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

Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/KcjpzIn3JUY

or read his notes below…

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Life, actually…

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BREAKING VIEWS

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This just in…

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I got views, you got views, all us chillun got views. Those of us approaching the edge of maturity are learning to keep shut our mouths. Who wants to hear an opposing view these days?

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But here are a couple of memories worthy of sharing, just because many of us experienced the same vicissitudes of life way back during the COVID years.

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“Hack! Ahem!” A nearby patron semi-muffles his lingering cough. The sound is so familiar. I recognize it each day as I confirm that this is one of those lingering after-symptoms of a formerly dreaded affliction.

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The post-COVID coughers sound alike to each other.

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The coughers’ coffers drain slowly as income decreases and lethargy endures.

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What is to become of the coughers and their coffers?

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In years to come will we have forgotten all this—moved on to the next crisis or distraction, or suddenly spy the elephant that was in the room all along?

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The coughing elephant.

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Are we so used to hearing these gargling sounds that we no longer notice them?

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Oh, well, it’s all part of the landscape now. On to the next peculiar tic that will insinuate itself into all the days we have left.

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Becoming accustomed to things we fear allows us to absorb, assimilate, and wend our way through all the duties and routines and funny moments that constitute the timeline.

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Best not to get too comfortable with the mostly harmful reality infractions around us. Pay attention to those breaking views, making sure the surly and dangerous ones don’t take over.

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Enough paranoia for one day?

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Now for something humanly hilarious. You can take it from here

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

 Hear Jim’s 3-minute true and actual podcast https://youtu.be/avQ9TbgWZS4

or read his story below…

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Life, actually…

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HOW MANY WORDS CAN ONE BRAIN CONTAIN?

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BUT WAIT…THERE ARE THOUGHTY THOUGHTS BELOW. Proceed with caution and a ready wit…

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My latest book-in-progress is brimful of random thoughts and ramblings out of nowhere. Here is a sampling from the manuscript. It is called ONE MORE WORD OUT OF ME.

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It saddened him to learn that his crest had fallen.

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Beware of village elders dispensing wisdom. They could be right.

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Eating leaves a taste in my mouth.

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I prefer narrow daylight to broad daylight.

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The bright light made my bald head glow. I realized that I was just reflecting.

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I learn more when I’m trying not to seem smarter than everybody else.

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TAKE TWICE DAILY BY MOUTH. If I had read the instructions first I wouldn’t be trying to pull this pill out of my ear.

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Survival of the fittest isn’t quite the entire story. Survival is actually whoever remains standing, fit or not.

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The title of her book, How to Write Abathesis, puzzled me until it came to me that she meant How to Write a B.A. Thesis.

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I haven’t had such a good time since the last time I had such a good time.

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Does pure luck arrive pasteurized?

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Her participle is dangling.

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Turning over a new leaf reveals just another view of the same leaf.

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Great name for a super villain: Sputum McGoogle

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I glimpsed her beauty as she really was, at a time between ego surges.

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© 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast: https://youtu.be/8Ae3T2L3Tpk

or read his words below…

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Life, actually…

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RELATIVE RELATIVITY

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 DEAR RED CLAY DIARY:

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Einstein was right. Everything is relative.

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What Einstein failed to go on to say is: Relativity is everything. In fact, relativity is everybody.

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We are all related in some manner, a fact at once beguiling and frustrating, at times horrifying to think (Did I really come from the same evolutionary roots as that third-world dictator and that European princess?), and at times provocative (I may share wellsprings with Einstein himself or Nelson Mandela, or even Charlie Chaplin).

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If we are all kin, most of us don’t like to admit it except when it’s convenient.

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Sometimes, the same folks who go on and on about how they’ve traced their roots all the way back to King Henry or the Vikings, are the same folks who don’t like to talk about the fact that if they go far enough back before that, they are also kin to Kunta Kinte, Adolf Hitler, Moses, Rube Goldberg, Henny Youngman and Eleanor Roosevelt.

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Within the bowels, we share common ancestry–and you have to believe that, whether you’re an evolutionist or a religionist.

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So, if we’re all in the same family, why do we treat cousins and sisters and offspring different from neighbors, foreigners and aliens? Why is our own blood so much more palatable than a stranger’s? Why are my lawn weeds nicer than your lawn weeds?

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It’s not only a small world, it’s a world interwoven with genes and bloodlines and ancestries. Unfortunately, it’s also a world of many fences and few gates, a world of barely-suppressed hostility that can become offensive at any given moment, a world of more should-have’s than can-do’s, a world where the meek, though blessed, are often oppressed simply because they do not place aggression at the top of their priority lists.

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Where is the good in the world, then, you ask?

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Well, it’s like everything else in the universe–the good is there, you simply have to fade the bad stuff out for a while so you can notice it.

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An audience laughing at the same humor is sharing a commonality that transcends the petty differences of the moment.

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An old man stooping to pat a small child on the head is making a quantum leap in time and without knowing it, is by the same act, massaging the cosmos with a bit of kindness.

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A firefighter who suddenly and without thinking risks life and limb to save the life of someone who in normal situations wouldn’t seem worth the extension of a cordial greeting…that firefighter is unconsciously affirming the fragile but extensive thread of hope that cobwebs the world and makes itself available at the strangest times.

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It’s out there. You have to either take time to notice it, or act quickly when the kindness urge strikes, so that you won’t have time to figure out why you should not be doing something so wimpy as generating an unconditional act of sweetness

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 © 2026 A.D. by Jim Reed

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                       (adapted from the book Dad’s Tweed Coat, Small Wisdoms Hidden Comforts Unexpected Joys by Jim Reed)