shivered.

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When we reach our destination, the Bethel Presbyterian Church, we bounce over a ditch and park on wild grass near other rattletraps vehicles.

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Relatives are everywhere near the church-ground picnic tables. They bring freshly-cooked foodstuffs to share in dishes covered against salivating flies.

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Kids and oldsters mingle and self-identify and laugh up a storm. When most have arrived, blessings are offered, dishes uncovered, elderly and young politely line up and begin loading plates with biscuits, okra, black-eyed peas, corn on the cob, butterbeans, dumplings, turnip greens, pickles sweet and sour, crunchy and soggy, homemade cakes and pies and cookies, hot grits and barbeque, crispy fried chicken, spicy cornbread muffins…

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And, later, there will be hand-cranked ice cream, roasted pecans, peppermint sticks, a shot glass filled with toothpicks, paper and linen napkins galore, an extra roll of toilet paper for when the church restroom runs out, handmade quilts on the ground beneath the trees, napping uncles, a loose bottle of Alka-Seltzer for those suffering from lack of impulse control, even a BC Powder tucked away by stressed-out moms.

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And those bubbly soft drinks are everywhere, from Buffalo Rock to Grapico. Everybody be merrily belching.

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After some softball tossings and lawn games, some of us will follow our elders to visit the nearby tombstones leaning over long-gone but well-recalled relatives who no longer have to worry about washboard roads and indigestion and sunburned noses.

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We tads have fleeting thoughts about reserving our own spaces for a century-from-now rest stop beneath the joyful celebrations of fun-filled relatives who still have a few sparks to ignite before giving in.

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Later, packed into the idling family car, we sweat a bit while hovering kinfolk share their last-minute tales.

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We wake from our snoozes when we hit more washboard dreams, pothole excursions, red clay puddles.

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Our shivered timbers will rest well tonight

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast. Click here: https://youtu.be/2nnEeubKFT4

Read his words below:

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Life, actually…

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A WOMAN OF A CERTAIN AGE GOES TRAWLING

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Carefully and steadily she proceeds south from her home on Eastwood Avenue, heading toward the corner half a block away. Her plan is to cross Fifteenth Street and visit the Mall where a familiar daily adventure prepares to pounce and bring pleasure to another extraordinary day.

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She is of a certain age, counted by decades. She is petite and smartly dressed. She carries a respectable handbag and a small umbrella. She is self-contained and smiling. Always smiling.

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Smiling at neighbors, clucking at friendly dogs, picking up an errant candy wrapper and pocketing it for later disposal.

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She smiles at flower beds, inhales their fragrance, continues her journey.

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After safely crossing the lightly trafficked asphalt she arrives at her first destination, a variety store where miscellaneous delights await.

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She adjusts her specs, leans over a waist-high counter and spies an open box filled with multihued beads. She begins her visceral examination, touching first this glass sphere, then this jagged bit of glisten.

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The store clerks are accustomed to this polite visitor and remain pleasantly distant and attentive while she cruises the display.

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She touches a bead with her finger. She uses two fingers to lift it up to the fluorescent light. She holds it at arm’s length, draws it close to her face, each moment paying close attention to its inner glow, its silent world-within-a-world storytelling.

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After another moment of reflection the petite woman of a certain age visits each store display, appreciating what every object has to offer, experiencing the textures and fragrances, noting heft and reflectivity, seemingly never missing a thing.

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She will sweetly continue her explorations till lunch-counter time, then return home to arrange her purchased items for the brief delight of family and other visitors. She will curate these worldly goods as if they are ancient treasures in a museum.

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She reflects on how these objects of desire came into being, how each represents the end result of someone’s long-ago dream. She wonders whatever happened to these anonymous dreamers.

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She wonders whether they still dream

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s three-minute podcast:https://youtu.be/z5C7oWO77Fs

or read his original transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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CONNIPTIONS AND CONNECTIONS STEER THE UNIVERSE

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As I unbed myself this morning, my surroundings begin to entertain me.

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I stumble to a porcelain-centered room and perform my obligations. I am thankful for being a captive of the day’s routines and rituals.

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Routines come in handy because they help me avoid having to think through everything I do. Glad I don’t have to read toothpaste tube instructions on how to brush. Imagine the misuse of time. If I had to spend six minutes twice a day just figuring out dental hygiene practices, think how many hours of my life would best be used in more productive activities. And multiply that times multiple other taken-for-granted tasks.

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Anyhow I shortcut my way out of one room and head for the next activity.

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Most of each twenty-four-hour cycle is spent distributing my moods and concerns to other people. It’s like fishing in a prescription bottle to find one pill without spreading microbes around by touching adjacent pills.

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Be patient with me. I do go on.

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As time progresses, I interact and entertain, passing along greetings and small talk just to see who else is conscious and rebooted today. I realized some time ago that, rather than whining about how I don’t get no respect, I have to create that respect by instigating pleasantries.

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Sharing small talk awakens people, initiates smiles and chuckles and shared wisdoms.

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For tiny moments these interchanges smooth the daytime wrinkles from our unpressed paths.

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We try to avoid contact but we constantly bump into and overlap each other in unspoken awareness that we share tribes and interchanges and exchanges and conflicts. We somehow complain and cooperate simultaneously.

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It’s a rattletrap society. But we do meander through when not distracted by fear and trembling. We do get things done in a strangely messy manner, each second the result of loud or silent compromises.

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We pretend we are in charge but we all share the same buried knowledge that nature and politics expend no time at all in trying to make us happy.

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In other words, the world is all around us, laden with pitfalls and treasures. It is our responsibility to grasp and enjoy the treasures while dancing around the pitfalls.

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We do this conniption dance automatically most of the time. It becomes second nature to avoid hazard and seize joy. If we don’t do this we will simply become spasmed nervous inhabitants of an impartial universe.

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I would not wish that on anybody, especially me

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast this week: https://youtu.be/GyjA4mGKtFE

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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GETTING READY TO GET READY

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Some people primp, some people preen, some posture, some pose. But Down South where I reside, preparations for Being Seen take precedence over Being Seen.

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We spend bookoos of time (beaucoups of time, to you English teachers), preparing to be seen in public.

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I mean, bookoos of time!

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Here is a partial list of the things we expend hours doing.

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Hitching trouser, curling hair, smoothing skirt, sucking in gut, sniffling to clear nasal passages, tooth-gap sucking, shoe sole inspecting, rolling up sleeves, toothpicking, grabbing a smoke, scratching that itchy place, pulling up socks, straightening hemline, fanny-smoothing, lip glossing, nose blowing, throat-clearing, tsking, cheek-puffing, sighing, grunting…

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See what I mean? All this twitchy activity has to happen before some of us can be seen in public. And that’s not counting everybody who is uncool enough to actually do these things while in public.

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There’s more:

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Whistling, humming, hair-adjusting, zipper-checking, foot tapping, squinting and making faces, lip biting, grimacing, jaw-clinching, eye-rubbing, tip-toeing, elbow-hugging, knuckle cracking, belt tightening, casing the joint…

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Then, just to make an entrance, there is much fist-bumping and handshaking and compliment-fishing to do.

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By the time you are ready to make the leap into Attention Land, you can be a bundle of sensitized nerve endings. So, the only way to fake a calm and confident countenance is to take a deep breath, recall the magical personality you wish others would notice, and begin the grand entrance.

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You sure look nice today

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast:https://youtu.be/5hVQYJCcDMQ

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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ADRIFT IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMEWHERE

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I live in a Down South village filled with invisible delights.

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All around me, villagers young and ancient view the village through hand-held gadgets. They seldom glance up to see what the actual living three-dimensional village looks like.

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Images are stored for later evidence proving that they were actually present at the moment of snapshot.

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This is old hat nowadays. I have grown uncomfortably accustomed to strolling among beings who seldom make eye contact. I am invisible to them, they are husks partially present but hardly accounted for.

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Of course there are many exceptions to this bleak description I am sculpting. There are direct-contact people scattered everywhere. I enjoy our exchanges. We exist in a secret society parallel to the selfie tribes. We all get along mainly because we are in-person  communicators.

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So, what do selfies overlook? Surely the village is more than rectangular one-dimensional moments. And what do I miss when I am enjoying my day of experiencing real live people in real live life?

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Ah, the fragrances. That’s what we denizens of the open air miss when we record our surroundings. How do you selfie a fragrance, how do I describe to future villagers what an especially pleasant odor is like?

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Maybe that’s what we authors and diarists and poets are good at. Maybe there is a place for us. Maybe AI hasn’t yet taken over fragrances. If it does, don’t tell me.

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The same goes for touch (the warmth of a hug or a fist-bump or a high-whatever), for warmth and cold (describe freezing at a bus stop for 45 minutes). Can you snap a picture that makes you feel what inhaling and exhaling are like?

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Just a couple of randomly emerging thoughts that furrow my brow and excite my imagination. Send me a snapshot of your latest Aha! moment. It does require real-life thinking and sorting to work that out, doesn’t it?

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If I had my druthers I’d find a way to show you how much fun mind-trolling can be.

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At least I’m trying

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/QFjjDylcHO0

or read his diary below:

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Life, actually…

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DIARY OF A PLASTIC POTTED PLANT

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There it is, taking up eight percent of my view.

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I am sitting in a people-watching pew. Like other patients I fidget and find distractions to redact all the unknowable things I am about to experience, here in co-pay purgatory.

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This is just another roadside health haven and I am just one more person being quietly digested into the system.

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I notice two things.

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One, my idea of waiting is to gaze intensely at everything and everyone in the room, memorizing all for later contemplation, listening to moans and chuckles and sniffing the filtered air and feeling the texture of armrest and upholstery.

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Two, everyone else in the room is studiously staring palmward at their beloved ovoid devices, strumming past one image in search of the next image seeking yet another image…

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I notice the others not noticing me. This gives me full freedom to stare and examine at will. They will not know I was ever here.

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I vaguely recall days of yore when conversational exchange between contiguous people was everybody’s pastime. Dipping cautiously into the lives and stories of strangers gave me viewpoints I would never have imagined.

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It was fun and comforting.

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But I digress.

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My focus right now, in this distracted crowd, is on the plastic potted plant sutured into my view from the pew.

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The plastic potted plant is self-contained, its dependable fakery long-lasting. No watering required, no trimming, no fragrance emitted, no critters to inhabit or gnaw on it.

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All it receives is perhaps a bit of dusting every year or two. A live plant would shift or droop or bend toward the light. The plastic plant is frozen in time, somebody’s idea of elegant room design.

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It does seem to meld with the rest of the waiting room. Gray floor tiles and assembly-line art on the walls, insulation framed into the ceiling, cold white lights causing patients to look as ill as they might be.

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The plastic potted plant does not scream or laugh. Or does it? Is there a place such plants go at night to express their isolation?

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The plant is my only friend for a few minutes. It will be here when my next appointment rolls around, a new layer of dust on each stiff leaf begging for attention.

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I look forward to reuniting with this stolid creature. Seeing it again will at least remind me that I am still here, clutching my co-pay card and casting about for comfort and joy

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(c) 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Catch Jim’s latest 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/1RNWbB9mFow

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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INSPECTING FISSURES IN THE FIRMAMENT

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Today, a bunch of decades ago, I am bouncing along in a patched seat midway down the aisle of a clattering city bus.

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I am once again in my Way Back When machine.

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The city bus is in the capable hands of a driver I see every day. I am facing front so that I can ply my favorite trade, the kid-business of Watching and Recalling. I scrutinize all the small things, the things that reside between the big things we are accustomed to seeing.

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I see the back and profile of the driver as he shifts large gears and spins a groaning steering wheel. One hand shifts, the other hand empties coins into a canvas bag, making room for the next round of nickels and dimes and quarters.

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As passengers board and exit through two separate doors I look at their feet and their cuffs. Worn leather, scuffed soles, loose strings, sagging socks and drooping nylons, all these coverings have their own histories, timelines I daydream about, scenarios I imagine.

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I not only notice, I wonder. Black passengers climb through the cranked front doors, deposit their fares, then walk the gauntlet past White passengers, then settle down in back seats reserved solely for them. They later exit through the rear doors, avoiding another walk-through.

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I notice that this division of color is handled in a mannerly fashion. Whites and Blacks exchange g’mornings and reciprocate polite nods. Smiles are transacted. Politeness reigns.

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I watch as riders pull bell cords, alerting the driver to stop at the next corner. Bones creak, paper bags rustle, body fragrances leave their traces as passengers descend to street level. Passengers-to-be stand calmly at the bus stop till the exiting exiters exit, then clamber up metal steps while pulling fare coins from pocket and purse.

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The rumbling bus strains to make it up a neighborhood hill, then sighs loudly as we go into freefall down the other side.

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I grin because the little old driver is lively and quick. He must be connected to Christmas in some mysterious way, else why would this thought occur?

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The bus reminds me of a diner. In a family diner, people generally behave. Though separated by tribe and clan and misplaced tradition, they find ways to accommodate to rules and mores and regulations and cautions, most of which seem to exist without kind purpose.

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I have to grow up before I can process all of this, before I can resolve the fact that reality and poetic imagination can indeed co-exist. But mainly through the eyes of us, a handful of silent Watchers and Wonderers.

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Of course at the time I don’t have all these puzzles sorted out. Right now I am just a kid enjoying an enjoyable bus ride on a Down South day so very long ago

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(c) 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed